Twenty-Three

  

Chef Jeremy was already at the café when Megan arrived early Monday morning. Clover, dressed in a long tie-dyed skirt and a midriff-baring peasant blouse tied right above her tanned, pierced navel, had driven to the farm early to help Megan bring vegetables and eggs to the café for the day’s open house. Together with Clay and Bibi, they’d loaded vegetables from Jeremy’s list, placing them into coolers and then the large coolers into the truck.

Once at the café, she, Jeremy, and Clover unloaded the truck. Megan was happy to see the window had been fixed, and Clover had come in late on Sunday to clean the store and polish the copper-topped tables and the bar. Everything gleamed, ready for show time.

The trio worked without talking, listening instead to Clover’s The Cat Empire CD, each focused on their own task. Clover stocked the small produce section of the store, carefully stacking the vegetables in the small glass-front refrigerator. Megan acted as sous chef, washing and chopping vegetables, rolling out dough, cutting bread—whatever tasks Jeremy requested. And Jeremy created little bits of edible art.

By eleven, when the open house was set to start, trays of cold appetizers had been set out along the lunch counter. Megan and Clover stepped back to admire the presentation. There were beet and goat cheese toasts, deviled eggs with chives and country ham, Caesar salad spears, mini goat cheese and spinach quiches, vegetable tortes, finger sandwiches, and crudités with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. In the kitchen, Jeremy was putting the finishing touches on his hot offerings—spanakopita triangles stuffed with spinach and tender kale, mushroom tartlets with garlic and gruyere, and tiny empanadas filled with fragrant grass-fed meat, vegetables, and cheese. The store was rich with the smells of roasted vegetables, beef, and garlic.

Megan took a step back. “Do you think it’s too much, especially given everything that’s happened in Winsome over the last few weeks?”

Clover, eyes wide with excitement, shook her head. “I think it’s incredible. Everyone will love it. Don’t worry.”

“Tartlets, salad spears, empanadas—” Megan rubbed her temples, thinking of the hard-working men and women of their small town, many of whom grew up on meat and potatoes, quite literally. “Will our customers be willing to try these things?”

“Give them some credit,” Jeremy said. He walked into the seating area of the café carrying a small sampling of today’s menu and held the tray out to each of them in turn. Megan took a mushroom tartlet; Clover ate three empanadas and stole a quiche off the counter.

“Amazing,” they said in unison.

“Why would you want to work in a hole like Winsome,” Clover asked, her mouth full, “when you can make magic like this anywhere?”

Jeremy, dark, brooding eyes suddenly stormy, gave her a tepid smile. “Anywhere is not what it’s cracked up to be.”

True, Megan thought, and remembered Denver had said something similar. But she didn’t have time to comment before the bell on the front door alerted them to customers. Looking up, Megan saw the Dorfman brothers, Dave and Neil. Dave was dressed in his Sunday finest; Neil, as usual, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—stained jeans, a ragged t-shirt and sneakers worn through in two spots.

“Smells great,” Neil said. He ambled back toward the table, broad shoulders balanced by equally broad hips, and smiled. “I’ll have one of everything.”

Dave reached a hand toward a quiche and Clover slapped it back. “Not yet. Wait until the doors open.”

“They are open,” Dave said.

“I mean until the party officially begins.” Clover pulled a chair over and plopped down, hiking her long skirt up above her knees. “I know Bobby will be here soon. He texted me from the hospital.”

“Is he with Lenora?” Dave asked.

“Yes. He’s been there since early this morning.”

“How is she?” Neil asked.

Clover shrugged. “He doesn’t tell me anything. I know she lost a lot of blood. I mean a lot.” She gestured with her green-manicured fingers, indicating copious amounts of something. “She’s still alive. I guess that’s good.”

“The attack is in the Philadelphia paper,” Jeremy said quietly. “Simon’s murder too.”

“Imagine that,” Neil said. “Little Winsome in the big city paper.”

“Well, that’s not exactly what we want to be known for. The Historical Society and Beautification Board are trying to make Winsome a place tourists want to visit, not a place to be scared of. Forget ‘Win Back Winsome.’ They’ll start calling us Gruesome Winsome or something like that. You know how the media are.” Clover reached up and stole a Caesar salad spear. Jeremy shot her a withering glance.

“Hey, I thought you said they were for the guests,” Dave joked. He looked at Jeremy, appraising the chef in that unsettling, steadfast way both Dorfmans were known for, and added, “Nice to see you back in town.”

Megan smiled. “Chef Jeremy, I guess you know Neil and Dave Dorfman, the craftsmen behind the remodeling of The Washington Acres Café and Larder and the farm.”

