Greenhouse Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-6

by Wendy Tyson

  Before Megan could bring it up, Alvaro’s wife Maria stopped by the table. Maria was an elegant older woman with impossibly broad, sculpted cheekbones and a toothy smile, but today she seemed drained of energy, a shell of the person Megan was used to seeing. For a rejuvenation center, no one seemed very rejuvenated. Maria hugged Megan and Denver and shook hands with Sylvia and Eddie.

  “I saw you come in,” Maria said to Megan in her accented English. Like Alvaro, she’d moved to the United States from Mexico many years ago, but her words still held the beguiling lilt of her birth land. “But I was tied up with the art show. How do you like the Center? It’s quite grand.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. We are so busy I barely see it anymore.” Maria looked back, toward the entryway into the kitchen, and frowned. Her eyes looked red and swollen. “Well, I have to go. We have a charity auction tonight. Paintings donated by a few of our artists. Several sculptures too. I have to take care of some things before I leave for the day. Will you be staying for the auction?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Megan explained that she had to go back to work at the farm. “But Sylvia and Eddie will be there, I imagine.”

  Sylvia’s face tightened. “No, unfortunately. We have reservations at the sweat lodge for tonight. It’s the couples retreat. Eddie insisted.”

  Megan looked from Sylvia to her father and back again. Eddie insisted? The Eddie she knew liked football games and softball picnics. His only retreat was to the back room to catch a Phillies game or a nap. And if this was a business trip scheduled to buy artwork for the boutique, why was Sylvia skipping the auction for a sweat lodge?

  Megan chose to let it go. She said good-bye to Maria and watched the older woman make her way across the restaurant, her aqua dress floating around her like a shroud.

  The pull of the phone was too great and Sylvia was back on it. “I have to go make some calls,” she said. She stood to leave. Remembering her manners, she spun back around and gave Megan and Denver each a perfunctory hug. “Darling, I’m exhausted,” she said to Eddie. “Would you mind going to Pilates alone this afternoon? I have business to attend to and then I think I may take a nap.”

  Eddie’s eyes brightened and Megan knew he was envisioning cigars behind the horse barns. “Sure. Get all the rest you need.”

  When Sylvia was gone, Megan tried to bring up the topics she’d come to discuss, but Eddie was already on to other things.

  “Dad,” Megan said, hoping the name of endearment would garner his attention, “Maybe dinner at the farm tomorrow? Or you and Sylvia could spend some time with Bibi at the Café if you want a more neutral spot. It would mean the world to me and to Bibi.”

  “Sure, whatever you want,” Eddie said. “I’ll talk to Sylvia.”

  And Sylvia will say no. Megan sighed. She watched her father fidget in his seat like a toddler who’d been strapped in a high chair too long. Some things really never changed.

  After Eddie had returned to the bowels of the Center, Megan and Denver needed to leave. Denver had rounds to make before his flight left for Scotland, and Megan didn’t want to hold him up. Still, while they walked to his 4Runner, she looked around for Thana Moore or Ray Cruise. Just a glimpse of them was all she wanted. To assuage her curiosity, she told herself. Nothing more.

  Four

  “Turn on NBC! Isn’t that the girl you went to school with?” Bibi’s voice carried from the kitchen, through the hall, and into the sitting room where Megan and Denver were cuddled on the couch watching Secondhand Lions. Denver pushed a strand of Megan’s brown hair back from her eyes and kissed her forehead. Megan enjoyed the warmth of his body, the weight of his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t want to move.

  “NBC!” Bibi’s voice came from down the hall again, more insistent this time. “The artist!”

  Reluctantly, Megan stretched across the small space, grabbed the remote, and flipped channels. Sure enough, the face on the screen was one she recognized. Heart-shaped jawline. White-blond hair fashioned into a pixie haircut. Impish smile—all teeth, thin lips. A neck so slender it seemed to be a stalk barely holding up her head.

  Megan moved to a sitting position on the couch, her attention now glued to the screen. The banner below the image on the screen said “Suspected homicide in Bucks County.” Flashing lights, dark woods, a lone reporter standing by a police car.

