Greenhouse Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-6

by Wendy Tyson

  “I figured you have your hands full. We didn’t even know if what Roger told us was true.”

  “That was up to me to decide.”

  He was right, and Megan said so. “In the future I will.”

  Megan’s refusal to argue seemed to deflate the police chief. He placed one foot over his knee and his hands behind his head. “So what did you learn?”

  “For one, Paul was unfaithful. Roger gave us Sherry Lynn’s name and town and we found the address on our own.”

  “What did you learn from Sherry Lynn, Megan? Anything else of note?”

  “Much of it was stuff we knew already. Blanche and Paul had a rocky marriage. In fact, Blanche had been planning to file for a divorce right before she died.”

  King put his arms down. “That’s news.”

  Megan nodded. “No sex for two years, according to Sherry Lynn. And Blanche—again, according to Sherry Lynn—emasculated Paul. Made him feel unworthy.”

  “Hurt his male ego? Interesting, perhaps, but I’m not sure that provides any new insights.”

  “What was interesting was hearing her take on the family. She denied flat out that Becca was emotionally abused, blamed Blanche for the marital problems, even found a way to dismiss Paul’s cheapness.”

  “Cheapness?”

  “Apparently Paul ruled the bank accounts as well. Made Blanche ask for household money. Sherry Lynn told us that she met Blanche during a class. A home improvement class.”

  “So?”

  “So Blanche supposedly died when there was a gas leak. A mechanical mistake, one that doesn’t happen often in this age of scented gas and detectors. According to Sherry Lynn, Blanche was quite handy. She knew how to fix things well enough that she didn’t need to hire contractors, which meant she didn’t need to ask Paul for money.” Megan met King’s gaze. “Does that sound like a woman who would miss a gas leak?”

  “You think the fact that she was handy means Paul murdered her? That Becca is right?” King’s eyes squinted with doubt. “Sounds like a stretch.”

  Megan sat on Bibi’s recliner. She tucked her legs under her and stared at the police chief, her emotions roiling. What did she think? What did she believe at this point? “I think Paul and Blanche had a terrible marriage. I think Paul was a sadistic ass who played on people’s emotions and made a lot of enemies. But to hear Sherry Lynn talk, Paul was a genius, a visionary, a misunderstood man.” Megan shook her head. “Becca hated him, his son was close to him. Merry thought he was an upstanding gentleman, a good addition to the family. Eloise Kent can’t even talk about him—and her distaste for the man is palpable. My Aunt Sarah? Well, you can ask her yourself. You’ll get no kind words there.”

  “None of that means he killed his wife.”

  “He controlled Blanche’s every move. What she could do, what classes she could take, the money she had. How do you think he would react when he learned she was leaving her, Bobby? I think he wanted to make sure she couldn’t reject him yet again.”

  Bobby put his head back against the couch. “Even if he did kill his wife, what does that have to do with recent events?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Are we back to Becca then?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I just don’t know.”

  King nodded. “I don’t know either.” He studied Megan for a moment, then turned his attention to the afghan Bibi was working on. It sat in a basket atop yarn and Bibi’s knitting needles. “I came to see you about something else. My officers watched the security tapes from the night you got attacked. They saw the person who attacked you.”

  Megan’s eyes widened. “And?”

  “Well, let me back up. We saw your attacker’s body. Their face was hidden by a hoodie and every attempt by our experts to hone in on some physical characteristic was thwarted by that piece of clothing and grainy photography. All I can say for certain is that whoever slammed you into that truck was wearing black from head to toe.”

  “Surely you saw something? Body shape? A piece of jewelry?”

  “I’m afraid not. It was dark. We have a police artist doing sketches to try and get a general sense of build, but I don’t think there’s much there.”

  “You came just to tell me that?” Megan waited. She knew Bobby King would not have wasted a trip to tell her the news was no news.

