Bitter Harvest Page 8

  “Nah, nothing. Some flattened areas in the brush, but that could have been deer or bears. I think maybe he’s on to us now.”

  Megan nodded. She turned away so he wouldn’t see the emotion in her eyes. “That’s what I figure,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the hill. Bastard returns, you’ll know it.”

  “Thanks, Brian.”

  He waved a hand in her direction. “What’s next? Turn over the pumpkin patch?”

  “That’ll work.”

  Porter headed one direction, Megan another. She watched him walk toward the back fields, purpose in his gait.

  It took Megan twenty minutes to locate Ophelia’s Oktoberfest headquarters. The PR specialist had hunkered down in the front two rooms of an office building otherwise occupied by a trusts and estates lawyer and the town’s only newspaper. Her offices had a temporary feel to them: apartment-white walls, dingy grey Linoleum flooring, and the total absence of personal artifacts. However, they didn’t lack Winsome flair. Three giant whiteboards were covered with photos, reports, and timelines. The center whiteboard read “Winsome First” above an illustration of a beer mug labeled with “Vance Brewery” in black letters and a black steer with “Sauer Farms—Winsome Born and Bred” in small white letters along its back. The themes of the event were clear: beef and brew. The stars of the event were equally evident: Sauer and Vance.

  Only Vance was dead.

  Megan waited until Ophelia Dilworth was finished with a phone conversation. In the meantime, she thumbed through several area brochures, happy to find Washington Acres listed in the back of one under “produce” and again under “eateries.” At least the farm had been included, even if the café’s address was wrong.

  “Can I help you?”

  Megan turned to see Ophelia standing, looking at her expectantly. Today the younger woman wore a pale green sweater that highlighted the deep cocoa hue of her eyes and a pair of skinny dark denim jeans. Brown riding boots, crafted with expensive Italian leather, hugged slim calves. Again, Megan was struck by the incongruity of Ophelia’s mouth. It was a stingy slice of a mouth, and right now it was set in an impatient frown.

  Megan held out her hand. “I don’t believe we formally met. I’m Megan Sawyer.”

  Ophelia’s grip was flaccid, her hand soft and malleable. “Washington Acres, yes. Glad you came. I assume you’ve reconsidered the spotlight feature?”

  Megan shook her head.

  “Then you came to talk about Sauer Farm.” Ophelia smiled, although it was annoyance, not joy, that shone in her eyes. “I thought we put that subject to bed.”

  “You put it to bed. I merely let it nap.”

  Ophelia didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smile. She walked around her metal desk, stopping at the center whiteboard. “As you can see, operations are well under way. We’re ready for a slew of tourists in a week, and you know they’ll buy your stuff as well as Glen and Irene Sauer’s. It’s a great opportunity for the entire town, Megan, and I know you’ll get onboard.”

  “I’m not here to talk about Glen and Irene Sauer. I want to discuss Otto Vance.”

  Ophelia looked at her blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “What will happen now that Otto’s passed away? Will Vance Brewery still sponsor Oktoberfest?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not sure it’s an ‘of course,’ Ophelia. Vance was the heart and soul of the brewery. The master brewer, the business manager, and the president. I thought a big part of the celebration was to showcase the sponsors in the town and have those sponsors provide products, demonstrations, and seminars.”

  “Vance has several kids. One of his sons is a master brewer, and his daughter, Hedy, has an interest in the pub.” Ophelia smoothed the corner of a brochure template despite its steam-iron edge. “Or Lana can do it.”

  Megan studied the younger woman. She definitely sensed a tone of defensiveness. Was Lana right about Ophelia and Otto? Did it matter?

  “Have you considered giving the spot to Ted Kuhl?”

  Ophelia’s lips twisted in surprise. “No, why?”

  “He had petitioned for the sponsorship too.”

  “We never took him seriously.”

  “No?”

  “He’s only a level two brewer. He can’t serve food. And frankly, his beer isn’t as good.”

  “It’s quite good. He’s won three awards. That’s three more than Otto.”

