by Wendy Tyson
“Sorry to have bothered you,” she said curtly.
“Ah, Megan, now don’t do that. You know how highly I think of you and Bonnie. And after last spring, I know you’re more than capable. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, but with Oktoberfest coming up, we’re swamped and—”
“Oktoberfest. Is that the only thing anyone can talk about? There are bigger things to think about, Bobby. A man has lost his life, and my grandmother was the one to find him. And now a Winsome man has gone missing. Ignore my concerns, but help Emily. Tell me you’ll do that.”
She waded through King’s silence for only a moment before leaving. It was the second time that day someone from Winsome let her down. She hoped it would be the last.
Eight
Lana Vance surprised Megan with a phone call three days before Otto’s memorial service. The coroner had not yet released his body for burial, but Lana wanted to hold a ceremony now for closure. And she wanted Alvaro and the farm/café to cater a memorial lunch at their spacious Winsome estate.
“He loved your place, Megan,” Lana said. Her voice, laced with the accent she’d inherited from a childhood spent in Sweden, sounded heavy with grief. “He enjoyed spending time at the café with his friends. It was a safe place for him. I know it is short notice, but maybe some German-inspired salads and sandwiches. He was a simple man. He would like that.”
How could Megan say no?
And so she skipped the memorial service at the local Lutheran church and went instead to the Vance home to set up with Clay and Clover. The Vance family lived on nine lush rolling acres of property. Their house, originally a simple Colonial in line with the historic roots of the area, had been added on to multiple times until it was a four thousand square foot sprawling abode with a large sunporch and an in-ground pool. Otto’s German heritage was everywhere, from the ornate hex sign over the pool house entry to the black and white prints of Berlin, Munich, and Cologne in the kitchen.
The day was crisp and clear and warm. Lana had designated the sunroom and the grounds around the pool for the luncheon—and it looked like the weather would continue to cooperate.
“Why aren’t they having it at the brewery?” Clover whispered while they folded white cloth napkins and laid them beside a stack of glass dinner plates. “The brewery has the space. And they serve food.”
“I thought that was curious too,” Clay said.
Megan had been wondering the same thing. “Maybe the memories are too painful.” She glanced at her watch. “Alvaro should be here any moment with the food.”
“He’s been preparing for two days, taking time away from the things he’s making for Oktoberfest,” Clover said. “But he wouldn’t tell me what he was making. What’s on the menu?”
“Lana wanted to play on Otto’s Germanic roots, so Alvaro and I designed the menu around that. Warm German potato salad, thinly sliced chicken schnitzel, spaetzle with Gruyere and caramelized onions, bratwurst and sauerkraut, a field green salad with walnuts and goat cheese, and an assortment of pastries and cookies.”
Clover looked surprised. “Alvaro agreed to make all that?”
“He grumbled, but yes, he agreed.” Megan glanced at Clover. “In fact, he designed the menu.”
Clay smiled. “He liked Otto. Even if he’d never admit it.”
Megan heard a vehicle pulling up outside. “Speaking of our angel, I think he’s here.”
Alvaro’s 1997 van belched its way into the driveway next to the sunroom. They rushed out to meet him, and together they placed the food on the white-clothed tables. Two vases of yellow roses—Lana’s request—acted as the centerpiece alongside pictures of Lana and Otto, their five grown children, and their six granddaughters.
“That should be enough food for two towns,” Alvaro mumbled. Still, he left and came back in with fresh-baked pumpernickel bread and homemade Bavarian pretzels—not even on the menu. He straightened out several of the dishes and nodded to himself.
“Thanks, Alvaro,” Megan said.
“Don’t thank me for doing what I’m paid to do,” Alvaro said, but Megan heard the hitch in his voice. “I’ll be at the café if you run out of something.”
“Otto was such an integral part of this town,” Clover said after Alvaro left, her eyes moist. “A lot of people will really miss him.”
