by Wendy Tyson
Bobby studied her for a moment before responding. Finally he said, “The name Duke Masterman ring a bell?”
“The contractor?”
King steepled his fingers, pressing them together so that the tips turned white. “The contractor.”
“What about him?”
“Did you ever use him?”
“He was supposed to work on the Marshall house but he…well, he reneged after getting a better deal from the von Tresslers. Why?”
“Reneged. Strong word. Sounds like you were angry at him for canceling on you.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Set me back months. By the time I found another contactor, it was too late in the season to do much outside. That’s why we’re just now finishing the project.” Megan tilted her head. “What’s with the questions about Duke? Seems to me you already know all this.” She leaned forward, holding King’s gaze. “Did something happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
King sat back in his chair and turned his attention to his fingernails. “I don’t know.”
“Spit it out, Bobby.” Megan and the police chief had been through a lot together. She knew he trusted her as a friend and confidante. And in turn, she had great confidence in King. He was young, but he generally knew what he didn’t know—a trait that was admirable in someone in a position of power.
“You know the von Tresslers? Melanie and her husband, David?”
“David who just passed away—yes.”
“Well now the contractor is missing. Melanie is complaining. Says he left without finishing the job.”
“Why is that your concern? Is she pressing charges?”
“Not yet, she’s just making a lot of noise. Says he hasn’t shown up for a week. I drove by his place this morning and no one is home.”
“He lives alone.”
“Right, and the neighbors say no pets. I’ve left messages for him and he hasn’t responded.”
“Have you searched his house?”
“No, and I don’t plan to.” King rubbed a paw of a hand against his temple. “I have no reason to suspect foul play, so there’s only so much I can do.”
Megan tapped a well-worn fingernail on the wooden desktop. “What do you want me to do?”
“I know you have work going on at the Marshall place. Keep your ear to the ground. See if you hear anything. I’d like to get Melanie and her mother off my back.
Megan mulled this over. “Did the von Tresslers pay Duke upfront?”
“That was my first question, too. I thought maybe they paid him, Duke got a better deal elsewhere, and he didn’t feel like finishing the small projects left at the von Tressler mansion, so he dropped the project. It happens.” King shrugged. “Only no one has seen him. At least no one I’ve spoken with.” King’s forehead puckered. “Duke has a reputation as a party boy. Could be as simple as that.”
Megan agreed to keep her ear to the ground. “Did you get another call last night?”
King’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not enough?”
Megan explained the scene at Merry’s flowers, the subsequent drive to the von Tresslers, and Claire’s friends’ claims that Claire never returned.
“Interesting. My admin said I had an urgent call this morning, but she sent it to one of my officers. I’ll have to check in. You say this woman, Claire von Tressler, definitely went to the memorial?”
“I dropped her there myself.”
King stood. “Well, we probably just have a lot of worked up people—death does that.”
Megan thought of Bibi’s strange words the night before. “Do you know for certain that Melanie is—was—David’s wife?”
King looked confused. “Do I know for sure? It’s not like I asked to see a marriage certificate. Why?”
“Because when I dropped Claire off, she claimed to be Claire von Tressler.”
“She said she was David’s wife?”
“I assumed she meant ex-wife. I had always assumed Melanie was his wife and the young man was their son, so I’m not really sure. It just seemed a curious thing to say.”
King’s look of confusion returned. “The von Tresslers don’t have a son.”
“The young man who looks like David. I’ve seen them together in town. Maybe a nephew or stepson.” Megan shrugged. “Anyway, just wondering.”
King grabbed the office’s doorknob. “I think you’re mistaken. I’ve been there twice now. No sign of any children. As far as I know, Melanie is the wife and their marriage didn’t result in children.” He paused there, his tall, bulky frame filling the doorway. “Why the sudden curiosity about the von Tresslers? They haven’t exactly been a friendly addition to our community.”
