by Wendy Tyson
“Oh, I don’t think anyone is inclined to give the pig back to someone who kept her in a storage unit. Inhumane and against the law,” Denver said. “Someone named Saul Bones, no less.”
“Maybe we could keep her?” Megan glanced at her grandmother, who had picked up a broom and was suddenly engrossed by a need for cleanliness. “Bibi?”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we need to.”
“We’ll keep her,” Megan mouthed to Denver.
Denver smiled again. “Okay, then, Bonnie. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, some fresh air and more good food for this wee one.”
“Too much food and she won’t be so wee,” Bibi said. But she grabbed a handful of fruit and vegetable slices from the Tupperware container on the floor and fed them one by one to the pig.
“Come for a walk?” Denver said to Megan. “I think Camilla is in good hands.”
Megan followed Denver out of the barn and up toward the old Marshall property—now her property. When the Marshalls moved out and abandoned the property, they stopped all maintenance. The large yard had gone to seed and was a meadow full of thistle and grasses and wildflowers. The old house stood as it had for the past several decades, parts of it worn, parts in disrepair. The fascia was crumbling, the piers holding up the front porch had long since rotted away, and Megan knew from previous visits that the interior was mice-infested and marred by vandalism caused by the occasional intruder. Fixing the house itself would be a project. And they were still awaiting the engineer’s reports.
The new barn, on the other hand, consisted of a large hole in the ground and a poured foundation. The bones of the building would be going in soon. Megan couldn’t wait. The barn would give them a place for community programs, healthy cooking classes, gardening club meetings. Clay’s vision of making Winsome a hot spot for sustainable agriculture and locavore living had become her own. Even Bibi shared the passion.
Right now, the place looked like a war zone.
“I can see it, you know.” Denver took Megan’s hand. “What this will be.”
Megan smiled. “And what exactly do you see?”
“The finished inn. The barn. Bibi teaching classes on bread-making and baking her signature scones. Lively discussions about types of turnips and the absolute best color for a broccoli head.” He picked Megan up and swung her around. “And maybe a few dogs and wee ones running around.”
Megan felt herself go stiff. “Wee ones? As in goats or pigs?”
Denver must have felt the change in her demeanor. He put Megan down on the ground. “Wee ones. Kids.”
“Whose?”
“Ours.” Denver’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so bad, Megan?”
Megan turned away, her eyes suddenly moist.
“Whoa. How did we get here?” Denver asked. He touched her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Kids, Denver? Kids?” she said softly. “It’s a big step.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” When Megan didn’t answer, Denver said, “Let’s forget I mentioned it. It was just a fantasy. A vision.”
He marched on, toward the woods. But there was an iron in his voice that wasn’t lost on Megan.
Megan felt badly about snapping at him, but they never really discussed marriage much less a family. “Denver…”
He stopped walking. “What?”
What? Megan wasn’t sure. Once upon a time, she’d envisioned a home with her late husband Mick. A few kids. Sadie. Maybe a cat or two. A secure job in a law firm. Mick as a career soldier, or perhaps retiring to open a business of his own. She never in a bazillion years saw herself on a farm back in her hometown of Winsome, with two dozen animals and a Scottish vet as a boyfriend. Megan considered herself a rational person, and she knew she was being unfair. Irrational even. Even if Denver’s vision included their children, he had a right to that expectation. They’d been together more than two years.
And although Megan was reluctant to admit it in case fate snatched it away—she was happy. No, more than happy. At times, she felt true joy in her life. But with children inevitably came worry and heartache and even loss. Parenting, loving someone that much, demanded courage and faith, and since Mick’s death, Megan was afraid—terrified, really—that she was low on both. Deep down, she was afraid suffering that kind of loss again would break her.
Denver’s expectant look passed, and he turned to walk away, this time back toward the farm. “Wait,” Megan said.
He stopped.
“I love you,” Megan said.
“But?”