Megan agreed. He wasn’t a showy man, or a leader, but he was always there with a kind word or a creative suggestion—like Oktoberfest. The brewery drew patrons from Winsome and other local towns, as well as passersby. The beer wasn’t great—Emily was right about that—but it was decent, as was the food. Thinking of Emily caused thoughts of Ted Kuhl to come unbidden to her. Would Emily attend the memorial service? Ted? They had been friends after all. Megan had hoped to join Bibi and Denver at the service to pay her respects and to see for herself, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Guests started arriving fifteen minutes later. Clover had volunteered to run the buffet, so Megan wasn’t needed. She changed into a plain black vintage dress and patent leather heels and went to look for Bibi and Denver. She found them together by the pool, watching the floating orchids and candles Lana had placed on the water.
“Ta,” Denver was saying to Bonnie, “I’d like that.”
“Like what?” Megan asked. She slid between them, gave her grandmother a kiss, and smiled at Denver. “What did I miss?”
“A lot of tears,” Denver said. “It was a sad service.”
Bibi nodded.
“And I was just inviting Dr. Finn here back to the house for some coffee and cake after the luncheon.”
“Were you now?” Megan asked.
“Can’t have our only veterinarian going hungry.” Bibi shot a sly smile at Denver. “Right?”
“Aye,” Denver said, patting his flat stomach. “Wouldn’t do at all.”
“There’s plenty of food inside,” Megan said. “In case you’re starving. From being a bachelor and all.”
Denver laughed, Bibi didn’t. Leave it to her grandmother to matchmake during a memorial luncheon.
The back door opened, and a group of people spilled out onto the stone patio, all carrying dishes piled high with food. All except one woman, that is, who carried only a glass of white wine. Many sets of eyes were on her—including those of a number of the gentlemen standing nearby. She was young, petite, and slender. Chin-length straight brown hair accented a heart-shaped face. Megan saw almond-shaped brown eyes with unnaturally thick lashes. A pertly sculpted nose. A long, graceful neck. She would have been a beauty had it not been for her mouth—thinly lipped, tight, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl. In fact, she had the look of a woman who’d just sucked her way through an entire basket of lemons.
“Who’s that?” Megan whispered.
“That would be Ophelia Dilworth,” Denver said.
“So that’s Winsome’s PR expert,” Megan mused aloud. “Not what I’d envisioned.”
“Aye,” Denver whispered. “A bit of a priss behind the scenes, I bet. The kind of person who’s sweet to your face right before she chops you up and buries you in her flower garden.”
Megan laughed. “I take it you’re not a fan.”
“Anyone who chooses Sauer over you is my sworn enemy.” He smiled, softening his words. “There is something about her. I can’t put my finger on it.”
After excusing herself, Megan left to check on Clover and the buffet. From the sunroom window, she watched Ophelia make the rounds outside the courtyard. The young woman stopped to talk with Clay before moving on to the town’s newest zoning commissioner, Roger Becker. It wasn’t long before the PR specialist was holed up in a corner talking to Denver too.
Megan swallowed a stab of jealousy. She had no right. Still, she wished Denver looked a little less animated and Ophelia a little more homely. Megan tore her gaze from the pair outside and back on the chicken cutlets, warming i
n a tray over a Bunsen burner. It was then she saw Ophelia and Denver had another observer. Lana Vance was standing by the stove, a chef’s knife in one hand, a knife sharpener in the other. The knuckles wrapped around the knife handle were bone white—matching the pallor of her face.
Megan stayed to help Lana clean up.
“I want to thank you for doing this,” the older woman said. She was washing glasses in the remodeled kitchen’s oversized apron sink despite the empty dishwasher a foot away. “Otto would have approved.”
“Alvaro did the heavy lifting. As much as he complains in general, I think he had a soft spot for your husband.”
“He wasn’t the only one.” A shadow fell across Lana’s fair features. “He could be charming.”
