Fourteen

  

Early the next morning, Megan dressed quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt and headed outside. After tending to the animals, she selected a small shovel from the makeshift tool chest near the chicken coop, glaring at the police tape as she passed the barn. She sprayed a deep cooler with bleach solution, rinsed it thoroughly, and wiped it out with clean towels before heading to the herb garden, her favorite space on the farm. Today she would bundle up small packages of the herbs she’d grown in hoop houses over the winter: curry, cilantro, parsley, oregano, chives, and great, long sprigs of sweetly scented lavender. At $3.00 a bundle, they would sell. And whatever didn’t sell, she and Bibi could dry and keep for their own use or for the café.

The sun was shining through a marshmallow fluff of clouds. Megan was kneeling on the ground in front of the curry, gently clipping off strands of the fragrant herb, when she glanced up, toward the abandoned Marshall house next door. The house was a plain rectangular Colonial, one room deep, built in the solid but sparse fashion of the eighteenth century. Its stone exterior was crumbling in spots, and what had been a broad, stately porch was now a derelict appendage hanging by one peeling railing. Despite the vagaries of age and use, the house still had good posture. Its leaded windows remained intact, and the small well house a few hundred feet from the main house was in perfect condition, at least on the outside. Someone willing to invest time and money could restore the property—and even add on to the home. It sat on at least three acres of farmable land.

Maybe she’d take a look at purchasing it. She couldn’t afford it now, but she would love to add an inn to the farm. Diversification of income would be a plus, and running an inn sounded like fun.

Thinking of the old Marshall property made Megan think of her mysterious Aunt Sarah—and a possible connection to Simon’s murder. She decided she’d finish up the herbs, drop them off at the store, and take a ride over to meet her great-aunt. She might be able to find her address online. She could check with Bibi, but why risk upsetting her? Besides, sometimes it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

  

Sarah had purchased a small cottage off Briar Bush Way, about eight miles from Winsome, only a few months before. The house, as close to a thatch-roofed English Tudor as you would find in these parts, sat well off the road, smack in the middle of a circle of stately oaks, and on this warm May morning, the shade from the trees’ fresh spring leaves cast lacey shadows on a thick ring of lawn. The yard itself held paisley-shaped flowerbeds spaced randomly throughout, each filled with perennials in varied states of vivid bloom, and decorative birdhouses. Glass art pieces in jeweled tones stuck up from the ground on long iron poles. An American flag waved from a post near the front door, but other than the motion of the flag’s material and the gentle flutter of the tree branches overhead, the house was quiet.

Megan took a deep breath and knocked. There was no answer. She turned around, ready to head back to her car. That’s when she heard a voice call out.

“Over here! If you don’t mind an old woman milling about in her muckers, you can join me in the garden.”

Megan glanced around. She saw a red-clad arm waving from beneath the trees, past the corner of the house, before spotting a woman kneeling on the ground beneath a great oak. Megan walked toward the older woman, careful not to tromp on any flowers along the way.

“Hello,” Megan said tentatively. “Sarah?”

“Depends. Who’s doing the asking?” The woman peered up at her, blocking the sun with one hand. She was in her late seventies, with sun-browned skin and long, straight steel-gray hair tamed into a thick braid that hung halfway down her back. Thin and sinewy, her lean body was draped in red fabric—a long-sleeved red shirt and an ankle-length red, black, and gray skirt that spread around her like a blanket. She appeared to be building a tiny dwelling at the base of a tree. The miniature house, made of sticks, walnut shells, and bits of feathers, hugged gnarly roots. A camera case and tripod sat on a blanket nearby.

“A fairy home,” the woman said. She placed a final feather on top of the bite-sized building and then stood, wiping her hands together as she did so. “For a children’s book. A fun distraction, really.” She held out a hand, now mostly free of dirt. “You must be Eddie’s girl, Megan. You look like Bonnie when she was younger.”

They shook. Close up, Sarah had the toughened skin of a woman who’d spent much of her life outside. But her blue eyes were vibrant, inquisitive, and maybe even a touch amused. Megan searched for a flicker of a memory, an echo of recognition, but found none.

“Do you have time for some lemonade? Or maybe a cup of hot tea? I have chamomile, English Breakfast, or green.” She tilted her head, waiting for Megan to answer.

“Lemonade would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Her great-aunt nodded approvingly and motioned for her to follow her into the house.

The inside of the cottage was clean but cluttered. Stacks and stacks of books buried every surface, from the white countertops in the small kitchen to the floral cushions on a loveseat in the sunroom. Megan read a rainbow of titles, from mysteries and thrillers to how-to books to nonfiction treatises on such wide-ranging topics as physics and photography. White frilly curtains billowed in open windows. The walls were a plain white but covered with artwork: expensive-looking oils, watercolor prints, and matted and framed children’s crayon drawings. The house smelled of vanilla and lemon. Megan glanced around, feeling off-center. She expected déjà vu; she got only a vague sense of welcome.

Sarah suggested she take the overstuffed armchair in the living room. Megan moved two coffee table books and sank down into the chair.

“Give me a minute,” Sarah said. “I’d apologize for the mess, but I didn’t know you were coming.” She shrugged. “I’m having work done in the bedrooms. I’m afraid everything has been moved out here. Not sure it would have made a difference. I’m forty years past caring what anyone thinks.” She smiled. “Make yourself at home, though. Watch out for the cat. Sammy likes to bite.”

Sammy turned out to be a standoffish Siamese sitting on the white-washed windowsill. He glanced at Megan, let out one disdainful meow, and returned to staring out the bay window. Tearing her eyes away from the cat, Megan turned her attention to the rest of the room. She noticed a painting leaned up against a wall on top of a buffet by the window, a series of photographs in mismatched white frames on a slate fireplace mantel. She rose to get a better look at the pictures.

