Bitter Harvest Page 5

  “Who recommended the firm?”

  Merry frowned. “You know, I’m not sure. I think Roger Becker may have suggested her, although I’m not sure how he knows her. She certainly comes with a business pedigree.”

  “Is the Oktoberfest committee happy with her work?”

  “Oh, very. She’s bright and tenacious and understands today’s market. She’s really taken the lead, allowing the rest of the committee members to focus on their own tasks.”

  The back door rattled, and Clay came inside carrying a small shopping bag.

  “Sorry,” he said to Megan. “Goats escaped. Again. I have Porter chasing Heidi in the woods, so I come bearing eggs.” He held the bag out to Merry.

  Megan glanced at Merry. “They’re little escape artists.”

  Bibi stood. “You’ll want to get your eggs home before they go bad.”

  Megan fought the urge to roll her eyes. The eggs would be fine. Bibi was just ready for Merry to leave. Merry took her cue and accepted the bag.

  “Can you put this on my tab at the café?” Merry asked.

  “Sure.” Megan paused, still thinking about Ophelia. “Merry, do you know why they changed the rules regarding the sponsorships? The lotteries were supposed to go to smaller businesses with local markets, but the Sauers were awarded the farm spot. That’s fine—I’d just like to understand why.”

  Merry blinked her eyes once, twice, three times—before the blush returned to her cheeks. She raised the bag of eggs. “I should go.”

  Megan pressed. “It seems odd that they moved the goal post at the last minute, making it easier for large operations to be considered. I’m sure there is a strategic reason for the change, but Ophelia hasn’t been able to articulate it. I’m just curious.”

  But Merry was already out the door. “Talk to Ophelia again about the lottery, Megan,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, she’ll share her insights. The decision was hers, after all.”

  After everyone left, Megan dumped the tea bags into the sink and washed the cups and silverware while she waited for Denver. Bibi was standing by the window, looking out into the yard, a melancholy expression on her face.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Megan said, echoing the trite saying she’d heard so many times as a kid.

  It took Bibi a long moment to respond. “That was King on the phone.”

  “And?”

  “He wants to talk to me again. They think it was an accident, but they need to button up some loose ends.”

  “Did he say what those loose ends were?”

  “Just details about the time I found him, timing of the call to the café, that sort of thing.” Bibi turned around to face Megan. The lines around her mouth looked deeper, her shoulders sagged under the weight of her sweater. “It sounds as though he went for a walk, ended up in the solar field, and tripped.”

  “You don’t believe that now?”

  Bibi wrapped her arms around her chest. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “What bothers you?”

  “Something. Nothing. I guess that’s the problem.” She met Megan’s gaze, but the spark Megan knew so well seemed diminished. “I overheard part of your conversation with Merry. Why was Otto at that farm? Why did he pass right by Porter? His fall may have been an accident, Megan, but that man was in a rush to get there. And unless he had a newfound love for energy science, I’m afraid someone else was involved.”

  Megan nodded. “I had the same thought. You’re wondering who is that someone?”

  “And why aren’t they coming forward?” Bibi rubbed her upper arms with hands that had seen more than eight decades. “King wants this put to bed. But I’m old enough to understand that a person scared to come forward is a person up to no good.”

  A knock at the door interrupted Megan’s next statement. They’d been so engrossed that they hadn’t heard Denver pull up.

  Bibi opened the door for Denver. She smiled when she saw him, and said in a lighter tone, “You two have fun. Just be careful. Please.”

  “We will, Bibi.”

  Bibi nodded. She walked to the sink, her shoulders hunched. Megan closed the door and locked it, willing her grandmother to also stay safe.

  Later that night, under the glow of the moon, Megan asked Denver Finn what he thought about Ophelia Dilworth.

  “Only met her twice,” he said. They were sitting outside on his deck, close to one another under a wool blanket. The night air was sharp with moisture, and Megan could almost smell winter setting in. Denver’s five dogs were curled in various spots on and around the blanket. Megan had her head on Denver’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair with gentle rhythmic motions, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  “Did she strike you as competent and trustworthy?”

  “Aye, I guess.” He tilted his face down to look at Megan. Megan was again struck by his rugged handsomeness, his fiercely intelligent eyes. “Why are ye asking me this, Megs? Did she do something to bother ye?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, ye don’t quite seem yourself. Why might that be?”

  Denver’s accent got stronger when he was upset or tired. Tonight he looked exhausted. He’d spent the afternoon overseeing the breach birth of a foal. The foal and mare lived after hours of worry and struggle, but when Denver showed up at the farm, she’d sensed his weariness. She offered to make him dinner at his house instead of going out, an invitation he eagerly accepted. So after a light meal of salad niçoise and white Burgundy, they headed out to relax on the deck.

  “I mean it,” Denver said. “Something’s bothering you. Even a country vet can see that.”

  Megan smiled. Leaning against his solid frame, she told him about the Sauers’ farm and the Oktoberfest celebration. “Seems strange, doesn’t it? Sauer isn’t even that well-liked by most of the people on the committee.”