“No, they haven’t. I guess it’s just this woman, Claire. When I gave her a ride, she seemed truly distressed. Haunted, even. Frail.” Megan shrugged, kneading the back of her neck with her hand. “I guess I’m just dwelling. If you haven’t heard anything directly, she’s probably turned up already.”
“Let’s hope so. We don’t need more trouble in this town.”
Megan watched King retreat into the café’s kitchen, her mind still on Claire von Tressler. Wife, ex-wife—did it matter? Even beyond the family structure, she had a feeling there was more to the von Tresslers than met the eye.
Four
Friday brought rain showers and cooler temperatures. Summer in the Philadelphia region was typically warm, with temperatures in the upper eighties and a soup-like humidity that could drown the soul, but the region had been spared the worst of it—so far. Today’s mild upper seventies was unusual, and Megan welcomed the fine mist of cool rain that was falling down on her ripening tomatoes. Tomorrow would be the first farmers market to which she would bring a hefty crop of tomatoes—always a big seller—and with this being the weekend before Monday’s Fourth of July holiday, she was looking forward to the sales.
But before she could prepare for the market, she’d promised Bibi they’d walk through the new barn and discuss the grand opening, planned for the Fourth of July, so Megan headed toward the old Marshall property, thinking all the while about Monday’s events.
Bibi would be hosting a free breadmaking class, Clay was giving a gardening workshop, and they were offering face painting by Clover as well as kids’ games. There would be pizza from the Washington Acres’ wood-fired oven and some of Alvaro’s baked goods served throughout the day. Plus, they were hosting a mini farmers market with veggies and cut flowers from the farm.
Although the initial barn offerings would be an eight-week baking class taught by Bibi and a kitchen garden seminar Megan was teaching, they were hoping to increase the menu of classes over time, especially once the Marshall house was renovated. With the construction costs piling up, Megan wanted to get started. They could use the funds from classes to defray costs, and the barn’s grand opening—although not so grand—would be a way to get locals to sign up.
The problem was time. Megan only had so much time to work on the farm, oversee the store and café, and get the Marshall place going. She needed help. She looked to her family and staff, but they were feeling it, too. So far, it had been a good growing season. While thankful for the farm’s production, that meant Clay and Brian Porter, Megan’s farm hand, were swamped. And with tourist season upon them, the café and store were busy, too, which meant Alvaro, Clover, and their part-time employee and family friend, Emily, were fully engaged. Bibi had more energy than most fifty-year-olds, but she could only do so much.
It was almost time to hire help, someone to live in the caretaker’s apartment and be there when guests arrived. It wouldn’t be a particularly stressful role—Megan would be overseeing the day-to-day, and with the farmhouse a few minutes’ walk away, she’d always be around to assist. Nevertheless, Megan dreaded initiating the search. It was hard to find reliable people, and M
egan had to make the time to train them properly. But as she made her way to the barn, she came to terms with the idea. What choice would she have once this property was up and running?
Her train of thought was derailed by Bibi, who was standing in front of the new barn holding a giant stainless-steel bowl and a pair of toast-shaped oven mitts. She waved at Megan before doing a little swirl-in-place to show off her skirt: a blue knee-length A-line made with a bread-print fabric.
Megan grinned. When Bibi embraced something, she went all in.
“Let’s go, slowpoke,” Bibi called.
Megan jogged the rest of the way to the barn. “Love your spirit.” She hugged her grandmother, took the bowl from her grasp, and unlocked the barn entrance. “Ready?”
They both walked through the double door, into the new space.
Even now, thousands of dollars and many months later, the space moistened Megan’s eyes. Unlike the old barn at Washington Acres, her original property, parts of which had been lovingly remade into a pizza kitchen by Clay and Porter, this space was airy and completely modern. Pine timber-framing gave a grand feeling to the entrance. Off to one side was a large room that had been slowly turned into a teaching kitchen. Four rows of counter-height tables, each capable of seating six, faced a simple wooden island with a cooktop in the center. Behind the island sat a row of cabinets with a triple sink, refrigerator, two dishwashers, and a microwave. The countertops were stainless steel; Clay and Porter had made the simple oak cabinets. The resulting look was clean and professional and, to Megan, a dream come true.
