Bitter Harvest (32 page)

“So, what now then? You want to exhume Unity and Jacob and check for—what?”

Meg swatted Seth’s arm. “No, that’s ridiculous. But I am curious.
How
would Unity have killed her husband and then herself?”

Seth yawned again. “I assume you’re going to tell me?”

“Poison would be the easiest for her. There were plenty of plants available to any housewife in those days. I can’t see a woman shooting her husband, waiting a day or two, then shooting herself—and surely there would be a mention in the records somewhere. If it had been a shooting the town probably would have labeled it a ‘tragic accident.’ ”

Seth didn’t answer, and after a moment or two Meg realized he was snoring lightly. It was too dark to see her watch. She nudged him gently.

“Huh?” he said.

“You’re falling asleep. Why don’t you go upstairs and take the bed? I can wake you after a few hours.”

“Sorry. Come and get me if you see or hear anything, okay?”

“Sure. Now, go.”

Meg watched as Seth struggled to his feet, then moved surprisingly quietly into the hall and up the stairs, avoiding the light cast from the single lamp in the front parlor. When she heard the bedsprings creak upstairs, she stood up and tiptoed into the dark kitchen. Outside it was lighter only because of the falling snow reflecting the light from the front room, and she could barely see the far edge of the driveway. Great night they’d picked for a stakeout. There could be an elephant standing in her driveway and she wouldn’t know it.

Would the snow keep her stalker at home, or would he take advantage of the cover it provided? What would be the next logical step in the progression of nuisance events? Worse, would this mystery person graduate from nuisance to something more serious? What form would that take? Meg stared out into the odd half darkness, straining to see anything.

She went back to her post in the dining room, and it didn’t take her long to realize she was bored. How did the police do this kind of thing? She couldn’t read, she couldn’t boot up her laptop, because either would cast light where there shouldn’t be any. All she could do was sit and think. Not that there wasn’t plenty to think about. One: her business could be called a success, which was good news. What would she like to see for it going forward? Did it make sense to expand her operations—plant more trees, thinking of the future? If so, what kind, and how many? The heirlooms were selling well, but would they be by the time new trees were bearing? Or should she stick with the tried-andtrue best sellers?

How long would Bree be willing to stick around? She was smart and hardworking, and Meg knew she would never have survived this first year without her. Would she want to move on at some point? What kind of track record would she need to make the jump to the next level? What the heck
was
the next level? Where was Bree’s relationship with Michael going? Or maybe it didn’t have to be headed anywhere—maybe they were just enjoying the moment, with no strings. He seemed like a nice, earnest young man—Meg smiled inwardly at her use of “young,” since Michael was less than ten years younger than she was—and his interests and Bree’s were compatible. Was that going to be enough to carry them through?

And what about Seth? What did she want from him? What did she expect? She’d told him she loved him, and it was true. But where did they go from here? Maybe now, with the harvest under her belt, and a niche in the community—and some friends—she could give their relationship the attention it deserved.

She sat in the dark, listening to the light wind wrapping itself around the corners of the old house—and occasionally sending a gust down the chimney, whose damper didn’t quite close—and the light tapping of snowflakes against the windowpanes. At least it didn’t sound like ice, which was a good thing. Poor Bree, stuck out in the barn with only the goats to keep her company. Not that Lolly was much of a companion, curled up in a snug ball in a nearby chair. Meg dozed off . . .

To be awakened by an unholy and unnatural racket. Pulse pounding, Meg tried to sort out what was happening. Was that an air horn? The goats were bleating, and there were crashes coming from the barn. Obviously Bree had encountered someone and had sounded the alarm. Meg stumbled to her feet, hampered by the fact that one of her legs had gone to sleep, and lurched toward the kitchen door. No need for secrecy now. She jammed her arms into her coat, pulled on her boots, grabbed a flashlight, and hauled open the door—to be met by a swirling mass of snow. It didn’t matter—the noise from the barn continued unabated, and she knew the way. She waded through the snow—which had already lived up to its “six inches” forecast—and dragged open one of the big doors facing the house. She fumbled briefly for the light switch beside the door, then turned it on—to a scene of chaos.

Bree was standing in front of the goat pen, whose gate was open, which explained why Dorcas and Isabel were darting around the interior. Meg quickly slid the barn door shut behind her to prevent them from escaping. Bree was wielding a piece of two-by-four like a baseball bat, squared off against . . . Jenn Taylor? Who was clutching the hayfork, pointed straight at Bree.

Meg took a step into the barn. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded.

Bree grinned, her eyes never leaving Jenn’s weapon. “Looks like we have a visitor. How’d you like my air horn? Kids around here use them at football games.” Bree didn’t appear at all rattled by this midnight confrontation with an armed attacker.

“Very effective,” Meg said. “You probably woke up the entire neighborhood. Jenn, what are you doing here? Put that thing down!”

