I had never been more thankful I’d followed up on my urge to have lunch with Evie; otherwise, she might have never opened up about her abusive ex. I dropped her off at the visitors’ center, then sat on a rocking chair outside and made couple of calls.
First, I asked Ava if she would mind if Evie stayed over. After hearing Evie’s story, Ava agreed that she could stay indefinitely while she figured out her next steps. I had correctly guessed that my generous friend would open her home to someone in need.
I called Red next. He said he was grabbing lunch at The Apricot Macaron before heading into Manhattan to pick up Stone the fourth from work.
I laid my cards on the table. “Red, I know you were in the army. I also know you carry weapons—don’t worry, they’re not obvious. I just notice things like that. Anyway, I work with this woman who just found out her crazy British ex has tracked her all the way to America, and now he’s stalking her. She’s going to stay with some of my friends tonight—the Fentons, if you remember them—but I wondered if you would be able to pick up her things and get them over to her at some point? There’s a chance you might run into her ex, though.”
I figured that voicing my hesitancy might make Red step up to the plate, and he did. His voice roughened. “The ex will not be a problem. Just give me the address and a list of things she needs, and I’ll get over there tonight.”
“I’ll get her key to you first,” I said.
“Not necessary, but okay.”
Once again, I wanted to ask Red just exactly what he had done in the army, but I held back. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to know.
After thanking him, I hung up and headed into the visitors’ center. Evie was on the phone. She held up her finger, and I waited until she finished her conversation.
“Sergeant Hardy doesn’t have anyone to spare, but he will have someone drive by the preserve daily. That was all he could promise,” she said, looking defeated.
I was grateful I had good news to share. After telling Evie that the Fentons were happy to take her in, I mentioned that Red was also willing to gather whatever things she needed from her place and drop them by later.
“You’re a miracle worker, Belinda! I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” Evie said, pulling me into a hug. She retrieved her key chain and pulled off a key, writing down her apartment address for Red.
Happy to have put Evie’s mind temporarily at ease, I headed into the kitchen and grabbed my vest. But as I walked out, my steps grew heavier as I thought of each question that was still unanswered. Did Shaun have pepper spray in his vest when he died? Did Rich? Were the men poisoned, or had they died from some other cause? What had spurred the wolves to gnaw on Shaun and attack Carson?
I hoped Sergeant Hardy would fill us in soon.
* * * *
I’d only been in the chicken coop for two minutes when it became clear that some days, the chickens could be an even bigger handful than a pack of wolves. Two chickens were having a fierce stare down over an egg, one was determined to get out of the fence by relentlessly running straight at it, and an undersized white chicken followed me around, pecking at my legs.
It seemed to me the drawbacks of having chickens far outweighed the benefits, but maybe I just wasn’t a chicken person.
By the time I’d fed the frisky goats and braved the endless peacock shrieks, I was ready to hit the Dunkin’ D drive-through for a large iced coffee. It would be great when Veronica learned to do these chores, because she could take some of the load off me.
The wooden peacock fence adjoined Dahlia’s manicured back lawn, and when the birds miraculously fell silent, voices drifted my way. Two people were deep in conversation in Dahlia’s backyard. I listened closely, silently trying to shoo the rustling peacocks toward their food so I could hear better.
I recognized Dahlia’s voice. “I’m afraid we’ll have to move,” she said. “Dennis will be thrilled to get his claws back on his property—he hated that Quinn included it in the divorce settlement.”
The deep, soothing voice that responded was not at all who I’d expected: Marco Goretti. Apparently, he hadn’t gone home as early as he’d planned.
“Quinn can’t renege on what he gave you in the settlement,” Marco said. “Besides, you know if you are forced to sell and move out, you can always move in with me. You like my brownstone, right?”
Dahlia sniffled. “But it’s not big enough for all three of us.”
Marco’s voice took on a hard edge. “Carson’s old enough to be on his own. You should be charging him rent as it is; maybe that would force him to get out and get a job.”
Dahlia muttered incoherently.
I snuck closer to the fence, willing the peacocks to stay quiet.
“That geology degree hasn’t really paid off yet,” she said. “It just puts him at a disadvantage when he’s job hunting, you know.”
“He’s lazy,” Marco said firmly. “He never even did the work-study program at Yale like he promised. He let you foot the bill for everything.”
“Well, but…” Dahlia sputtered. “It was all his father’s fault. Quinn was never there for Carson, never went to any of his concerts or chess tournaments. That’s why Carson finds it so hard to trust you, Marco. He saw how his father treated me. Quinn has more than enough money, but he expected me to pay for Yale. I’ll be in debt for the rest of my life.”
“We’ll work through this together,” Marco murmured. They both fell silent. It was possible he’d pulled her into a comforting hug.
I quietly exited the peacock gate, astounded by this unexpected alliance. I would never have guessed it, based on the story Carson had shared about Marco’s illegal connections. Now I saw that Carson could have been exaggerating, even shifting blame due to issues with his own father.
What if the murderer’s end goal was to make the White Pine Wolf Preserve fail? Marco wanted Dahlia to move in with him, but she had resisted since Carson was still home. Would that be a strong enough motivation to kill, so Dahlia would have to close up shop and find a new place to live?
It seemed unlikely, but I remembered that Katrina had once mentioned that killers rarely had logic that made sense, no matter how much sense it made to them.
