by Wendy Tyson
“Didn’t Merry tell you?” Megan relayed the bare bones of the story Merry had shared. “They argued, met up, and then who knows. Merry and I are both thinking he may know something about your dad’s death.”
Luke walked quickly away from the island and grabbed his coat from the hook by the back door. But Megan saw the look of pain that crossed his features before he turned away. Pain—or fear? She wasn’t sure.
“I told you before, my sister has issues. She acts impulsively, has ever since she was a kid. The guy could have been a friend, a former boyfriend, a disgruntled customer. How would I know?” He turned back around to face Megan. “That’s why I wanted to search your barn. Sometimes Becca doesn’t make the best decisions. She always needs an escape route. Men often give her that escape.”
“Merry said she and this man were talking about your father. That doesn’t sound like a boyfriend.”
“Aunt Merry was eavesdropping again? That’s just great. Happy to see she’s up to her old tricks too.” The boyish charm and good manners were gone now. “I have to go, which means I need to lock up. As you saw, Aunt Merry’s not in a position to do it herself.”
Megan nodded. She put her glass in the sink, taking her time as she did so. She slipped on her coat and walked outside beside Luke. His agitation felt palpable, his concern about his sister obvious.
“Should you tell your aunt you’re leaving?” Megan asked. “She may worry.”
“She’ll be out for the night,” Luke said before turning toward his car. “She always is.” He slammed the car door and drove away without another look in Megan’s direction.
It was only a little after nine when Megan arrived at the store. Most of the shops along Canal Street had closed by then, and the café closed at seven after serving its usual light fare dinner. The Washington Acres store portion was open until eight, though, and Megan was hoping to catch Clover before she left for the night. She was too late. Her shop manager and her cook were both gone and the store was locked up and dark.
Megan unlocked the front door and flipped on the lights. She secured the door behind her. A quick inventory proved that Clover had already restocked most of the shelves. Megan grabbed a pad of paper from behind the counter and walked from aisle to aisle, taking note of what was needed. That done, she sorted through the pantry and the storeroom in the back and replaced missing goods with whatever she had available. She was woefully short on many things, especially dairy and baking products and paper goods, things that tended to go when the weather forecasters predicted snow. Suddenly everyone in Winsome wanted to drink milk, bake, and clean.
Megan moved on to the refrigerator section. She noted vegetables and other items she needed to send to the store with Clay during his morning run: microgreens, spinach bundles, onions, garlic, potatoes, and eggs. A quick check of the kitchen stores and the note Alvaro had left for her alongside his proposed menu for the following week told her those same vegetables would be needed in the café. Plus bok choy and arugula from the greenhouses. Her chef was in love with arugula, which was beautifully mild when grown in the cool of the greenhouses during the winter months.
Megan glanced at her phone. It was nearly ten o’clock. She called Bibi and, when her grandmother didn’t answer, left her a voicemail. She’d be worried. Megan should have called sooner to tell her where she’d be.
Megan unlocked the door and headed out into the cold night air. Canal Street was empty. The new period-style outdoor lamps cast pools of weak light onto the cobblestone, but beyond the pools lay only deep shadows. The snow that remained underfoot squeaked when she walked. Megan could feel her heart beating, could see her breath.
Anxious to get home, Megan was just opening her car door when an object banged into her back, pushing her forward. Her head hit the truck. Something slammed into the back of her knees and she lost her balance, sliding down the side of the vehicle and onto her hands and knees. Her head was spinning, her back ached. Panic rose in her throat.
She tried to stand but was pushed down again. Before she could turn, she heard squeaky footsteps quickly retreating. Out of breath, her voice gone, Megan fought to keep herself under control. A kid. An attempted mugging gone wrong. A thug.
She reached for her phone, pulling herself up as she did so. She got into the truck hastily, locking the doors, just as the 911 operator answered. She explained what happened, where she was, her voice sounding far away.
As she described the mugging, her gaze settled on something outside the truck. A package left just outside of the pool of light. Not a package. A book.
Megan looked around. She grabbed a heavy metal flashlight from under the truck seat and held it, handle out. She pulled off her hat and grasped it with her other hand. With the 911 operator still on the phone, she left the relative safety of the truck and went back out into the night. Her stomach roiling, she grabbed the book with her hat, careful not to touch it with her fingers.
Once more in the truck, she locked the doors and started the engine, waiting for the police to arrive.
She opened the hat and looked at her bounty. Her breath once again caught in her throat.
The Killing Time by Sarah Estelle.
Sarah Estelle. Sarah Birch. Another mystery written by Megan’s aunt.
Twenty
Megan found herself back at the farm with Bobby King. He’d arrived alongside his patrolmen to take her statement. He took the book in case they could pull prints, and directed his officers to see whether any of the local security cameras had caught the perpetrator on tape.
When the formalities were over, he said, “I’d sure feel better if I could see you home, Megan.”
“You know I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with far worse than this.”
“Well, maybe I’d feel better if we had some time to talk.”
“Are you thinking a piece of Bibi’s raisin crumb pie might help you feel better too?”
King smiled. “Sure wouldn’t hurt.”