Megan wrapped the last of the leftover salad and placed it in the refrigerator. The house, so lively just an hour ago, echoed with the tap of her shoes against the old pine floors. Megan knew from experience that the echoes would seem louder, the emptiness more pronounced, in the coming days. Lana would need to keep busy. If cleaning helped with that, so be it.
Megan reached for the mustard to tuck it into the refrigerator when a wailing sound from Lana stopped her. Sobs racked her client’s shoulders, and big angry tears trekked down her cheeks.
Lana’s fist balled. She punched her arm, then her palm. “I. Hate. Him.” She closed her eyes, scratched at the raw skin on her forearm.
Megan sprinted to her side. “Hey,” she whispered. Louder, “Lana, I’m right here. It’s okay.” She placed an arm around Lana and led her toward the living room. It was like leading a rag doll.
Megan knew this feeling. She remembered the bewilderment, the hurt, the rage of losing Mick. It did get better—eventually. The anguish eased, the loneliness abated. It all devolved into a constant dull ache rather than searing torture.
Lana said, “He was screwing her.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Her?”
“That slut. Oph-ee-lia.” Lana repeated the name twice more, leaning in to the rhythm on her tongue. “Oh-pheee-li-a.” She spat, “God, how I hate her.”
Megan felt the urge to defend Otto, but what did she know? She stayed quiet, not wanting to feed Lana’s angst. The other woman’s body stiffened beside her.
“I hate him for doing this to me,” Lana said. “Oh, lord, I’m sorry, Megan. I just don’t know who to talk to. Otto was everything to me. We’d built a life together. We were going to sell this house and travel.” Another sob. “And to leave me like this.”
“Are you sure, Lana? You may be jumping to conclusions.”
“They’d been texting and meeting.”
“That could mean anything. Oktoberfest had been Otto’s idea. He was a sponsor. They were probably just meeting over business.”
“When her name came up, he’d blush, stumble over his words. You knew my husband. Kind? Yes. Strong? Absolutely. A good liar? No.”
“Still, there could be another explanation.”
Lana turned, looking Megan in the eyes. “A woman knows when something’s not right. I’d been meaning to confront Otto for weeks, but I never found the time. Or the courage.” She shuddered. “Maybe if I had—”
“You can’t allow yourself to think that way.”
This time Lana laughed—a crazy, eerie laugh. “What else am I supposed to think? Middle-aged man, younger woman. It’s so common, it’s cliché. What’s not cliché is him dying at the end.” She flexed her hand. “Unless the betrayed wife is the one to kill him.”
Nine
Megan kept this newest information to herself. Not only was she not sure what to do with it, she didn’t want to betray Lana’s confidence. She couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to Lana clutching that chef’s knife. She didn’t think Lana was capable of committing murder—even in a fit of rage. It had been angry talk, born of a desire to have answers to questions she could never now ask. Still, with Otto’s death so fresh, everyone seemed suspect—including an aggrieved and angry wife.
Perhaps Lana’s suspicions explained why she chose to have the funeral lunch at her home. The house was Lana’s territory, filled with the evidence of her husband’s love and devotion to family. She couldn’t very well bar Ophelia from coming, but she could let Otto’s mistress—if that’s what Ophelia was—know who’d really won in the end.
Only it felt like no one had won.
“You’re awfully distracted today.” Porter’s voice broke through her reverie. They were planting arugula in one of the hoop houses, and Porter was on hands and knees in the dirt. “Something wrong?”
It was unusual for Brian Porter to pay much attention to anything beyond his own needs, so Megan was startled by the question.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Why don’t we finish this row and call it a day in here.”
“Suit yourself.” Despite the cool weather, he wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The tail of a tattooed dragon snaked down his arm. Megan studied him, looking for signs he was drinking again. He seemed self-possessed. And calm.
As they walked back toward the barn, shovels and seeds in hand, Porter surprised her again. “I headed up to the hill yesterday,” he said, “when you were all at the funeral. Thought I’d make sure no one was watching you again.”