  “We did see something else, Megan.” Bobby glanced toward the parlor’s French doors. Almost instinctively, it seemed, he raised a hand as though to ward off the implications of what he was going to tell her. “Whoever your attacker was, he or she had been watching the store for days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The footage showed the same black-clad figure standing in the shadows between your business and the alley. Night after night. Just watching the shop, watching whoever was closing up.”

  Alarm bells were ringing in Megan’s head. Her pulse raced—for her staff’s safety as much as her own. “You’re saying we’re being stalked?”

  “I’m saying someone’s been watching you. Probably the same someone who attacked you.”

  They sat across from one another in silence. It was Megan who broke the spell. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ve assigned an officer to patrol the area. If he sees someone who meets this description, he’ll pick him up. If he sees anyone just hanging around the store, he’ll stop them.”

  Megan nodded. What else could they do? “I need to tell my staff. Maybe institute a buddy system for now.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  Megan refused to give voice to her next thought: if they had a stalker at the store, did they have one at the farm too?

  “You have the dogs,” King said as though reading her mind. “And I’d make sure Bibi isn’t coming and going alone after dark. Just in case.”

  Megan nodded, swallowing a groan. They’d both been down this road before.

  Megan couldn’t sleep again that night. She cracked open a window hoping some cold air would cool the demons holding court in her head, but that didn’t work. Even Sadie’s rhythmic breathing wasn’t enough. Finally, worn out from worry, she turned on her laptop and began reading her latest Sarah Estelle novel, Love Kills. This book she’d read before, years ago. She found herself instantly pulled into Detective Margaret Lewis’s world.

  At 3:26, Megan closed her computer, too tired to read the last fifty pages. No matter. She remembered how this book ended. The motive was indeed revenge, but not by a jilted lover, as the name might imply, but by a teenage son. A son who finds out his father had multiple wives. A son who finds out his father is cheating on his mother and had been for years. The murder weapon? A shovel. It was a terrifying plot, one that would echo in the head of any parent. Despite Megan’s now heavy eyelids, she still couldn’t sleep.

  Becca Fox. A girl with a troubled past who hated her father. Luke Fox, the favorite child. Paul Fox. A terrible husband. A terrible father. An unethical therapist. A killer?

  No one would be surprised if Becca sought revenge. Only she was locked up when Megan was attacked. Just as Megan drifted off to sleep, her mind latched on to Merry’s story of the night Paul was murdered. Becca, having a heated conversation on the phone. Becca, meeting a man under the cloak of night.

  Could it have been Becca all along? Could Becca be working with an accomplice as King originally thought?

  Megan’s final image before sleep was of Becca Fox sitting on her kitchen floor, head in her hands, a deranged glow burning in her intelligent eyes.

  Denver’s words came back to her: “Bees that hae honey in their mouths, hae stings in their tails.” Perhaps Becca’s sweet, open attitude hid something much darker.

  Twenty-Five

  Megan announced the shop’s new protocol the next morning before the store and café opened, while Alvaro was prepping for the morni
ng church crowd and Clover was assisting him.

  Both of her employees eyed her as though she were daft.

  “Buddy system?” Alvaro sneered. “I served my country. I’ll be fine.”

  “Bobby told me to be careful already. I have pepper spray. I’ll carry that with me.”

  Megan didn’t feel particularly comforted by either response.

  Brian Porter had ridden with her to the café that morning. Brian was Megan’s farm hand. He worked part-time in the winter and full-time in the summer, and his sullen attitude masked a strong work ethic and an even stronger back. It was Clay’s day off, and Alvaro had requested potatoes, onions, eggs, and other food from the farm’s stores. Brian, who’d been looking for extra hours, had agreed to go through the vegetables remaining in the root cellar and Cool Bot and help Megan carry them in. Now he listened to the conversation with a stony glare on his young James Dean face.

  He remained stormy silent.

  “What’s wrong?” Megan asked once they were back in the truck. “You seem especially upset by what I told Alvaro and Clover. There’s no need to worry. I just want them to take precautions.

