by Wendy Tyson
Megan had let Gunther out too, and the dog raced down the long driveway, barking madly, and disappeared into the misty dawn. He stopped barking, and the sudden quiet made Megan turn to Denver. He grabbed her hand and squeezed.
“Gunther,” she called. “Gunther, come!”
To her relief, the dog barked again. Then he raced back up the drive, darting back and forth between Megan and a figure behind him. The man’s face became clearer as he entered the light.
“Luke?” Megan said.
“Good morning, Megan.”
Gunther growled, more of a warning than a threat. A firm word from Denver had the dog back by their side, but his unwavering canine gaze remained on the stranger.
“Luke, are you okay?” Megan took a step closer. Luke was standing there, his face ashen.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m looking for Becca. Is she here?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”
Luke nodded. “Can I take a look around?”
Megan glanced down at Gunther. “What makes you think she’s here?”
“She’s not at Aunt Merry’s, and she doesn’t really know anyone else in Winsome.”
“Well, I’m not hiding her,” Megan said. “Maybe she got a hotel room somewhere. Decided not to stay with Merry.”
“She left her stuff at my aunt’s. Her perfumes.” His neck strained to look beyond Megan, toward the barn. “Maybe she’s in your barn.”
“She’s not in the barn. My farm manager just came from there. Had anyone been in the barn, he would have known.” She glanced back at the looming structure and frowned. “But you can take a look if it will make you feel better.”
Luke thanked her. “My sister…you don’t know her, the things that she does. She could have decided to hide from the world for a spell, and a warm barn may have been the spot she chose.”
“I don’t think the barn is too warm,” Denver said. His eyes narrowed. “If you want to check, come on. I’ll take you.”
Megan kept Gunther by her side with a touch to the large dog’s back. The two watched as Denver and the shorter man walked through the snowy courtyard and entered the barn. “Good boy,” Megan muttered to her dog. He whined. “It’s okay. Denver will be back.”
The search seemed to take longer than Megan would have anticipated. Finally she watched as the two left the barn. Denver continued to wait while Luke walked around the perimeter of the property, peeking into greenhouses and checking behind the looming barn. When he returned to Denver, the two checked the goats’ pen, and then they trod back down toward the house.
“Satisfied?” Megan asked.
Luke nodded. Snow had crusted his beard and eyebrows, and he wiped at his face absentmindedly with the back of a leather-gloved hand.
Megan said, “Would you like to come inside for some coffee and breakfast, Luke? My grandmother made pancakes.”
“No, thanks. I should keep looking.”
“If you’re that worried, have you considered calling the police?”
“Nah, I don’t want to call attention. Becca does stuff like this. She’s sensitive. Always has been.”
“Maybe the lassie is reacting to your father’s death,” Denver said gently. “Needs some time.”
Luke gave a noncommittal “maybe.” He turned to go. Megan reached out a hand to stop him and pulled it back. He looked tired and broken and like he needed some warmth and company. But he knew his sister better than she did, and so she let him go.
On the way back inside, Denver’s eyes clouded with worry. “Have Gunther do rounds, Megan.”
“Why? Did Luke say something while you were at the barn?”
“No, but he didn’t need to. His father’s dead and now he can’t find his sister. I’d be worried too.” Denver’s gaze strayed to the barn, and Megan knew he was thinking about another death, not that long ago. “The farm is vulnerable out here on the outskirts of town.” To Gunther, he said, “Watch over the farm, boy.”
Megan opened the screen door. “Think he understands you?”
“He understands love and protection. That’s all he needs to understand.”
Truer words…Hadn’t the dog already proven his loyalty once?
“Wonder why Becca left.”
“Whether she hated the man or not, her father’s death was a blow. Some people can’t deal with grief. She may just need to nurse her wounds—alone.”
Megan nodded. “Given Becca’s unannounced visit yesterday, and now Luke’s visit so early this morning, I suspect you’re right. Something’s up in the Fox family, and surely it centers around Paul’s death.”
