by Wendy Tyson
“What kind of information?”
“On her computer. She had a file on you, Megan. Where you live, the café, your law career stuff, even information about Mick,” he looked pointedly at Megan, “including his obituary.”
“Like Ryan found at the Marshall house.” Megan shut her eyes, opened them. She felt a stabbing pain behind her left temple. “Why the obituary? Why Mick?”
“Think about an obituary, Megan. Mick died while you both lived in Chicago, but he was buried in Winsome. Someone looking for you could find information. Hometown. Names of family members.”
“Why would someone want that?”
King was silent. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “This is where we get official.”
Again, Megan went through the order of events: the nursery, the rain, the flat, the interrupted dinner with Denver. “I have nothing else to tell you.”
“You have absolutely no idea why this woman would be interested in you?”
“Like you said before, maybe she was writing an article on the farm and was doing her research.”
“She was a piano teacher.”
“Maybe she thought she knew me. Maybe she wanted to start a farm. Maybe she loves obituaries. I have no clue, Bobby. You’re the cop—why was this woman interested in me? When I told you I was concerned days ago, you pooh-poohed me. Now all of a sudden, it’s official business.”
King chewed on his bottom lip. Said nothing.
Megan pressed. “After all we’ve been through together, you owe me an answer.”
“The sister, Olive, insists you had something to do with Penelope’s death and Claire’s disappearance.”
“That’s nonsense.” When he didn’t respond, Megan said more loudly, “You do know that’s nonsense, right? Why would I wish them harm? I didn’t even know them.”
King glanced behind him, toward the door. “Look, calm down, okay? We don’t need anyone hearing us. Olive says her sister seemed intently focused on you. Not your farm, not Winsome, not Bonnie—you. She had some kind of dirt or something on you. She’s insinuating that you killed her to keep her quiet.”
“Insinuating or accusing?”
King looked down at the table, fiddled with his watch.
Megan’s breath was coming faster now. “None of this is true. What dirt would anyone have on me?” She slammed a hand down on the desk. “Shame on you, Bobby King. You should know me better than this.”
King rubbed his temples, avoiding eye contact. “Look, you give me some alibi information, I make an official report, and we move on. But she’s making accusations, and I have to be honest, the stuff on her sister’s computer backs her up.”
“It only backs up that her sister was interested in me for some reason, a reason Olive may know. Olive may be trying to shift attention by projecting a motive on to me. I’m telling you: I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“The coroner believes Penelope was murdered on Thursday morning between the hours of nine and noon. She says she was strangled somewhere else, and her body was transported to the Marshall property. Can you tell me where you were Thursday morning?”
“Of course I can. I was right here—and I was with you for a portion of that time. Remember? You came to talk to me about Duke.”
King’s face remained impassive. He jotted something in his notebook. “What time did you arrive at the café that day?”
“Early. Probably eight or eight thirty. Clay and Porter had the farm locked down, so I stayed here to do paperwork. Alvaro can vouch for me. Then Merry stopped by, and after Merry, you came calling.” Megan folded her arms across her chest. “That alibi enough for you, Bobby?”
Bobby’s face had turned crimson. “That’ll do.”
“I can’t believe you even entertained the thought that I could have killed that woman.”
“I have to be objective. You’re a lawyer, you know that’s how the law works.”
“Was a lawyer, and some of the ethical gymnastics I had to do…no thank you.”
King rose.
“Not so fast,” Megan said. “Since you’re here, I need to talk to you. It’s about Claire von Tressler.”
“I can’t, Megan. I need to write this up. The fact that you were in her computer makes me nervous. You were right about it being personal. I don’t like it, and we need to figure out what the connection is.”
“Olive has come to the Marshall house multiple times. Plus, we went to Philadelphia last night, and—”
But King had already opened the door. “I’ll try to swing by later and we can talk, okay? Until then, if Olive returns, call the station. Will you do that?”
He left before Megan could answer.
Fourteen
Still seething, Megan closed the door to her office after King left. She was feeling shaken, not just because Olive was making accusations about her—that was bad enough—but because Penny had been keeping a file on her. Why? Had she been stalking her? Had she planned to blackmail her, or hurt her, or worse—hurt someone she loved? And who had killed Penny? Had that person been involved in whatever schemes Penny Greenleaf had been cooking up? Could this somehow be linked to Mick?
Megan doubted that Penny’s body being on her property was a coincidence. She was beginning to doubt that the flat tire the sisters had was accidental, or that anything anyone in that extended family had told her was true.
She could hear Alvaro and Bibi chatting in the kitchen. She could hear the muted sounds of a town celebrating: horns and megaphones and an occasional excited scream. I should be out there, she thought, but there is no way I’m letting that woman or anyone connected to the von Tresslers mess with me, Bibi, or the life we’ve built for ourselves.
