by Wendy Tyson
“She just lost her father. Perhaps she’s imagining things.”
Clay stared at her. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “I came running outside. I saw him too, Megan. Gunther was in the house. By the time I made sure Emily and Lily were safe and ran after the man, he’d disappeared into the woods.” Clay’s eyes were round with worry. “I think it was your stalker. He’s still here.”
Megan could barely bring herself to speak. Finally she nodded. “Thank you.” She told him about the sound in the woods, the footsteps Bibi had heard, and the glove Gunther found. “I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But we’re not all hallucinating. Someone is watching this farm.”
Clay nodded. “We should tell Bobby.”
“He knows. He’s been sending a patrol officer to the area on occasion.”
“I’m not so sure a sporadic patrol will help. Someone could hide in these woods for months and never be found. They’re dense. Beyond Potter Hill, they just keep going.”
“Bobby has his hands full right now. They’re short on resources. Most of Winsome was at the Picnic on the Canal tonight. It’s unlikely our visitor is connected to what happened to Otto.” She said the words as much to convince herself as Clay. He didn’t seem to buy it—and deep down neither did she.
Clay packed up the rest of his tools. As he was rolling the drafting paper into a tube shape, he said, “You’re the one who found the chair on Potter Hill.”
“I know. But I keep telling myself that was a coincidence.”
Clay shook his head. “A human’s ability to rationalize almost anything is well-documented. You keep telling yourself that, Megan. Just don’t start believing it.”
Twenty-Three
Clay’s words were still ringing in Megan’s ears the next morning. She knew she needed to reinforce their vulnerability with King, and she left the chief a message explaining what had transpired the night before. Before she left the farm, she patted her pocket to make sure she had the print-outs about Proust, the knife maker. Proust had responded to her Facebook message with a short note giving her the time and place of a knife show he’d be at in a neighboring town. If Megan finished her morning chores quickly enough, she could make it there before the show closed.
Monday was overcast. A heavy layer of fog had settled over the canal, misting the grass and smothering the downtown area in a wash of gray. Megan parked in front of the café and went inside, carrying two crates of fresh lettuce from the greenhouse for Alvaro’s Monday special—a Cobb salad featuring the farm’s produce and eggs. She was greeted with the shy smile of Judge Bernie Mason, one of the Breakfast Club members. The Wall Street Journal sat next to him, and his hand clutched a large mug of coffee.
“Here alone today, Bernie?” Megan said as she passed him.
He nodded. “Oktoberfest has everyone running.”
In the kitchen, Alvaro was already chopping and sautéing for today’s Oktoberfest specials. He’d refused to keep solely with the German theme, but had, after some heavy coaxing, agreed to one German-inspired meal each day. Today’s was Kohlroulade, German cabbage rolls covered in a savory, rich gravy. Alvaro had made them ahead of time, and what he was cooking now smelled distinctly Mexican—not German.
“New Mexico chili,” Alvaro said without being asked. “Posole, green chilies, grass-fed beef…try it.” Alvaro started to scoop some in a bowl before Megan could respond. “Want me to make you some eggs too? And I have homemade corn tortillas. I brought them for my lunch. I could whip up some huevos rancheros.”
Megan politely declined the eggs and tortilla. Although her stomach didn’t feel up to a breakfast of chili, she took the bowl and tasted it. Layers of flavors and textures—the piquant heat of the chilies, the sweet chewiness of the hominy, the richness of beef and tomato—melded together beautifully.
“Are you adding this to the cook-off menu for Friday?”
“Depends. What do you think?”
“It’s delicious.”
Alvaro nodded. He didn’t smile—he rarely smiled—but his eyes shone with pleasure. “I put some aside for Dr. Finn,” he said gruffly.
Megan thanked him. “I see Bernie Mason out there, sitting alone. Have the other members of the crew been here much since Otto’s passing?”
Alvaro shook his head. He had a full head of white hair, which contrasted strikingly with mocha-colored skin. His eyes, now coal-black and stormy, softened. “No, not much.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I was just getting used to having them around.”
Megan smiled. “Me too.”
Alvaro nodded. “Yeah, well. This much tragedy makes you think. Appreciate what you got.”
“By tragedy, you mean Otto and Ted’s deaths?”
“And the erosion of trust.” Alvaro stopped chopping. He placed his chef’s knife down on the wooden chopping block and wiped his hands on his immaculate white apron. “For a town like this to work, people have to trust each other and the system. No trust, the heart of the town withers and dies.” Alvaro struck his chest with his hand. “Something is not right. We have a traitor among us. I know it.”
Megan knew Alvaro was speaking figuratively, and she was relieved Alvaro had sensed it too. He seemed to keep to himself. But in his role behind the counter, watching the comings and goings of Winsome’s regulars, it made sense that he’d observe what other people missed.
