by Wendy Tyson
“Zero plus zero is still zero.”
Megan pushed the computer toward him. “Just take a look, Bobby.”
“What am I looking at?”
Megan explained Bibi’s malfunction with the phone. “I don’t even think she knew she took any pictures, but she’s done this before.”
Bobby glanced up, brow creased. “We took photos of the scene. And besides, these are blurry.”
“It’s not about the pictures. It’s about what’s not in the pictures.” Megan honed in on Otto’s torso. “When I saw him earlier that day, he was wearing a gray sweater vest. I hadn’t seen him wear it before, so I took notice. When Bibi found him, the vest was gone—only the shirt he had been wearing underneath was still on him.”
“He could have taken it off earlier because he was too warm.”
“It was a warm day, maybe too warm for a coat, but not that warm. Why take off the vest?”
“Maybe he’d gotten it dirty. Or he didn’t like it. People change clothes all the time.” Bobby shook his head. “Maybe Otto knew he looked overly fussy and wanted to ditch the vest.”
“Was it in his car?”
King sighed. “I’d have to check, but I don’t think so.” He ran a hand through sandy blond hair and shook his head in a gesture of frustration. “Again, Megan, he could have gone home and changed.”
“The timing seems pretty tight for that. But you could check with Lana.”
“Even if we find out that the vest is missing, so what? What does that prove?”
“It could be evidence of a conflict.”
King thought for a moment. “You’re again suggesting this wasn’t an accident? Otto and someone had a fight, the vest contained evidence, and someone pulled it off him before fleeing the scene.”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“It’s a longshot.” King frowned. “You’re not going to let this go until I check, are you?”
Megan smiled.
Alvaro gave a shout from behind the lunch counter: “Your sandwich is ready.”
King stood.
“You know, if you’re right, the timing is bad.”
Was the timing ever right? “Because it will put a damper on Oktoberfest?”
“Because we could have a killer in our midst. Again.” King placed his palms on the table between them and bent over. In a hissed whisper, he said, “Only this time, we’d also have several thousand strangers watching the drama unfold.”
Aunt Sarah’s words rang in Megan’s ears: you didn’t create the problem, so don’t feel responsible for other people’s actions.
“It’s better to be ahead of things than wish you’d acted sooner,” Megan said.
“I guess. I just wish we had big-city resources. If you’re right, my force will go from thin to sheer.”
Megan pulled into the farm at 2:10, leaving the café after the lunch crowd had dispersed, and got right to work helping Clay and Porter. Alvaro had sent over his café order earlier, and when Megan found her manager and farm hand in the barn, they were staring at a crinkled piece of notepaper containing a paragraph of hard-to-read scribblings.
“Do we even have two hundred pounds of potatoes to spare?” Porter was asking.
They both looked up when Megan came in. The barn—a huge multi-roomed building that dated back to Pennsylvania’s Colonial roots—housed their farm office, a washing and prep station, the Cool-Bot where they kept their veggies and eggs, and most of the farm tools. It lacked good lighting and comfortable seating though, and both men were standing under a bare bulb, brows furrowed in frustration.
“That man is nuts if he thinks we can give him this stuff,” Porter said. He handed Megan the list. “I don’t think we can grow that amount of arugula between now and then. And the beets? We have a lot in storage, but his request will wipe out the entire cellar.”
Clay nodded. “Do you know what he intends to do with all of those potatoes?”
“Potato pancakes.” Megan handed the list to Clay. “He’s cooking things we can mostly make ahead and sell in large quantities. Chili, vegetarian chili, latkes with sour cream, quinoa salad with roasted beets and local goat cheese. Mini funnel cakes with fruit compote made from local berries. Street food with a twist.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Clay still looked skeptical.
“Well, let’s start scouting out what we have—and what we’ll need. If we have large quantities of something in storage, Alvaro may be able to alter the menu.”
“We have a lot of celeriac,” Porter said. “But what do you do with that?”
“Knowing Alvaro, something good,” Clay said. Alvaro had been the cook on the commune where Clover and Clay grew up. If anyone had an appreciation for the man’s culinary skills, it was Clay. “Celery root and apple soup, for example.”
“Not a bad idea. Celeriac and apples,” Megan said, pulling on her gloves. “Winsome has plenty of both.”
“Do you think that many people will come?” Porter asked. “Their estimates seem high.”
Clay said, “I think we’ll have a good-sized crowd. Ophelia Dilworth has done a great job getting the word out there. Whatever your thoughts about her, she’s a hard worker.”
Megan didn’t say anything. She was thinking of yesterday’s conversation with Ophelia and the impact of crowds—and the need to control them—on Winsome.
“There was an article about Otto’s death in the paper today,” Porter said. He spoke slowly, as though weighing his words. “An op ed piece about the safety of solar. The author said his accident proves that fields should be secured. Not a lot of moving parts, but sharp edges represent danger. I say that’s a load of crap.” He stared defiantly at Megan. “And who’s to say that Otto’s death was an accident?”
Megan shot him a questioning look.
“Why do you say that?”