Denver opened the main door to go back inside, holding it open for Megan. Megan took a last glance at the driveway, taking comfort in the rising sun and Gunther, who was sitting by the barn, now stoically watching the property spread out below.
“What was that all about?” Clay asked when they were back in the kitchen.
“Luke Fox. He was looking for Becca.” Megan hung her coat on the hook in the entrance and took her seat once again. Her appetite gone, she pushed her plate away. “Kept insisting she could be in the barn.”
“No one’s in the barn,” Clay said. “I was up there this morning. Anyway, why would she be hiding in the barn?”
“We said the same thing, but he insisted, so Denver took him up.”
Bibi looked at Sarah. “Maybe you know why he’d think Becca was hiding?”
Sarah frowned, deepening the lines around her mouth and eyes. She stood. “Megan, can we talk in the other room?”
Curious, Megan said, “Of course.” She caught Denver’s eye. With an apologetic smile, she said, “Will you be here when we’re done?”
“I’m afraid I have to leave. Morning surgeries start soon, and I need a short nap and a shower beforehand.” He glanced at his watch. “Plus, the dogs will be wanting some relief and some breakfast. I left at three this morning.”
Megan nodded. After kissing Denver good-bye, she placed her dishes in the dishwasher and gestured for Sarah to follow her. A look passed between Bibi and Sarah, one that made Megan suspect Bibi knew exactly why Sarah was there.
Sarah had information about Paul Fox. And whatever it was, Bibi didn’t like it one bit.
Eleven
Megan closed the French doors while Aunt Sarah sat down on Bibi’s recliner.
Megan regarded her aunt from a spot on the couch. Sarah’s normally self-assured countenance seemed marred by worry. “What’s going on?”
“I need to know what Becca told you about Paul. About her conversation with Bobby.” Sarah couldn’t hide her impatience. Her hands were acting independently again, picking at the strands of yarn hanging from Bibi’s knitting basket, which sat alongside the chair. Her gaze darted between Megan’s face and the window. A soft sleet pelted the windows, its ping, ping a rhythmic white noise in the stuffy room.
“Becca didn’t tell me anything. I haven’t seen her since Bobby came to collect her yesterday.”
Sarah looked crestfallen. “Then what did Becca tell you before that? About Paul.”
Megan wondered why Sarah wanted to know about the Fox family. Her mind reflected back on their encounter in Merry’s parking lot, to the heated argument she’d witnessed between Aunt Sarah and Paul. Admittedly Megan didn’t know her aunt that well. Years of conflict between Sarah Birch and Megan’s grandfather had caused a rift in the family. Conflict that started when Sarah helped Megan’s mother leave her young daughter and husband. It was only recently that Sarah had been welcomed back to Washington Acres. And not quite with open arms.
Nevertheless, Sarah was Megan’s only real connection to her mother and to the maternal grandfather she just recently found out she had. As much as Megan resented Sarah, she also clung to the hope that someday there could be reconciliation with her mother, Charlott
e Birch. A childish hope, she knew. But somehow she was always made to feel like a child around Sarah.
And so she didn’t quite trust her instincts.
“It might be better if you told me what you’re worried about,” Megan said. “I spoke to Becca about a lot of things, her father just one of them.”
Sarah rubbed long arthritic fingers down the length of a muscular thigh, kneading away some invisible tension. “Paul and I had a falling out many years ago.” The corners of her mouth turned down as though whatever had happened had been painful then—and was painful to think about now. “He threatened me. I reported it. He left Winsome.”
“Doesn’t sound like he was a very nice guy.”
Sarah smirked. “Understatement.”
“Did he leave Winsome because of your falling out?”
“No. Well, maybe. I wasn’t the only one he rubbed the wrong way. Paul Fox was a liar and a cheat, and few people around here were willing to tolerate a liar and a cheat.” She seemed embarrassed about her outburst and lowered her voice. “We tolerated him for a while. Until we figured him out.” She paused. “And for Merry’s sake.”