“You need to go now,” Alvaro said, his tone suddenly gruff again. “I have to finish the day’s specials or customers will arrive and I’ll be running around like a mad goat.” He pointed to the large chili pot. “And this Oktoberfest? Never-ending. Now you like this chili too, so I have to make it as well.” He shook his head as though her compliments on his newest chili had been an affront causing him even more work.
Megan smiled. She gave the cook a hug. To her surprise, he hugged her back.
New Hope sat on the west bank of the Delaware River, across from Lambertville, New Jersey. Another historic Bucks County town, its main drag was home to upscale stores, art boutiques, quaint inns, and high-end restaurants. Only Megan wasn’t heading to one of New Hope’s finer establishments. The address she had was an old school off of busy Route 202.
The address led to a large brick rectangle positioned well off the road. Cracked and pitted blacktop looped around the front and ended in a large parking lot in the back. The lot was almost full. Megan climbed out of her truck and walked to the main entrance. She opened the front doors and paused to let two heavily tattooed men out. Unsure what to expect, she made her way through a hall and into the main area—presumably once the school auditorium. The building still had an institutional feel.
Inside felt like a flea market. Proust hadn’t said anything about where he’d be, and his website contained no photographs of the illusive artist. Megan hadn’t expected this many vendors. Knife makers and other related craftsmen lined narrow pathways throughout the space, most cramming their wares on five-by-eight-foot tables. A few had set up elaborate display cases, and one craftsmen even had a small replica of his forge. What little light there was filtered through high grime-covered windows. That didn’t seem to bother the customers, many of whom were carrying multiple packages. The smells of body odor, mildew, and acetone were strong.
“Ticket?” someone said.
To Megan’s right, an older woman with curly white hair was selling tickets. Other than the flower tattooed on her right hand and a diamond stud nose piercing, she looked like someone’s kindly conservative grandmother.
“Ticket?” the woman repeated.
“I’m just here to speak to someone.”
“You still need a ticket.”
Megan fumbled with her purse. She handed the woman a twenty and waited for her change. “Can you tell me which one is Proust?”
“Sorry. I come with the building, not the knife makers.”
Someone
else was waiting to enter and Megan shuffled her way inside. She started down one aisle, then zigzagged her way around the auditorium. She finally caught the attention of a young woman who pointed toward the stage when Megan asked about Proust.
There were two vendors wedged next to the front portion of the old auditorium: a middle-aged bald man wearing army fatigues and a youngish man in his late twenties wearing a button-down checked shirt and glasses. Megan put her money on Army Fatigues, but as soon as she got close to his table, she realized she was mistaken. Army Fatigue made switchblades and hunting knives. Her mark would make butterfly knives.
The younger man’s display was meticulous. Three rows of knives, all in different sizes, sat on a bed of brown plush material. Two easels showcased photographs of his modest work space and his forge. The artist himself looked more like an accountant than a knife maker.
Megan waited until two other customers were finished talking with the man, then she stepped forward and introduced herself. “Proust?”
He nodded. “That’s me. What do you need?”
He had an unnerving way of speaking. His words were clipped, and his eye contact was intense and never wavered. Megan looked away first.
“I messaged you on Facebook.” She pulled the knife from her purse and separated it from its linen shroud. “I’m looking for the owner.”
He took the knife from her and turned it over. “You found this?”
Megan nodded.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“It’s not yours?”
“I made the knife. But someone altered it. Significantly.”
“In what way?”
Proust frowned. He flipped the knife open and traced the blade with one finger, echoing what Molly Herr at the knife shop had done. If his clothes and demeanor screamed white collar, Proust’s hands told a different story. They were strong and thick-knuckled, with small red scars and flat glossy burn spots along the digits and palms.
Proust handed the knife back to Megan.
“Everything’s different. The blade. The coloring. This may have had two or three owners since I originally sold it.”
“Do you remember who bought it from you? Maybe I can start there.”
Proust looked over Megan’s head toward the entrance way. Suddenly, he placed his hands on the table and leaned down so that his face was near Megan’s.
“What do you want with this guy?” His vitriolic tone startled Megan.
“I told you. I want to return the knife to its rightful owner.”
“Lady,” Proust said in that same penetrating way, “I sold this knife for $425. That’s cheap in my world. It’s been altered, so it’s likely worth even less now. You’re going to an awful lot of trouble to return this to someone you don’t know.”
“I have my reasons.”
He stood straight, said, “I have my reasons too,” and turned away.
“So you won’t help me?”
Megan continued to stand there, unsure what to do next. She’d come this far. To leave with nothing didn’t seem like an option.
“Please,” she said. “Anything you can tell me. Anything.”
Megan’s voice must have betrayed her desperation, because Proust turned toward her finally and said, “The original buyer was an old guy. Paid cash. That’s all I remember.” His gaze stabbed at her. “Really.”