Megan’s heart swelled. “And?”
“Nah, nothing. Some flattened areas in the brush, but that could have been deer or bears. I think maybe he’s on to us now.”
Megan nodded. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the emotion in her eyes. “That’s what I figure,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the hill. Bastard returns, you’ll know it.”
“Thanks, Brian.”
He waved a hand in her direction. “What’s next? Turn over the pumpkin patch?”
“That’ll work.”
Porter headed one direction, Megan another. She watched him walk toward the back fields, purpose in his gait.
It took Megan twenty minutes to locate Ophelia’s Oktoberfest headquarters. The PR specialist had hunkered down in the front two rooms of an office building otherwise occupied by a trusts and estates lawyer and the town’s only newspaper. Her offices had a temporary feel to them: apartment-white walls, dingy grey Linoleum flooring, and the total absence of personal artifacts. However, they didn’t lack Winsome flair. Three giant whiteboards were covered with photos, reports, and timelines. The center whiteboard read “Winsome First” above an illustration of a beer mug labeled with “Vance Brewery” in black letters and a black steer with “Sauer Farms—Winsome Born and Bred” in small white letters along its back. The themes of the event were clear: beef and brew. The stars of the event were equally evident: Sauer and Vance.
Only Vance was dead.
Megan waited until Ophelia Dilworth was finished with a phone conversation. In the meantime, she thumbed through several area brochures, happy to find Washington Acres listed in the back of one under “produce” and again under “eateries.” At least the farm had been included, even if the café’s address was wrong.
“Can I help you?”
Megan turned to see Ophelia standing, looking at her expectantly. Today the younger woman wore a pale green sweater that highlighted the deep cocoa hue of her eyes and a pair of skinny dark denim jeans. Brown riding boots, crafted with expensive Italian leather, hugged slim calves. Again, Megan was struck by the incongruity of Ophelia’s mouth. It was a stingy slice of a mouth, and right now it was set in an impatient frown.
Megan held out her hand. “I don’t believe we formally met. I’m Megan Sawyer.”
Ophelia’s grip was flaccid, her hand soft and malleable. “Washington Acres, yes. Glad you came. I assume you’ve reconsidered the spotlight feature?”
Megan shook her head.
“Then you came to talk about Sauer Farm.” Ophelia smiled, although it was annoyance, not joy, that
shone in her eyes. “I thought we put that subject to bed.”
“You put it to bed. I merely let it nap.”
Ophelia didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile. She walked around her metal desk, stopping at the center whiteboard. “As you can see, operations are well under way. We’re ready for a slew of tourists in a week, and you know they’ll buy your stuff as well as Glen and Irene Sauer’s. It’s a great opportunity for the entire town, Megan, and I know you’ll get onboard.”
“I’m not here to talk about Glen and Irene Sauer. I want to discuss Otto Vance.”
Ophelia looked at her blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“What will happen now that Otto’s passed away? Will Vance Brewery still sponsor Oktoberfest?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not sure it’s an ‘of course,’ Ophelia. Vance was the heart and soul of the brewery. The master brewer, the business manager, and the president. I thought a big part of the celebration was to showcase the sponsors in the town and have those sponsors provide products, demonstrations, and seminars.”
“Vance has several kids. One of his sons is a master brewer, and his daughter, Hedy, has an interest in the pub.” Ophelia smoothed the corner of a brochure template despite its steam-iron edge. “Or Lana can do it.”
Megan studied the younger woman. She definitely sensed a tone of defensiveness. Was Lana right about Ophelia and Otto? Did it matter?
“Have you considered giving the spot to Ted Kuhl?”
Ophelia’s lips twisted in surprise. “No, why?”
“He had petitioned for the sponsorship too.”
“We never took him seriously.”
“No?”
“He’s only a level two brewer. He can’t serve food. And frankly, his beer isn’t as good.”
“It’s quite good. He’s won three awards. That’s three more than Otto.”
