by Wendy Tyson
Megan glanced at the Washington Acres tent. Clay was handling a small line of customers while Porter refreshed the piles of cucumbers and tomatoes. They seemed to be fine.
Softly, Megan said, “Olive, why would someone want to hurt Penny?”
“I have no idea.” Olive sniffled. “She had no enemies. Everyone loved her. She was a nice person, a teacher. Good with kids.”
“Do you think what happened is related to Claire’s disappearance?”
“In my heart? Yes. That’s why I think Claire’s in danger.” Olive’s voice began to escalate in pitch and volume. “She must have known something was up. That’s why she asked you to take her somewhere else. She was trying to protect us, so she swore you to secrecy—”
Megan held up a hand. “If we’re going to get to the bottom of this, you need to stop accusing me of that. I dropped her off at the memorial. I’m not lying, I’m not hiding anything.”
Olive glanced down at her hands, flexed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re distraught,” Megan said. “I understand that. What makes you think Claire asked me to drive her somewhere other than the memorial? She seemed anxious to attend. What would cause her to change her mind?”
“She’s an impulsive girl.”
“She’s a thirty-one-year-old woman.”
“Who has made bad choices before.” Olive once again grasped Megan’s arm. Megan pulled away, and Olive raked fingernails along the outside of her purse, kneading it nervously. “Do you know who my sister is? She is—was—David’s stepmother. Stepmother, for god’s sake. My thirty-one-year-old sister married an octogenarian and then proceeded to fall in love—” Olive clapped a hand over her own mouth. “She’s made bad choices.”
“She told me her last name was von Tressler. I thought maybe she and David had been married.”
“Even David would have been too old for her. My sister is impulsive and emotional and, yes, often childish and manipulative. I know she didn’t want to go to that memorial. She never wanted to go. We made her go. We made her go!” Olive clutched her bag to her chest. She looked suddenly weary, as though the fire that had propelled her to the market to question Megan had left her hollow and exhausted.
“Why?” Megan asked softly. “Why was it so important to you that she go?”
“We said she needed closure. She had buried David’s father, now she would bury the son. We said she needed to move on with her life.” Olive shook her head. “We said a lot of convincing things.”
“They weren’t the real reasons?”
Olive flashed a sardonic smile. “Do you know how much the von Tressler business is worth?”
“No idea.”
“Tens of millions. With David gone, his heir stands to inherit a fortune. My sister needed to show up at that service with her head held high. She was Martin’s wife, the von Tressler rightful heir.” A hardness returned to Olive’s eyes, a hardness, Megan thought, that gave another perspective on who this woman was. “She deserves his fortune.”
“Wouldn’t she have received it already?”
“There are complications. Messy family stuff.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. None of it matters.” Olive moved back, away from the table. “I don’t know where to go from here. Penny gone, Claire missing. I feel helpless, and the police have been useless.”
“They’re trying to get to the bottom of this, just like you are. Just like I am.”
Olive stood up awkwardly from the picnic table bench. She glowered at Megan with a mixture of contempt and frustration. “I know you insist that you took Claire to that memorial, but no one saw her there. Either everyone is lying, or you are.” Her lips twisted into a sneer. “And then my sister’s body was found on your farm. Forgive me if I don’t trust you.”
“Why would I want to hurt either of your sisters, Olive? Please, be rational and think about that. While you’re busy blaming me, someone else may be getting away with a monstrous crime.”
Olive took a deep breath. She looked ready to respond, but clutched her purse to her chest and walked away instead, leaving Megan on the bench alone.
“What the hell was that all about, Megs? We were watching ye from across the market and it looked like that woman was going a bit mental.” Denver had, indeed, shortened his workday and now stood in front of Megan looking deliciously unkempt in jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his auburn hair pushed back from his face in unruly waves. “Clay said you were okay, so we didn’t interrupt.”
Olive had left as quickly as she’d come, disappearing beyond the crowd that was congregating around a makeshift stage, near the parking area. Megan gave Denver a quick rundown on their conversation.
“The oddest thing,” Megan said, “were the emotional transitions. One second she was angry at me, then she was sad, then she was enraged.” Megan told him what she’d said at the end. “She’s so fixated on me that she’s not even considering a bigger picture.”
“I’m sorry she upset you, Megs,” Denver said. “She’s just bereft.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
A family of five stopped by the table, and while the adults made their selection, Megan watched their two youngest, identical twin girls about four years old, argue over a stuffed dinosaur. A nearly identical dinosaur hung from the backpack of the more vocal twin.
“Give it to me!” One twin said, trying to grab the dinosaur from the other twin.
Denver squatted down so that he was eye level with the girls. “What are ye fighting about, little lassies? Don’t ye know what kind of a dinosaur ye have there?”
The girls stopped fighting and regarded him, mesmerized. He was using the voice he saved for scared animals and their humans, soft and soothing, with his Scottish accent turned up for full effect.
“Ah, I didn’t think ye knew. That there is a Stegosaurus. The Stegosaurus liked its salads. Did ye know that?”
