by Wendy Tyson
Megan looked around at the property before her. The broken down trailer had been removed, but the second trailer still sat abandoned on the side of the yard. Snow hid the vast lawn and gave the bordering trees a closed-in, ominous feel. Megan’s gaze trailed to the Sauer farm across the road. Glen Sauer had reduced his stock, and what was once a bustling agro-business sat still and quiet on this winter day.
“You okay?” Megan asked Emily. Emily had been quiet since the call came in, not protesting when Megan said she’d drive her, and barely responding when Bibi offered to watch Lily.
“As okay as I can be.” She gazed toward the recently renovated house. All of the windows on the house were open, as was the front door. “There goes my heat bill.”
Megan saw a firefighter leave the building holding a gas mask and watched his progress. Had there been a fire? She saw no signs of smoke or damage. This property had belonged to Emily’s grandmother, and after her grandmother died, it was to be Emily’s father’s. He’d planned to make it a rental property. When he died, Emily followed suit—at least for the short term, until she could sell it. In the meantime, she’d hired contractors to clean it up: new floors, fresh paint, matching kitchen appliances. Megan hoped those renovations hadn’t been for nothing.
As though reading her thoughts, Emily said, “I almost moved in there. But I just couldn’t, not after everything that happened. I’ve been hoping for a long-term renter, so when Merry’s call came…well, it seemed like a perfect chance to pay some overdue contractor bills. Looks like it was another bad decision.”
“You couldn’t know something like this would happen. How long were Luke and his father supposed to stay?”
“Until the second week in January.” Emily looked at Megan with a faraway glaze. Blonde hair stuck out from beneath a green cap, making her look younger than her twenty-eight years. “I wonder what happened. Bobby wouldn’t say.”
A car started up and Megan watched one of the police cruisers pull out of the driveway. The temperature was warmer today, but a biting wind blew through the property, kicking up snow and causing a shiver to run through her. Megan wrapped her arms around her chest, wishing Bobby would hurry up. A few minutes later, he ended his conversation with Friar and waved for Megan and Emily to join him by the front door.
“Don just gave us clearance to go inside.” He looked from Emily to Megan and back again. “Ready?”
Both women nodded. Bobby led the way. Before entering, he turned around. “Emily, you had work done here recently?”
“Lots of it.”
“Were the contractors finished?”
“For the most part. Why?”
But Bobby had turned back around and was now over the threshold. Emily looked at Megan before joining him, her eyes wide with alarm.
The first thing Megan noticed was the bitter, permeating cold. The windows in the entire downstairs had been opened, and a frigid breeze blew winter indoors.
Emily seemed affected by the cold too. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and tucked her gloved hands in her pockets. Her shoulders hunched, matching the despair on her face. King led them through the living room, pausing by the door to the back bedroom. The living room looked considerably different than it had in October. Amazing what new floors and a fresh coat of paint could do. But even the renovated interior couldn’t mask the aura of death.
King said, “He died in the bedroom, Emily. His body has been removed and the place has been thoroughly gone over, but I wanted you to see the room. Get your thoughts on whether anything seemed out of place. Ready?”
Emily nodded. King walked into the bedroom and moved to the side to let Emily and Megan join him. Megan glanced around, taking in the scene before her.
Like the living room, the back bedroom had been remodeled. The walls were painted a trendy slate grey, the trim bright white. White curtains hung in the two small windows along the back wall, their sheer material billowing wildly in the wind. A full-size bed sat against one wall, its blankets askew; a three-drawered bureau had been placed against another wall.
A black suitcase sat propped on top of a small table, its strewn contents showing evidence of a search, and an open closet housed neatly hung pants and a row of button-down white shirts. The closet was otherwise empty. The room was tidy, clean, and wholly unremarkable.
King looked at Emily. “What do you think?”
Emily looked perplexed. “This room looks the way it did when I rented it to Merry. Why the open windows?”
“Gas leak?” Megan said.
King frowned. “Just a precaution. Nothing was found. We can close them now.”
Megan walked to the open window and glanced outside. A uniformed man from the local gas company was walking around the back of the property. She closed the window, latching it carefully. “How did Paul die? Do you know?”
“We’ll have to wait for test results. Luke Fox found his father dead in his bed this morning. His efforts to resuscitate him were unsuccessful. He says his father hadn’t been feeling well. Just a cold.”
“I saw him yesterday,” Megan said, remembering Paul’s cough and watery eyes. “He did seem under the weather.”
King glanced toward the bed. His shoulders sagged. “Poor guy was devastated. I’m not sure how reliable he was about his father’s health. Could be he wasn’t thinking too clearly.”
“Cold medicine overdose?” Emily asked. She’d been quietly looking in the closet, and she closed the door and turned back toward Megan and King. “Prescription or otherwise?”
“Maybe,” King said.
Megan thought about the violence of Paul’s coughing spasms. She glanced at the bed, then met King’s gaze. “But you don’t think so.”
“History has taught me to delay forming opinions until all the facts are in.” He shook his head. “But no, I don’t think so.”
Emily asked, “Did Luke smell gas?”
“He thought there might have been a faint odor in the room.”
