by Wendy Tyson
“Otto’s death and your hiker?”
“Yes.”
“What would make you think that whoever tussled with Otto has it out for you too?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you hiding something?”
“No,” Megan said firmly. “I’m just looking for patterns. And I don’t like the idea of someone up there, especially at night, possibly spying on the farm.”
“You don’t know that’s what they were doing. It’s a lookout point. Could’ve been a couple of kids seeking privacy. Could have been someone who is interested in farms. Could have been leaf peepers. It’s that time of year.”
Or it could have been someone interested in the treasure a farm may hold, Megan thought. She said, “But the chair. Someone went to a lot of trouble to drag a chair up there. And that knife seems expensive. Whoever left it may have bolted in a rush.”
“I will admit there are some oddities, but short of setting up surveillance, there’s nothing we can do. And we have no basis for that kind of capital expenditure, human or otherwise.” He took the knife from Megan, rubbed a calloused thumb over the smooth metalwork again, thinking. “Do you know Molly and Mort Herr?”
“No.”
“They live about six miles down Curly Hill Road, on the edge of the park, well past the solar farm. They have a shop about a mile farther down. They’re knife makers and sellers.” He held out the knife and Megan took it. “Talk to them. Maybe they can tell you something about the owner.”
Her interest piqued, Megan nodded. “Maybe I will.”
King put a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “If you hear anything else at the café, let me know. But please, if you and Bonnie could keep this quiet, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want the committee or that Ophelia woman blaming me for ruining Oktoberfest.”
Megan agreed.
King said, “Plus, if there was a fight and it resulted in Otto’s death, it was likely over a personal issue.” He looked out toward the small lobby where Bibi was chatting with the receptionist. “Nothing for anyone else in Winsome to worry about. At least I hope so.”
Megan nodded her assent, although the weight of that knife in her hand caused her to wonder.
Bibi was quiet on the way back to the farm. She responded to Megan’s questions with one-word answers and nods, her attention on other things. When they arrived home, Bibi headed for the kitchen. Without a word, she took out a large pot and filled it with water. To this she added the carcass of a roasted chicken she pulled from the freezer and placed the pot on the gas stove. She reached for an onion and started peeling it on the worn wooden butcher block.
Megan stood in the doorway watching her. Bibi had on a “Winsome Proud” t-shirt with a rainbow across the front. Megan wasn’t sure if Bibi knew her father had made them for Gay Pride week, but she didn’t think Bibi would care. In fact, she figured her grandmother would embrace the idea. Her spirit was one of the things Megan loved most about the woman who’d raised her. So this recent bout of reserve—if that was even the right word—had Megan worried.
“Don’t you have a farm to tend to?” Bibi asked.
She tossed an onion in the pot and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Are you crying, Bibi?”
“It’s the darn onions. I should peel them under water, but I always forget.”
Megan sat down on the chair, signaling to her grandmother that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Something’s clearly been bothering you. You’ve been off ever since Otto’s fall.”
“You mean murder.”
“We don’t know that. It still could have been an accident.”
Bibi peeled another onion—no running water again—and lowered it in the pot. She added celery stalks and tops and two unpeeled cloves of garlic. Megan was waiting through the addition of peppercorns when impatience got the best of her.
“So you’re upset about Otto’s death, Bibi. That’s understandable.”
Her grandmother stirred her pot. “I’m not upset. I’m disgusted.” She looked at Megan, a deep frown etched on her face. “First Simon Duvall last spring, and now this. At the risk of sounding every one of my eighty-four years, what is the world coming to?”
“We don’t know what this even is.”
Bibi shook her head. “Something’s not right—I knew it the moment I laid eyes on poor Otto. Only I didn’t know it was Otto.” She stirred the pot with a violent twist of her wrist. “Otto was a good man. But I’ve known Teddy Kuhl his whole life. When Marcia died, he was heartbroken. He had to reinvent himself, and he did that—through his brewery and by taking on his daughter and granddaughter after Emily’s divorce. Why would he risk everything in his life that mattered because he was angry he didn’t get sponsorship at a stupid town celebration?” Bibi let out a huff. “Chili cook-off? That’s not even German.”