Megan booted up her office laptop. She had no idea what she was looking for—she just wanted something, anything that could connect her to that family. She opened a search engine and tried different combinations. Her name and Penelope’s name. Her name and ‘von Trerssler.’ Even Mick’s name and the von Tressler names. Nothing.
A search on Olive gave up a few social media pages with privacy locked tight, an old 5K running time, and a LinkedIn page that was virtually devoid of relevant information. Penny’s online presence was only slightly better. Social media listed her as divorced, and her LinkedIn page noted several music teaching jobs. Megan repeated the exercise with Claire—nothing worthwhile to show for it.
Megan threw her head back in frustration. She knew this was fruitless. She didn’t have King’s resources, she didn’t know where to start.
Start at the beginning. It was Mick’s voice that echoed in her brain. When Megan had been a new, nervous associate at one of Chicago’s largest law firms, she’d get tapped for depositions. She worked for a defense firm, and she’d spent endless hours coming up with questions to ask the plaintiffs about their accusations. When she was frustrated or at a standstill in her preparations, Mick would always tell her to start at the beginning. Who was the first person to make the allegation? What was the first thing that happened? Follow that trail.
It was good advice. Mick always had good advice.
Megan glanced at the small bookshelf against the far wall of her storage-room-turned-office. Amongst the cookbooks and business treatises was a lone picture of Mick Sawyer in uniform. Tall, trim, strikingly handsome, kind. She closed her eyes. So many emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Longing, grief, regret, guilt.
Guilt. She was alive, and he wasn’t. She was here with another man. A man she loved. Not the hot-burning, can’t-live-without-you kind of love she had felt for Mick when they were young, but a slow burning kind of love, one that carried a ferocity of its own.
I would want it that way, Megan. I don’t want you to be alone.
Mick’s voice again, or her own wishful thinking?
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts
. “Come in,” she called.
It was Bibi carrying a plate of doughnuts and a coffee. “I saw Bobby leave. Thought you may need some refreshments.” She placed the offerings on the desk before closing the door and sitting in the seat King had vacated. “What did he want?”
Megan hesitated, remembered their discussion earlier, and told Bibi everything.
“She actually accused you of murder?”
“Sounds that way.”
“Bobby actually entertained it?”
“He was doing his job.”
“Bull-cocky.” Bibi waved her hand. “That boy should know better. I have a mind to call his mother. She’s the one person who he will listen to.”
Megan smiled, despite the tension. “Bibi, don’t make me regretting telling you. We can’t fix this with a call to Ann King.”
“Humph.”
“Do you know these people at all? Can you think of any reason Penny Greenleaf might have had an interest in me or Mick? In you?”
Bibi shook her head. Alvaro called from the other room.
“I should go. He’s making tortillas and doughnuts. Soon someone will have a taco with cinnamon and sugar on it. Or worse, a donut stuffed with fish.”
“Go, Bibi. He needs you.”
Bibi frowned. “You’re not going to sit here and stew all day, are you?”
At that moment, Megan decided she was not going to do that at all. “In fact, I’m headed out there shortly,” she said.
“Good. I love you, you know.”
Megan smiled. “I love you, too.”
She watched her grandmother leave, her gait a little slow and stiff this morning. Start from the beginning. With a heavy but determined heart, she returned to the computer. She had one more thing to look up before she’d head out of this room and back into the world.
Von Tressler Investments had its headquarters on Arch Street in Philadelphia. Megan found the phone number and dialed. A receptionist answered.
“Dominick von Tressler, please.”
“I’m afraid Mr. von Tressler’s not in today. May I take a message?”
“Do you expect him tomorrow?”
“I really can’t say, Ms.—”
“Megan Sawyer,” Megan said. “I’ll try him again tomorrow.”
Putting the phone back in its cradle, Megan thought about the von Tressler family. A father who started a multi-million-dollar business. A son and a wife who betrayed and humiliated him. A nephew who was given control. A wronged wife. An abandoned mansion. Lots of motives for murder there. Revenge. Greed. Rage. The only problem was, the person who was dead—Penny—seemed removed from all of it.
Penelope Greenleaf, piano teacher, sister of Martin von Tressler’s wife. Who would want Penny dead? Could it have been a random murder after all? No…the flowers, the timing. Or was she skipping over some vital connection that would cause all of this to make sense?
Megan put away her laptop and grabbed her purse. She’d check on the sidewalk sale and then head out. The Bucks County Inn. She hadn’t been there in a while. After the deaths the year before, she’d hoped never to go again.
Fifteen
The Bucks County Inn was a stately Colonial on a picturesque property. Situated a few miles outside of Winsome, it was a favorite with visitors because it was close enough to be convenient to the city and New Hope, but it offered elegant, high-end accommodations. The proprietor, an older woman with a penchant for all things Scottish, knew Megan, and she and her dog, a Scottish Terrier, greeted her warmly when Megan arrived.
“Olive Dunkel?” The woman looked through a registry on her desk. “Yes, yes. I don’t know that she’s here now, though. Shall I call her room, dear?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Megan waited while the innkeeper made the call. She hung up after a few rings.
