Twenty

  

Megan sat forward in her chair, arms wrapped around her torso. Her grandmother’s words were a punch to the gut.

“So that’s why you didn’t want to tell me,” Megan said. “It wasn’t about Simon at all.”

“No, it wasn’t. This has always been about you, I’m afraid.”

“Why did…why would Aunt Sarah do that?”

“You’ll have to speak with her, Megan. I can’t answer that. All I know is that Charlotte was an unhappy girl—and let me be clear, at that time, your mother was still a girl, mentally if not physically—and Sarah thought she was helping. Although Teddy didn’t see it that way.”

“He thought she was getting back at him for the farm?”

Bibi, eyes still closed, nodded. “He wouldn’t budge on the farm, despite her pleads and protests. I wanted him to give it to her. She wasn’t the well-known author she is today and she didn’t have any money back then. I told Teddy we could have her pay us half the farm’s worth over time. Work something out. But he was Birch-stubborn and insisted it was what his father meant to happen.” Bibi scowled. “As though his father had had some grand plan.”

“When my mother left, Grandpa took it out on Sarah.”

Bibi’s eyes flew open. “Make no mistake, Sarah had a hand in your mother’s leaving. And to her credit, she never tried to hide it. She helped arrange for a job in New York. She even drove Charlotte to the train station.”

That day in the parlor, her mother’s tailored suit and stiff goodbye. Sarah had been waiting to drive her to her new life. One that didn’t include a little girl.

“I lost a mother and an aunt that day.” Megan thought about the pictures in her aunt’s house, the babies with their fat cheeks and innocent smiles. “And cousins—family I have never met.”

A tear trekked down Bibi’s face. “Your aunt never married.”

“Then who are all of the children on her mantel, if not Aunt Sarah’s grandchildren?” But Megan knew the answer by the glaze of despair in her grandmother’s eyes. “My mother’s grandchildren?”

“Yes.” Bibi held a hand out, as though in supplication, the tears making streak marks on her skin. “She remarried and had two more kids. Sarah never lost touch with her. Those pictures? Your nieces and nephews.”

  

Friday was blessedly dry. Megan, still reeling from her conversation with Bibi two nights prior, was happy to spend the day in the fields, picking lettuce, sugar snap peas, kale, and mustard greens for Saturday’s farmers market. Clover was holding down the fort at the café, and Jeremy, the new chef, was there with her, finalizing the menu for Monday’s café grand opening. If they were going to have enough vegetables for the farmers market, the store, and the café’s needs, Megan would have to pick almost all weekend, a task that suited her fine.

The local high school had sent over two volunteers—students in the vocational technical program—and Megan could see them down by the barn, washing lettuce in giant tubs of fresh water, their young backs bending in ways hers no longer could withstand for long.

“I still can’t believe it,” Clay said. He was on his knees, pulling tender sugar snap peas off the vines and tossing them efficiently into a large basket he’d strapped around his neck. Every once in a while, he’d pop one into his mouth. “And your grandmother has known all this time?”

“About Sarah? Yes. About my mother’s other family?” Megan shook her head. “She told me she learned about them when she visited Aunt Sarah. My father doesn’t know either, and Bibi made me swear not to tell him.”

Clay paused to examine a pod, holding it up to the sun. With a squinty frown, he tossed the snap pea in another pile, one meant for compost. “You don’t sound terribly upset.”

“I feel numb, like I heard news that was disturbing, but about someone else. Does that make sense?”

Clay nodded. “That’s how I felt when my father died. We hadn’t really known him—he and my mother never married, and he lived hours away. I was sad for all that could have been. Less so for the man himself.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Megan said. “I was young when my mother left. And truthfully, she was more like a kindly aunt than a mother. Bibi was always my mother, at least in my mind.”

Megan heard a shout followed by a squeal. She glanced toward the barn in time to see the students squirting each other with the hose. They caught Megan watching and quickly returned to their chore.

“Kids,” Clay said, smiling.

“Kids.”

“Speaking of kids, will you make contact with your mother?”

Clay asked this nonchalantly, as though he was inquiring about the taste of a new brand of butter. Knowing he was keeping any trace of sympathy out of his voice lest it be mistaken for pity, Megan smiled at her friend. It was nice to have someone to confide in, and Clay, for all his youth, was a good listener.

“I don’t know. Right now, I’d say no. Maybe that will change.” Megan looked up, keeping an eye on a series of darker clouds edging in from the southwest. Rain this weekend would be a problem. It would make working outdoors unpleasant, and the farmers market could get canceled. “I’d like to talk with Sarah again.” She smiled, though her heart wasn’t in it. “Once I have the emotional fortitude.”