Megan sniffed. She could smell something, but she couldn’t quite identify the scent. It seemed sharp, sweet, and very faint.
King studied Emily. “Have you had an issue with gas before?”
“No. Never. The house does have gas heat, but we’ve never experienced a leak.”
King said, “We didn’t see any carbon monoxide detectors.”
Emily frowned. “I should have installed them when I rented the place. I guess I forgot.”
King nodded. “Well, the gas company didn’t find evidence of a gas leak, but because there’s no apparent cause of death, this is one for the medical examiner.”
“Did she have preliminary thoughts?” Megan asked.
King hesitated. “She thought Paul’s death was consistent with asphyxiation. Of course, that could have been brought about by a heart attack or some other natural cause. We won’t know for sure until the autopsy is completed.”
King asked Emily a few more questions about the contractors: what chemicals or supplies they may have used, and when the work was slated to be completed.
Megan, only half listening, paced around the room. She didn’t know what she was looking for, or if she was looking for anything, but the conversation she’d witnessed between Paul and her Aunt Sarah at Merry’s nursery bothered her. Other than that annoying cold, Paul had seemed fine. Yet he went to bed and never woke up.
Why? Simple as a heart attack? Overmedication?
“Did Paul have a history of heart disease?” Megan asked during a lull in King’s questions.
“Both Luke and Merry said no.”
Megan thought about that. She paused by one of the windows and again looked outside. The contractors had redone the windows, and each had fresh paint on the trim and the muntins.
Megan pulled off a glove and was running a finger across the base of one window, appreciating the met
iculous workmanship, when something caught her eye. A tiny piece of blue in the sill, near where window meets frame.
“Look at this, Bobby,” Megan said. She showed Bobby the blue tape.
“Just paint tape,” he said. He turned back to Emily. “Your contractors probably left this here when they finished.”
“Probably.”
Megan touched the end of the tape with her index finger. She felt something sticky next to it.
“There seems to be some type of residue here.”
King touched it, rubbing a thick finger back and forth across the surface. “Just leftover tape glue,” he said. “From the contractors.”
“Makes sense,” Megan said. Only she wondered what contractor would be so careful with a paint job only to leave residue on the frame. And paint tape didn’t leave a residue—that was the point of using it. But duct tape did.
“Who else had access to this house?” King asked Emily. “Besides you, that is.”
Emily thought for a moment. “My contractors. I gave Merry two keys. She may have given one to Luke and one to Paul, or she could have kept one for herself.”
“How about Becca?” King asked.
Emily shook her head. “I didn’t give one to Becca. Merry may have, though.”
Megan thought about Becca Fox. How would The Love Chemist react to her father’s death?
Upset about the time wasted, time that could have been spent reconnecting? Would she lament her unwillingness to forgive him now that he was dead? Or would she brush aside his death as justice done?
Something told Megan that Becca’s feelings for her father had hardened over time, and it would take more than a love potion—or his untimely death—to soften her angry heart.
Six
Paul’s death quickly became the topic de jour. Megan heard it discussed in the café like a morbid game of Whisper Down the Lane. Some said he’d had a heart attack, others alleged he was asphyxiated with a pillow, and some surmised that he’d been poisoned by arsenic. The fact remained that King had shared nothing new, and Merry insisted Paul’s death must have been natural. A heart attack or an aneurysm, perhaps triggered by an undiagnosed condition in combination with the medication he was using to treat his cold.
Megan ran into Becca Fox Saturday morning, right before the town’s Holiday Stroll was scheduled to begin. The concept behind the stroll was simple: each business along Canal Street adorned their shop with holiday lights and other decorations and offered a sale table or special offering at the front of the store. The town’s Beautification Board and Historical Society had decorated the main thoroughfare, and Historical Society volunteers were manning carts that offered hot chocolate, hot apple cider, and roasted chestnuts to visitors. The Winsome Historical Society wanted to recreate a Colonial Christmas experience. While Megan appreciated the concept, she thought Winsome’s visitors simply looked like they were suffering from the cold. Including Becca.
“Such a pretty town,” Becca said. She unwound a scarlet scarf from around her neck, giving Megan a wan smile. “I feel like it’s two hundred years ago.”
Megan and Clover, Clay Hand’s sister and the Washington Acres Café and Larder manager, had placed a table of Pennsylvania-made goods at the front of the store. Clover was folding linens hand embroidered by a local woman while Megan arranged the organic soaps and creams produced by a neighboring farm. Clay, Clover, Bibi, and Megan had spent Friday night decorating the place, and now the café and store looked like the holiday edition of Ladies Home Journal. A modern version—not one from the 1800s.
Glancing at the electric icicle lights, Megan said, “That’s the idea, Becca. Harken back to simpler times.”
Alvaro was even baking butter cookies, gingersnaps, and gingerbread men for the occasion—so the store smelled like Christmas too.
Becca rubbed her hands together. “It was the scent of baked goods that drew me inside. Oh my god,” she exclaimed, taking off her hat. “It smells amazing in here.” She put her hat on the table next to an embroidered blue and white Menorah towel. “Alvaro’s a genius.”