“I don’t think her car is out there, Megan. I believe she’s gone somewhere.”
The dog rubbed her head against Megan’s leg. She bent to pet its head. “Can you give her a message?”
The proprietor handed her a square of notepaper with a Scottish flag in the corner. Megan was in the middle of writing her name and a message on the paper when the front door opened. She turned her head to see Olive Dunkel wedging her way inside. Olive didn’t notice her at first. She walked past the reception desk obliviously until the proprietor cleared her throat.
“Olive?”
Olive stopped mid-stride. She was carrying two Whole Foods reusable bags that seemed to be filled with clothes. Her red hair looked unkempt and unwashed, her face devoid of make-up. Unlike the first day Megan saw her, when she was dolled up from head to toe in Donna Karan, today she wore ill-fitting jeans and an oversized sequined t-shirt.
“Megan,” she said, “why are you here?”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Olive looked at Megan, then the proprietor, and then back at Megan. She swallowed repeatedly. Finally she nodded. “Give me ten minutes to shower and change.”
“Do you want some lunch, dear?” the proprietor called after her.
If Olive heard, she didn’t respond.
“Let’s go outside,” Megan said. She led Olive, who looked better after her shower and a change into a black velour track suit, out to the patio, where several umbrella-topped tables had been set up.
The innkeeper had already set out a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, and a plate of sugar cookies. Megan poured each of them some tea.
“Why are you here?” Olive asked again. Her gaze never strayed from the glass of iced tea. “Is this about my sister?”
“I don’t know what makes you think I had anything to do with your sister’s death, but I can assure you, I didn’t know Penny. I had never set eyes on your sister until the day the three of you walked into Merry’s Flowers. I’ve already spoken to the police. In fact, I was at the café and talking to the Chief when your sister was…well, during the relevant time.”
“First Claire, then Penny.”
“I know. I don’t understand it, either.” Megan leaned down in an attempt make Olive look into her eyes. “There is some reason why your sister was focused on me, and I’d like to know what it was as much as you would.”
Tears rolled down Olive’s cheeks. “I want my sister back.”
“I know you do.”
“I came here with two sisters, and I’m leaving with none.”
“Claire is still alive. You have to believe that.”
Olive gulped, eyes still moist. She took a sip of the tea, wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin, and shook her head. “I don’t. In my gut, I believe my sister is dead.”
Megan sat silently, letting Olive cry. A cardinal landed on a bird feeder that hung from a post at the far end of the patio. Megan watched its head bobble back and forth before it pecked at the food. Olive sobbed, and the bird flew away.
“Why are you here, Megan?” Olive asked again softly.
“You’ve come to the farm several times. You were with your sister the night before she was killed.” Start at the beginning. “You know the von Tressler family.”
“So?”
“So, we can help each other.”
Olive wiped her eyes daintily with the corner of the same napkin. “I don’t share that belief.”
“Your family came here for a memorial service. Almost everything that happened seems somehow connected to that memorial. Help me understand the connection.”
“Even if I wanted to help you, how do I know you’re not just trying to shift blame elsewhere?”
“What do I gain by doing that? The police have already questioned me. They know I have an alibi. If I really had something to hide, something that your sister could use against me, do you think I would be actively trying to determine what it was—and asking for your help in the process?”
Ol
ive’s shoulders slumped. She shook her head slowly back and forth.
“I just need some answers, that’s all. Answers only you can provide.”
Olive sat up straight. She seemed to teeter on the brink of saying something for a moment before standing up and looking around. “If we’re going to talk, I need a real drink.”
“Tell me about Martin von Tressler,” Megan said.
“Well that’s quite an open-ended question.” Megan waited while the other woman downed half her drink in two swallows. “Martin, huh? He was what they called in the old days a ‘cad.’”
“A womanizer?”
“Oh, it was more than that. He was charming and charismatic and someone women wanted to be around.” Olive smiled. It was a pretty smile, and it made her look a decade younger. “I should know. I met Martin first.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Claire met him through you?”
“She sure did. I worked for von Tressler Furniture out of college. I moved up through the ranks, eventually becoming a regional manager. One year I won an award. The celebration was held at the Four Seasons, high society back then, and the President of the company personally congratulated me. We started talking, he said he was looking for a personal assistant at his home in Chestnut Hill, and I suggested my younger sister, who was once again underemployed.”
“And he hired her.”
“Not at first. He found someone else, later fired her, and called me to inquire about Claire. Claire was working part-time at a tailor shop, and she jumped at the chance to move up the ladder, as she called it.” Olive smiled, clearly remembering. “I remember the first time Martin saw her. He was in his seventies already, but he was still trim and handsome and sharp. He had a thing for games. Would tease Claire, then back off. When he decided he wanted her, he pulled out all the stops.”
“He swept Claire off her feet?”
“He bribed her into loving him, if you could call it love.”
“Was it immediate?”