My list of possible suspects was growing by the minute.
* * * *
After getting Evie settled at the Fentons’, where she was welcomed with open arms, I headed out to Bluebell and gave Jonas a call to figure out when he was coming over. When he picked up, I heard the familiar bustle of New York City in the background.
“How’s your Saturday?” I asked.
“It’s been great. I’ve sold nearly all my stock,” he said. “What time do you want me to head your way?”
“I’ll be home in about five minutes, then I’ll need to shower and cook, so how about six or thereabouts?”
“Six would work great. I’m going to need a shower, too, and it’s a little drive to my bed-and-breakfast. I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up and ran through the drive-through for my coveted iced coffee, then made a beeline for my carriage house. After straightening the potted plants on my doorstep, I went inside and took a quick shower. To save time, I mentally rehearsed the preparation steps for my meal. Thankfully, I still had a large portion of Susan’s lemon pound cake left for dessert, so that was one less thing I had to worry about.
After toweling off, I used a curl-defining lotion on my hair, then did my makeup. Finally, I donned my new green-embroidered peasant blouse and a ruffled skirt. I studied the finished product in my full-length mirror, adding dangly gold earrings for a sparkly touch. I looked a bit weary, yes, but my skin had picked up a tan from all the outdoor work, and the freckles sprinkling my cheeks gave me a healthy appearance. My naturally blonde hair had lightened a bit in the sunshine, too. In short, I looked like myself, which would probably be reassuring to Jonas, who was doubtless worried about the stressful effects of my wolf-tending job.
Tying an apron around my neck and waist, I launched into my meal prep. I’d decided on chicken cacciatore, which was simple and filling, yet classy. Sort of like Jonas himself—a dairy farmer with a penchant for classics and philosophy. I’d also prepped bacon-wrapped asparagus and new potatoes with garlic whipped butter, so it didn’t take me long to throw things together.
I had just added the chicken to the tomato sauce when three knocks sounded on my door. I liked the sound of those knocks—self-assured and firm. Plus, he’d knocked three times so I was sure to hear.
I fluffed my curls and glanced around. Everything was in order. The table was set with my best plates and glasses, I had a bottle of sparkling cider chilling in the fridge, and cheese and fruit were arranged on my favorite rose-painted metal tray on the coffee table. My heart gave a little hitch as I walked to the door, anxious to see Jonas’s face again.
As I swung the door open, he said, “Belinda.”
There was something about the way his voice caressed my name. It seemed to insinuate that we were very close, that he knew me better than anyone.
As my eyes trailed down to the object he was standing next to—a vintage bicycle with a large red bow on it—it was indisputable that Jonas certainly did know me well.
He gave me a sheepish look, his silvery blue eyes twinkling. “I thought you might want this—you said you wanted to get more exercise, and I found this old bike of Mom’s in the shed. She was happy for you to get some use out of it.”
The vintage bike had obviously received a lot of tender loving care, and it sported a fresh coat of Tiffany blue paint. I ran my hand along the white seat, unable to resist the bike’s pull. I steered it down the steps, bumped up the kickstand, and took it for a spin around my driveway.
Jonas, who wasn’t one to smile frequently, wore an expectant grin as I pulled to a stop and dismounted. “You like it?”
“I love it! I especially like that I just have to backpedal to brake. I’ve always hated all those newfangled hand brakes.”
He nodded. The dark hair on his shaved head had grown in a little, and his beard was neatly trimmed. Although he wasn’t as tall as Stone the fifth, he had a compact type of barely bridled power about him. Whereas Stone was long-limbed with ropy, tennis-player muscles, Jonas had the kind of upper body build that evidenced his heavy-lifting farm life. He hefted my bike onto the porch with one capable hand and set the kickstand. A flash of desire surprised me—the urge to feel those strong hands around my waist.
I dunked my head, so my curls draped the sides of my face. I could only hope my flush was hidden. “You ready to eat?” I asked brusquely.
“Definitely.” His eyes skimmed across my rosy cheeks—my discomfiture hadn’t gone unnoticed, but he didn’t mention it. “Let me just grab something from my truck first.”
He ran out to his newer-model black truck and retrieved a small flowerpot with some kind of frilly green plant in it. Holding it out to me, he said, “I brought you some of our pink poppies. They’re just starting to come up, but I think it’s okay to plant them at this point. I noticed you were always telling Mom how you liked them.”
I took the pot and caressed the pale, cabbage-like leaves. I couldn’t actually think of words to express how much Jonas’s gifts meant to me. They hadn’t cost a fortune, but the thoughtfulness and effort behind them, as well as their reminder of his sweet, ailing mother, made me tear up.
I swiped at my eyes. “Jonas, I just…thank you so much. I’ll plant these soon, probably in my back flower bed. They’ll make me smile every time I look at them.” Without thinking, I reached out to hug him.
My breath caught when he pulled me into a tight embrace, although it didn’t slide into something sensual. Rather, it felt like we both craved some key element that only the other possessed.
I stayed that way, my head pressed tight against his heart and my arms wrapped around his sturdy back, until he released me. Neither of us apologized for our clinginess.
I led him inside, ready to get caught up with this man who seemed to instinctively know the things I valued most. Farmer Jonas Hawthorne was definitely one of a kind.