“Emily told me Ted had money issues.”
Bibi spun around, her face red with anger. “This farm had money issues. Did you kill someone because of them?”
“Of course not.”
Bibi lowered herself into a chair. Sadie and Gunther, who’d been hovering near the stove, sensed her distress. Gunther put his great head in her lap. She put a hand on it but sat there, still.
“You’re angry at me,” Megan said with dawning realization. “You think I should have kept my mouth shut about what I heard transpire between Ted and Otto.”
Bibi slouched down in her chair. “I’m not angry, Megan. You did what you thought was right. That’s what any grandparent wants to see.”
“But?”
“But nothing. Ted is a grown man. If he did something dumb, he should be called in to account for it.” She twirled her fingers around the long tufts of hair on Gunther’s head, using the dog to steady her arm. “Oh, heck. Otto’s life is over. Lana’s life will never be the same. Even if Teddy is completely innocent, once Merry Chance and her band of blithering idiots gets hold of the story, his life will be in tatters too. I just hate to see another family affected when it won’t bring Otto back.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Ted.”
“We served Ted up on a silver platter. I’ve seen enough of those cop shows to understand that motive plus opportunity equals guilt.”
“Not always.”
Bibi sighed. “You’re not thinking like King.”
Her grandmother was right. King wouldn’t want the media nightmare of a murder in this quintessential American town—not right before Oktoberfest and not six months after another murder occurred on Winsome soil. If Kuhl was guilty, Otto became the victim of a grudge match, nothing more. Winsome could go back to being a safe little all-American town.
Megan stood. Despite Bibi’s words, she knew Bibi was annoyed at her for sticking her nose in where perhaps it didn’t belong, but she also knew Bibi would want the truth exposed—and justice for Otto—as much as anyone.
“You’re heading out?” her grandmother asked.
“Maybe I can help set things straight.”
“It may be too late for that. What’s done is done.”
Megan glanced at her grandmother’s tiny frame against the backdrop of this big problem. “I can try,” she said. “And I will.”
Thirteen
Emily wasn’t home. Megan knocked and waited, thinking perhaps she was tending to Lily. Both the driveway and street were empty of Emily’s old Pontiac Grand Prix, so after a few minutes, Megan gave up.
She knew of one other place Emily—or Ted—could be.
Megan pulled into the parking lot of the industrial complex off Towers Drive nine minutes later. She wound her way through machine shops, printing operations, and blade-sharpening businesses until she got to a squat-looking building fronted by two garage doors. A simple sign over the garage door on the right read “Road Master Brewing Co.” in thick red letters. No cars sat out front.
Megan got out of her tr
uck and walked around the small property. She’d been here twice: once when it first opened and a second time a few months later with Denver. On warm-weather weekends, Ted would open the garage doors and serve beer at the tap room, offering flights of his three varietals and sometimes bringing in a local band. It was always BYOF—bring your own food. She had to admit, the beer was significantly better than what Vance served, even if the operation was tied together with gossamer strings.
Megan knocked on each of the garage doors. No answer. She peeked inside, but the interior was dark. She turned to go. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the metal glint of the small mailbox attached outside of one of the doors. She opened it and peered inside. It seemed to be stuffed with bills and circulars—enough material to suggest Ted hadn’t been here in some time.
Megan ran back to the truck and grabbed a notebook from the glove compartment. She scribbled a quick note asking Ted or Emily to contact her and placed it in the box. The police could get a warrant and search the box, she knew. But they wouldn’t know when she’d put it there—or why.
Megan took a wrong turn while leaving the industrial park. She meandered through the unrelenting sameness of now-deserted buildings, watching for the deer that moved in from the outlying woods. It was dusk when she finally pulled out onto the road. Her stomach grumbled, but she knew even Bibi’s chicken soup wouldn’t satisfy this raw feeling gnawing at her insides.