  “You know her?”

  Megan said, “I did, a long time ago.”

  Denver also slid into a sitting position. He took the remote from Megan and turned up the sound.

  Mesmerized, Megan watched as the reporter talked about the death of Thana Moore, one-time Winsome resident and burgeoning artist.

  The facts were sparse.

  Her minivan had been found a mile from the Peaceful Summit Yoga Retreat Center and Spa, tucked between the trees on a lonely stretch of unnamed drive off Orchard Hill Road. Thana Moore’s lifeless body was inside. Her last known whereabouts had been the Center. Police were investigating.

  They’d already declared it a homicide.

  Thana Moore, dead? Megan thought of those paintings in the renovated barn, of the young girl she’d shared her dreams with. Megan hadn’t seen Thana in years, but she’d heard about her and her exploits, she’d followed her career from afar.

  Another murder in the area. Not Winsome. Nevertheless, this one felt close to home.

  Bibi joined them in the sitting room. Denver flipped from channel to channel, searching for more about the death of Thana Moore. But that was it: five minutes on the local news. Megan scanned the internet on her phone, reading piece after piece, but each was noncommittal in its conclusions and stingy with the facts. Thana had died sometime between late morning and early afternoon, on an unnamed back road near the Center. Not even the means of death had been disclosed.

  After a while, Denver stood up. Gunther joined him and they paced up and down the front hall.

  “Want to go for a walk, Megan? Gunther here would like some fresh air, and after that, I would too.”

  Megan agreed. What Denver hadn’t mentioned was that he was leaving tomorrow, heading back to Scotland to be with his sister for the foreseeable future. This was their last chance to be alone.

  “Do you want your dogs to stay with me?” Megan asked once they were outside. She tried to shake the newscaster’s face, the harbinger of more death and misery. Thana Moore’s murder seemed abstract—a fact Megan was still trying to process. Megan would do what she always did in the face of emotional upheaval: she’d focus on tangible things she could do. Bibi had her baking, and Megan had her action items.

  Denver had five rescue dogs, all of whom would need care while Denver was away, and Megan had grown close to the pups over the past year. What were five more dogs when you were already caring for two dogs, two goats, a barn cat, and a whole flock of chickens?

  Only Denver didn’t need her help. “Ta, Megan, but my assistant at the hospital will be staying at my house. No need.”

  “Which assistant would that be?”

  “Are you jealous, Megs? Well, put your worries to rest. It’s Mrs. Hathaway. I think Mr. Hathaway would kill me if I made any advances toward his wife.”

  Megan smiled. Denver had three assistants: a man and a woman, both in their twenties, and an older woman whose husband worked at the prison two towns over.

  “Mrs. Hathaway is staying at your house?”

  “Said she needed a vacation from Hank. Can’t say I blame her. She’ll have quiet, at least. And that teepee if she wants to feel like she’s in the back woods.”

  Denver had kept the large teepee given to him by a grateful client the winter before. He pretended that he didn’t want it anymore, but it had become their own little secret spot. A space that neither of their lives or jobs infringed upon.

  The air outside had cooled to an almost comfortable eighty-four. A
few stars shone overhead, and other than the hoot of a barn owl, the night was dark and still, the blackness absolute. The pair followed Gunther on his rounds, quietly watching the dog as he went from barn to goat enclosure to chicken coop, his natural inclination to guard propelling him forward.

  “Tell me, how did you know that woman who died?”

  “We were childhood friends.”

  “As in young lassie childhood, or older?”

  “The awkward years.”

  Megan headed toward the barn. More specifically, she walked toward the new pizza farm Clay had installed in the newer side of the building. She pulled the key from the pocket of her jeans, shined her phone on the lock, and opened the door. Inside, she flipped on the lights.

  Denver moved behind her and placed his arms around her waist. “Wow, Megan. It’s quite beautiful. Clay did an amazing job. You must be thrilled.” He disengaged and walked around the hostess station, pausing to look around. “I love it. Winsome will love it.”