  “He’s a cash cow though. Pun intended.” Denver’s face contorted in distaste. He’d stopped providing services to the Sauer farm last year after rescuing Gunther. “No matter their rationale, that’s not right,” he said. “Challenge it.”

  “I tried to. I sound like a sore loser.”

  “Don’t ye do that, Megs. This farm is your baby. They broke their own rules when it was convenient for them to do so.”

  True, but Megan knew from talking with Ophelia that they would simply find a way to justify their actions. Her eyes were feeling heavy. Denver’s body felt so warm, a stark contrast to the biting fall air. She considered telling Denver about the conversation she’d witnessed between Otto Vance and Ted Kuhl, but she was suddenly too sleepy to form the words. She hadn’t mentioned the chair on Potter Hill either. She told herself she didn’t want Denver to worry, but she knew deep down it was more than that. If she told him, she risked resenting his reaction, and he’d be in a no-win situation. He knew about the treasure on her property too, so he knew as well as anyone what a stalker could mean. Whether he told her she was being paranoid or he tried to talk her into being more cautious, she would be annoyed. She didn’t want to go down either path with Denver. Better to say nothing. For now.

  Megan sensed Denver looking at her, felt the caress of his breath against her cheek and the strength of his arm underneath her. He was waiting for her to make a move. A kiss, a gesture, anything to indicate that tonight she’d stay. It wasn’t just concern about leaving Bibi home alone that stopped her. She wanted to stay. She’d wanted to for a while now, but once their relationship went in that direction, there was no going back. She wasn’t ready. Sex for her wasn’t simply a physical act, and the emotionality of it wasn’t something she could deal with. Not just yet. But would he wait? She hoped so. She’d rather have him move on than betray her own needs though: two unwanted consequences, but one was worse.

  Forcing her eyelids to open, she stretched, then disentangled herself from the man
and the blanket. She stood.

  “I should go.”

  “Aye, it’s getting late.” Voice flat.

  Megan asked, “Will I see you later this week?”

  Denver unfurled to his full six-foot-plus height. “I’d like that.”

  Megan stretched on tippy toes and kissed his lips. “We can have dinner in or out, doesn’t matter to me.”

  One dog barked, another wound its way between Megan’s ankles.

  “There may be more privacy out,” Denver said. “Git, ye wee pains.”

  Suddenly feeling somber, Megan said, “I forgot. Otto’s memorial service is coming up next week. Want to come with me and Bibi?”

  “Ta. That would be nice.” Denver rested his head atop Megan’s. “Shame, that. He was a good man.”

  It seemed a rhetorical statement, and Megan didn’t respond. She stayed like that, entwined with Denver, feeling the beat of his pulse in time with her own. He was the first to pull away. Megan held on as long as she could before heading back to her car. Time to go home. Alone.

  Six

  As much as she tried, Megan couldn’t get the Breakfast Club—and the tension between Otto and Ted Kuhl—out of her mind. She replayed that morning over and over, looking for some clue as to why Otto might have driven right past Porter and ended up at the solar farm. Bibi was right, something was missing—but she came up empty every time. It didn’t help that Bibi seemed not to be herself since the accident. Her grandmother was pale, withdrawn, and more snappish than usual. Megan knew finding a body could do that to you. Accident or not, Otto’s time was cut short, and it was Bibi who’d first had to witness the grisly aftermath. Only Bibi’s current state of mind seemed related to more than finding Otto. It was as though the incident made her feel unsafe, insecure in the town she’d called home for her entire life.

  Megan wished there was something she could do.

  At the café the next morning, Megan asked Clover if she’d heard anything more about the investigation into Otto’s death. The café was unusually quiet, and Clover was waiting on a man Megan didn’t recognize. He was sitting at the lunch counter, drinking coffee and reading American Angler magazine. Clover topped off the cup and he thanked her, pulling the mug to his lips with fingers crisscrossed with burn scars.

  “Far as I know, it’s been ruled an accident,” Clover said. “Otto fell and smashed his head. Killed him instantly.”

  “No signs of struggle?”

  Clover arched well-shaped eyebrows. “No, why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “You think someone did something to make Otto fall?”

  “I just think it’s odd that he drove past Porter, who was clearly stranded on the road.”

  “That bothers you?”

  “It’s out of character.”

  “You always did see patterns.” Clover made a “hmm” sound. “Maybe he was having an affair. He left his car at the park and met whoever it was at the solar fields.”

  “That’s what Merry Chance said.”

  “Oh, man, now I sound like Merry.” Clover leaned against the cashier’s counter, her scantily clad backside dangerously close to knocking over a display of Sunny’s organic mango lip balm. “Seriously though, you have a good sense for people. If you think there’s more to it, we should tell Bobby.” Clover chewed on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “Although his force is stretched thin right now. With Oktoberfest and all. I’m sure he’s hoping this was just an accident.”

  Megan shook her head. “I don’t have anything concrete anyway.” Megan forced a smile—no use telling tales when she didn’t have a complete picture. “Looks like you and Alvaro have things under control. I’m going to head back to the farm and work in the greenhouses. Need anything?”

