Twenty-Seven

  

By five o’clock that evening, Gunther and Sadie were the best of friends, just as Denver had predicted. Bibi had been taken with the dog’s sweet personality and had let him in the house with a stern, “You’d better behave or you’ll live in the barn.” The dog looked at her knowingly, wagged his tail, and then proceeded to steal a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.

“Give me that,” Megan said, taking the roll and picking up the shreds of paper on the floor. Sadie looked on innocently, clearly letting Megan know that she would never do such a thing. “Yeah, well, you’ll both find yourselves in the barn with the goats if you’re not careful. You know how Bibi can be about the house.”

They pranced off together, in search of more trouble.

Megan headed to her bedroom. She stared at the interior of her closet, feeling hopeless. After Mick died, she didn’t care much about what she wore, preferring plain suits for work and jeans and her vintage blouses. At the farm, the need for fashion was even less; neither the goats nor the chickens much cared whether she wore Marc Jacobs or Target. Tonight she found herself caring.

Finally, she pulled a vintage sixties sundress out of the back of the closet. It was made of pale yellow cotton and inset with small applique flowers, also pale yellow. Simple, comfortable—and not jeans. She slipped on sandals, ran a comb through her hair, and dabbed some lip gloss on her lips.

“Okay, don’t blow it,” she said to her reflection in the mirror.

When she got downstairs, she heard voices coming from the living room. As she neared the wide doorway into the room, she was surprised to see her Aunt Sarah’s reflection in the mirror over the sideboard.

Sarah was perched on the edge of the couch, her eyes on someone—Bibi—who must have been sitting cattycorner to her. Sarah wore a long multicolored skirt, a black tank top, and a red silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was braided again and the braid was coiled around her head like a snake. Megan paused outside the door, listening.

“I’m involved for one reason and one reason only,” she was saying. “Megan.”

“You’re siding with Lenora against Megan…for Megan?”

Megan couldn’t see Bibi, but she assumed her grandmother was sitting on the loveseat, which sat up against the wall next to the piano. The same furniture still graced much of the house that had graced it when Megan was growing up. It wasn’t so much that Bibi loved the furniture, or that it held sentimental worth. Rather, Bonnie Birch was frugal. If something worked just fine—like the drawers full of Winsome novelty clothes—why mess with it?

“I’m not siding against Megan, Bonnie. I’m your eyes and ears in that group. Why do you think I’m here?”

“To ruin my granddaughter’s life yet again?”

“You’re being dramatic.”

It was unlike Bibi to be vindictive, and Megan was sure Sarah knew that. More softly, so that Megan had to strain to hear, Sarah said, “They want me in that group because they like the idea of having a mystery author amongst their ranks. When Simon and his mother got this notion up their arses to go after the farm, I decided to take them up on the invitation. I have no interest in owning this farm, nor do I want to see it made into a tourist attraction. Unless that’s what Megan wants.”

Megan pressed herself against the wall, mindful of her grandmother’s warning that she was a horrible eavesdropper. She wanted to know more about the Historical Society, but also about Sarah, about her career, her choices…and her connection with her mother. Maybe she’d learn something. She didn’t think she’d have the courage to ask herself. Not just yet.

“Megan wants this to be a thriving organic farm. She wants to make a go of that café, to do something good for Winsome. She doesn’t want to get caught up in local politics.”

“I’m not sure that evil can be avoided.”

“Perhaps not. But if you hadn’t told Simon the farm was for sale, this never would have happened.”

“Is that what you think?” Sarah said, her voice raised. “That I told Simon to get in there and make a bid for your home?”

“What else could I think? No one knew I’d offered the farm to you except for you, and you were never one for thinking about other people’s feelings, Sarah.”

Sarah rose, her face pinched with anger. Megan hurried down the hall, away from the living room, in an attempt to escape being seen. She never heard Sarah’s reply.

  

Denver picked her up at fifteen minutes before seven. Megan was waiting in the kitchen, still trying to avoid her aunt, and went outside to meet him. Denver’s hair was neatly combed back from his smoothly shaven face. He wore European-cut suit pants and a button-down blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Both hugged the hard angles of his body. He smiled when he saw Megan, crinkling the corners of his vibrant blue eyes. She blushed.

“How’s the wee pup, then?” he asked her while they got into the Toyota.

“Making trouble with Sadie.”

