Seeds of Revenge Read online

  Praise for the Greenhouse Mystery Series

  A MUDDIED MURDER (#1)

  “Tyson gives us an evocative sense of place, a bit of romance, and dimensional characters with interesting backstories. Readers are left looking forward to the next book in the series and hankering for organic mushroom tartlets.”

  – Publishers Weekly

  “A warmhearted mystery with an irresistible cast of characters, two- and four-legged alike. Tyson’s small town setting is a lush bounty for the senses, and the well-structured plot will keep you guessing right up until the satisfying conclusion.”

  – Sophie Littlefield,

  Edgar-Nominated Author of The Guilty One

  “Tyson grows a delicious debut mystery as smart farmer-sleuth Megan Sawyer tills the dirt on local secrets after a body turns up in her barn. You won’t want to put down this tasty harvest of a story.”

  – Edith Maxwell,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of Murder Most Fowl

  “Hungry for a great mystery? A Muddied Murder is a delight and Wendy Tyson is a natural. She delivers a perfectly plotted mystery with well-planted clues and a healthy dose of secrets. This first Greenhouse Mystery will only whet your appetite for more.”

  – Sparkle Abbey,

  Author of Raiders of the Lost Bark

  “An irresistible story with delicious food, scheming villagers, and a secret worth killing for. Her heroine, prodigal daughter of Winsome, PA Megan Sawyer, may not carry a gun, but she’s packing brains, courage, and loads of integrity. Megan is a star.”

  – James W. Ziskin,

  Anthony Award-Nominated Author of the Ellie Stone Mysteries

  BITTER HARVEST (#2)

  “Tyson’s first-rate second Greenhouse mystery stars big-city lawyer turned small-town organic farmer Megan Sawyer, a kind, intelligent, and spirited woman with great integrity. In short, she’s the sort of person cozy readers warm to and root for...Tyson populates the cast with a smug-but-attractive PR consultant, a temperamental-but-gifted chef, a shrewd and sexy Scottish vet, and assorted townspeople, whose motives are complex and believable. It’s a pleasure to spend time in their company.”

  – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Bitter Harvest is a delightful read. It has everything you could want in a mystery—a spunky heroine with a charming love interest, quirky characters, a setting you desperately want to visit, and a plot that keeps you guessing!”

  – Amanda Lee,

  Author of Better Off Thread

  “An exceptional cozy, Bitter Harvest offers up a veritable feast for mystery fans: a beautifully drawn setting, engaging characters, and plenty of twists and turns that will keep readers guessing. The suspense deepens with every scene…Tyson has crafted a fresh, intelligent, compelling story that’s sure to satisfy.”

  – Cynthia Kuhn,

  Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Art of Vanishing

  “A perfectly-crafted smorgasbord of suspense, family drama and small-town intrigue.”

  – Liz Mugavero,

  Agatha-Nominated Author of Custom Baked Murder

  “I loved it. There is just something in the way this book is written that pulls me in…a very enjoyable read.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  The Greenhouse Mystery Series

  by Wendy Tyson

  A MUDDIED MURDER (#1)

  BITTER HARVEST (#2)

  SEEDS OF REVENGE (#3)

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  Copyright

  SEEDS OF REVENGE

  A Greenhouse Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Trade paperback edition | November 2017

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Tyson

  Author photograph by Ian Pickarski

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-275-7

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-276-4

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-277-1

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-278-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  For you, Aunt Carol.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks to Frances Black, Rachel Jackson and all the folks at Henery Press, Rowe Carenen, Larissa Ackerman, Claire McKinney, and, of course, my family.

  I’d also like to recognize Patricia Smith and the Friends of the Free Library of New Hope & Solebury, in particular Pamela Kerr and Kristin Reilly. Your support and encouragement have been a blessing.

  One

  Megan squinted through a sliver of windshield thick with ice and snow. The forecasters had been wrong again, and the storm predicted for the wee hours of the morning slammed the region early—with a vengeance. The untreated roads were slick with rapidly falling snow, and it was nearly impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. Megan slowed to a crawl, hoping the truck wouldn’t slide along this stretch of deserted street.

  It’d been a long evening. She’d visited with the chefs from four restaurants in Philly, trying to sell them on Washington Acres’ winter hot house greens. She glanced back at the coolers of arugula, spinach, and pak choi, likely frozen in the cold truck bed. Only one restaurant, City Roots, had been interested. The chef, a sweet, passionate woman named Patricia Smith, had sampled the greens with enthusiasm. Chefs from the other three restaurants had promised to try the samples she’d left and would “call her soon.” She knew that meant she’d be calling them. Selling greens was one way to extend her market and make some cash during the winter months. But as a new farm awaiting its organic certification, getting restaurants to take a chance was proving to be a challenge.