  Ophelia pranced toward her desk. She pulled her chair back and slid gracefully into the seat. Wearily, she said, “Megan, if you’re here to question every one of the committee’s decisions, I suggest coming to a meeting and doing it with the full group directly.” She examined her nails, one by one. “Or maybe, since you have so many complaints and ideas for improving the process, you can ask to be part of the committee.”

  Megan blanched internally at her snarky attitude, but she refused to react.

  “I was part of the initial Oktoberfest discussions, and there was a lot of excitement about showcasing our small artisans and businesses. Sure, some of them are less glossy and professional—but so what? You come on board and we have made a hundred and eighty degree turn, preferring big operations to small, and changing the rules on the run.”

  “Vance Brewery is still a relatively small operation.”

  “Sauer isn’t.”

  “Always comes back to that.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I don’t care about sponsoring the event—I really don’t.” And she meant it. “But Sauer is an animal abuser and an unethical man. No one in the town can think he’s the right choice to represent Winsome.”

  “Obviously you’re wrong.” She smiled. “I couldn’t have chosen him alone.”

  Megan paused. She was right, of course. If nothing else, the other committee members would have had to back her.

  Ophelia tore her gaze from her nails long enough to say, “Megan, go home. Get some rest. The café is cooking for several of the events. Enjoy the community feel, bask in the recognition. Next year maybe Washington Acres will be better positioned to take on a farm sponsorship role.”

  Megan’s gut seethed with anger, but she refused to open her mouth. Ophelia was good at twisting things around. It was her job. As Megan left, Ophelia called after her, voice as sweet as Bibi’s lemon curd jam. “Don’t forget to like us on Facebook!”

  Ten

  Megan looked up from her perch on the floor of the main greenhouse to see Denver standing in the doorway, a cooler in one hand and a basket in the other. He smiled warmly when she glanced his way.

  “Bonnie told me you’ve been holed up here since you got home hours ago. She said you’re in a mood.” His smile broadened. “Is that right? Are ye in a mood, Megs?”

  Megan returned to weeding the area around her delicate spinach shoots. “She said that, huh?”

  “A bit more directly.” He put down his packages, slipped off his jacket, and joined her by the bed. “So what are we doing?”

  “Weeding.”

  “Aye. Got that. What is a weed and what is a plant?”

  Megan showed him the slender spinach stalks. “Don’t pull these.”

  They worked quietly, side by side, for a quarter of an hour. Curiosity finally won out and Megan asked him, “What’s in the cooler?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of dinner?”

  “The kind we can eat that does not require a stove.” He pushed a strand of thick auburn hair away from his eyes. Megan resisted the urge to wipe away the streak of mud left behind by dirt-covered fingers. He looked adorable sitting there—out of his element and trying so hard. He said, “I have enough for Bonnie too.”

  “She has bingo tonight.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll share with Sadie and Gunther.”

  Megan smile
d. Her first real smile since leaving Ophelia. “Dinner sounds nice. I just need to wash up.”

  “You look fine.” He glanced at her hands, muddy from the vegetable beds. “Okay, maybe your hands.”

  “I need a shower. Give me fifteen? And yes, I am that fast.”

  They closed up the greenhouse and washed up in the sink in the barn. Megan ran back to the house for a quick shower, leaving Denver wandering around the barn yard with Gunther and Sadie. When she went back outside, Denver was waiting for her. He wore a backpack and carried a flashlight.

  “It’s so warm today. I thought we could hike up to Potter Hill and watch the sunset.” He lifted the flashlight. “We can use this on the way back down, if we need it.” He smiled. “I know you know the way with your eyes closed.”

  Megan hadn’t been back up to Potter Hill since she found the chair. Her first reaction was to say no—the thought of someone up there, watching her, still gave her the creeps. But she hadn’t told Denver about her watcher, and she wasn’t about to now.

  “Let me grab my jacket.”