  Light flurries were falling from the heavy gray sky. Megan put on her wipers and turned to Porter. “Well?”

  “I saw someone here. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Just some stupid kid, at least that’s what I figured.” Porter’s jaw clenched. A former soldier, Brian had anger management issues, ones he’d self-medicated for years with copious amounts of alcohol. He was clean now, but Megan worried about his temper—and about a relapse. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it was anything.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago. Looked like a guy to me, but I couldn’t tell. It was dark, person was wearing all black. Face was covered by a hoodie.” Porter looked out the window. His profile, like his body, was lean and slightly grizzled for his age. “I was driving through town with Sarge. Sarge didn’t even growl. I thought nothing of it at the time. Now—”

  “The truth is, if you had mentioned it to me or even the police, it would have been dismissed as irrelevant.”

  “Why is it relevant now? Paul’s murder?”

  “That, and—” Megan hesitated. She never quite knew how Brian would react to news, especially news that involved people he cared about. And he had come to care about her and Bibi, a fact he often tried to hide. “I was attacked outside the store.”

  Porter’s neck snapped around. “By whom?”

  “We don’t know. Someone in all black.”

  “Damn.” Porter punched one hand with the fist of the other. “Damn, damn, damn, Megan. I’m sorry. I should have said something.”

  Megan turned down Fine Road toward Merry’s nursery. Bibi wanted another wreath for the barn door, and they needed some supplies for the greenhouses and hoop houses.

  She said, “I wasn’t hurt. There is no need to apologize. I never saw the person coming, so honestly, even if you had said something we would have thought nothing of it. But now we know.”

  But Porter had crossed over some surly threshold. He brooded for the next few minutes. Finally, tired of the silence, Megan touched his arm.

  “It’s not your fault, Brian. But if you see anything else, tell us. And maybe you could drive by the farm now and again to check on Bibi.”

  That seemed to calm him—the thought of something to do, some way to help. “Did your friend ever contact you?” he asked, his voice a tad lighter.

  “My friend?” Megan glanced at him. “What friend?”

  “I ran into a friend of yours at Otto’s Brew Pub. Tall guy, dark hair. We started talking, I told him where I worked, and he lit up. Said he’d been hoping to reconnect with you.”

  “How old was he?”

  Porter shrugged. “Maybe late thirties, early forties.” When Megan didn’t say anything else, Porter said, “That wasn’t your friend, was it?”

  “I don’t know. No one has contacted me.”

  “Unless the guy I met was the guy who’s stalking the café.”

  Megan had been thinking the same thing. “Could you describe him to Bobby’s police artist? He may not be anyone relevant to this case, Brian. But it may also be a breakthrough. Call King, please? For me?”

  Brian stared straight ahead, his jaw set, his mouth a tight, angry line. “Yeah, of course.”

  “You would have had no way of knowing.”

  Porter didn’t respond. The fists clenched in his lap did that for him.

  Merry’s nursery was closed. Normally she opened from nine to two on Sundays, and during the holidays she typically opened the doors earlier and stayed open even later. It was 9:17 and the doors were locked, the parking lot empty.

  “That’s odd,” Megan said. She noticed a piece of paper taped to the double glass doors. “Brian, would you mind hopping out to see what the sign says?”

  Brian was back a few seconds later. “It just says ‘Closed Sunday.’”

  Merry promised to get her butt out of bed, Megan thought. But perhaps a promise wasn’t enough to overcome whatever emotions Merry was battling.

  “One more errand?” Megan said to Brian.

  “Of course. I feel like I’m spending Sunday with my grandmom.”

  That was as close to a joke as Megan had ever heard from Brian Porter. And he’d loved his grandmother—the one constant in his tumultuous life. In that, they were soul mates.

  “Well, then, buckle up. We’re going to Doylestown.”

  “Why?”