Megan did some quick math. Sarah hadn’t lived in Winsome for years. She said as much.
“Oh, I’ve had the cottage for many years. It was my writing retreat before I moved in full-time. It wasn’t until I heard you were coming back to town that I decided to make Winsome my permanent residence.”
Megan let that sink in. “So what happened between you Paul?”
“It doesn’t matter, Megan. What matters is that he’s dead.” Sarah looked down at her hands as though they belonged to someone else. She looked up, her gaze intense. “And someone killed him.”
“I know.”
Sarah’s eyes registered her surprise. “So you did talk to Becca.”
“No, I haven’t seen Becca since yesterday, just as I told Luke. But I suspected Paul’s death was intentional. Bobby confirmed.”
Sarah pulled her long hair away from her face in an angry swipe. “He’s causing trouble even in death.”
Megan stood. She walked to the window and looked out toward the barn, which seemed out of focus in the hazy light and sleety drizzle. When she turned back around, Sarah was standing by the fireplace mantel, looking at the photos Bibi had placed along its surface.
“Did Becca mention anything about me?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Bobby King had me in for a visit early yesterday evening. We had a…long talk.”
Megan waited. Years of questioning witnesses at the law firm taught her that silence often elicited more information than questions.
“I wrote a book,” Aunt Sarah said drily after a moment. “It seems the plot line has certain things in common with the way Paul Fox died.”
Megan twisted toward her aunt in surprise. Sarah Birch was well known within the crime writing community. She’d won awards, been a constant presence on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, and had a solid fan base. There was even a movie based on one of her novels. Megan hadn’t known about her aunt’s occupation, and before she’d found out, she’d read many of her mysteries. But she couldn’t think of a plot line that had the victim die by phosgene poisoning.
“It’s an old novel, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Sarah said. “One of my earliest mysteries, written under a different pen name—Lydia Kane.” Aunt Sarah’s smile took on a self-deprecating curl. “More of a literary mystery. Critics loved it, the public not so much.”
“And the murderer used—”
“Phosgene.” Sarah frowned, her eyes piercing Megan’s. “Yes, I know. That’s what killed Paul.”
“Bobby told you?”
“I figured it out from his questioning. I may be old, Megan, but I’m not stupid.”
“I never doubted your intelligence.” Your loyalty, perhaps, Megan thought—but not that. “And the windows?”
Sarah closed her eyes. “Duct tape. And my killer slowly poisoned his victim in the days before the big dénouement. Just like with Paul. I figured that out too.” She opened her eyes, and the brightness of them was startling. “His cough.”
“And his reddish eyes.” Megan rubbed her temples, thinking. To have a killer use a novel as the basis for their crime? Well, that was either the world’s most ardent fan—or a true nightmare reader. “Do the police suspect you? Surely they can’t think you would be so dumb as to kill someone after having written a book about it.”
“Who knows what the police think, but Bobby’s questions were more about the book, who might have read it, that sort of thing.”
Megan took this all in. “And your questions to me about Becca?”
“Someone tipped the police.”
“You think it was Becca who told them about the novel?”
“Something tells me Bobby King does not read literary mysteries.” She raised her eyebrows. “But who knows. I saw Becca at the police station when I arrived. I think they questioned her before me. Again, if Bobby didn’t put two and two together, then who told him? Becca’s a reader—Merry told me that. Becca’s also a little…unstable.”
“Perhaps she has reason to be.”
“Perhaps. Nonetheless, I don’t need her shifting focus to me. For all we know, it was Becca Fox who killed her father. She had motive—she hated the man. And she had means. She’s a chemist, after all. If anyone would understand the properties of a horrible chemical like phosgene, she would.”
Megan had to admit that was true—and the same thought had occurred to her. “Aunt Sarah, what was the name of the novel?”