  The truck’s wipers were crusted with ice. After pulling over, Megan rolled down the window, stuck her arm out, and banged the left wiper hard against the windshield in an effort to break some ice loose. She increased the temperature of the defroster and pulled back out on the road. She was only about twelve miles from Winsome, but in this arctic landscape, it felt like a million.

  The snow was coming down harder now, hitting the truck at an angle. Practically a white out. Her cell phone rang and she ignored it. A few more miles and she’d be on a busier, and hopefully plowed, stretch of road. The truck climbed, passing an abandoned Honda. Megan felt grateful for the truck’s snow tires and four-wheel drive. With almost a foot of snow on this back country road, she wouldn’t have made it up the hill either.

  Megan was just approaching her turn when she
saw a shadowy figure walking along the road. As her car got closer, Megan could make out a shape encased in a snow-covered blanket. Long golden curls hung beneath a hat, past a broad set of shoulders. A halo of white snow lay atop the blonde strands.

  Megan pulled over. “Do you need a ride?”

  The figure moved closer. Megan saw a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, with a wide mouth and beguiling, fern-green eyes. She smiled warmly. “Car died on me, and so close, too.” She frowned. “At least I think I’m close.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Winsome. Is it near here? I’m afraid with all this snow, I may have gotten off track.”

  Megan smiled. “Heading that way myself. Climb in.”

  “Oh! Would you mind? I have some stuff in my car I need.” She glanced at the back of Megan’s truck, took in the coolers, and said, “They should be okay in the open for a while if I can stick them back there.”

  “Sure.”

  The woman smiled her gratitude. She stuck a gloved hand through the window. “Becca Fox.” Her shake was firm, her expression affable. “You sure you don’t mind giving me a lift?”

  While the snow was starting to slow, it’d left a mess in its wake. “I don’t mind at all. I’m not leaving you here in the dark and cold.”

  Megan unlocked the passenger door and made room for Becca. Then she turned the truck around and drove back to the stranded vehicle. She helped Becca lift three large plastic cases and a suitcase into the back of the truck. Becca pulled what looked like an oversized jewelry case out of the backseat of her car.

  She held it up. “This is my bread and butter. Mind if it rides with us?”

  Megan didn’t mind, and she said so. Becca placed the case on the floor between her feet and snapped her seatbelt into place. Once they were back on the road, she pulled off her hat and gloves. Megan snuck a sideways peek at her passenger. Becca had an open, handsome face. There was a childlike allure to her that Megan found appealing.

  “What do you have going on in Winsome?” Megan asked, navigating around a pile of snow that had blown across an intersection. She glanced at Becca. “Heading there for the holidays?”

  “Sort of. My aunt is letting me set up shop in her store. I started a business and she thought the foot traffic would be helpful.”

  “Who is your aunt?”

  “Meredith Chance. People call her Merry. Do you know her?”

  “I sure do. Merry is letting you set up a display in the nursery?” Every Christmas, Merry transformed her nursery into a holiday shop, complete with ornaments, Poinsettias, outdoor decorations, Christmas trees, wreaths, and even carolers and visits from Santa.

  “She said she has the room.” Becca shrugged. “I need to start somewhere.”

  The storm was waning, but the wind had picked up and Megan wound her way past three-foot drifts of snow. She saw headlights behind her and pulled over to let a plow pass, waiting until it had cleared the path ahead before moving forward.

  “So what brings you out on a night like this?” Becca asked. “I see the coolers in the back. Not dead bodies, I hope?” Becca smiled. Deep dimples popped out on either side of her mouth.

  “Nah, not this time.” Megan explained that she was a farmer and café owner on a mission to sell greens to city restaurants. “We’re still trying to figure out what works, what will bring in the most money during the down months.”

  “A woman farmer. Pretty cool.” Another grin. “I’ve never met a female farmer before.”

  Megan found Becca’s upbeat attitude infectious, and the disappointment trailing her time in the city lifted. It was pretty cool, and she and Bibi, her grandmother, had pulled the farm firmly into the black—finally. They just needed to keep it there.

  “What kind of display will you be setting up?”

  Becca sat back against the seat. She ran a large hand through her hair, tugging it into a loose ponytail, which she held behind her head. Everything about Becca seemed large, from physical frame to her personality.

  Becca said, “I’m a love chemist.”

  “A love chemist?”

  Becca nodded. “That’s the name of my business—The Love Chemist. I make modern day love potions.”

  Megan let that sink in. A love chemist in Winsome. Seemed maybe her companion could have chosen a better time of the year. Valentine’s Day? Then again, who knew? Perhaps Hanukkah and Christmas would prove to be ripe for romance.