  “We need the wreath and farm supplies. And their bookstore has the best selection of Sarah Estelle novels in stock. Ever read Sarah Estelle?”

  “No, who is she?”

  “My aunt, Sarah Birch. She writes mysteries. And right now they seem to be the key to solving Winsome’s latest crisis.”

  Like a good grandmother, Megan bought Brian a book. He wanted The History of NASCAR, and Megan figured any reading was good for him. They returned to Winsome with a haul they couldn’t really afford: five mysteries by Sarah, plus Porter’s book, along with the other sundry items Bibi had sent them to get.

  “Why didn’t you just ask your aunt for the books? I’m sure she owns them if she wrote them.”

  “I don’t want to alarm her. Plus, I don’t want to be swayed by her thoughts. So mum’s the word.”

  Porter agreed. He helped Megan bring the purchases into the house.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Nah, but thanks. I have to get home to Sarge.”

  Sarge, Porter’s hundred-pound German Shepherd, was Porter’s emotional support dog. Denver had rescued the Shepherd and then asked Porter to take him. It was another case of who had saved whom.

  So Megan said good-bye to Porter and put away her stash of books. All except Killing Spree. This one she took into the parlor. With Bibi at the café and the dogs surrounding her on the couch, Megan spent the afternoon with Margaret Lewis and the townsfolk of fictional Kennedy, Wisconsin. She read quickly, looking for anything that resonated with the current case. Again, the only constant was revenge—this time as retribution for a business deal gone wrong.

  Megan took notes. The killer was a business colleague. The victims, employees.

  No real parallels there. Or were there? Hadn’t Merry set Becca up in business? The Love Chemist had been funded by Merry Chance. And Sherry Lynn said Paul was away on a business trip. Had he lied to her? Had Sherry Lynn been lying? Or was there a business connection—and a connection to the book?

  Megan kept coming back to the books. The only connection she could think of was Sarah’s former relationship with Paul Fox. Who would have known about that relationship? Who, living today, would have cared?

  The mysterious stranger? Who was he? How was he involved—if at all?

  Sarah? Hard to believe she would u
se her own books as a blueprint for murder. Plus, she already said she had an alibi for the night Paul was murdered—for the entire week, she’d claimed.

  Eloise? While she may have had reason to hate Paul, and she would have known about Sarah and Paul, it seemed a stretch to think she’d exact revenge all these years later. She’d let him go from her practice—despite the fact that she didn’t admit it, it seemed pretty clear. But Eloise was hiding something—what?

  Merry? She had been acting strangely lately. And she had a great deal to lose.

  Luke? He seemed closer to his father than his mother—but it was possible.

  Sherry Lynn? What would be her motive? Revenge seemed unlikely. Greed?

  Becca? She had motive, opportunity, and the chemistry knowledge to make it work. And with her sense of loyalty toward her mother, exacting revenge like in Love Kills seemed imaginable.

  Oh, Becca, Megan thought. Why does it keep coming back to you?

  Twenty-Six

  Monday brought another half a foot of snow, closed schools, and a big headache in the form of a fallen tree branch. The tree branch had landed on one of the chicken tractors placed on the edge of the property, by the woods. Thankfully no chickens were hurt, but Megan and Clay spent the morning calming fragile chicken nerves and fixing the shelter.

  “Great day for this,” Clay said as wind whipped snow into his eyes.

  Megan nodded. Her head was throbbing from the cold and change in pressure, and it was all she could do to keep working. Her eyes stung from the pellet-like snow. She pulled a scarf up over her mouth and murmured her agreement.

  “Were you expecting Bobby?” Clay said a few minutes later. He pointed toward the house, where Winsome’s police chief was making his way up the hill. Despite no hat and no scarf, he seemed impervious to the wind and snow buffeting his face,

  Megan stopped hammering. She placed her tool on the ground and turned to King. “What’s going on, Bobby?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Of course. Inside?”