“Go on back,” Clover said. “Tell him to give you a ginger snap. They’re delicious.” She glanced at Megan. “I know because I’ve already eaten seven.”
With a laugh, Megan said, “Why don’t you go get Becca some cookies, Clover? And have an eighth and a ninth while you’re at it. Just don’t let Alvaro catch you.”
Clover smiled. “You really want me to be on Alvaro’s bad side.”
Megan and Becca watched Clover walk back toward the café. In her early twenties, Clover had long brown hair, an easy smile, and a propensity for super short skirts. The skirt she wore today—with thick black lacy tights—was mini enough to get lost under her baggy sweater. Clover was also the live-in girlfriend of Chief Bobby King, and while Megan implicitly trusted Clover, she was mindful of not placing her employee in a compromising position. Like talking about Paul Fox with Paul’s estranged daughter in front of her.
With Clover now safely out of earshot, Megan said, “I’m sorry about your father, Becca. It’s never easy to lose someone.”
Becca picked up a bottle of Mandy’s Mango Foot Cream and stared at the label. “He’s been dead to me for years.” She looked up, seemed to notice the look of surprise on Megan’s face, and said, “He killed my mother, Megan. No one believes me. Not even Aunt Merry. But it’s true. My father was a man who could make you believe he was upright and just. A therapist, a business leader, a church goer. But it was all a lie.” She replaced the mango foot cream and moved on to another product. “I didn’t wish him dead, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see a killer go.”
“Did you ever go to the police about your mother?”
“Of course I did. They had no proof, so they ruled it an accident.” Becca flipped her hair over her shoulder. “And it looked like an accident. I get that. But by then, I was on to him. No one could verify his whereabouts that day, and he had reason to want my mother out of the picture.” She scowled. “I saw him for the monster he was.”
Megan looked at Becca with sympathy. How awful to carry around such a burden, to lose one parent to death and another to hatred. She said, “Those are very strong words.”
Becca turned her full attention on Megan. “My father had an unimaginable cruel streak. Oh, he could hide it from the public, but behind closed doors he reveled in it. He would do little things—rip up my favorite stuffed animal in front of me, tell me how fat I looked right before the prom, give away our beloved family dog—to show who was really in charge. It wasn’t until I was in high school and saw how other parents were that I realized what a bastard my father was.”
Gently, Megan said, “That’s awful, Becca. But those things don’t make him a murderer.”
“My mother was a healthy woman. Depressed, yes. But not so out of it that she’d miss a gas leak in her house. My father set her up. He killed her.”
“You need to stop saying that, Becca,” a man’s voice said. “You sound mad. And by mad, I mean crazy.”
Megan and Becca looked up to see Luke standing there, his hands in his pockets. He’d entered the café while they were engrossed in conversation. He stared at his sister, eyes rounded with concern. Becca turned away with a huff.
Luke grabbed Becca’s arm. “You need to watch what you’re saying.” He glanced at Megan. Voice lowered, he said, “Dad is dead, Becca. Dead. Not the best time to be mouthing off about how much you hated him.”
But Becca would not be deterred. “You weren’t there, Luke. You didn’t see the way he degraded her. The more she sank into depression, the more he berated her, blamed her for every bad thing that had ever happened in his life. It’s not hard to believe he wanted her out of his life for good—” Becca seemed to catch herself. She looked at her brother, eyes watery.
“You should get some rest,” Luke said slowly and deliberately. “We ne
ed to meet at Aunt Merry’s later. To start dealing with Dad’s cremation.”
Becca nodded. Clover arrived with cookies and hot chocolate, but Becca refused the offerings. Clover shrugged and shoved a cookie into her own mouth. She held the hot chocolate out to Luke, who also declined.
“Megan, do you sell eggs?” Luke asked. “Aunt Merry sent me to get some.”
“Of course.” Merry always wanted eggs. Megan wasn’t sure what she did with so many eggs.
Megan walked to the cooler and fetched a dozen eggs from the cooler. She returned to the table and handed them to Luke. By that time, Becca was gone.
Luke started to reach for his wallet, and Megan shook her head. “No need.”
Luke muttered his thanks.
“Where did Becca go?” Megan asked.
“She said she was heading back to Merry’s to rest.” Luke shifted the eggs from hand to hand absentmindedly. “Please don’t pay her much mind. She…well, let’s just say my father’s authoritarian nature had a greater effect on my rebellious little sister.”
Megan’s eyes wandered to the storefront window and the small crowd gathering outside. She spotted her Aunt Sarah in the pack. The famous mystery author, who was living mostly incognito in Winsome, was eating chestnuts and talking with Amber, the town’s librarian. Sarah turned, saw Megan looking at her, and waved.
Megan said to Luke, “Did your mother die of carbon monoxide poisoning?”
Luke nodded. “An unfortunate accident, despite what Becca says.”
Megan was thinking about Paul Fox, about the potential similarity. Only the police had ruled out a gas leak. But there was that smell in the room…it reminded her of the crisp scent of the New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc Denver preferred. An odd association, and she wished she could place it. She said, “If I can help Becca in any way, let me know.”
