by Wendy Tyson
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“I try.”
As they walked back into the home’s center hall, Megan said, “To think, we almost didn’t get to work together. I was scheduled to use Duke Masterman. Do you know him?”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed, he frowned. “Duke? Yeah, we all know him. Gives contractors a bad name.”
“Then you know he’s bailed on some work.”
“Oh, I know it all right. I’ve been cleaning up his messes across Winsome. Guy just stopped showing up.” Ryan shook his head. “Look, this line of business is rough. It’s often feast or famine, but that’s no excuse. You take money, you finish a job.” He frowned again. “Did he screw you out of funds?”
“No, he returned our deposit. But he cost us precious time. Do you think he’s okay? I haven’t even seen him around town.”
Ryan locked the door leading into the caretaker’s apartment and put his key ring back into his pocket. “Who knows what he’s up to. He’s young and single. Never really liked him. Unreliable.” He glanced at Megan. “Sounds like you got a taste of that.”
“Sure did.”
“Consider yourself lucky. If he left you that easily, he’d do it to the next person as well.”
He already has, Megan thought. Good riddance.
Twenty
Megan spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Duke Masterman. Young and single, Ryan had said—and he was right. Young and single and handsome. Megan had known Duke since they were kids in high school, which is why she figured she would employ him for the Marshall house renovations. Broad shouldered and muscular, with a shaved head and a “Mother” tattoo on his left bicep, Duke carried himself with the confidence of a hardcore gym rat. But he’d always been friendly, and the reviews of his work were strong. Duke lost both his parents when he was in his early thirties, and he’d inherited their house on the far end of Canal Street—an old, small Tudor cottage that Duke had lovingly restored.
Once the weeds were pulled and the microgreens seeds planted, Megan decided to swing by the Masterman house to see for herself if he was home. She loaded some extra tatsoi and cherry tomatoes into the truck for Alvaro, and headed out.
It was early evening, and Winsome seemed quiet after the long weekend’s festivities. Remnants of yesterday’s celebration—bits of streamers, a stray tent here and there—littered the downtown area. Remmy Booker still had tables set outside her yarn shop from the sidewalk sale, and the tent where the salsa band had played was only half deconstructed. But overall, the town looked pretty and quaint and solid, a town that had withstood hundreds of years, and would withstand many more to come.
If “development” didn’t irrevocably alter it.
Already the signs were there. The Walmart a mile outside of town. The independent bookstore off Canal Street that closed last year, unable to compete with the big box stores or online retailers. The small enclave of million-dollar houses on quarter acre lots that went up on part of an old farm property. And, of course, the von Tressler mansion: a house now situated on a wooded hill that had remained wooded since the Revolutionary War.
That was the nature of life, Megan knew, but the knowing didn’t change the ache much. What would Winsome look like in a hundred years? A decade? Would it simply be part of a characterless extension of the Philadelphia suburbs?
Megan pulled up to the café. She idled there for a moment, looking into the store she and Bibi and the Hands had built, feeling nostalgic. Even on a Tuesday at six o’clock, it was bustling. Alvaro had challenged the norm with ethnic-inspired farm-to-table food, and his fare brought in people from all over. Megan sold nothing touched by glyphosate, and sales were the best they’d ever been. People paid twice as much for local handmade soaps and lotions and scarves than what they would have for cheap products made in mass quantities overseas and sold at large chain stores.
Maybe there was hope.
Her mind flitted to her conversation with Denver at the fish and chip place in Philly. Change wasn’t always bad. Taking a risk could pay back tenfold. She was scared, true, but was that a valid reason not to choose a path, especially a path shared with someone she loved. Starting the farm had taken courage. Opening the café had taken courage. True, losing Mick had been the biggest blow of her life, but if she didn’t give life with Denver a chance, wasn’t she letting fear win?
Megan pulled away from the curb. The Masterman house was another mile down the road. She passed a trio of craftsman-style cottages and then came to Duke’s house. The lights were off, the driveway empty. The house sat right on the street with only a strip of flower bed separating it from the road. The flowers looked weedy and in need of care.
Megan climbed out of the truck. She started with the front door, knocking loudly. No answer. She rang the bell. Nothing. Duke had put a privacy fence around the small backyard, but the gate had no lock. Megan let herself in. The grass in the rear of the property was overgrown. Other than that, the yard was neat, the small brick patio tidy.
A peek inside a ground floor window exposed a clean kitchen. No sign of Duke.
You’re a regular Peeping Tina, Megan thought to herself. She was waiting for a neighbor to call the police. She decided to head that off. Back in the front yard, Megan looked over at the triplet craftsman cottages. The one closest to Duke’s had a car parked out front. Megan knocked on the door.
An older woman Megan didn’t know glanced out from behind a chain locked door.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Duke Masterman, your neighbor, ma’am,” Megan said. “It doesn’t appear he’s been home for a while. Have you seen him?”
“You with the police?”
“No, I’m not.” Megan introduced herself. “I knew Duke from school. Just checking up on him.”
“The police been by, too. Wonder what Duke’s gotten himself messed up in.” The woman unlocked the door and came out onto her small porch. “You Bonnie Birch’s granddaughter?”