  Becca freed her hair and shook it loose. Damp strands clung to the collar of her coat. She dug a card out of a pocket on one of the boxes and held it out to Megan. Megan couldn’t read it because she was driving, but she thanked her and tucked the card into her coat pocket.

  “I’m actually a chemist. I have my Masters in Chemistry. But most of the jobs I found were in industry, and I was bored. My last stint was at a fragrance company, and that’s where I learned about perfumes.”

  “So you make perfumes?”

  “I make naturally scented love potions.” She smiled mischievously. “My magic ingredient? Pheromones.”

  Before Megan could ask more questions, Becca pointed toward Canal Street, Winsome’s main drag. She gasped. Covered in a marshmallow fluff of snow, with holiday lights and Christmas trees glowing against the backdrop of the cloudy night sky, Winsome must have seemed like a destination from yesteryear to a newcomer. The historic buildings, with their brick and stone fascia, were done up in holiday finery, and the tall streetlights wore caps of white over streams of plaid ribbon. The street was deserted at this time of night, and the snow remained untouched except for a semi-cleared path carved by the plow.

  “It’s like Christmas has come alive.” Becca’s eyes widened. “That’s where Aunt Merry lives?” She glanced at Megan. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

  “She’s up the hill a bit. Want me to take you to her house?”

  “Sure. She’s not expecting me until tomorrow, but I imagine she’s home. I think I’ll just surprise her.”

  Merry Chance’s statuesque four square was alit with white Christmas lights—Colonial candles in the windows, braids of lights outlining the window sills and doorways, blinking lights woven into wreaths, and miniscule bulbs incorporated into a doe and two fawns that adorned the front lawn. As Megan pulled up alongside the road in front of the home, she saw with relief that Merry was home. In fact, she was standing on her porch talking with a man.

  Becca gave Megan a quick hug. “Thank you,” she sang. “You saved me quite a trek.”

  Megan climbed out of the truck and pulled Becca’s suitcase from the bed while Becca unloaded her boxes of love potions. Merry had noticed them, and she turned her attention toward her niece.

  “Aunt Merry!” Becca called. “Hello!”

  She hurried toward her aunt and stopped short just feet from the landing, Megan trailing behind. The man had turned to look at them so that his face was visible. He was older, mid- to late-sixties, but his resemblance to Becca was unmistakable. Strong features: a square chin, a broad nose, unnaturally black hair receding ever-so-slightly into his scalp line. He wore a tailored coat and carried an expensive bag. His bearing screamed money and privilege.

  The man regarded Becca with an evenness that seemed unnerving, while Becca’s whole body shook with emotion.

  No one acknowledged Megan. She watched the scene unfold the way a bystander witnesses a car crash. Helpless and transfixed.

  “No! Why is he here? Aunt Merry, why the hell is he here?” To him, “I told you I never want to see you again. Never. Do you know what that means? You brought him here on purpose.”

  “Rebecca, calm down,” Merry snapped. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “He’s here, I’m here. What conclusions am I jumping to?”

  The man said, “Actually, I was just leaving.”

  “That might be best, Pa
ul.” Merry glanced at her niece, lips pursed into a frown. “Let’s give Becca some time to calm down.”

  Paul nodded curtly. “Very well. Thank you, Merry. You know where I’ll be in town.” He walked down the steps, past Becca, without as much as another glance in her direction. Becca placed her bags on the ground. With a sudden rush, she darted toward the man in the slippery snow, hands outstretched. She would have pushed him had he not reacted with laser speed. He grabbed her wrists and held them out in front of her. Merry took a step forward. Megan dropped the suitcase, ready to intervene.

  But Paul and Becca just stood there, staring at one another. Finally, Becca said, “You’re hurting me.”

  He looked down at his hands, wrapped like bindings around her wrists, and let go. “I’m sorry.” He backed away, his eyes unwavering in their focus on Becca’s face.

  He climbed into the car—a silver Mercedes—and Becca spat at the ground near his tire. She rubbed her wrists, shoulders hunched.

  Becca watched as he pulled away, his rear tires slipping in the deep snow. “Why would you invite him here, Aunt Merry?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  “He’s staying here. He made that pretty clear.”

  “He wanted to see you. He wants to make amends.”

  “I will never forgive him. You of all people should understand that.”

  Merry regarded her niece with a long, sad stare. Finally she said, “Megan, I assume Becca’s car had some difficulty in this snow?” When Megan nodded, she said, “Thank you for bringing her.”

  It was a dismissal, at odds with Merry’s normally saccharine insistence on hospitality. Megan placed Becca’s suitcase on the porch and returned to her truck. She watched as Becca followed her aunt obediently inside. With the front door shut, the visage of the house returned to its festive façade.