“To Kill Again.”
Megan sat back heavily on the couch. “It’s doubtful this is a coincidence, which would mean—”
Aunt Sarah leaned forward, her posture conspiratorial. In the early morning light, she looked off-center, a little insane. Her lips twisted into the shadow of a smile. “Which would mean that someone used my book to plot a murder.”
Megan’s first stop after Aunt Sarah left was to her study. She powered up her laptop and looked for a copy of To Kill Again. It was out of print, but it didn’t take Megan long to find a used edition sold by a third party on Amazon. She ordered it.
If the killer was using a playbook, she’d like to know what to expect.
Twelve
It didn’t take long for the news that Paul Fox’s death was a murder to spread through Winsome. By that afternoon, Megan heard Paul’s name whispered in the aisles of the store and speculation about his death seemed to be the prime topic of conversation at the café tables. Even Alvaro was in on the gossip. He cornered Megan in the café’s kitchen while she helped him chop vegetables for that evening’s winter stew.
“It’s all I hear from back here,” Alvaro said. “Buzz, buzz, buzz. They’re like flies devouring a piece of rotting watermelon.” He shook his head, his dark eyes crinkling in disgust. “The man is dead what, not even a week? The carcass is ripe for the picking, I guess.”
Megan chopped a rutabaga into small pieces, all the while trying not to visualize carcasses and rotting fruit. Alvaro was right, of course. Paul’s death had been one thing—but a murder?
“I hear he was poisoned,” Alvaro said. “Not a heart attack like we thought in the beginning.”
Megan nodded. “That’s my understanding.”
Alvaro was sautéing onions and garlic in a large stock pot on the commercial cooktop. The smell reminded Megan of a thousand winter days at the farmhouse in Winsome, and she longed suddenly for a simpler time.
“I don’t think he was such a nice man.”
Surprised, Megan looked up. “Why do you say that, Alvaro?”
He shrugged, his thin shoulders sharp under an impeccably white chef’s jacket. “I read.”
“What did you read?”
“Newspaper articles. Old ones.”
Alvaro grabbed a bowl of chopped carrots and added the carrots to the contents in the pot. “Someone left them on a table. I saw them when I was cleaning up.”
Megan stopped chopping. “When was that? Do you remember?”
“Sí, of course I remember. Last Tuesday. It was snowing. We had a rush at dinner—I served my tortilla soup, which everyone loves, especially on a cold day—and the café was a mess. The papers were there under a New York Times.”
“Were they actual news articles or printouts?”
Alvaro pursed his lips. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. Just curious.”
“They were cut from an old newspaper. Like if you were making…what you call it?”
“A scrapbook?”
Alvaro snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Clipped for a scrapbook.”
A scrapbook about Paul? Megan handed Alvaro a bowl of rutabagas, which he added to the pot, wondering who would go to that degree of trouble.
“Do you remember what the articles were about? What newspaper they were from?”
Alvaro waved his hand, clearly annoyed he had brought the topic up. “He was a cheat. Didn’t pay money he owed. A bad guy. I have no idea what paper they were from.”
“How about the date?”
Alvaro seemed to think about this. “They were a little yellow, a little crispy. Old, I think. But I don’t recall the date.”
“Did you tell the police?”
Alvaro stirred the pot with a long spoon. His arm churned with added vigor. “No one asked me. What am I going to say? That someone left newspapers? Someone always leaves newspapers. I threw them away.”
“And the man was still alive then,” Megan said. How was Alvaro to know he’d die just days later—and that those papers could be important. Megan would tell Bobby when she saw him, but she doubted he’d get much more from her chef.
Megan went back to chopping. It was snowing outside, and the café would have its usual evening visitors—Winsome residents who didn’t mind braving the inclement weather to share some company and savor Alvaro’s comfort food. But the articles bothered her. Someone had gone to the trouble of clipping them. And saving them.