  “I want you to see something.”

  Megan walked over to the wall, where Clover had hung paintings on a white-washed paneling. She stopped before the paintings Thana had done so long ago. Denver joined her. Holding her hand, he contemplated the artwork.

  “These were painted by the woman who was killed?”

  “Thana. Yes. I was visiting Bibi after Mick and I got married. We went to a fall craft fair and there was Thana selling her paintings. Mick bought these for me. He said having them would be cathartic.”

  “Cathartic? Why would paintings be cathartic?”

  “Thana and I had a falling out. Mick had been part of it.” Megan shrugged. “Silly kid stuff.”

  Denver traced a slender, calloused finger down the length of the wooden frame. “Well, they’re…unusual.”

  “That’s one way to describe them.”

  Megan looked at the two paintings with fresh eyes. The landscape was painted in vibrant primary colors, the fields and hills and buildings of Winsome captured in a landslide of oil paint. It wasn’t a large canvas, but it was beautifully framed and, Megan had to admit, made a lovely addition to the restaurant. She found the portrait more unsettling. It showed an older woman sitting on a hill overlooking a town. The woman had her legs up and her dress bunched around her knees. She held three dandelions in one hand. Her expression was wistful. There was a familiarity to the set of the wide jaw, the round eyes, and ivory skin.

  “It’s you, you know,” Denver said. “The portrait is of you.”

  Megan’s head swung toward him. “It is not.”

  “Aye, it is. Same eyes, same chin. Same complexion. Aged, of course, with different hair. But that’s you, Megs.”

  Megan stared at the portrait. Perhaps she’d realized all along that Thana had used her as the model for this piece.

  “You must have been close once,” Denver said. “For her to do this.”

  “We were close. Once upon a time.”

  “You said you had a falling out?”

  Megan’s smile was tinged with sadness. “You could say that.”

  Denver drew her close. Kissed her. “You’re being awfully closed up about this.”

  Megan sighed. “It’s not a big deal, Denver. She was a close friend when I was younger. Kids grow apart.” She shrugged. “I moved on, she moved on.”

  Denver’s head turned back toward the portrait. “Only I’m not so sure she moved on. And now she’s dead.”

  Back inside, Bibi had made warm milk with honey and laid out a plate laden with her signature scones. Six different kinds. Denver thanked her and took two—a cinnamon and a blueberry. Bibi insisted he take a third “for the road.” Megan declined the scones but accepted a mug of the milk. Sadie, perhaps sensing Megan’s quiet angst, pressed herself against Megan’s leg. Gunther sat by Bibi, aware, Megan was certain, that Bibi was the weakest link when it came to food—despite her own strict rule against feeding “people food” to the dogs. Apparently if you thought no one saw you do it, it didn’t count.

  “Thana Moore. Haven’t heard that name in a while.” Bibi “dropped” part of a scone on the floor and the very helpful Gunther cleaned it up. “I used to see her around Winsome, Megan, but not in quite a while. Come to think of it, not for several years. Her father’s still here; I see him at the post office every once in a while. Losing his wife aged him.”

  Tiny Bibi was still in her bridge-playing clothes: brown pants, an ivory blouse, and the string of real pearls her late husband had given her. She’d tied a “Winsome Rules” apron on over her blouse—a leftover from Eddie’s failed Winsome souvenir shop, which Megan had turned into the Washington Acres Larder & Café—and pulled a tissue from the apron pocket. Crackers fell out with the tissue, and Gunther helped himself to those as well.

  Looking at Denver, Bibi said, “Thana was always a quiet girl. Rather awkward, if you ask me. She hung around Megan, star struck half the time.”

  “That’s not true, Bibi.”

  “It is. Megan and that boy. What was his name, Megan?”

  “Ray Cruise. He opened the Center, Bibi. He’s one of the owners.”

  “He always liked you too. They followed you around like two lost puppies.”