Clay dumped the overflowing basket of peas into a larger bin attached to a wheelbarrow. He covered the larger bin, protecting its contents from the harsh midday sun, and moved on to a new row.

“Do you think Simon’s bid for the farm is somehow connected to his murder?”

“My gut says yes. He wanted this property—that much we know. And when he couldn’t buy it, he became part of the zoning initiative. Then there’s the Washington connection.”

“But what would any of that have to do with a motive for killing him?”

“That’s just it. On its face, the person with the most to lose is me. The permits, the rezoning.”

“Then there is a motive we’re missing.”

“There’s Porter.” Megan shared Denver’s hypothesis that Brian Porter had broken into her store.

“I don’t know.” Clay looked troubled. “It’s possible Porter had a beef with Simon that we know nothing about. One that was unrelated to the farm. The setting of the murder could have been coincidental. Porter—anyone—could easily have followed him here.”

Megan considered this. “What about the other night? The intruder, and the break-in at the store? Your theory would make sense if Simon’s death was the end of it.”

“I know, I know,” Clay said. “And that scares me more than anything. I worry for your safety.”

Clay’s mention of safety reminded her about the dog, Gunther. She described their new addition to her farm manager.

“A Polish Tatra Sheepdog? Never heard of the breed.”

“Kind of looks like a Great Pyrenees. Or a large Golden Retriever. Or a white Newfoundland.”

“You’re really painting a picture.”

“Yeah, well.” Megan wiped her hand across her sweating brow and then replaced the glove. “Between the dog, the café opening, and the Historical Society fundraiser, next week is promising to be a busy one.”

“Don’t forget the farmers market.”

“That too,” Megan said, returning to her chore. She glanced toward her high school volunteers, pleased to see them washing the lettuce exactly as she had instructed. “The first one of the season is always a treat.”

  

Denver called Megan at four o’clock that afternoon. His voice, normally cheerful, held ominous undertones that caused Megan’s hands to tense around her mobile phone.

“They’ve questioned Porter,” he said. “About your store…and about Simon’s murder. And they searched his house.”

“Today?”

“Aye. Brian called me earlier. Sarge was his excuse, but it was clear the laddie had been drinking.”

Megan was quiet for a moment. “Denver, why are you telling me?”

“Because maybe you can talk to the police on his behalf.” When Megan didn’t respond, he said, “Look, perhaps I understand Porter better than I’d like to admit. He’s got a hot head and some nasty demons chasing his skinny arse and it wasn’t that long ago that I was in the same boat.”

“What would you like me to say to the police?”

“That he needs some help, yes, but that he’s not a killer.”

“But we don’t know that.”

“The boy is not a murderer.”

Megan rubbed her temple, massaging the tension away with strong fingers. There it was again: that question of trust. Did she trust Denver enough to do this for him—on the basis of his request alone? What did she feel about Porter deep down in her own gut? Did it matter?

“I’ll talk to King,” Megan said. “Not that it will do any good. I think he half believes I’m involved.”

“He’ll be looking to see whether you want to press charges against Porter for your store. I think you should.”

“But you just said—”

“I said the boy’s not a killer. He admitted to the break-in to me. Maybe a good scare will help set him on the path to usefulness.”

Megan sighed. Since when was farming so damn complicated? “Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“You’ll owe me another dinner.”

“So it’s dinner ye want, is it?”

“Dinner…and maybe dessert.”

  

Brian Porter’s house was quiet. Megan pulled alongside the closed gate—unlocked this time—climbed out of her truck, and rapped on the door. Not surprising, Porter didn’t answer. His Jeep was there. He may be sleeping one off, she thought, and kept pounding, her hand aching from the effort.

Denver would be angry if he knew she was here—it was King he wanted her to talk to, not Brian. But she wanted to see the man for herself, judge whether he was simply a messed-up kid with anger management issues or something worse. She felt unbalanced from the last few weeks, and she realized that the person she wasn’t trusting right now was herself. She needed to see Porter. She wanted to make her own determination.

“Brian, I’m not going away. I’ll camp out here if that’s what it takes.” She knocked again. “Brian! Open up the damn door!”

Megan put her ear to the white wooden entrance. She heard shuffling on the other side and pounded again. “Brian! Open up!”

Her hand was raised to give it another go when the door swung open. Off-balance, she stumbled against Porter, who was standing in the doorway looking disheveled, ill, and rather angry.

He righted Megan with a touch more force than was needed. She stood straight, pulling her blouse down and checking that all the buttons were in the right place, and scowled at the man in front of her.