“Otto sped by me when I had that flat, before you or Dr. Finn arrived. I did some work for Otto. He used to give me odd jobs around the brewery when I was having trouble making ends meet.”
“So?” Clay had stopped what he was doing to listen. “What does that have to do with his death?”
Porter rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. But sometimes you get a feeling about someone, right? And I got a feeling about Otto. He was distracted and in a hurry, otherwise he would have stopped. Then he winds up dead.” His gaze turned to Megan. “People are talking, wondering what happened and why he was there. They don’t know I hear them, but I do. And they know you’ve been talking to Bobby, Megan.”
“So?” Clay said again.
Another shrug. “So people make connections—right or not. Megan comes back to Winsome and things happen. People talk.”
As they headed deeper into the barn to go through the root cellar, Clay pulled her aside. “Don’t listen to Brian,” he said. “He means well, but he doesn’t always think. People aren’t talking about you.”
Megan struggled not to let the hurt show on her face. “I don’t know about that. Porter was just being honest.”
“If people are talking about you, it’s because of all the good things you’re bringing to Winsome.”
This time, her stoic veneer cracked.
“Am I though?” she said finally. “I’m not so sure.”
King called at ten o’clock that night. Bibi was taking a bath, and Megan was in the kitchen drawing up plans for the layout of a new greenhouse. Clay and Porter had cleared the brush in a section of the property between Washington Acres Farm and the old abandoned Marshall house next door, and they were going to begin construction of a new heated greenhouse after Oktoberfest. Megan had her sights set on buying the Marshall property—someday, when she had the funds. In the meantime, she figured she could distinguish herself from Sauer and some of the other local large farms by offering more greens and other fresh vegetables y
ear-round. She could also sell to farm-to-table restaurants in the Philly area. The farm was creeping toward the black, but as a small operation offering organically grown produce, she needed to diversify her revenue sources. And everyone appreciated fresh vegetables in the dead of winter. But which ones would prove to sell best?
So when the phone rang, Megan, deep in thought, jumped. “Hello,” she said, assuming it was Denver or her father.
“Megan, it’s Bobby King. Do you have a moment?”
She tensed. “Of course.”
“That sweater vest Otto Vance was wearing the morning he died, can you describe it?”
“Uh, sure…let me think.” Megan closed her eyes, picturing Vance at the table with the other members of the Breakfast Club. “Charcoal grey, probably Merino wool, pockets—”
“Can you describe the front in more detail?”
“Button-down, two slash pockets on the bottom.”
“The button detail?”
“The buttons? Large, round, kind of a pewter look.” She concentrated on her visual image, honing in on Otto as he’d appeared that morning—a trick she’d taught witnesses when preparing them for trial for the firm. She could see Otto in that vest, could picture the minute details of the garment. “They had x’s in the center and a thick ring around the outside. The buttons were distinctive and almost retro.” She paused. “Why?”
“No vest in the car, and Lana said he hadn’t returned home that morning. We went back and searched the area again before dark.” King hesitated. “We located a button that matches your description at the solar farm. Not far from where Otto’s body was found. I’ll need you to take a look, just to be sure.”
Megan ran through the implications of the police discovery. Could mean a conflict, just as she’d predicted. Which meant a second person had been involved.
“I’m afraid this also means we need Bonnie’s phone. And we’ll need to talk with her again.”
“But she already told you what she found when she arrived at the field. Can’t we leave her out of this?”
“You know the drill, Megan. This could be a game changer, and Bonnie was the first on the scene.”
Megan was familiar with the drill, all right. More so than she’d like to be.
Twelve
Winsome’s police headquarters consisted of four rooms and a holding cell about two miles from the historic downtown center. The building was a glass-fronted concrete rectangle, a slave to utility rather than style. When Megan and Bibi pulled into the lot the next day, Bobby King stood outside speaking with a linebacker-sized man in a tailored suit.
“That’s Jenner,” Bibi hissed. “I know those shoulders anywhere.”
“Made sense that they’d pull him in. He does own the solar field.”
“Bet he’s as angry as a bull on castration day,” Bibi said. “Hasn’t lived in Winsome for thirty years. The last thing he’ll want is trouble on the one piece of property he still owns.”
Megan was well aware of Jenner’s reputation. He owned the solar farm and a number of other real estate holdings within fifty miles of Winsome, but his real money maker was his investment firm. Mostly he stayed out of Winsome business, coming up occasionally to check on his investments or visit his mother who lived in a retirement home in the next town over.
Megan said, “May actually be better for him if it wasn’t an accident, at least from a liability perspective.”
“Spoken like a lawyer,” Bibi said. She squeezed Megan’s arm. “Don’t lose that aspect of yourself, Megan. You worked hard for your law degree.”
King and Jenner parted with a curt nod. King spotted Megan and Bibi and walked briskly in their direction.
“Looks like I get to use that aspect of myself now. Ready?”
“I’m always ready.”
Megan smiled. Bonnie Birch was always ready—something else Megan loved about her grandmother. “Have your phone?”