And so they ended up in the Birch kitchen, drinking Kahlua and decaf coffee and eating large slices of Bibi’s pie. Neither said a word until the last crumbs were gone and even the dogs had a taste of the crust.
King leaned back in his chair and placed his hands over his burgeoning belly. “No one makes pie like your grandmother.”
“That’s true. Want any more, Bobby?”
“No. I should go soon or Clover will have the police out looking for me.” He laughed lightly at his own joke. “Truth is, this case has me stumped.”
“But you have your suspect.”
King stared at his empty plate, silent.
“The books?” Megan asked. “They’re bothering you.”
“The girl, the books, tonight…best I can tell, someone is playing with us.” His eyes darkened. “And tonight you got hurt.”
“I got bruised, but nothing terrible. Whoever did that wanted to leave me the book. Maybe they hoped to place it on my car while I was in the shop and panicked when they saw I was already at the truck.” Megan shrugged. “Maybe the murder and this joker aren’t even related and it’s all one giant coincidence.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe.” Then, more quietly, “No.”
Gunther rose from his spot next to Bobby and lay on the floor with a loud doggy sigh. Sadie, sensing the futility of more begging, followed suit. Together they formed a canine yin-yang symbol.
“I don’t think Becca did it, Bobby. She certainly didn’t attack me tonight. You have her locked up.”
“I know that. But she could have had an accomplice.”
“What do you have on her that makes you so certain she was involved?”
King rubbed his eyes. “That’s just it. Maybe not enough. There’s the fact that she’s a chemist and should understand how to get or make phosgene.”
“Did you find actual phosgene? Or atte
mpts to procure it?”
“Not yet.”
Megan waited for him to continue. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps realizing as they talked that he didn’t have a strong case.
King said, “We found some incriminating stuff on her computer, mostly diary entries about her dad and how much she hates him. There were also some files containing information about her dad’s former patients that gave us pause.”
Megan sat up straight. “His former patients? Like what?”
“Names and phone numbers mostly.”
“How many former patients?” When King didn’t answer, Megan said, “She hated her father, Bobby.”
“Like we didn’t know that.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. “So?”
“So why would Becca have her dad’s files?”
“Blackmail?” When Megan nodded, he said, “Blackmail whom? Her father?”
“Why not? Did you ask her why she had them?”
King nodded. The pie and alcohol had kicked in and he looked worn and cross and sleepy. “We grilled her—with her attorney present, of course. She claims she was contacting former patients in the hopes they’d sue her father.”
“Sue him? For malpractice?”
“She claims he was inappropriate with patients. That he used their pain to fuel his own sense of power.”
“She may not be far from the truth. There’s a reason my aunt’s books were chosen. I’m sure of it. You talked to Aunt Sarah. You know she believes Paul was an unethical therapist at best, maybe even a criminal.”
King met Megan’s gaze. “Sarah is on the list of former patients. It’s another thing linking Becca to the crime. She knows Sarah through Merry. It’s not that far-fetched to think she’d know about the books.”
“Is Becca the one who told you phosgene matched up to a Sarah Estelle novel?”
“No. Becca never mentioned it.” King hesitated. “That was Merry. Seems she’s read every masterpiece Sarah has ever written.”
Megan toyed with whether to tell Bobby about Merry’s omission now—or wait. She decided he needed all the cards laid out in front of him so he could get a clearer sense of the big picture.
Reluctantly, Megan said, “There’s something else. Merry wasn’t one hundred percent honest with you about the night Paul died.” Megan shared Merry’s story—the overheard snippets of conversation, Becca’s departure. “Now perhaps Becca’s phone conversation makes more sense. At first Merry thought it was a clandestine boyfriend, but then she realized it was about Paul. But there is an alternate explanation.”
“You think she was talking with one of Paul’s former patients?”
“It would explain the heated argument. Some of these people don’t want to be reminded of whatever brought them into trauma therapy in the first place. Perhaps Becca was trying to convince this guy to go after Paul.”
Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. “You think Paul was that unethical? That he was that much of a target?” He shook his head. “You think Becca would stoop that low?”
“People see therapists when they’re at their most vulnerable. Think about it. Messing with someone who is at a low point in their life is pretty despicable. And if he was sexual with Sarah, maybe he took advantage of other patients.” Megan was thinking of Eloise Kent and her refusal to talk earlier that day. Her patients—children already affected by trauma—were the ultimate victims. “People see therapists for a reason. Usually not a happy one. If he was abusing patients—well, there is no statute of limitations on that type of criminal behavior.”
“As usual, you make a good point. Maybe my people need to look deeper into Paul’s past. If he was shaking it up with his patients—or worse—it may be motive to kill.”
Megan agreed. “Just go easy on Merry. She’s having a tough time of it.”
“She’d be having a tougher time if I decided to throw an obstruction offense her way.” He stood, wobbled, and caught himself by grabbing the table’s edge.
“Whoa. I think you’d better stay here tonight. Between the Kahlua and your exhaustion, you need a good night’s sleep.”
Bobby smiled. “What will the neighbors think?”
“We don’t have neighbors. I think you’re safe.”