“I sure am.”
“I thought so. I’ve seen your photo in the town paper.” A warm smile lit up her face. “Gertrude Ellsworth. Bonnie calls me Gertie. We play Bridge together.”
Megan had heard Bibi talk about Gertie on occasion. “Happy to meet you.”
“Where are my manners? Would you like to come in? I just finished supper and I have some nice minestrone soup left over. I can fix you a bowl.”
“No, thank you, Gertie. I need to get to the store. I was just hoping maybe you’ve seen Duke.”
“It’s Duke you’re after, huh? I thought Bibi said you were practically engaged to that handsome Dr. Finn. He’s a catch, that one.” She smiled again. “But then, you are, too. You treat Bonnie well. She tells us all the time how you dote on her. We all wish we had a grandchild like you. Not sure why she’d even be looking at Serenity Manor. If I were your grandmother, I’d stay right where I was.”
“Serenity Manor?”
“She took a tour with us last week. I’m interested in living there, and I mentioned it in passing. I told her it was silly for her to go. She insisted.”
Megan was sure the shock was apparent on her face. A retirement home? Somedays she felt like having her and her dogs in the house was a lot for Bibi, but she’d never indicated a desire to leave. Bibi loved the farm. She was active and engaged, and being useful was something Bibi cherished. But the painkillers…was there something her grandmother wasn’t telling her?
“Duke, Megan?” Gertie said, reminding Megan why she was here.
“I’m not here for Duke in that way. He had done some work for someone I know, and they said he hasn’t shown up in a few weeks. I wanted to make sure he’s okay.”
“The police are concerned, too.” She glanced over at Duke’s house, running a hand through her white wedge cut in the process. “Last time I saw Duke was maybe two, three weeks ago. He’s a
skirt chaser, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t normally say that, but you being Bonnie’s granddaughter and all. I kind of figured he had found some woman and was staying there.”
“Have you known him to do that before?”
“He’s always come and gone as he pleased, especially since his father passed.” She crossed herself. “Used to fight with his parents something awful. Nice enough man, but temperamental. Have to watch what you say to him.”
Megan knew what she meant. In the short time they’d worked together, he had been adamant about having control of the project and his crew. Didn’t like to be questioned. Megan felt again like she’d dodged a cannon.
“Thanks, Gertie. I appreciate the information. Out of curiosity, was it Bobby King who talked to you about Duke?”
“No, some woman I didn’t know. Little thing. Cute, with brown hair. Cheekbones to die for.”
Megan’s pulse increased a few beats. “Thanks again. Have fun at Bridge.”
“Tell Bonnie to stop beating me. You’d think that woman would get tired of winning.”
Megan laughed. “Bibi? Never. She lives for the kill.”
Parked in front of the café, Megan called King from the truck. He didn’t answer, so she left him a message. She decided to try Dominick von Tressler as well on the off chance he was working late. No receptionist this time, just a voicemail system. She left him a cryptic message, and asked him to call her back.
As she was getting out of the truck, her cell phone rang. It was Bobby.
“I’m glad you called, Megan. I need to talk with you. Will you be home later?”
“I’m at the café now, then I’m planning to meet Denver for a late dinner at the tavern. Want to join us? Eight o’clock.”
King hesitated, but only for a second. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
Inside the café, Megan found her grandmother at the counter eating a plate of leftover cauliflower tacos from the Fourth of July dinner.
“Pretty good,” she said while stabbing a fork full of avocado salad. “My mother used to have to force me to eat cauliflower. Who knew you could dress it up like this?” She patted the empty seat next to her. “Come sit. Have some tacos.”
“I have dinner with Denver later. You’re welcome to join us.”
Bibi shook her head. “My favorite shows are on tonight. Alvaro promised me some sopapillas with honey. After that, it’s home for me.”
The restaurant had emptied out, and only two families were still eating in the café. Clover was at the register chatting with Clay, who had a pile of groceries in front of him. Megan excused herself and joined the Hands.
“You were looking for me?” she said to Clay. “I’ve tried calling you back.”
“I didn’t think it was urgent. We can catch up tomorrow,” Clay said. He looked tired. Megan noticed paint on his knuckles and what looked like dried putty on the hairs of his arm.
“Spending your day off working on your apartment?”
“Not exactly.” He paid his sister for the groceries and loaded them into his knapsack.
Megan was stung by his curt tone. “You okay?”
“I wish you would have mentioned that you were lending me out.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Me, working for someone else. You agreeing to it.”
Megan had no idea what he was talking about—at first. Then it dawned on her. “Ah, Melanie.”
“She approached me in town yesterday morning. Said you said I’d be happy to make some extra cash at her place.” He held up his left hand. “Spent the day spackling and painting a master bedroom that’s the size of my whole apartment.” He threw the knapsack over his shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get some sleep. We have the big Philly restaurant order we have to deliver tomorrow. I’ll be over early—around five.”
“I can do that, Clay. Porter and I will wash everything up, bag it, and I can drive it into the city. Sleep in.”