“We need to talk.”

Reddened eyes narrowed. “We have nothing to talk about.” His words slurred together like verbal finger paint and his breath stunk of beer and cigarettes. Naked from the waist up, the green, brown, and blue dragon tattoo she’d only glimpsed before bared its fangs from beneath his armpits.

“You’re drunk,” Megan said.

“Who made you my mother?”

“Yeah, well, you could do with some mothering.” Megan glanced around. “Invite me in. And go put a shirt on.”

Porter, eyes narrowed to menacing slits, looked about ready to argue. Pulling her spine straighter, she said, “Go. Straight away.”

Straight away? Where had that come from? But Porter lowered his head and backed away from the doorframe. Not exactly a welcome, but at least he let her pass. Without a word, he disappeared into a darkened hallway.

Megan looked around, trying to get a feel for Porter’s life. The living room was stark: old plaid sofa, beat-up coffee table, charcoal gray dog bed next to it, flat-screen television on a stand by the wall. A line of empty Coors cans ran along the floor, aluminum soldiers marching in vain against madness. Like the man, the house smelled of cigarettes and beer.

Megan sat down on the couch, sinking deep into worn-out springs, and edged forward until she was perching on the frame. Another look around underscored his poverty and his aloneness. Porter’s dog tags, hung from a lampshade along with a set of ivory rosary beads, were his only nod to anything personal.

“My grandmother. She prayed for me every day I was overseas—using those.” Porter returned wearing an army green t-shirt along with the khaki shorts. The shirt hugged his torso and accentuated his biceps, but at least Megan wasn’t staring at that dragon anymore.

He tossed a curt nod toward the rosary beads. “Died right after I got back,” he said without emotion.

“I’m sorry. About your grandmother.”

Porter shrugged. “What do you want?”

“Why did you break into my store?”

Porter’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t you have anything to say about that?”

Stony silence.

“Look, Brian, I’m not sure what game you’re playing with me, but I need you to stop.” Megan used her attorney voice, the one she saved for recalcitrant witnesses. Porter’s eyes were like daggers and it was everything Megan could do to maintain eye contact. “I know King pulled you in today. And by now I’m sure you realize they’re not merely investigating a break-in.”

“What are you saying?”

“Murder, Brian.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Genuine emotion, but Megan saw the slight shift of his eyes to the right. Back in her deposition days, that would signal a witness who was likely lying. But lying about what?

“Think about it. The cops have you pinged for a hothead. Winsome’s a small town.” Megan met angry stare for angry stare, then shrugged. “Suspects are limited, and as far as possibilities go, you look pretty damn good.”

Porter leaned against the wall, studying her. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face; his hands shook. “You should go.”

“You should tell me why you broke into my store.”

Through gritted teeth, Porter said, “Please go.”

Megan stood, then sidled toward the door, remembering his reaction the night Sarge was hit. She watched the end of the dragon’s tail rattle as Porter’s arm trembled.

At the door, she stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “There’s a certain veterinarian in town who believes you’re innocent. He may be the only friend you have, and right now, you’re making him look like a fool.”

Brian Porter shook his head slowly, back and forth. His eyes were dead black orbs. “Then maybe he is a fool,” Porter said before slamming the door in Megan’s face.

  

Megan stopped by the police station on her way home. With a heavy heart, she signed the papers against Porter for breaking into her store. He was a man who needed help, she saw that clearly, and maybe Denver was right—having the police sniffing around for breaking into her store would put the fear of God in him. Only Megan couldn’t shake the parallels to Mick. What atrocities had her husband witnessed those weeks before his death? Could he have come home as broken as Brian Porter had he lived? Whatever Porter’s sins, Megan didn’t think him a murderer.

When King told her they were investigating Brian for the murder of Simon Duvall and asked whether it could have been Porter at her farm the evening of the break-in, Megan simply shrugged, another frisson of guilt coursing through her.

“He has a record,” King told her.

“For what?”

“Aggravated assault. Bar fights, mostly.” King pursed his lips. “But crime is a slippery slope, Megan. You know that. Kids start small, go big. Aggravated assault to murder? Not a hard leap to make.”

She knew King was right. Once certain boundaries were crossed, it was hard to turn back.

She thought about sharing her theory about the flask, her belief that Porter’s stony silence had more to do with fear than guilt. But when she looked again at King and saw the impatience on his face, she decided to save her theories for another day, when she had more proof. For now, Porter needed to cool off. And maybe having him behind bars—if it came to that—would cause someone else to get comfortable and show their hand.