  Clover shook her head, sending long silky brown hair in all directions. “Nope.” Her eyes widened suddenly. She snapped her finger. “Actually, yes! Ted left something here yesterday. I was going to give it to him this morning, but I must have missed him. Mind dropping it off at his house on your way?”

  Clover walked around to the back side of the checkout counter. She reached underneath and handed Megan a thick manila file folder. “Here you go. Just let him know he left it under the newspapers.” She waved her hands, flashing nails like neon daggers. “I didn’t even open the file. Whatever he has in there remained safe in my keeping.”

  “No problem.” Megan eyed the folder warily, wondering what was inside. She would drop it off—a good excuse to talk to Kuhl. She’d known Ted for years, since she was a little girl. If nothing else, maybe he could help her get over this feeling that all was not right in Winsome.

  Ted Kuhl lived with his daughter, Emily, in a row home on the outskirts of the Winsome town proper. Like most of the residences on the street, the house was a plain-faced unit, more utilitarian than elegant, with a white stucco exterior and a concrete porch bordered by a black wrought-iron railing. A welcome mat greeted Megan at the front door, its blood-red and sun-yellow daisies faded nearly to gray. Megan knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately. Emily Kuhl stood before her, her face registering first relief, then disappointment, before finally settling on fear.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Megan said. “I was hoping to see your dad.”

  Emily flashed a half smile. “Yeah, well, join the club.”

  Emily pushed open the screen door and Megan followed her into a cramped living room. The house smelled of disinfectant and furniture polish. Green shag carpet graced the floor and two brown plaid love seats faced one another across a battered pine coffee table. Stacks of books covered every square inch of a small desk at the back of the room. Emily traced Megan’s gaze.

  “Business books, brewing guides, recipes. Dad’s a nut when it comes to research.”

  “I can see that.”

  Research, Megan knew, for his fledgling brewery, Road Master Ale. The brewery he wanted to showcase at the Oktoberfest celebration. She turned to look at Ted’s daughter. Like her father, Emily Kuhl was tall and gangly. A severe ponytail twisted thick blond hair into submission. Somewhere in her late twenties, Emily had moved back home with her six-month-old daughter, Lily, after the breakup of her short-lived abusive marriage—facts Megan had overheard at the café. Today the frayed hems on the sleeves of Emily’s khaki sweater gave testament to raw nerves. Even now she was picking at the loose ends like some people worry a scab.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “I don’t want to keep you.” Megan pulled the file out of her tote bag. “I just stopped by to return this to your father.”

  Emily glanced at the file without comprehension. She took it, opened it, and then stared back at Megan in disbelief. “Where did you find this?”

  “Clover found it at the café. He’d left it under his newspapers.”

  “Today?”

  “Yesterday. Clover meant to give it to him today, but she missed him.”

  “So he was there? For breakfast?” Emily looked to be on the verge of tears. “Tell me he was there.”

  “I can’t say for sure. I didn’t arrive until later. None of the Breakfast Club—his group of friends—was there, but maybe they’d already left, including your father.”

  Emily’s skin paled to the color of raw milk. She fingered a large gold cross that hung around her neck, twirling the chain around her fingers.

  “Emily, are you okay?”

  Megan didn’t know Emily well—just well enough for idle chitchat and to say hello when they bumped into each other at the farmers market—but clearly the manila file had jostled a nerve.

  “Would you sit? I’d like it if you’d sit.” Emily swallowed. “I think I need to sit.”

  So Megan sat. She waited while Emily fetched two plastic cups of ice water.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I haven
’t seen my father since he left for the tap room yesterday. He never came home last night.”

  “No call, email, or text?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you check his business lines? Maybe he tried to contact you through Road Master.”

  Emily shook her head. “Did that—nothing.”

  Megan refused to jump to conclusions. “Let’s call the café. If he was there this morning, Alvaro, our cook, will know.”

  But a quick call to the café was inconclusive.

  “Alvaro doesn’t think your father was there, but he was so busy he couldn’t say for sure.” In actuality, the cranky cook had said, “I’m too busy to babysit our freeloading customers, so how would I know?” but Megan chose to paraphrase.

  “He wasn’t there. If he had been, he would have asked for the file. He would never have purposefully left this there.” She raised the file, opened it, and fanned through the contents. “This has been his life for the last three years.”

  “The brewery?”

  Emily tore at the hems on her sleeves frantically. She nodded. “After Mom died, he sold the house and moved into this dump. He used the garage out back to home brew at first. People told him he was on to something, and he believed them. He put every cent he had into Road Master, rented the tap room, thought he could grow Road Master into a national brand.” She slumped against the back of the couch. “At first I thought it was a good distraction, a way to deal with grief. But he became more and more obsessed.”

  “And then the town turned down his bid to serve at Oktoberfest.”

  “He saw Oktoberfest as his ticket to building his brand. Even though he could still sell, he wouldn’t get the advertising and attention the sponsors get.” Emily’s eyes darkened. “Otto is established, has a bigger operation. Plus, Oktoberfest was Otto’s idea to begin with. But Dad’s beers are better. Otto brewed beer so he could have a microbrewery that complemented his tavern. My dad is all about the beer. He deserved that shot.”