by Wendy Tyson
Megan found Heidi and Dimples asleep. They lay next to each other, tucked between bales of hay. When Megan entered their enclosure, Heidi jumped up to greet her. Dimples did the same, only she ran for Gunther and play-butted his chest.
They were pygmy goats, unable to do much harm even if they wanted to. Other than eating things they shouldn’t. Gloves. Bibi’s hats. Their entire crop of strawberries. Naughtiness aside, Megan ended most nights with a visit to the ladies. She found some semblance of peace in their midst.
So did Gunther, apparently.
Megan was just settling on a bale of hay when her cell phone rang. A local number, but one she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”
“This is Martine.” Hesitant, high-pitched voice, slight whine. “From BOLD Pharmaceuticals. Denver’s friend.”
“Yes?”
“I’m…I’m looking for Denver. I hope you don’t mind that I called.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Megan paused, wondering what Martine wanted with Denver. And how she got her number. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No.” A long pause. “But thank you.”
“Look, Denver’s working. He’s dealing with a breach birth and it could be a while before he’s finished, and by then he’ll be exhausted. Are you sure I can’t help you?”
Martine took so long to reply that Megan thought she’d hung up. With a deep sigh, Martine said, “I can’t talk here. Can you meet me somewhere?” She was silent for a moment. “But I don’t know where. I have no idea what’s even open in this town.”
“You’re at the Bucks County Inn?”
“I am, but we can’t talk here.”
“Okay.” Megan thought about this. Normally she’d consider a friend of Denver’s to be a friend of hers and invite her to the farm, but these were not normal times. While Martine’s motives may be benign, Megan couldn’t put Bibi or the farm at risk. “Do you have access to a car?”
Martine grunted a yes. “If this is too inconvenient…”
“There’s a Starbucks about four miles up the road from your inn. They’re open until midnight.” Megan glanced at her watch. “Meet me in twenty minutes. And I’ll text Denver, asking him to meet us if he becomes free.”
Martine agreed. Megan was sure it had little to do with the prospect of talking to Megan—and everything to do with the hope of seeing Denver.
Nine
In keeping with her promise to Martine, Megan texted Denver. She didn’t hear back, which was no surprise. He was up at a farm and could be there half the night. Megan changed from her work jeans and t-shirt into a pair of gray linen pants and a matching tunic, slipped on sandals, and ran a comb through her dark hair. Why she cared what she looked like, she wasn’t sure. Maybe the fact that this was a woman from Denver’s past. Maybe because she was half hoping Denver would show up. In either case, she was out the door and on the road in ten minutes and at the Starbucks in twenty-two.
Martine wasn’t there.
Megan sat in the truck, engine off, and watched the traffic speed by on Route 611. She wondered what Martine wanted to talk about, and why it couldn’t be discussed at the bed and breakfast. The presence of the others? Or fear of the police. No matter, whatever it was would have to wait.
Megan was about to turn the key when a silver Volkswagen Jetta pulled into the lot. The driver was a woman. She wore a black scarf over blonde hair. When she got out, Megan recognized the slim build, the hesitant walk. She watched as Martine entered the coffee shop before climbing out of the truck herself. Martine slipped onto a bench at a table in a shadowed corner.
Megan waved a greeting. At the counter, she ordered two teas. She met Martine at the table, offering an herbal Chamomile tea and what she hoped was a friendly smile.
Martine looked at her through heavily made up eyes. She kept the scarf draped over her head, covering her hair a la Jackie Kennedy Onassis. Her black sheath dress and heels were reminiscent of Jackie O as well. A smear of red lipstick marred her front teeth, and mascara stained the pale skin under her eyes. She watched Megan take a seat with large eyes, her expression despondent.
“Thank you for meeting me. I guess Denver couldn’t make it?”
“I haven’t heard back from him.”
Martine nodded. She stared at her cup for a moment before tearing open the tea wrapper and placing the bag in the steaming water. She watched it sink.