Clay’s expression softened. “That’s okay. It’s not like I didn’t get paid for today. I just wish you’d warned me.” Clay started to walk away, and Megan placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Hear me out. Please.” Clay stopped, turned. “I didn’t mention it because I told her no, that I wasn’t okay with her asking you. I also said it was ultimately up to you, so I suppose I should have told you about the conversation, but I never thought she’d approach you. And I really never thought she’d lie.” Megan held his gaze. “I didn’t loan you or Porter out. I would never do that.”
Clay nodded. He glanced at Clover, then back at Megan. “She really made it sound like it was a deal between friends. I’m sorry for accusing you.”
“It’s okay. I have a feeling Melanie doesn’t accept ‘no’ lightly.”
“For sure.” Clay shifted his weight, adjusting the bag on his back. “Her mother was there, too. Veronica. She said Melanie is terrified and wants to get the house ready for sale.”
“Scared? Of what?” Clover asked.
“She believes she’s next on a hit list. Wants to leave Winsome, and she’s in a rush to get out from under the house.” He shrugged. “I assume she thinks Penny’s murderer is after her as well.”
“Melanie mentioned to me that she’s scared, but she also told me she’s staying in Winsome,” Megan said. “She blatantly told me her mother twists the truth.”
“Also known as a lie,” Bibi said, joining them. “I overheard part of your conversation. I don’t think it’s the first time the von Tresslers have twisted the truth to get what they wanted.”
“What do you mean, Bonnie?” Clay asked.
“Roger was in here earlier. When the family applied for the permit to build that house, David said they would place the surrounding woods into conservation. Also said their company would make some investments in Winsome, support the Beautification Board. They haven’t done either, and when Roger mentioned it to Melanie, she acted as though she had no idea what he was talking about.”
“Sounds like them,” Clover said.
“The master bedroom, Clay, was anyone staying in it?” Megan asked.
Clay shook his head. “Still empty. Melanie said she and David had been staying in one of the six guest rooms.” He scowled. “A real hardship.”
“Don’t judge,” Clover said, but her reprimand sounded half-hearted. “Why do you ask, Megan?”
“Just curious. Did you happen to see the room she’s staying in?” Megan asked Clay.
“The master is in a separate hall, so no. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Whether she shared it with David?” Bibi asked. “I was wondering the very same thing.”
Twenty-One
“Three ales, one order of Bavarian pretzels, a brisket sandwich,” Denver said, “and whatever these two are having.” He glanced over at King. “Dinner’s my treat, so eat up.”
“Cobb salad, hold the ham,” Megan said. “And an iced tea to balance out the ale.”
“Burger and fries.” King perused the menu. “And since Denver’s paying, add in a Caesar side salad.”
The waitress walked away, and King leaned in. “Shall I go first, Megan.”
“Right to business,” Denver said.
“It’s this bloody von Tressler-Greenleaf mess. I’m getting political pressure to clean things up, and we have zero leads. Zip. Megan was our most obvious lead, and we know where that went.” He clapped his beefy hands. “A few more questions, friendly this time.”
Megan felt Denver bristle beside her. She put a calming hand on his forearm. “Shoot.”
“The coroner puts the time of death for Penelope between nine and noon on Thursday. I told you that. Based on the position of the body, the test results, etc., she thinks the body was moved immediately to its resting place on your property.”
“Okay? You told me that as well.” Megan didn’t know where he was going with this line of questioning. This was nothing new.
“Where was Ryan and his crew? If a body had been moved to the Marshall property in broad daylight, wouldn’t they have seen it happen?”
Megan thought about that. She tried to remember what was happening Thursday morning. She had been at the café. Merry had swung by. King, too. But she hadn’t talked with Ryan—she’d just assumed he was at the house. Later, when she and Bibi were touring the barn, it had been Ryan’s crew who found the body, so they had arrived at some point.
“You don’t seriously suspect Ryan?” she said. This time it was Denver who placed a calming hand on her arm. “Now you’re grasping at anything.”
King shook his head. “We have no reason to suspect Ryan Craig of anything. But it does seem odd, doesn’t it? I have a call in to your contractor to see what was happening that day, but if the coroner is right, and I have no reason to doubt her, why didn’t they see the perpetrator at the house?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Ryan. And if you get him first, let me know.”
“Is that it?” Denver said.
The waitress came by with three ales and a heaping plate of their homemade soft pretzels. “The pretzels are on the house. Our thanks to the Chief.”
“Awe, Kelly, Denver here is paying this time.”
The waitress flashed a gorgeous smile. “I’ll get you next time, too.”
King’s smiled lingered as the waitress walked away.
“Watch it, or Megan will tell Clover,” Denver said. He picked up his ale and took a drink.
“Clover has nothing to worry about. Just because you’ve already ordered doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu.”
“I think it does,” Denver said.
Megan laughed. “What else, King? Surely you have more than Ryan’s missing hours.”
King had attacked the pretzels. He was in the middle of dipping a wedge into a bowl of the tavern’s signature beer-cheese sauce when he said, “We’ve been looking at Penny’s laptop files, trying to figure out the connection to you.”