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  Bibi’s smile was soft. “You were clueless in your own way. Thana would dress like you, if you liked a band, she liked a band. She and that boy were here all the time. Aside from becoming an artist, whatever became of her? I asked her father how she was doing once, but he only shook his head and walked away.”

  Megan felt a tinge of defensiveness, pushed it down. “We were teenagers, Bibi. We lost touch. How should I know?”

  “You have that portrait she painted of you. Clover hung it up in the new barn.”

  Megan threw down her napkin and stood up. How had everyone seen the resemblance except her? “Anyone want more milk?”

  “What did I say?” Bibi asked, looking genuinely confused. “Are you okay?”

  “I just don’t want to talk about Thana, Bibi. I haven’t seen her in years, and now she’s been killed.” Another loss in her life, another tragedy for Winsome. Megan closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’m tired.”

  Bibi gave Denver a furtive glance, one that Megan caught. “Denver has a flight to catch tomorrow. He needs to get packed and ready to go.”

  “Why don’t you go with him?” Bibi suggested. “Give him a hand.”

  “Yes, why don’t you do that, Megs?” Denver asked.

  Megan was quite sure Denver had things other than packing on his mind, and despite the queasiness that rose in her gut at the thought of Thana Moore, she wanted to join him. “It’s late.”

  “It’s nine o’clock. Do you turn into a pumpkin, Megan?” Bibi asked, smiling gently. “I’m fine here. I’ll clean up and watch some shows. Go.”

  Megan conceded. She’d go to Denver’s. After all, it would be a while before she saw him again.

  “Come with me, Megan. To Scotland.”

  “Denver—”

  “I’m not asking for me, mind you. It’s about you—in case you’ve realized how much you want to try some haggis.” Denver turned over in the bed, pulling the blankets up over Megan’s bare shoulders. They’d started the evening in the teepee and after swatting a few too many mosquitos, moved to Denver’s bungalow-style house. “And perhaps rumbledethumps.”

  “Rumbledethumps?”

  “Delightful things, they are.” He grinned, and a dimple popped up on the left side of his face. She felt his strong legs wrapped around her own, his hand on her arm. “You’d love Scotland.”

  “I’d like nothing more than to join you, haggis and rumbledethumps and all.” Megan snuggled closer, wishing he didn’t have to leave. She felt herself drifting in and out of sleep but knew she didn’t have the luxury of dozing. Not here, not tonight.
“I wish I could, but it’s not in the cards.”

  Denver kissed her. “All work and no play.”

  “Someday I’ll be able to get away,” Megan whispered. She pulled him closer. “Someday.”

  Five

  Wednesday came and went like a camera’s flash. Denver’s plane took off on time, and Megan, sad to see him go, busied herself preparing for the upcoming opening of the pizza farm. All permits and licenses were in place, but the farm still needed more parking and an area for patrons to wait. While Clay and Porter sectioned off a portion of the yard near the driveway for cars, Megan planted flowers along the walkway that led to the barn. The goats, Heidi and Dimples, were gracious enough to help.

  After the third time one of them stole a glove, Megan picked up Heidi and carted her off to the goat enclosure. Her sister followed obediently behind. When they were tucked inside their pen, Megan returned to the flower bed. She was just transplanting some impatiens when she heard her name being called.

  “Megan!” It was Bibi calling from the kitchen. “Megan, your father needs to talk to you.”

  Megan pulled off her gloves and hustled down the hill toward the house. She was wondering what could be so important when Bibi rushed outside and handed her the house phone. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. He said it was an emergency.”

  Giving her grandmother a questioning look, Megan took the phone. “Dad?”

  “We have a situation, Megan.”

  A situation? What could have happened at that luxury resort masquerading as a health spa? Was he stuck in Downward Dog? Had Sylvia fainted mid-colonic?

  “What is it, Dad? My hands are full of—”

  “It’s Sylvia.” His voice was tight. “The police are here. They won’t tell me anything, but they’re talking to Sylvia. In a private room.” Each word gained in pitch until “room” was said at a crescendo. “A private room.”