“Thanks for meeting me.” She gave Megan a shy smile. “I was at a loss. I can’t trust anyone, don’t know where to turn.”
“What’s happened, Martine?”
“I think I’m just being paranoid.”
“You called me for a reason.”
“Jatin never showed up before the event started,” she said finally. “I guess he just sort of appeared at some point, but I don’t know when.” She ran a manicured nail across the table, continued studying her tea. “I’m not sure what to tell the police—if anything. I’m not sure if it matters.”
“Did anyone else notice he was gone?”
“Barbara.” She shrugged narrow shoulders. “Barb was worried at first, when we were waiting to take off, but then the groups started going, one by one, not together, and hers took off before his. I left with the second wave. To get photos of the girls. Especially the girls.” Her smile lacked humor. “They wanted the female students captured on film.”
“For good PR.”
“Of course. It may seem like I was just a tagalong, Megan, but you have to understand that in a twisted way, I was the main feature. The sad truth is that without a rendering of the event, without the right pictures, the right spin, this would simply be another nonprofit outing.”
“For BOLD to profit from it, they needed you there to capture the kids, the hike, the selfless volunteers.”
Martine sat back in her chair. “It’s the way of the world right now. Look at your friends on Facebook. Do they really live the happy lives they portray, with loving spouses and well-dressed children who never whine or complain? They don’t post the picture of Daddy after he’s taken care of vomiting children for three days, or Mommy when she gets back from a three-day work trip and the house is a wreck.” Martine tapped her fingers on the table to emphasize her points. “We all tell a story. It’s a matter of whose story is most compelling.”
From her tone, Megan couldn’t tell if this was a mission she believed in, or whether she’d simply become pragmatic over time.
“And Chase—where did he fit in with this story?”
“He was one of the company’s best visionaries, believe it or not. Some would say he had no conscience, which allowed him to think up ideas others would censor. Others felt he could lead the company into the future. That’s why he was promoted to Strategy after such a short tenure with the company.” Martine took a small sip of the tea. “I was to focus on him. Barbara wanted to do a piece on his rags to riches story.”
“Rags to riches?”
Martine nodded. “Poor family. Scholarship student. After losing his way to drugs and debauchery in the music industry, he put himself through graduate school. A real success story.”
Megan thought of the crude and obnoxious man she’d met at dinner. “Chase as the face of BOLD?”
“Just one face of BOLD. We are building out an image of diversity. Another reason for the outing.”
“Tell me, Martine,” Megan said, thinking of Martine’s comment—that some thought Chase could lead the company someday. “With Chase gone, who serves to gain?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“Would Jatin move up with Chase out of the way?”
“I don’t see how. He’s in Finance. He’s great at his job, but BOLD never has the finance guys running the show. It’s always a scientist.”
“What did Jatin say he was doing when Chase was killed?”
�
�I was so focused on getting good camera angles that I didn’t pay any attention to where anyone was. Who knew—” her voice cracked, “—who knew that would happen?”
Megan gave Martine a moment to collect herself. Eventually, she said, “Whatever whereabouts Jatin gave the police, I’m sure they checked them out. Chief King seems young, but he knows what he’s doing.”
She nodded, looking unconvinced.
“You still seem upset.”
Martine took a deep breath, steeling herself for something. “Jatin and Chase had an argument the night before. Chase’s room was next to mine. I…let’s just say I could hear the shouting.”
Megan considered this. “Did you catch what they were fighting about?”
Martine frowned. “I’m not sure. Maybe money. I wish I could say for sure.”
“And you think—”
“I don’t think anything,” Martine said quickly. “That’s why I wanted Denver’s opinion. I do remember listening to them—I couldn’t help it, honestly, because they were so loud—and thinking that Jatin was angrier than I’d ever witnessed before. He’s usually a pretty quiet guy.” She took a sip of her tea. “I like Jatin. He’s probably the politest of that group. But when I heard them…and then what happened to Chase. I can’t even imagine, but I was worried.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Martine looked at her quizzically. “I’m not sure I would. And frankly, now that I’m saying this all aloud, I realize how silly it sounds. Of course, Jatin would never have hurt Chase.”