Some were of small children she didn’t recognize, chubby-faced cherubs in denim and white. Here and there a face looked familiar, more because of features shared with her father, Eddie, than because she actually recognized the subject. Disappointed, she strolled the length of the mantel, taking in more pictures of strangers. The last three photographs made her pause. The woman in the photos was her great-aunt—younger, perhaps, but definitely her aunt—and in each picture she was accepting an award. An Edgar. An Agatha. A Macavity.

Why was Aunt Sarah accepting prestigious mystery book awards?

“Another life,” said a voice behind her.

Megan turned abruptly. “You’re an author?”

“Yes.” Her aunt placed a tray down on a striped ottoman next to a pile of hardcover novels. She picked up a tall glass of lemonade and handed it to Megan. She waved toward the mantel. “A silly nod to vanity. I should have disposed of those photos ages ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you recognize the name Sarah Estelle?”

“You’re the Sarah Estelle?”

Her aunt nodded. Moving another stack of novels from a second overstuffed chair to the top of a coffee table, Sarah sat down, sipping her own glass of lemonade.

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“That’s an excellent question. One I’m not in a position to answer.”

Megan sat back, thinking. Sarah Estelle was the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of three mystery series, including one that had been made into a long-running television show. Megan had cut her teeth on Estelle’s novels. Finding out Sarah Estelle was her aunt was like being kicked in the face and winning the lottery all at once. Her mind spun for something to say. She finally asked, “Do you know my father well?”

“Eddie?” Sarah smiled. “Well enough.”

“Were you ever close?”

Sarah placed her glass on a nearby empty plant stand. “Why did you come here, Megan?”

“To talk.”

“About…?”

Megan took a deep breath. The sense of imbalance, of being spun topsy turvy, increased. “About Washington Acres. About my grandmother. About why I don’t remember you.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I’m glad one of us does.”

Sarah stood. She lingered by the mantel, one tanned, thick-knuckled finger tracing the top of each frame, wiping nonexistent dust from the worn wood.

“Don’t you think these are things you should discuss with Bonnie?”

“She won’t tell me anything.”

“But she told you I was back in Winsome.”

“No, my contractors told me that. Because of…because of the murder.”

She turned. “Simon.”

“Yes. You knew him?”

“I may not have been here for the last twenty-four years, but I knew him. Everyone knew Simon. And, of course, his mother.” She gave a wistful smile. “Simon was considerably younger than me. A precocious young man. But that was before…well, I heard he’d become rather bitter and off-putting.”

Megan nodded. She hated to talk ill of the dead, but Simon Duvall had given her nothing but trouble. It was hard to think kind thoughts.

“I heard my grandmother almost sold Washington Acres to Simon.”

Sarah’s mouth twisted into a frown. It looked like she was deciding how much to share. Eyes narrowed, she finally said, “I doubt that’s true.”

Megan stood, agitation rising. Why was everyone being so circumspect? “Neil Dorfman told me.”

At this, Sarah laughed. “Neil? Really, Megan—I assumed Teddy’s granddaughter would have more sense than to believe a Dorfman, especially Neil. Simon was never kind to the Dorfmans, or their family. In fact, he shut down their sister’s antique business before it even got off the ground. Called it an eyesore. No, he wasn’t a nice man, especially in his later years.” She shook her head, sending the braid flying across her back. “And you’re a lawyer, from what I understand?” She smiled, her hand reaching out toward Megan. “I’m happy you came. I really am. You’re a lovely girl, exactly as I imagined.”

Unhappy at being dismissed easily, Megan stood firm. “Why would Neil make that up?”

“Perhaps he heard it from someone else and simply got his source wrong.” She made a motion like she was sipping from a bottle. “As one of my characters would say, he has a tendency to get ripped to the giddy tits.”

Neil did like to drink. Megan took another look at the award photographs, at the pictures of babies lined up across the mantel. Grandchildren. That meant Megan had cousins, cousins she didn’t know. The house felt claustrophobic, the ground moved beneath her.

She turned, and she was suddenly staring at the painting on the buffet. She recognized the subject in the painting. It was the Birch farm, only as it must have looked years ago. The barn without additions, the house a plain rectangle, and a second house. The Marshall house. It had been one big parcel.

“Where did you get that painting?” Megan whispered.

“Your father. He found it on the farm.”

Sarah had loved the farm enough to keep a painting of the original homestead for all of these years. Megan felt like an interloper. Her vision clouded, a vise squeezed her temples.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Nonsense. I’m glad you did.”

“No—it was wrong of me.” Megan backed away, toward the kitchen and the door that led outside. “I have to go.”

“You’re always welcome, Megan. I—”

But Megan was back in the yard, hurrying toward her car. She never heard the rest of her great-aunt’s sentence.

  

Megan drove the truck wildly, pedal pressed to the floor. She didn’t know where she was going, she just wanted to get away. Her mind was reeling with what she’d learned. She had a great-aunt living near Winsome. Not only that, she had cousins—baby cousins—an entire branch of family members she’d never met. And her aunt was the Sarah Estelle! In all those years, why wouldn’t someone—her grandmother, her father—have told her that?

She flew past Winsome’s small medical clinic and was approaching the elementary school when she applied the brake to slow down. Unconsciously, she had headed in the direction of the veterinary hospital. She started to pull over to turn around and thought better of it. She wanted to see Denver. Needed to see him. He’d have no answers, but that was okay. He wouldn’t be hiding anything either.