Twelve

  

Back at Denver’s house, the intimate mood felt lost. Megan and Denver were standing on his front steps, an expanse of wood and concrete between them.

“Bibi’s been home alone all day. I should check on her.”

Denver nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry about that little scene with my aunt. She’s up to high doh.”

Megan laughed. “Come again?”

Denver smiled. “Aye, sorry. It means she’s all riled up. Simon’s death has everyone off-kilter.”

“I’ll say. She didn’t sound crazy about my family either.”

“She’s not crazy about most people. Don’t take it personally.”

“Is she crazy about you, Denver?” Megan regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth, but if the Scot was offended, he didn’t let on.

“It’s complicated.”

Intrigued, Megan wanted to press, but the closed look on Denver’s face stopped her. Instead she said, “Well, I hope she’s willing to give the Birch family a fresh try.”

“She’s slow to trust my judgment when it comes to women. My ex-wife was not exactly her ideal.” He flashed that boyish smile. “I’m afraid the Finn family is not always so lucky when it comes to love.”

“Eloise too?”

“She’s had more than her share of judgment issues, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “Again with the serious stuff. I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a fun night.”

Megan moved closer. Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and touched her lips gently to his. “I had a lovely evening. Can we do it again?”

Denver smiled, and his face lit up. “When are you free?”

“Soon. I’ll make you dinner this time. My grandmother has Bridge from four to seven some nights. Come early enough and we can have some time alone.” She smiled. “Think of it as the early bird special of the dating world.”

“I love a good early bird special,” Denver said. “Especially when it’s served by such a pretty lassie.” His words teased, but his eyes held her own.

Megan saw Denver in her rearview mirror as she pulled away from his house. He was watching her from his front steps, his face unreadable, and his body as rigid as the columns flanking him.

  

Megan pulled into her driveway at nine. Her mind was still on Denver, the kiss they shared in the barn, and the feelings that overtook her when she was with him—feelings, she realized guiltily, she’d only known with Mick.

As she climbed out of the truck, Megan noticed that the lights to the back porch entryway were off. Bibi always left them on when Megan was out—a habit from Megan’s youth. Megan felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Megan was hurrying toward the door when something caught her attention. She saw, then heard, a figure in the shrubs lining the porch steps. She was deciding whether to yell, run, or stop and confront when a voice rang from the shadows.

“Megan Sawyer?”

It took Megan a moment to place the voice as Porter’s.

Megan placed her key between two fingers, the way she’d learned in self-defense class. “Come out here,” she demanded. “And keep your hands in front of you.”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to talk.” If he’d been drinking, Megan couldn’t tell. His words were sharp-edged, clear.

“Then come out here, now.”

The rustling continued until finally Porter was standing in front of her. Skinny and underdressed in a tank top and army fatigue cargo pants, he stood stock straight. His expression, not unlike Denver’s a bit ago, was unreadable, but there was fear in his eyes—fear, and something akin to desperation. Megan understood desperation. Desperate people did stupid, reckless things, and if Porter had been the perpetrator of some desperate acts recently, she wanted no part of being the next victim. She reached for her phone, keeping her key hand in front of her as a warning, as weak as it seemed now that she was standing before a trained soldier.

“Please,” Porter said. He spread his hands out in front of him. Although his posture was rigid, his eyes were as energetic as a swarm of mayflies. Finally, he settled his gaze on her. “I need to talk to you.”

Megan’s mind flashed to Simon’s inert body. “If you try anything, I will call the police.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Really—I only want to talk. That’s it.”

Megan hesitated. One look at Porter’s emaciated form, and she knew she would follow in her grandmother’s footsteps. “Come in,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

  

After assuring herself that Porter was not an immediate threat, Megan left him in Sadie’s care and ran to check on her grandmother, whom she found snoozing soundly under half a dozen handmade quilts. She watched her grandmother’s chest rise and fall a few times, gratitude for Bonnie’s steadfast presence washing over her. Thinking of the odd conversation with Denver’s aunt Eloise, Megan closed Bibi’s door softly and returned to the kitchen.

While Porter sat at her kitchen table, hands cradling his shaved head, Megan assembled leftover salad, cheeses, bread and Danish, all of which she placed in front of Porter. He eyed the food. “Not hungry,” he mumbled.

“I can tell, and that may be part of your problem.”

“Who says I have a problem?” His chin jutted. “Dr. Finn?”

Megan sat in the seat opposite him, taking her time to slice a piece of cheddar and place it on a slice of sourdough. “Do you usually show up at women’s houses late at night, unannounced and uninvited?”