“No buts, Denver. I love you.” She moved alongside him and took his hand. “One day at a time?”
He stared into her eyes for a long while, searching for something. Megan wanted to look away, but she held his stare, feeling on some gut level that he was taking her measure. Finally, he squeezed her hand.
“I love you too.”
Eight
The café was crowded. Death had a way of bringing people together, and the loss of a stranger didn’t change that. Megan waded through the people standing in the back of the Washington Acres Larder & Cafe, searching for Clover. She found her in the kitchen with Chef Alvaro and Emily, a family friend and their sometimes help. Clover was lecturing Alvaro about the importance of keeping vegan mayonnaise and butter around for guests.
When she saw Megan, she let out an exasperated sigh. “Is it too much to ask, Megan? Some Vegannaise? Geez, Alvaro can make his own.” Clover glanced at the older chef with affection, softening her words. “Although I appreciate the mango curry. It’s delicious.”
“Alvaro’s been pretty accommodating,” Megan said. And he had. Megan knew the chef considered Clover a surrogate daughter, and although it wasn’t his way to fawn over anyone, he was altering his menu options to please her. While Alvaro preferred locally raised meats, he was about as vegan as Bibi, who viewed chicken broth as a condiment.
That said, Megan liked the idea of expanding the café’s options to cater to the plant-powered crew. No harm in differentiating themselves, and it was something she could get behind. She encouraged the change.
Megan said, “Clover, two minutes of your time?”
Clover glanced out at the crowded café. Every table was full, and customers were milling about between tables, talking. Dishes were lined up on the counter, ready to be delivered, alongside a tray of water glasses. “I guess. We’re kind of busy.”
“I can handle the tables,” Emily said. She was writing out slips, tallying orders by hand. “I’m almost done here.” She nodded toward one of the copper-topped tables. “Besides, no one seems to be in much of a hurry.”
And indeed, they didn’t. This was a wake of sorts, Megan knew. A way for the people of Winsome to reassure each other, get information, and deal with the presence of death in their midst once again.
Clover followed Megan into the cramped back office. “What’s up?”
Megan sat behind her desk. Clover, with her long, dark hair and penchant for miniskirts, tended to look younger than her years, but now in her mid-twenties, Megan knew she could be counted on in a pinch.
“I need you to increase your hours this coming week. Take a few of my shifts. Support Alvaro and Bibi. Will that fit with your schedule?”
“Sure, okay…” Her voice trailed off, making the word into a question.
“You heard about Chase Mars?”
“I heard he was killed up by Lyle Lake.”
“Yes, in the park. While on a mentoring retreat as part of a corporate nonprofit initiative. He was Denver’s friend.”
Clover nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Megan. If it’s any consolation, Bobby’s nowhere to be found ever since.”
“I imagine he has his hands full with this one.”
“I don’t think Chase’s friends have been very cooperative.” There was an increase in the volume coming from th
e café, and Clover’s attention followed the sound. “Maybe they’re here now?”
Megan listened. It did sound like more people had arrived. Voices she didn’t recognize.
“Anyway,” Megan said, in a hurry to get back out into the café, “Denver’s going to need me this week. He’s pretty upset about Dillon and about his friends. I’d like to do a little searching on my own. Between the farm and the construction and now this, I think I may need support at the café.”
Clover grinned. “By searching you mean sleuthing?”
Megan smiled. She’d been known to dabble.
“I can do whatever you need me to do.” Clover opened the door to the office. “Winsome folks pull together in bad times. Besides, doesn’t seem like I’ll be seeing much of Bobby anyway.”
“Anywhere to sit?” Xavier looked around the small café. “Quite a crowd for a such a small establishment.”
Megan glanced around. Where to put them? The tables were full, the counter was jammed. No one seemed ready to leave. She remembered the extra tables and chairs they kept locked in the back for catered events. “Give me a few minutes,” she said. “In the meantime, the menu is on the board.”