Bibi held up a plastic sandwich bag with her cell phone inside. A small label identified her name and the date.
“I think they bag the evidence, Bibi—not you.”
“I’m giving them a hand,” she said. “Sometimes these younger folks need a lesson in efficiency.”
“That is the button I saw on Otto’s sweater,” Megan said.
Bobby pushed the object closer. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
They were in a windowed conference room that smelled of stale perfume and even staler coffee. Megan and Bibi sat on one side of the table, King on the other, next to a freckle-faced woman in uniform.
King sat back, rubbed his face with his hands. “Thank you.” He didn’t sound at all like he meant it.
Megan said, “I assume you checked the button for prints or blood.”
“Yep on both counts—nothing.”
“Did Lana Vance have any insight?”
“She was surprised he’d worn the vest. Said she bought it for him years ago and he let it sit in the back of his closet. Didn’t remember seeing him in it that morning, but she admitted he left before she was out of bed.” King asked, “Do you recall what time he left the café that morning?”
“He was still there when I left. Bibi arrived at the café later. He may have already gone.” She turned to her grandmother. “I think he’d already left. Is that right?”
“Let me see. I got to the café about eleven thirty. I was going to bake, but instead I helped Alvaro make potato leek soup for lunch because he’d run out of his tomato bisque. It’s so good, Bobby—try it if you haven’t already. I wasn’t paying too much attention to the customers—you know how Alvaro can be about uniformity when it comes to dicing vegetables.” She met King’s gaze. “Alvaro likes everything to be exactly the same size. He’s very particular.”
King smiled. “Otto, Bonnie.”
“Oh, yes. I never saw him. He must have been gone already.”
Megan turned to King. “Which makes sense. Bibi received the call from Otto at the café shortly before Denver and I arrived to help Porter. He had been waiting there a while. Even so, if there’s a gap, it’s a short one.”
King turned to the uniformed officer. “We’ll need to construct a timeline.”
Megan said, “You know he didn’t arrive at the solar farm until after his call to the café to report Porter’s flat. In the interim, Denver and I helped Porter. We heard the sirens. The solar farm is right up the road. That means either he took a detour after seeing Porter or he was at the park or solar field for a fairly long time. Bibi left the café to pick up Porter and happened by the solar farm, which is when she saw Otto’s body. You know what time her 911 call came in. That part should be easy to piece together.”
Bobby was jotting down notes. “We pieced most of that together, and there is a gap. I agree. Either Otto made a detour before going to Jenner’s field, or he was there longer than we’d originally thought.”
“So what was Otto doing between the time he left the café and when he arrived at the solar farm?” Bibi said. She sat back, thinking. “Have you checked his phone?”
“We have, Bonnie.”
“How about his calendar.”
King looked amused. “Yes, of course.”
“And?”
“And nothing so far.” King dismissed the officer with instructions to send him the timeline. When the officer was gone, he said, “Anything else, ladies? And here I thought I brought you in so I could ask the questions.”
Megan knew he was trying to be funny for Bonnie’s sake, but she didn’t feel like playing along. Not after the hard time he had given her. Instead she said, “There’s still no sign of Kuhl?”
“No. Nothing.” He seemed to weigh how much to divulge. Finally he settled on, “We’ve spoken with Emily, have been by the tap room, even talked to some of the men he breakfasts with regularly. Nothing.
It’s as though he simply disappeared.”
“Is Emily still worried he’s done something to hurt himself?”
“I don’t think she knows what to think.”
They sat in silence until Bibi asked, “Is Teddy your chief suspect?”
King turned to her in surprise. “Frankly, Bonnie, we don’t know if we even have a crime. We’ve just reopened the investigation.” He tapped his fingers against the table top. “The medical examiner found Otto’s wounds to be consistent with the fall, but the button and the vest call into question whether we missed signs of a struggle. You heard him arguing with Ted, Megan. So at this point, Ted’s a person of interest.”
Megan wasn’t surprised—and it was the right thing for the police to do. It didn’t mean she felt good about it.
Bibi, who’d been mostly quiet up until now, asked, “Do you need anything else from us, Bobby? I’m tired and would like to go home.”
“I need to take a statement from Megan about what she heard at the café. But you don’t need to be here for that.”
“And then what?” Bibi asked.
“For the police? The real fun begins. For you? You get to go back to the farm.”
When they were finished with their statements, Bibi headed to the restroom. Megan took that as her chance to talk with King alone. She pulled the chief aside and showed him the knife she found at Potter Hill. “There was a fire too. Well, the remnants of a campfire.”
He stared at the knife for a moment. Took it from her, turned it over, and opened it. “Beautiful work.” He handed it back.
“You don’t want it?”
“You’ve touched it. Any prints will be worthless.” He rubbed his temples with beefy fingers. “Look, Megan, I know you may have been right about Otto, and I admit I should have believed you from the beginning. But Potter Hill is public domain. Whoever was up there shouldn’t have stayed overnight—if they even did—but I don’t have a name, anything. There’s been no real crime.”
Megan said the thing that had been plaguing her. “What if they’re related?”