Saturday morning came and went, and with it Megan’s next opportunity to visit the knife shop Chief King had mentioned. Megan kept the knife wrapped in a linen shawl in a dresser drawer. Although she didn’t mention the stalker to Bibi, she asked her grandmother to be vigilant based on recent Winsome events. She also kept Gunther with Bibi—inside or outside—and had the massive dog doing extra rounds of the farm each evening. She knew Denver would tell her to keep him outside all night—he was a sheepdog after all, meant to guard—but she felt safer with him close by, and she hated the idea of him sleeping in the cold. He’d proven his fierceness and loyalty last spring. He’d do it again if required, she was sure.
By two o’clock Saturday afternoon, Megan felt worn out and her arms ached from pushing the tiller. They’d planted cover crops on most outdoor beds in September, and now they were turning the last of the pumpkin beds with a large roto-tiller. She could feel the vibrations from the machine up through her shoulders, and her hands felt numb. Clay was also tilling, and Porter had the unenviable task of turning the compost piles, pungent and hot from bacterial breakdown—and chock-full of fat earthworms.
Finished with the last row of one large bed, she turned off her machine and pulled it onto the surrounding grass. She tugged at a water bottle hooked into a belt around her waist and guzzled a long drink of lemon water. The sun was high and warm today. The leaves, still flaming around her, rustled in a gentle October wind. The wintery feeling of a few days ago had passed, and now Megan smelled the earthy autumn scents of decaying plants and burning wood.
“Want to call it a day?” Clay asked from behind her. A sheen of perspiration covered his tanned face and the bare skin of his sinewy arms. He wore a gray t-shirt and jeans, and his hair was pulled into a neat ponytail. “You look beat and I feel it.”
Megan surveyed the fields. Pennsylvania weather was tricky. They could go an entire winter without snow, or the white stuff could start falling as early as October. They had one more bed to turn, and then they could plant clover. The clover crop may or may not take before winter depending on the temperatures, but any nitrogen she could add back to the soil would be a boon for next year’s vegetables.
“Let’s push through and finish,” she said. “If you can stay another hour or so.”
“Sure thing,” Clay said. He took the handle of Megan’s roto-tiller and started pulling it toward the last bed. “You start from one side, me the other?”
“That works.”
Before Megan could get through half of her side, she saw Gunther barking down by the house, and then watched as a silver BMW five series fishtailed up the driveway.
“That must be Ophelia, the PR lady,” Clay said. He’d turned off his machine and was wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “She said she might stop by.”
“I know very well who Ophelia is,” Megan said, sounding more snappish than she’d intended. “Why is she here?”
“She had an idea for showcasing the farm. I told her I thought it sounded like a good opportunity.”
Megan glared at her farm manager. “I don’t want anything to do with Ophelia or her ideas.”
“It’s for Oktoberfest.” He turned his head, following Ophelia’s progress out of the car and onto the stone driveway. “Just have an open mind, okay?”
Megan didn’t answer. Ophelia was wearing a tailored red pencil skirt, a low-cut matching fitted jacket, and black stilettos. Watching her navigate the bumpy pavement was entertaining. Watching her race walk away from the dogs was downright hysterical.
“Can you call off the white one?” Ophelia yelled. She was holding her purse in front of her like a shield.
Gunther was sniffing Ophelia—all of Ophelia—quite intensely.
“Gunther, come,” Clay called. He glanced at Megan in exasperation. “He only listens to you,” he hissed under his breath. “Do something.”
Megan let him continue sniffing for a few more seconds, then she called him off. He stayed by the intruder’s side though, one eye on Ophelia and another on Megan. Good boy, Megan thought. She and Clay headed down by the barn where Ophelia was waiting. While Megan would have loved nothing more than to see Ophelia struggle through the fields in those preposterous shoes, she didn’t want her twisting an ankle on the farm.