  The route to Potter Hill took them forty minutes. They walked in companionable silence, Gunther and Sadie trotting along happily ahead. A cool breeze had settled in, and although the setting sun still lit their way, Megan could feel the chill night air descending.

  It was only when they reached the top that Megan realized she’d been clenching her jaw. When she glanced around, there was no chair, nothing to suggest someone had been there recently. She let out her breath, feeling the tension in her body release as well.

  Denver spread a blanket near the top of the hill, in front of a tall pine. He pulled a bottle of white wine—chilled—from inside, two plastic wineglasses, a loaf of rustic French bread, and an assortment of cheeses and fruit.

  “I hope this is okay,” he said, placing the food and some paper plates on the blanket. “I don’t cook much.”

  Megan was well aware of Denver’s lack of cooking skill. Their first date had been over canned soup. She smiled. “This is so thoughtful. Thank you.”

  As with the walk to the hill, they ate quietly, without much conversation. Megan felt her mood improving. She tossed bread and cheese to the dogs, who sat next to one another on the grassy patch beside the blanket, waiting patiently for a handout. The sun was sinking low in the horizon, and bands of orange and pink highlighted the dark tree line below. The farm was spread before them, clearly visible from their perch—only fifty feet from where Megan had found the chair. It seemed like ages ago though, and being here with Denver and the dogs made the discovery feel inconsequential.

  After they ate, Denver and Megan cleaned up the remnants, careful not to leave food behind for the black bears that occasionally roamed this area. The dogs took off, chasing each other over and around the hill.

  “I guess we should head back down,” Denver said. “It’s getting dark.”

  “This was nice.” Megan hugged him. He tilted his face down toward her and she kissed his lips, lightly at first, then harder. Pulling away, she said, “I’ll fetch the mutts.” At the edge of the woods, Megan turned to call for Sadie and Gunther. Walking backwards, she tripped, falling on her side.

  She quickly stood. “What the hell?”

  Denver sprinted over. “Ye okay, Megs?”

  “I’m fine.” She pointed to a small ring of stones encircling blackened logs. “Didn’t even see it.”

  “’Cause it’s tucked out of the way, not meant to be seen.” He bent down. “Hikers aren’t supposed to be camping up here. Must’ve been trying to hide the evidence.” He touched the wood. “By the looks of it, it’s pretty fresh. A few days, maybe. You might want to let King know. Don’t want any fires starting, not now while the woods are so dry.”

  Megan nodded. She wasn’t sure she’d tell King, not after his earlier reaction. Denver headed into the woods to fetch the dogs and Megan knelt down by the fire ring. Night was falling fast, and it was hard to see much other than the cold gray of Pennsylvania stones melding with the cloudy night sky. Where was the full harvest moon when she needed it?

  “Ready?” Denver called. He was standing by the path, holding the flashlight before him and keeping the dogs in line.

  “Coming!”

  As Denver turned, the flashlight beam moved with him. Something shiny a few feet from the fire ring, under a tree, caught Megan’s attention. She crawled over, feeling along the spot with her hand. Nothing. She used the flashlight on her phone to scour the grassy area under the oak. Within seconds a flash of blue and rust glinted from the darkness.

  It was a tiny object, no more than four inches by an inch.

  “Megs?” Denver called from the path.

  “Sorry—be right there.”

  Megan stared at the object in her hand. It appeared to be a butterfly knife. A very small butterfly knife.

  Carefully, she separated the blade from its holder. The handle was a kaleidoscope of swirling blues and silvers and reds—quite lovely, actually. Megan tucked it into her pocket. Someone had been here. First the chair, then the fire. The knife seemed more decorative than weapon-like, a collector’s item. What did that say about her stalker?

  It didn’t seem to be much of a clue. But it was a start.

  Denver said goodnight with a warm hug outside of her house. Bibi was back from bingo, and Denver had an early morning surgery, so he needed to get home. Megan thanked him and headed inside. She found Bibi in the sitting room watching television, feet propped on an ottoman and thick white circulation socks covering her ankles and calves. She smiled when she saw Megan, although her smile still lacked its normal spark.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Megan asked. She sank into the chair opposite her grandmother and curled her legs under her.