With Bobby tucked into the guest room and Bibi fast asleep, Megan hunted for The Killing Time online, the book her mugger had left on the street. The police had confiscated the novel as evidence, but this was a newer Sarah Estelle novel, just published three years ago, and she was able to get an electronic format to download immediately. By midnight she was tucked in bed, reading the mystery on her laptop.
She couldn’t put it down.
It wasn’t simply the setting: a small Pennsylvania town.
It wasn’t simply the victim: a thirty-something shop owner.
It wasn’t simply the season: the winter holidays.
It was also the way the victim died: a carjacking outside her own shop.
Megan saw no parallels to Paul’s death. The parallels here were much more personal. Someone was trying to scare her. Or draw a connection. Or, more likely, warn her off.
Twenty-One
Friday night was supposed to be the café’s Night with Santa event. Megan had Denver lined up to be a very handsome Scottish Santa, and Bibi had kindly agreed to play the role of Mrs. Claus. Alvaro had reluctantly offered to make a dessert spread straight out of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, including sugarplums and homemade eggnog, and Clover was anxious to play her array of Christmas tunes over the café’s new stereo system. Megan found herself thinking about the Night with Santa event all Friday morning. How could she not? The scents pouring from the kitchen were a constant reminder. She was both looking forward to the distraction and dreading the festivities. Mostly Megan didn’t quite feel up to a party, especially because the victim in The Killing Time was murdered right after a similar event.
Not the jolliest of Christmases. At least Merry seemed better.
A phone call around eleven had proven fruitful. Merry was out of bed and showered, and while she didn’t quite sound her normal haughty self, she seemed to be on the mend. Some good news, at least. Nevertheless, Aunt Sarah’s books and their odd connection to the happenings in Winsome troubled Megan.
“You’re singlehandedly ruining the holidays for me,” Megan told her aunt over lunch Friday afternoon. They were sitting at the far end of the booth at the café, enjoying curried butternut squash soup and watching Alvaro berate Clover in the kitchen.
“Not me you need to blame. Tell King to get a move on and find this person.”
Megan swallowed a spoonful of soup. “How many mysteries did you write?”
“Nineteen.”
“Damn.” She smiled, but she didn’t mean it and Sarah wasn’t fooled. “Seriously. Can you think of any link, Aunt Sarah? Any reason someone might be using your books to terrorize people in this town?”
“I’m as stumped as you.” Aunt Sarah’s blue eyes squinted in Alvaro’s direction. “Did King have any luck with the local security cameras?”
“Not so far. But his officers have to go through a fair amount of footage. Last I heard, they were still reviewing what they had.”
“You didn’t see the person at all?”
“Not so much as a shadow. He came at me from behind.”
Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “He?”
“Just a hunch given the force used to push me down. Truth is, could have been a man or a woman.”
Sarah took her time finishing her soup. The afternoon rush had thinned, and with Clover and Emily helping at the café and store, respectively, Megan had some rare downtime. She cleared her dish and Sarah’s and returned with two pieces of homemade gingerbread smothered in whipped cream.
“If I keep eating like this, I’ll be able to play Santa Claus,” Sarah said.
They both laughed. The sound was b
rittle, forced.
“How did your grandmother handle what happened last night?”
“Okay. I spared her most of the details. Focused on the book.”
Sarah frowned. “You could get hurt in all of this, Megan.”
“Now you sound like Denver.”
“Denver is a smart man.”
Megan stabbed a forkful of gingerbread, moist and richly scented. She debated how much to tell Aunt Sarah. King had made it clear every former patient on that list was still a suspect—including Megan’s aunt. She didn’t want to tip any hands.
Behind her, a child laughed and talked excitedly about Santa. Megan leaned in toward Sarah. “Did Becca try to contact you?”
Sarah looked surprised by the question. “Paul’s daughter? No, why?”
“Just curious. But Paul did?”
Sarah nodded. “He called me when he arrived in town. Came to the house under the guise of a friendly visit. But as with everything Paul does, he couldn’t maintain the façade.” She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly.
“Did he hurt you?”
Sarah looked away, toward the family with the little girl. “He came on to me.”
“And he hurt you.”
Sarah bit her bottom lip, her bright blue eyes heavy lidded with disgust. “He pushed me up against a wall and kissed me. Or tried to kiss me.” She sneered. “It was a hollow ploy to manipulate me. Make the old woman feel wanted so she’ll stay quiet. He was banking on his charm being enough.”
“Assaulting you doesn’t sound very charming.”
“It’s all in the way he did things. As though he was passionate and couldn’t control himself. I didn’t see through it then. I did—do—now. Rejection made him angry. He grabbed my wrist, twisted. Told me I’d better stay quiet.”
“Or?”
Sarah picked up her mug and stared at drops of coffee dried on the side, brown stains against light blue ceramic. Quietly, she said, “There was no ‘or.’”
Sarah was an award-winning mystery writer. She knew as well as any cop that admitting to an “or” was tantamount to providing a motive. If Paul Fox had threatened her life, her livelihood, she would have reason to kill him. If there was an “or,” she wasn’t trusting Megan with it, a fact that gave Megan pause. Perhaps her aunt didn’t trust her yet after all.