“Megan, hopefully Clay mentioned the discussion he and I had yesterday,” Ophelia said. Her hair looked perfect, her makeup flawless, but now a streak of mud colored the hosiery of one calf. “We had such a great talk.”
Megan looked at Clay, eyebrows raised. He suddenly found something in the direction of the goat pen very interesting.
Megan should have invited Ophelia in. She should have politely invited discussion about her idea. But she was cross with Clay and cross with Ophelia and she really wanted to finish the last vegetable bed before dinnertime. So all that came out of her mouth was, “What do you want, Ophelia?”
“Ah, yes.” Ophelia smiled. Always the media-savvy professional. “This farm is gorgeous. With the views of the mountains and the fields and the beautiful old building,” she pointed to the barn, “tourists would love to understand what you do here. What you grow in the greenhouses, how you maintain crops without chemicals—”
“We still use chemicals occasionally, they’re just approved for organic produce. Natural derivatives.”
“Yes, well, people will find that interesting, I’m sure.” Although the glazed look in her eyes said she found it anything but interesting. “And Clay says you have animals.” Her glance at Clay, on the other hand, was full of interest. Like a wolf eyeing an injured bison calf.
Clay said, “Just a few. Chickens, mostly. And two dogs. And the goats—”
But there was no need to finish that sentence. Unbeknownst to all of them, Heidi and Dimples had snuck out of their pen. Curious by nature, they’d walked up behind the newcomer. Dimples was sniffing Ophelia’s shoes, and Heidi, her perpetually naughty sister, had the peplum of Ophelia’s skirt in her mouth.
“Ah!” Ophelia yelled. She jumped, tripped, and landed on her derriere in the grass.
“Oh,” Megan muttered.
Clay helped Ophelia up. “I guess you’ve met the goats.”
Ophelia’s shiny armor was beginning to wear. “I guess I did.” A forced smile wormed its way onto Ophelia’s face. “Goats…they’re cute.”
She said “cute” the same way you might say “fetid”—with a disgusted expression.
Megan squatted down and too
k Heidi into her arms. The tiny goat pulled again toward Ophelia.
“Maybe they should go in their pen,” Clay said.
“Good idea,” Megan agreed.
Clay picked up Dimples and carted her toward the goat enclosure.
“You really don’t like me,” Ophelia said when Clay was out of earshot, all pretense of being polite gone. “What have I done to make you feel this way?”
Once again startled by Ophelia’s directness, Megan said, “It’s what you haven’t done.”
“Sauer again.”
“It’s not Sauer. It’s your lack of explanation.”
“Maybe I can make that up to you. When Clay and I chatted, he mentioned your future plans for a CSA and a pizza farm. It got me thinking. Why not take the first step and have an open house the first day of Oktoberfest? You may not be able to cook here yet, but your café could cater the event. Introduce people to the farm. Let them really see what Winsome is all about.”
Ophelia was right—they did have plans for a community supported agriculture arrangement and a pizza farm someday, but that wasn’t for public consumption. The CSA meant that local people would buy shares before the farming season, thereby reserving their portion of the harvest. The farm received the proceeds ahead of planting, and in return, customers got fresh vegetables each week, whatever was in season. It was a pre-pay arrangement and a win/win for the consumer and the farm. With that and a pizza farm—a wood-fired pizza kitchen open in the barn on weekends—the farm could afford to buy the neighboring Marshall property and expand. But these were just pipe dreams. For now.
Clay ran back and scooped up Heidi. He gave Megan a baleful look over his shoulder as he trotted away. Megan watched Clay leave before turning her attention back to Ophelia. Was she for real?
“You’re saying you think people will love small and local, yet you chose our biggest, least local farm to represent Winsome. Do you know what Sauer produces? Genetically modified corn and soy—which he ships off to other parts of the country for animal consumption. And beef—from cattle too crammed in their pens to turn around.” Megan could barely spit out the words. She was sure Sauer had his own economic reasons for farming his huge amount of acreage the way he did, but if Ophelia wanted to draw attention to a farm that produced for the local population, Sauer’s was not it.