  “Just the day catching up with me.” Bibi picked up the remote and shut off the television. “Did you enjoy your time with Dr. Finn?” There was a sudden and mischievous glint in her eye. “He is a handsome man. And he knows his way around a scalpel.”

  Megan laughed, happy just to see a flash of Bibi’s spirit. “Is that an attribute I should be looking for in a man?”

  Bibi smiled. “There are worse attributes. Did you have fun?”

  “We did, thank you. We picnicked on Potter Hill.”

  Bibi nodded approvingly. Slowly, she pulled each leg down off the ottoman and pushed herself up off the chair. “It’s no good to stay put,” she mumbled. “What’s the saying? A body in motion…”

  “Stays in motion.”

  Bibi nodded. “Stay in motion, Megan. Because once you stop…well, you know.” Bibi hobbled to the doorway, pulling herself straighter with each step. At the threshold, she turned slightly and said, “Your Mick was a good guy.”

  “The best.”

  “I liked him from the day I met him, sitting there at my kitchen table, eating blueberry scones and talking about baseball and inner-city kids. Strong, courageous, gentle. A rare mix in a boy that age—and in a man.” She lowered her voice so that it was quiet but firm. “That Dr. Finn is another good man. Mick would want you to be happy.”

  Before Megan could respond, Bibi disappeared into the hallway.

  Megan sat back against the couch. Sadie, well trained in recognizing melancholy, hopped onto the furniture next to her. Curled around Megan’s legs, she placed her head on Megan’s lap and looked up at her with adoring brown eyes.

  “You like Dr. Finn?”

  The dog wagged her tail.

  “Do you like root canals?”

  Another tail thump.

  “You’re no help whatsoever.”

  Sadie’s paw shot out and rested on Megan’s arm. Megan sank down, scratching Sadie’s chest just like the dog liked it. She was rewarded with a yawn and more tail wagging.

  “If only people were so easy to please,” Megan muttered. “Right, girl?”

 
Only Sadie was already asleep. Still, her tail waved slowly, back and forth, as trustworthy an indicator as any.

  At eleven, Megan wiped the sleep from her own eyes and disentangled herself from Sadie. Gunther was outside with the goats. She called him and, with the dog at her side, made a last check of the farm. With all in order, she headed back to the house and let the bigger dog inside for the night.

  In the kitchen, Megan heard a buzzing. She looked around for the sound and finally identified her grandmother’s new phone, ringing away on the kitchen counter. By the time she got to it, the call had stopped. A check of the ID told her it had been Eddie, Megan’s father. Typical of him to forget the time difference and call his eighty-four-year-old mother at eleven thirty at night. He’d left no message, and Megan didn’t have the energy to call him back.

  She was about to put the phone down when she remembered her grandmother’s difficulties calling 911. Her grandmother often hit the camera button by accident, so on a hunch, Megan opened the photos section of the computer. She saw four fuzzy pictures from the day Otto died. Megan couldn’t identify much: the edge of a solar panel, two blurred shots of the back of Otto’s neck and torso, and the tree line beyond the solar farm.

  Disappointed, she clicked off the phone. She patted her pocket, remembering the knife. She’d put that in a safe place for further investigation and get to bed.

  Megan awakened with a start at two thirty in the morning. It took her a moment to remember where she was—in her bed, in her home. Her subconscious had been working overtime in her sleep, and her dreams had revolved around the Vance family. The solar farm. Otto’s death. Bibi’s camera.

  Something about the pictures was off, and now she thought she knew what it was. She sat up in bed, still physically drained but suddenly alert.

  Downstairs, she flicked on the kitchen light and picked up Bibi’s phone. She opened the photos from the day of Otto’s death and flipped through them until she got to the ones of his torso. That was it. While the photos only showed a blurry streak of his body, it was enough to see what he was wearing: a white button-down shirt, smeared with streaks of blood.