Two little brunette head shakes.
“And this one here,” he unclipped the other dinosaur from its ring on the backpack of the more assertive twin, “that is a Brachiosaurus. The biggest plant-eating dinosaur.”
As soon as he said ‘biggest,’ the more vocal twin grabbed the stuffed animal gently from his hand. “Mine.”
The other sister looked ready to protest before hugging her animal to her chest.
“Ye both have fine dinosaurs, so that’s good.”
The girls’ mother came over and graced Denver with a warm smile. “Once they get started, it’s hard to get them to stop. They won’t separate, but they won’t stop fighting.” She glanced at Megan. “Your husband is good with kids. Are you a teacher?” When Denver shook his head, she said, “Pediatrician?”
“Veterinarian.”
The mother laughed. “Well, that explains it.” She held up a giant bag of tomatoes. “We’d better move on. Thanks again.”
When the family was out of earshot, Megan echoed the woman’s compliments. “How did you know what kind of dinosaurs they were? They just looked like stuffed lumps to me.”
“I made it up.”
“It satisfied them.”
“It satisfied the one who needed to be satisfied. The louder girl was the alpha. She needed to feel like her toy was better, or she needed to get what she thought was the better toy. Some people are like that.”
Megan laughed. “So you told her that her dinosaur was the biggest plant eater out there so she’d leave her sister’s toy alone.”
“Didn’t know you had such a smart guy?”
“Smart husband, apparently.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Megan regretted them. The happy look on Denver’s face evaporated. The subject of marriage—the topic of a future beyond what they shared now—had become taboo. He wanted more. Megan knew that. The problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted. More sp
ecifically, she was afraid that if she wanted more, she would lose what she had now.
“Lunch?” Megan said in an effort to lighten the now-sullied mood.
“It’s only 10:12.”
“Brunch, then. My treat.”
Megan led the way to the food trucks, but her mind was lingering on something Denver had said. The alpha sister going after what she wanted. Megan had no sisters, but she wondered whether that was often the case between siblings—that one sibling had to be in charge. If so, which sister was—or had been—the alpha in Claire’s family? The von Tresslers were rich. Was Claire as impulsive and childlike as Olive had suggested? Or had someone else in her family been pulling her strings to get to the von Tressler fortune?
Seven
For the first time that summer, Megan canceled the pizza farm kitchen. The summer before, a portion of the barn at Washington Acres had been turned onto a wood-fired pizza oven and restaurant. Open only on the weekends, and with limited picnic table-style seating, it quickly became a favorite Saturday night destination. Megan, Clay, and the rest of the farm team served up pizzas made with local cheeses, meats, and vegetables. But not this Saturday. For the same reason Megan was delaying the opening of the Marshall property, she’d decided to close the pizza farm for a few weeks. She wanted people to come to the farm to enjoy the food and camaraderie, not to gawk at a crime scene.
Bibi didn’t agree.
“Let them gawk. We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault Bobby and his people can’t catch whoever did that to the woman.” Bibi was making bread, kneading the dough in long, firm strokes. “If I’ve learned anything in my eighty-plus years on God’s gorgeous green earth, it’s that people will talk no matter what. Who cares?”
“I’d rather let the talk die down.”
Bibi wiped a hand across the bridge of her nose, painting a band of flour under her eye. “Suit yourself.” She nodded her head toward the parlor. “You have a visitor.”
Megan raised arched eyebrows. “Really?” After the farmers market, she had gone to the café to call everyone on tonight’s reservation list. Porter and Clay returned to the farm, and Megan hadn’t seen any cars in the driveway other than theirs.
“Who’s here?”
“Porter. The poor boy looks exhausted and way too skinny, so I set him up in front of the television with a nice piece of pie and some coffee. You need to pay him more.” She wagged a flour-covered finger at her. “That’s why you shouldn’t be canceling pizza night. That’s money in the bank, Megan. Money for the farm. Money for paying Brian Porter.”
Megan backed out of the kitchen. Her grandmother was clearly feeling ornery today. “Okay, Bibi,” she said as she left.
She found her farm hand reclining in Bibi’s chair, watching baseball on television. An empty plate and a half-empty cup sat on the table beside him, along with a crumpled-up napkin, a pair of work gloves, and a large, flat brown envelope. Porter frowned when he saw Megan.
“Don’t look so excited to see me.”
“I’d be more excited under different circumstances.”
Megan sat on the couch across from Porter and regarded her employee. She’d given him a job at Denver’s urging a few years ago. A former veteran, PTSD survivor, and recovering alcoholic, Porter had seen more of the world than most people twice his age—and it showed. Tall and lanky, he was a strong slip of a man, heavily tattooed and fiercely private. Megan respected him. He worked hard, showed sound judgment, and he was kind to the animals. But today he looked especially somber, and that had her worried.
“What could have changed between the market and now, Brian? You seemed fine then.”
Porter gave her an ironic smile. They both knew a lot could change in an instant.