“Yet someone did.”
Megan looked up, startled by the voice. It was Denver, who’d somehow managed to come in without being seen, probably because she and Martine had been so engrossed in their conversation. He was wearing a gray Colorado State t-shirt pulled tight across chest muscles. His auburn hair was tousled, his face chiseled under a dusting of beard. His blue eyes looked concerned, annoyed even.
Denver slipped into a seat next to Megan. He said, “Martine, someone killed Chase. Everyone is a suspect at this point. If you heard something, you need to tell King. Let the police sort it out.”
Martine stared at him, eyes wide, as though he were larger than life. Megan studied her boyfriend, seeing him through the eyes of this stranger. Storybook handsome. Strong hands, neatly clipped nails scrubbed clean, the dried strip of mud above his left brow, the sheer weight of his presence.
Denver said curtly, “What were Jatin and Chase discussing? Did ye hear any of the details?”
She shook her head. “That’s just it. Had I heard something specific, I’d know what to do. It was simply shouting. They could have been arguing about whether to have eggs or muffins in the morning.”
“But you know they weren’t, or you wouldn’t be here.” Denver leaned in toward her, and Martine didn’t move. “They wouldn’t have been shouting over nonsense.”
Face pale, eyes narrow, Martine looked ready to cry. “I don’t want to get Jatin in trouble if it’s nothing.”
“Jatin didn’t do anything, but let him answer to King,” Denver said.
“For all you know, he already told King all of this,” Megan said. “And you’re torturing yourself over nothing.”
Martine looked unconvinced. “King is a fair man?”
Megan nodded. She pulled her cell out of her purse and speed-dialed the chief. He answered immediately.
“What’s up, Megan?”
Megan explained the situation.
“Be right there.” King hesitated. “Stay with her, okay? Just until I can get there? I don’t want her to get cold feet.”
Megan agreed. She was watching the way Martine Pringle was staring at Denver. Megan didn’t think Martine would go anywhere as long as Denver was present too.
“What do you make of all of that?” Megan asked.
She and Denver were back at his house, sitting on the back deck of his bungalow, looking at the stars and playing with his five rescue dogs. The Golden Retriever asked repeatedly to play fetch with Megan, and after a half hour of throwing the tennis ball into the dark abyss of the backyard, Megan finally told her to be still.
“I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve known Jatin nearly as long as I’ve known Chase and Xavier. He’s probably the best of the bunch, as morals and integrity go.”
“You don’t suspect him?”
Denver rubbed his eyes, shook his head. He took a long swig of beer from a bottle he kept on the table between them. “I don’t know what to think. I meant what I said to Martine. I guess everyone is a suspect.”
“She seemed pretty upset.”
“She’s a hell of an actress.”
Megan’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like her much.”
“Can you tell?”
Denver was sinking into a funk again, so Megan opted to shift topics. “How is Dillon? Have you heard anything more from Eloise?”
“They transferred him to the psychiatric unit at the hospital where he’ll receive a full evaluation. He’s still not talking.”
“But he spoke to Eloise at the hospital. We both heard him.”
The Golden Retriever nudged Denver’s arm with the ball, and he gave in to her, throwing the object nearly into the woods. “She says it was nothing. That he mumbled a few words about being in the hospital and going home.”
“But it means he can talk. He’s not truly in some catatonic state.”
“Aye.” Denver finished his beer, placed the empty bottle on the table, and sat back in his chair. “I suppose that will be part of the evaluation. Poor laddie.” Denver lapsed into a heavier brogue. “As though he hasn’t been through enough.”
Megan said, “And I’m afraid things are only going to get worse.”