“I suppose I could ask you the same question. You came to me first.”

He had a point. With a scrunch of her nose, she said, “That was you at the window. You were home, after all.”

He nodded. “Why’d you come?”

“I found something of yours at my store. I wanted to return it.”

His eyes narrowed. “What was it?”

“A flask.”

“What was my flask doing at your store?” Puffy eyes widened to surprised orbs.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I want it back.”

Megan weighed whether to give it to him. If he’d had something to do with Simon’s murder, it could be evidence. On the other hand, a flask hardly made him a murderer.

Looking at him now in the bright lights of her kitchen, Megan saw the dragon tattoo that snaked its way up his scrawny neck. She saw the angry purse of his mouth and the shaking of his hands, hands far too young to be afflicted with palsy. With a suffocating feeling of empathy, Megan remembered the first time she saw Mick after he’d left for the Middle East. He’d been given a short leave, and she’d flown to Germany to meet him for three days of R&R. When she’d opened the door to their hotel room to greet him, she’d flown into his arms. It wasn’t until they parted, until she had the time to study her husband’s face, that she saw the hollows under his eyes and the emptiness in his gaze when he wasn’t looking at her. She visited with Mick twice after that, and each time the shadows had grown darker, the emptiness more pronounced. Had he lived, would he have shared Porter’s fate?

“Brian,” Megan said, standing. “Why was your flask at my café?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“Do you remember the last time you saw it?”

He thought for a moment, eyes shifting. “No.”

“You have no idea where you left it?”

“No.” He looked down at his hands, which were dancing on the table top.

Megan sat forward in her chair, thinking. He was clearly lying, but she didn’t know why.

Porter said, “I came here to ask you questions.”

“Ask away.”

He tapped one finger nervously on the table top. “Why were you with Dr. Finn when he came to help Sarge?”

“Because we were going to have dinner together.”

“It was coincidence, then?”

“What was coincidence?”

“You coming by my house, and then you showing up again with Doc Finn.” Porter sat forward, matching Megan’s posture. His gaze darted from object to object in the kitchen, settling finally on Megan’s face. “Did you hit my dog?”

“Brian, no! I would never hurt your dog—or any dog.”

“It seemed awful coincidental, you showing up twice like that.”

“I told you, the first time I came by about the flask. It was Denver—Dr. Finn—who told me it must be yours. The second time was strictly a coincidence. I happened to be with Dr. Finn when you called.”

He eyed her with suspicion. “You’re dating Dr. Finn?”

“No.” Maybe. “Not that it’s your business.”

Porter stood abruptly. “This was a waste of time.” The tendons on his neck were taut beneath reddened skin, the portion of the dragon visible a sickly green in the dim light.

In a calming voice, Megan asked, “Why are you really here?”

“I told you. You were nosing around and I wondered—”

Megan held up her hand to stop him, exhaustion and impatience suddenly raining down on her. “The truth, please?”

His head spun toward her, eyes flaming. “What are you suggesting?”

“Someone was killed here, in case you hadn’t heard.” Megan straightened her spine, trying hard to ignore the pounding in her chest. “A man sneaks around my property, it makes me wonder what he’s up to.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “And you think I had something to do with Simon’s death? Is that it?” He took a step toward Megan.

She held her ground, refusing to be cowed. Her pulse raced. She scanned the kitchen, her gaze fixating on the serrated knife she’d used to slice the bread, and mentally calculated how quickly she could reach the counter.

Silence stretched, and with it their game of mental chicken.

Finally, Porter said, “I knew Simon—everybody did—but I didn’t kill the old man.” His shoulders drooped, the green dragon losing its tautness.

Megan studied him, deciding whether he was playing games or being truthful. In the civil light of her grandmother’s kitchen, Brian “Brick” Porter looked more boy than man.

Upstairs, a door slammed. Sadie sat up straight, ears back and tail wagging. Echoing the dog’s posture, Porter bolted upright.

“Who’s here? I don’t need any trouble.”

“Relax. It’s only my grandmother.”

A minute later, Bonnie walked into the kitchen. She’d taken the time to put on a pink housecoat over her gray flannel pajamas. She walked with resigned purpose—an insomniac’s nod to the night.

“Hello, Brian,” she said as though it were the most natural thing in the world to have him sitting in her kitchen.

“Mrs. Birch.” Porter nodded.

“I guess you two know each other?”

They shared a look—fleeting, but noticeable—before Bibi said, “It’s a small town.”

Megan stood to make her grandmother tea. It was a small town, all right.