Twenty-Four
Emily was outside with Clay when Megan arrived back at the farm. The two were digging in one of the rear beds, planting garlic bulbs for the following spring. Lily was asleep in a stroller under a shade tree, her small body wrapped neatly in a pink fleece blanket. Sadie lay beside the stroller, looking happy to have a tiny playmate to watch over. The rain that threatened that morning never materialized, but the afternoon was chilly and cloudy. Megan pulled a hat from her jacket pocket and pulled it on over her ears.
“Need some help?” she asked.
They glanced at her at the same time, each clearly lost in his or her own thoughts. Gardening was good for that.
“We’re okay,” Clay said. “Besides, you had a visitor.”
Megan looked at him, waiting for more.
“It’s okay,” Emily murmured. “Chief King. He had a few more questions about my dad.”
“Am I supposed to call him?”
Clay nodded. “He asked that you give him a ring when you’re back and he’ll stop by.” Clay looked like he wanted to say more, but with a glance at Emily, he walked away, toward the barn.
Emily watched him go.
“He’s a good guy.”
“Clay? The best.”
“Just reinforces what a loser my ex is.”
“Something good came out of your relationship.” Megan went over to the baby and gently adjusted the blanket, warming her against the chill.
Emily brightened. “That’s true. I don’t know what I would do without Lily. Now she’s all I have.”
Megan’s chest hurt. She watched from the kitchen window as Emily lifted Lily and clutched the baby to her thin frame. The baby stirred, stretched, and then pulled at a strand of Emily’s blond hair. Tiny fingers, tiny smile, and despite losing her father just days before, Emily’s face was awash with affection.
Megan pulled open the drawer next to the rarely used utensils. It was Bibi’s version of a junk drawer, and she kept everything from pens and calendars to photos and old school ribbons in there. Megan knew that buried underneath was a stack of old Polaroids, including a snapshot of her and her parents when she was just Lily’s age. Age had worn away the colors’ sharpness, and repeated handling had caused tears and smudges along the edges. Still, Megan stared at that picture, just as she had so many times over the years, willing her lovely young mother to tell her why she’d left.
The answers never came.
The front door slammed open and Emily and Lily entered the kitchen, rosy-cheeked from the cold. “Are you okay?” Emily asked, peering at Megan as she unwound the blanket from around her daughter. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine. Just catching up on some chores.”
“When are you not catching up on chores?” She held Lily out. “Would you mind? Just for a moment.”
The baby snuggled against Megan, her soft fingers and warm body stabbing reminders of what her mother had left behind. Thankfully, Emily didn’t say “holding a baby suits you” or “it will be your turn soon” or any of the other things that would have made the moment harder to bear. Instead she simply took her daughter back with a grateful smile once her own coat was off.
“Did you call King?” Emily asked.
Megan had forgotten. “I’ll do that now.”
“You’ll let me know if you hear something new?”
“Of course. Although I think King would have told you directly.”
Emily nodded. “I guess.” She started to head up the steps toward the guest room, but hesitated.
“Do you need anything, Emily?”
Emily looked like she wanted to say something. Her mouth opened and closed, and finally she managed, “I’ll be up here for a nap if you need me.”
“Okay.”
Emily paused again, indecision playing out on her face. Lily cooed and tugged at her hair. This seemed to be the push Emily needed. She nodded at Megan and continued up the stairs.
“Does the name Pichu Rivera mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. Should it?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
King was in the parlor. He’d stopped by on his way back to the station to talk with Megan, and he seemed in no rush to leave. Megan made him coffee, which he took black and drank in great heaving gulps that had Megan worried for the health of his throat. He’d said no to Bibi’s lemon pound cake, which had Megan worried for his emotional well-being. King never turned down food.
“I did.”
“And this was an older model, just as you described.”
“Sounds that way.”
“And someone had set it on fire.”
Megan’s eyes widened.
“On fire?”
“On fire.”
They sat staring at one another in silence. People weren’t murdered in Winsome. Cars were not torched like in a late-night episode of CSI. Surely they were living in an alternate universe. The world felt like it had turned upside down—and Megan wasn’t sure how to right it.
“Fire,” King repeated. “We believe whoever did this was trying to cover up evidence.”
“Like the evidence one might find if one had moved a dead body in that car.”
“Exactly.” King banged the mug down on Bibi’s antique table. “Oh, man, sorry.”
Megan waved away his apology. “I assume the car had been reported stolen.”
King nodded. “You assume correctly. It was reported two months ago.”
So reporting it was unlikely to be a ruse, Megan thought. “Anything back from the coroner?”
“Just some preliminary findings. No peanuts were found in Ted’s gut. They’re running toxicology reports to see if there was something else in his system.”
“How about the alcohol content of his blood? Denver said the shed smelled like a Sunday morning at a frat house.”
“Waiting on that too, although preliminary tests showed he’d been drinking—but not enough to cause that smell. Looks like someone poured alcohol inside the shed.”
“Perhaps to make it look like he’d been drunk and careless.”
“That’s one explanation. We’re trying to keep an open mind.”