The other room was a classroom. Bookshelves lined one wall, white boards another. A long trestle table perched in the middle of the space. The rear of the room consisted of a bank of windows and a door to a small courtyard, which would eventually hold a potager—a small cutting garden with vegetables, herbs, fruits, and cutting flowers.
It was the perfect spot to teach and hold dinners. Once they could afford to get the place going.
Megan entered the kitchen area, put the bowl on the island, and smiled at her grandmother.
“Oh, Megan.” Bibi walked across the room, touching the tables, and caressing the island. “When you came here, the farm was…well, it wasn’t doing so well.”
“Bibi—”
“Let me finish. Your dad is no businessman, bless him, and I’m too old to run a farm alone. Do you remember? The old barn was rotting. The storefront in town was boarded up. Even the house we live in was starting to show the wear and tear of neglect. And the Marshall house?” Bibi looked up at the soaring timber framing. “Everyone’s nightmare neighbor—all abandoned darkness and shadows.”
“Bibi—”
“You did this, Megan. You had a vision and you carried it through.”
“It was our vision. And we had a lot of help.”
Bibi simply smiled. She looked tiny and sweet standing there in her bread-themed clothes, but Megan knew there was iron will and a mother’s fierceness under the adorable exterior. Which was why Bibi’s words were bringing tears to her eyes and a tightness to her throat.
“Bibi, I can’t—”
“You’ve created a legacy. The farm, this place, the café. You’ve done well.” She touched Megan’s hand. “Don’t be afraid of what comes next. Denver, the farm, a life beyond what you have now. It can seem scary, Megan. Especially when you’ve been through so much in your short life.”
Megan knew her grandmother was talking about her mother’s abandonment at a young age, about the death of her husband, Mick. “Bibi—” But Megan’s words were once again interrupted, this time by the sound of men shouting. Megan looked at her grandmother in alarm. “Do you hear that?”
Bibi tossed her potholders on the island. “It’s coming from outside.”
Megan ran through the barn and pulled open the main doors. From across the yard, she saw Ryan jogging from the back of the Marshall house and Porter and Clay running up from the farm. Ryan had his phone out and was tapping it as he moved. He stopped short when he spied Megan.
“Stay here,” she said to Bibi, who was a few yards behind her. Her stomach tightened. Had one of the contractors fallen? Was it the animals?
Ryan motioned for Megan to accompany him to the back of the house. She sprinted, joined quickly by Porter and Clay.
It didn’t take her long to see where the problem was. They were all peering into one of the ditches they’d started digging before the rains came. Megan couldn’t quite bring herself to walk to the edge. A deer? A bear? Whatever was down there, it was bad. Ryan’s eyes had taken on a hollow glaze, and his skin looked ashen.
Clay placed his hand on Megan’s shoulder. She shook it off gently. It was her house, her duty to look. She edged closer.
The smell reached her first. Rotten and sweet at the same time, like a potato left too long in a dark closet. She looked down, bracing herself. She saw a clear plastic tarp, something twisted and white, one black high heel showed, the obscene press of distorted features beneath transparent plastic. But it was the flower bouquet that caught her attention. The mix of white lilies and orchids and irises—and one dried-up, blush-colored rose.
Claire von Tressler.
“My god,” Megan said. She put her hand over her mouth. She felt faint, nauseous. Her eyes searched for Clay’s, but he was behind her, supporting her.
“The police?” Porter asked.
“I called them a few minutes ago, when we found…this,” Ryan said.
Megan was still staring into the abyss when she heard a high-pitched scream. “Grab her!” Someone yelled.
Megan turned just in time to see Bibi in Porter’s arms, her face the color of bread dough, her mouth locked in a silent moan.