True to her word, Megan was back quickly. She’d pulled a square folding table from storage and wiped it down. She placed it in front of the aisles of the store portion of the building and covered it with a white cotton tablecloth. Clover unfolded two chairs and went back for two more.
Barbara sat in one of the chairs. “Have you seen Denver?” she asked.
“He’s on a call,” Megan said. “He’s dealing with some emergency or another.”
Xavier coughed. “Convenient timing.”
“I’m sure the animals planned it.” Megan was about to say more but she bit her tongue—literally. “I’m sorry about Chase,” she said instead. “About everything you must be going through.”
“You have no idea,” Xavier said. “It’s been hell on all of us.”
Clover had returned with the two additional chairs, and Martine and Jatin took their seats. Martine looked tired. Her face was pale, the skin around her eyes and mouth flaky and dry. She wore minimal makeup, and without it her pale eyes seemed ghostly.
Jatin looked no worse for wear, but he was quiet, allowing Xavier to speak for him. Of all of them, Megan felt for Barbara. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders in greasy waves, and her eyes looked listless. She seemed devastated.
“What can I get you?” Megan asked the group.
She jotted down their orders, which ranged from coffee for Barb to mango curry for both men. Martine wanted nothing but water.
“I’ll be back shortly with your food.”
Martine’s hand shot out. She grabbed Megan’s Washington Acres apron. “Have you heard anything?” she asked. “Anything at all about the kid? About who the police think did this to Chase?”
Megan paused long enough to meet her gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t have any news.”
“This is a PR nightmare.” Martine’s eyes pleaded with Megan, but for what, Megan wasn’t sure.
“Chase is dead, and you’re worried about PR?” Barbara shook her head. “He’d dead, Martine. He’s not coming back.” Barbara’s voice became choked, shrill. She reached in a red Prada bag and pulled out a wad of tissues. “He didn’t deserve that.”
“She feels guilty because she convinced him to come,” Xavier explained. His face said she should feel guilty.
“That’s understandable, but it’s not your fault.” Megan turned toward Jatin. “How were the other children besides Dillon? I imagine this was horribly traumatic for them as well.”
Eyes blinked with surprise at the question. Finally, it was Barbara who said, “I guess they were okay. The school got involved pretty quickly and picked up the children. All but Dillon, of course.”
“Why did Dillon take off in the first place?”
Barbara looked pointedly at Xavier. “Ask Mr. Sensitivity here.”
“Don’t look at me.” Xavier raised heavy brown brows. “The kid has issues, that’s apparent. All I did was—”
“All you did was tell him he was an unathletic loser and he’d best get with the program if he wanted to succeed in life.” Jatin spewed the words with disgust. His focus turned to Megan. “Dillon didn’t want to take part in a trust exercise. He was afraid to fall.” He glanced at Xavier, eyes narrowed in anger. “You insulted him in front of his peers, Xavier. What kid wouldn’t get upset?”
“A kid with the drive needed to succeed.” He glanced around the table and then up at Megan. “What? Wasn’t that our job? Hard truths. Mentoring. What kind of mentor would I be if I told him the world was made of sugar plums and he could get by just staring at his shoes? It was a trust exercise, for god’s sake. A simple one.”
“The exercise was over and everyone had gone their own way,” Barbara said. “Chase must have seen Dillon head to the lake and followed him. No one is quite sure.”
Jatin said, “Had Xavier been doing his job, we would be in the woods right now, getting some great photos, eating s’mores, and looking at the stars. Not mourning our friend.”
Xavier slammed a fist down on the table. “Enough.”
Jatin shook his head, stood up. “The restroom?”
Megan pointed toward the back of the café.
When he left, Barbara said, “As you can see, tensions are high. Maybe if you hear from Denver, send him our way? We’re at the Bucks County Inn. I have no doubt we’ll be there for a few days. We could use the distraction and the support.” She sniffed, wiped away a tear. “I have to deal with Chase and his…family. And the police, of course.”