“You have him in the house?”

“Of course.”

Denver shook his head. “The whole idea of a dog like Gunther is to let him roam so he can protect the farm—and you.”

“Someone might steal him, or he might run away.” Megan shrugged. “He doesn’t know the boundaries yet.”

“You could keep him with the goats or in the barn. He’ll alert you to trouble.”

Megan smiled. She appreciated his concern. “He’s where he should be—with Bibi.”

Denver didn’t argue further. He started his vehicle, which had been cleaned, smelling now like Pine-Sol rather than wet dog, and pulled out of her driveway. The brewery was only a few miles from the farm, and they arrived shortly after the meeting had begun.

Denver led Megan around to the back of the brewery. She was surprised by the size of the crowd. Dozens of men and adolescent boys, plus a few women—including Merry—had collected to discuss the dress rehearsal and Saturday’s event. Roger Becker, wearing street clothes and a tricorne, was addressing the group. He explained times, rules and costume requirements, pausing only to answer a few questions.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Denver whispered. “Ye want a bloke who likes to dress up?”

Megan smiled. “I’m simply curious. Someone wanted the Duvalls dead for a reason. I’m convinced it has something to do with Lenora’s research and the article she was writing.”

Roger Becker stopped talking and stared back toward Megan and Denver. “Do you have a question, Megan?”

Megan felt the heat rise to her face. “No.”

“Okay then.” Roger continued talking, but he kept a stern eye on them.

The lights in the brewery were dimmed and Megan couldn’t get a good look at faces from the rear of the restaurant. She thought she saw Neil Dorfman slumped on a bar stool toward the front, and next to him sat Oliver Craft, the local cheesemaker, nursing a beer. Ned Carter was standing by the front, near Roger, looking bored.

“Other questions?” Roger asked.

A smallish woman with long red hair and a beaked nose stood and raised her hand. “When do we get our roles?”

Dave Dorfman emerged from the shadow of the bar. “Remember, this is not battle specific. Because it’s simply a commemorative event—a generic battle—you can wear what you want. We won’t be assigning roles.”

The woman sat, looking disappointed.

Dave fell back into the shadows. It was then that Megan saw he was sitting with his wife, Amelia, a woman she’d met a few times at the nursery or in the local grocery aisles. Amelia, a well-dressed, plush woman in her mid-forties, was staring at Dave in a way that was anything but loving. He turned to her and whispered something. She scowled.

“Not wedded bliss?” Denver whispered in Megan’s ear. He placed his hand on the bare skin of her back, sending a jolt down her spine.

“Apparently not. A tiff, perhaps?”

“Or someone doesn’t like being dragged to reenactment events.” Denver’s hand dipped lower.

Roger Becker closed the meeting. Everyone clapped. A minute later, Becker was by their side.

“Dr. Finn,” he said heartily. “Will you be joining us Saturday?”

Amusement glinted in Denver’s crooked smile. “Oh, no, Roger. It’s the lassie who wants a go at this. She’d like to be a Patriot soldier.”

Roger looked confused. “She’s a woman.”

“Ta, I can see that plainly enough.”

Megan dug her elbow subtly into Denver’s side.

“Is she planning to masquerade as a man? We have heard that women did that, at least during the Civil War.”

“I dinna think so.” To Megan, he said, “Is that what you were planning, Meg?”

“You could ask me directly, Roger. I am sitting right here.”

Roger shifted uncomfortably. Clearly, he had not had a woman request something as controversial as portraying a soldier during one of their reenactments. Part of Megan wanted to continue the charade in order to irk him. She settled for honesty.

“I won’t be dressing up, Roger. Just showing up as plain old me.”

Roger still looked uncomfortable. He nodded, and with a sympathetic look at Denver, walked away.

Denver laughed when he was gone. “I think you should dress up if only to spite him.”

“Nah,” Megan said, her stare fixed on a group standing in the corner. “These folks live for these events. I don’t want to take anything away from them, fair or not.” She nodded toward the cluster of gathered townspeople. “Interesting lot. Wonder what they’re whispering about.”

Denver followed her gaze. Merry was at the center, surrounded by Roger, both Dorfmans and Oliver Craft. Dave’s wife was still at the bar, staring into her drink.

“You, Meg,” Denver said, eyes dark. “I’m pretty sure they’re talking about you.”