Denver nodded. He reached across the table and took Megan’s hand. He stroked her fingers with his own in long, gentle caresses. “I wish there was a way I could help him. And Eloise,” Denver said. “She’s so upset right now. I don’t know that I have ever seen her so upset. And Dillon…I don’t know what to think, to be honest.”
“It must be excruciating for Eloise,” Megan said. “Taking in a boy like Dillon, someone who’s been through so much. Setting him up in a special school, trying to provide him with a safe and loving environment, and now this. One way or another it will have an impact.”
“True,” Denver said, squeezing her hand. “If he is innocent, and I have to believe he is, he witnessed something atrocious.”
Again, Megan thought. How much could one kid take? She didn’t know much of Dillon’s history, but she knew his father killed his mother. Could that have caused him to explode and do something heinous? Although she also wanted to believe him incapable of murder, she wasn’t as convinced.
“I’m tired, Megs,” Denver said. “I think I need some sleep and some perspective.”
He sounded tired. Megan knew the life of a country vet meant middle of the night calls. Denver sometimes traded on-call shifts with neighboring vets, but there were only so many large animal veterinarians in this part of Pennsylvania. He was rarely assured a full night’s sleep.
“I’m heading out,” Megan said. She stood and stretched. The Golden made another attempt to engage Megan in ball-throwing, but it was half-hearted. Even she looked tired.
“You could stay,” Denver said. “It’s nearly midnight.”
Megan looked out into the dark yard and the woods beyond. Bibi would be home asleep, guarded by Sadie and Gunther. The thought of driving home now was unappealing. The thought of being curled up next to Denver until morning—most appealing.
Megan smiled. “Let me text my grandmother. I think I’ll stay.”
Ten
By Tuesday, news of Chase’s death had reached the media, and Winsome was besieged by journalists. Megan left the café for Clover, Emily, and Alvaro to cover, and decided to focus on the far
m. Selfishly, she needed to be away from the commotion. The café, as the only real hang-out along Winsome’s cobblestoned, historic main drag, Canal Street, had become a hotspot for reporters. Most were simply taking up tables, using the space to type up notes and make phone calls, but occasionally questions were asked. Megan, more in the know than anyone else at the café, didn’t want to be put on the spot.
It was a beautiful June day. The sun overhead shown bright against a backdrop of lapis lazuli. The massive barn, its newer portions—the part that housed the pizza farm—deep red, contrasted beautifully against the greens of the forest beyond. The only noise came from the construction on the adjoining property, and even that amounted to the comforting murmur of voices and an occasional hammer.
It should have been a peaceful scene. And it would have been—without murder in the background. Chase’s murder, the cold way he was stabbed, stuck with Megan and intruded on her thoughts. It was an act of anger, rage. Dillon was large enough to do it. Given his background, he could have been angry enough to do it. But why Chase? And from what Megan knew, Chase had gone to the lakeshore to help the kid. To bring him back to the group.
Then again, Megan had seen Chase in action. Who knows what he’d said in his effort to help?
Megan was harvesting kale. She pulled leaves from the plants lined up in the long beds outside. Dinosaur, Red Russian, Siberian, Tuscan…keeping the varieties in separate coolers of ice-cold water, which she pulled behind her on a wagon. Alvaro needed the greens for a stuffed puff pastry dish he was making. Garlic, spices, herbs, sautéed greens, roasted mushrooms, all covered with a layer of golden puff pastry. Another nod to Clover, but sure to be a hit.
She clipped another Red Russian leaf and placed it in the cooler, taking the time to inspect the plant. As the weather got warmer, the kale suffered. This plant was healthy, no signs of aphids. Satisfied, she moved to the next plant.
That’s when she heard it: a helicopter overhead. News sign emblazoned on the side.
Megan looked up, watched it move on, toward the west. In the direction of the hospital where Dillon currently resided. He was still a teen; surely, they couldn’t disclose his name or any information about him. Unless he was being charged with a crime. As an adult.