As Megan walked away to place their order, she couldn’t help wondering a few things. What was the deal between Jatin and Xavier? And why did Xavier seem so unaffected by his friend’s death?
Bibi was visibly shaken. “I don’t understand people these days, Megan,” she said. “The man was doing a good deed. And now this?” She put her face in her hands and shook her head, a crack in her normally stoic demeanor. “Are they sure he was murdered?”
Megan thought about a utility knife. About a ruined life. Two ruined lives. “Yes, I think it was clear.”
They were in the kitchen at Washington Acres. Megan had returned home after the dinner rush to have a bowl of soup and a conversation with Bibi. Her grandmother had found out about Chase’s death earlier, from Merry Chance, who always liked to be the first person to share news. The more shocking, the better. If they crowned people for gossip-mongering, Merry would be a queen.
“He was such a young man,” Bibi said. She studied her hands, knuckles swollen from arthritis and years of physical labor. “Too young.” She stood up and placed her half-eaten bowl of vegetable soup by the big farmhouse sink. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
“Not really.”
Bibi turned to face her. “What about the boy? What’s his name? Eloise’s foster child.”
“Dillon.”
“Yes, that’s it. Poor child. Merry made it sound as though he’s the killer.”
“Merry needs to mind her own business once in a while.”
Bibi smiled. “That will never happen. If she returns as a ghost, it will be to bring news of the afterlife.”
They both chuckled. Sadie, Megan’s mixed-breed rescue dog, rose from her spot under the table and sat in front of the sink. With a dog’s sense for leftover food, she begged by the half-full soup bowl until Bibi finally caved and placed the bowl on the floor. The dog lapped at it gratefully, and Bibi gave Megan a look of reproach as though she had been the one to break the rules.
They both watched Sadie eat. Finally, Bibi glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was almost nine at night.
I’m going to clean up in here and go to bed,” Bibi said.
Megan started collecting plates from the
table. Bibi held up a hand.
“I’ll get this. Why don’t you finish the farm chores while there’s still a little daylight left? I’d rather you not be out there in the dark with—”
She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. Here we go again, Megan thought.
Megan collected some vegetable and fruit scraps from the compost bin for the animals and a ginger cookie for each of the goats—their favorite. As she was leaving, Bibi pressed something into her hand. It was a package wrapped in wax paper.
“For Camilla. I made her special pig cookies. They’re good for her.”
Megan squeezed Bibi’s shoulder. She knew better than to say anything. Just like Bibi would never admit to giving table food to the dogs, she’d deny spoiling the farm animals. But small acts of kindness were Bibi’s way.
The night air was heavy and humid. The sun had gone down, and the horizon glowed in the distance, a fiery explosion of pink and yellow. Megan trotted across the courtyard to see to the chickens first. Safe in their chicken tractor, they were already in for the night. She made sure the house was secure—fox in the area had a taste for chicken—and headed for Camilla next.
A noise in the distance startled her, and Megan jumped. She heard rather than saw something moving her way. It took a moment to see the white fur, the massive head. It was only Gunther, her Polish Tatra Sheepdog, doing his own nightly rounds. Like Great Pyrenees, Polish Tatra Sheepdogs were bred to watch over sheep and other livestock. Gunther had been bought by a local farmer who mistreated him. Rescued by Denver, he came to live with Megan when still a puppy. Since then, he’d earned a spot as a reliable farm hand and steadfast friend. Megan allowed him his freedom on the farm as well as a warm spot in her bed.
More frequently, he preferred to stay outside with the goats. Tonight, Megan was happy for his company.
She reached down and patted his head. “Good boy, Gunther. What’s happening?”
The dog walked beside her as they visited Camilla, gave her Bibi’s treats—which she devoured with all the grace of a ravenous wolf—and moved on to the goats.