Not again, Megan thought.
“Not again,” Clay whispered.
Five
It was well after nine that night before Bobby King called Megan.
“Want me to come there or do you want to come to the station?” he asked.
“You already took my statement—three times.”
The police had been at the Marshall property for most of the afternoon and evening, and the back of the house was still cordoned off as a crime scene. Megan, Bibi, Clay, Porter, the contractors…they’d all been questioned. Local reporters had arrived and gone. Not much to say: as of the afternoon, the identification of the body hadn’t been made public, and it remained unclear whether the woman had died on Megan’s property or been transported there.
One thing was certain: foul play had been involved. No one trips and falls into a ditch while wrapped in clear plastic sheeting. The officers were silent, but the way the scene was being handled told Megan all she needed to know.
Murder.
“If this is an official police conversation, I’ll come down, Bobby. But otherwise, I’d rather not leave Bibi, so I’d prefer you come here.”
There was silence on the other end, during which Megan heard a chair scraping the floor. “Give me a half hour. And I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a strong pot of coffee.”
“Where’s your grandmother?” King asked. He and Megan were sitting in the parlor, across from one another. Megan had brewed strong coffee, and King was nursing a cup, sipping from a “Smile, You’re in Winsome” mug, a leftover from the days Megan’s father had run a souvenir shop out of what was now the café.
“Bibi’s sleeping. Her doctor ordered her a sedative. She refused it, of course—” Megan managed a weak smile, “—and made her own sedative instead.”
“Chamomile tea with a shot of brandy?”
“Or two or three. Best kept secret in Winsome.”
“Or not-so-secret.” King ran a thick finger across the bottom of his mug, wiping away a few drops of water. He leaned back, into his seat. So many conversations had occurred here, Megan thought. So many emotional late-night chats. Was this to be another one?
“Handling an emergency. He’s planning to come by afterwards, if it’s not too late.” In truth, Denver had tried to find someone to cover the emergency, insisting he be with her and Bibi. He’d been unsuccessful—summer is a busy month and large animal vets are hard to come by—but she didn’t mind. They would catch up tomorrow. Tomorrow, once the dust settled, would be harder emotionally anyway. “So what’s happening? Why was Claire von Tressler’s body in my yard?”
King looked up over the rim of his mug, mid-sip. “Claire? The woman who disappeared from the memorial?”
“That’s whose body it was, right? The shoes, the flowers—”
King shook his head. “No, Megan. That wasn’t Claire von Tressler.”
“Then who was it?”
“A woman named Penelope Greenleaf from Weston, Connecticut. Did you know her?”
“I’m confused…the flowers…I thought it was Claire.”
“She’s still MIA. It wasn’t Claire. Penelope—or Penny as she was known—was a fifty-seven-year-old divorced piano teacher who was unlucky enough to be strangled in or near Winsome, Pennsylvania.” King sat back in his chair. “Does the name mean anything to you?” He repeated it: “Penny Greenleaf.”
“Her name means nothing. I recognized the shoes, the flowers. I’m thinking she was one of the women I met at Merry’s.” Megan picked up her own cup, put it down without drinking. Her mind flashed to the women at the restaurant, when they interrupted her dinner with Denver. “Did the victim have platinum-colored or red hair?”
“Platinum.”
Megan nodded, a well of sadness building in her chest. Such a horrible thing, a life wasted. “She was there, at Merry’s. Platinum-colored hair, well dressed. She was helping Claire. What about the other woman, the red head? Is she okay?”
“Olive Dunkel. Penelope’s younger sister. She’s fine—well, she’s alive but understandably upset. She’s the one who identified the body.”
Megan considered this. “I don’t understand. It was Claire they said was missing. How did this happen to Penny? If she went missing as well, why didn’t Olive call the police? The women certainly made a fuss about Claire.” She cocked her head. “Had a missing person report been made on Penny?”