The men shook hands.

Megan clapped her hands. “Okay, ten minutes until the open house officially begins.” She looked at Clover. “Balloons and banner?”

“Balloons—check.” Clover pointed toward the front window, where a bouquet of helium balloons floated above the cobblestone pavers. “And here’s the banner.” She pulled a roll of neon-pink paper from her bag. “Take an end,” she said to Neil, who obliged. Unrolled, “Grand Opening of the Washington Acres Farm Café & Lardey” was written in bold black letters. Someone had crossed out the “y” and written “r” above it with black Sharpie. “I may have made a small error.” She brightened. “But I fixed it! And now if one of you gentlemen would be kind enough to help me hang it out front, we’ll be good to go.”

Dave and Neil looked at each other, communicating in brotherly shorthand. Dave nodded reluctantly. “Fine, Clover. It’s always something with you women. Let’s go.”

Clover rolled her eyes dramatically but followed Dave outside.

The rest watched them leave. “Ready, Chef?” Megan asked Jeremy. “This is the big test to see whether Winsome is ready for some winsome grub.” She smiled at her own corny wit.

“They will love it,” Jeremy said with a confidence only someone who hasn’t experienced failure can muster. “Every last bite will be gone. I guarantee it.”

  

Jeremy was half right: every last bite was eaten. As soon as the banner went up, Winsome’s residents began wandering into the store.

“Where’s the beef?” Dave Dorfman teased as he popped four tartlets in his mouth at once.

“Oh, look at these adorable mini turnovers,” Merry exclaimed.

“Those are empanadas,” Clover said dryly.

“Is that Indian? I despise curry.” Merry scrunched her nose and put the empanada back. Megan tossed it in the garbage when she wasn’t looking.

“I love curry.” Dave ate an empanada, frowned, and said, “That’s very bland. I like my curry spicy.”

Jeremy and Megan locked eyes. He gave her a half smile and winked. “We’ll remember that for next time,” Jeremy said.

“And who is this?” Lydia asked, looking pointedly at Jeremy. A regular, Lydia was tall and curvy. A black pencil skirt accentuated a heart-shaped bottom, and the top three buttons of her pale yellow blouse were open, giving everyone a glimpse of the lacy white bra she wore underneath. Megan watched her walk on four-inch stilettos, surprised she hadn’t fallen on the cobblestones on her way in.

Jeremy reached his hand out, lightly touching her arm. She smiled demurely, showing him her whitened teeth, and bent low over the table, showing him something else altogether.

Neil Dorfman, who was quietly eating a pile of cookies in the corner of the store, had his eyes firmly affixed to Lydia’s ample bottom. His brother had his eyes affixed on Jeremy.

The front door opened and more people poured in, including Bobby King.

“Megan,” he said, nodding. “Seems like a different place.”

Looking around, Megan had to agree. When she’d first taken over the store, the kitchen was used for storage and the counter to display newspapers and gum. The walls had been a dirty white, the floor chipped linoleum, and most of the items for sale were nearing their expiration date. Eddie Birch may have had great ideas, but execution was not his strength.

“Thank you, Bobby.” She moved closer to the police chief and lowered her voice. “How is Lenora?”

“Still in critical condition.”

“Was she able to identify her attacker?”

Bobby hesitated before answering—just long enough for Megan to understand that he still didn’t trust her completely. “No,” he said finally. “He or she came from the back and caught her by surprise.”

“How about the knife? Did the attacker leave that behind?”

Bobby hitched up his pants. “Now you’re treading where I can’t go, Megan. You know that.”

“It was worth a try.” But the mention of tread reminded her of the footprints by the Marshall house. Quietly, she told King about the footprints she’d seen near the back entrance.

“Sheesh, Megan, they could belong to anyone. I’m sure that house has seen its share of teen partiers and dog walkers in the last several years.”

“These prints were newer. I know you’re checking every angle.” She told him about the foreclosure photos, about the tiny date and time stamped in the corner. “Whoever took those pictures may have seen something, Bobby. It was within the timeframe of Duvall’s murder, and we both know that house has a direct view to the back of the barn.”

King nodded. “I’ll send someone over to have a look around.”

“Thank you,” Megan said. She doubted he would follow through, but she wasn’t going to push it. Not here, not now. “Go have some food,” she said instead. “Clover says you love fancy eats.” Megan smiled.

“As a matter of fact, I do. The more frou-frou, the better.” King laughed in a way that made Megan like him—a little bit. “Sure smells good.”

“Eat up.”