Porter held out the envelope. “I was checking the barn on the old Marshall place. Just walking around after the market, making sure everything is buttoned up, and I ran into Ryan. He and his crew are working inside the house now, but earlier they found this.”
Megan accepted the envelope. Slowly, carefully, she undid the metal clasp.
Porter handed her the gloves. “Use these.”
The gloves were too big, but she slipped them on anyway. Inside the envelope was a folded, muddied copy of her late husband’s obituary. Printed on plain white paper, its edges were creased in a number of places, as though it had been folded and unfolded many times.
Megan looked up at Porter. “I don’t understand. Where did Ryan find this?”
“Near the Marshall house.”
“Near as in…?”
“Behind the house.”
Megan stood up. “You mean by the crime scene?”
“I take it you didn’t drop it?” When Megan shook her head, Porter’s chiseled jaw tightened. “Yes—kind of. I asked Ryan to show me where they’d found it. It was next to the Bilco doors.”
As in the doors that led into the basement. “It could have been there for ages.”
“Ryan said they walk through that area all the time. Some of his crew were working in the basement, and that’s their main way in and out.”
“Had it been left in a way that was obvious? Like someone wanted us to find it?”
Porter shrugged his shoulders. “You’ll have to ask Ryan. I don’t know which of his men found it. I wish they hadn’t touched it—it could be evidence.” He pointed to a corner of the paper. “Some of that mud has a reddish tint.”
“Blood?”
“Maybe.”
Megan thanked him. She wished they hadn’t touched it as well. “Why did you assume someone left it there? It could have been me—I could have dropped it by the house.”
Porter was quiet for a moment. When he responded, his voice had a husky, emotional quality that Megan found unsettling. “I have a bad feeling, Megan. I figured you wouldn’t be walking around with this in your pocket, and the fact that the woman’s body was found on your property?” Porter’s eyes narrowed. “I think somehow you’re connected to all of this.”
Megan reclosed the envelope. She thanked Porter again and left for the kitchen. She was part way down the hallway when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m staying here,” Porter said.
“We’ll be fine, Brian.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never crossed you, Megan. When you and Bonnie have said you’ll be fine in the past, I took you at your word—and you were fine. But this is different.” He pointed to the envelope. “I have a soldier’s gut feeling, and it’s not a good one. That barn up on the old Marshall property is clean and new. Sarge can stay with Denver, and I’ll camp there for a while.”
“Brian—” Megan started. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but they would be fine. She was looking into an alarm system, and they had the dogs.
“It’s as much for me as for you. We all put a lot into this place. The farm. The Marshall property. Let me stay.”
Megan searched the younger man’s eyes for a sign that this was all bravado, but what she witnessed was sheer concern. She nodded. “Stay at the house.”
Porter laughed. He had old-soul eyes, but his smile spoke of youth and vigor. “I’m not much of an inside guy.”
“Then at least let Sarge stay here.” Sarge was Porter’s rescued German Shepherd. The dog had as many psychological battle wounds as Porter, and they had long ago saved one another. The barn was off limits to animals because of the kitchen—the Commonwealth’s rules—but Sarge and Gunther got along, and Sadie got along with everyone.
“He’d like that.”
Megan half smiled. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Wait, where are you going with that?” Porter asked, referring to the envelope.
Megan shook the envelope. “This? Taking it with me. Time to chat with Bobby King.”
After trying the local police department, Megan decided to bypass
official channels and talk to the man at his home. She called his cell first, and a surprised King told her to come over. Clover was at the café, but he was watching baseball and would be there for another two hours.
Bobby King and Clover Hand lived together across town in a modest apartment owned by King’s parents. King met Megan at the door wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a Phillies baseball cap. He invited her inside with a sweep of his muscular arm and led Megan into a lushly decorated living room. A couch took center stage, its surface covered with what looked like jewel-toned sari fabrics sewed into a richly-colored patchwork. On the wood floor, surrounding a low coffee table, were large cushions covered in a similar material. An ornate silver hookah had been placed on an antique teacart in the corner of the room next to stacks of travel books and framed photos of Clover and King. An old navy blue recliner positioned next to the couch, it’s covering decidedly frumpy and worn, was the sole decorative outlier.
King plopped down on the recliner and motioned for Megan to have a seat on the couch.
“Very hers and his,” Megan said with a smile. Very Clover is what she was thinking.
King laughed. “Clover has very specific taste, as you know. She allowed me to keep this chair. It’s my equivalent of a man cave. A tiny island of comfort in a sea of eclectic artistry and eco-travel keepsakes.” King glanced at the envelope in Megan’s hand, and his expression darkened. “But you’re not here to talk about interior design, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Megan unclasped the envelop. After donning a pair of gloves, she pulled the obituary out of its holder and placed it on the coffee table. “Ryan, my contractor, found this today.”
King stared at the paper. “It’s not something you might have dropped?” he asked softly.
“No, Bobby. I don’t carry a copy of Mick’s obituary with me. It’s not Bibi’s either.”
“Where did Ryan find it?”