Jenn’s glance darted briefly toward Meg before returning to Bree. “She went after me first.”

“Well, of course I did! What are you doing skulking around the barn in the middle of the night?”

“What are you doing
in
the barn in the middle of the night?” Jenn countered.

“Looks like I was waiting for you,” Bree said. “You thought it would be empty, right? What were you planning this time?”

“Bree, did you call Art?” Meg said sharply.

“Sure did, soon as I spotted her.”

Meg started when she heard fumbling at the big front doors. Then one door slid open behind her and Seth stepped in, closing it behind him. He came up to stand alongside her. “He’s tied up with an accident over on 202. We’re on our own for now,” he said quietly to Meg, then more loudly, “Jenn, what’s this about?”

Bree waved her lumber. “She came in carrying this, but she dropped it when I surprised her with all that noise. You thought the place would be empty, right, lady? Well, we’re onto you now.” Bree glanced at Seth again. “She grabbed the fork once I got hold of the two-by-four.”

Jenn was trying to watch everyone at once, her eyes darting around like a trapped animal’s. “Jenn, put that down, please,” Meg said. “We aren’t going to hurt you, we just want to talk.”

Jenn looked at Meg full on then, and Meg nearly took a step back, so strong was the hatred in Jenn’s eyes. It wasn’t clear whether Jenn would have cooperated, but then Dorcas came up behind her and nudged her, and Jenn turned on the goat in a fury, and raised the hayfork.

“No!” three voices yelled in near unison, as everyone moved to stop her.

Seth reached Jenn first, wrapping his arms around her from the back, pinning down her arms. She started shrieking and thrashing. The goats backed away, startled.

“Will somebody get the damn hayfork away from her?” Seth shouted, ducking the sharp tines.

Meg and Bree exchanged glances. Bree nodded once, then approached cautiously. She swung the two-by-four and batted the fork’s wooden handle, forcing it out of Jenn’s hands. Meg rushed forward to pick it up and move it out of reach, then rounded up the nervous goats, one at a time, and herded them back to their pen. The gate securely latched behind them, she turned to face Jenn. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jenn just glared at her.

Seth looked at Meg over her head. “Maybe we’d better get John over here—he can probably calm her down, get her to explain.”

“What’s the number?” Bree asked. As Seth rattled it off, Bree punched it in, then handed the phone to Meg.

Meg waited through three, four rings, until someone finally picked up. An older woman—Donna? “Mrs. Taylor?”

“Yes, this is Donna Taylor. Who’s this?” the woman said, her voice sleep-clogged.

Meg ignored her questions. “Is John there?”

“No, he’s gone out. I’m here with the baby. Can I take a message?”

Why was John out somewhere at this time of the night? Meg looked at Seth and shook her head briefly. “Could you tell him that Seth Chapin needs to talk with him, right away?”

“All right. Seth Chapin, you said? That’s the man he works for sometimes, right? John must know the number.”

“I’m sure he does,” Meg said. “Just tell him to call as soon as he can.” Meg ended the call and turned back to Seth. “John’s not home. His mother’s home with Eli.”

The sound of her son’s name seemed to trigger a response in Jenn: she let out something that was a cross between a sob and a snarl, and struggled harder. Seth, caught unawares, lost his grip, and before anyone could move, Jenn darted toward the back door, which apparently was how she had come in, and disappeared into the snow. Seth followed quickly, but returned less than thirty seconds later. “Lost her. Can’t see a damn thing out there. I’ll try to get hold of Art again, now that we’ve got a more serious situation here. Bree, are you all right?”

“Sure. I was ready for her. Don’t know what she thought she was going to do with that two-by-four, though.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t anything worse. Meg, give me Bree’s phone a sec.” When Meg handed it to him, Seth retreated to a corner and turned his back.

Meg looked at Bree. “You didn’t tell me that you had an air horn.”

“You didn’t ask. I came prepared—I’ve got all sorts of stuff in my pack. Got you out here fast enough, didn’t it?” Bree looked almost gleeful now.

Meg didn’t see any point in mentioning that if Jenn had brought a gun, nothing would have been enough to get help in time to do any good. “It did. Did Jenn say anything to you?”

“Apart from the ‘What are you doing here?’ kind of stuff? Nope. I assume she expected to be alone out here. You think she’s been behind all this?”

“I don’t know. I wish we hadn’t lost her. And where’s she going to go? She really wasn’t dressed warmly enough to stay out in weather like this. She could just walk home, but she’s got to know that’s the first place anyone would look for her. But I have no idea where else she could be headed.”

“Art’s going to send a car to the Taylor house,” Seth said, his call completed. “Here’s your phone, Bree. Art’s headed here—the accident on the highway was mainly a fender bender, people sliding in the snow, and they don’t need him there. Why is it some people around here never figure out how to drive in snow?”

“Hey, I’m as guilty as anyone—it takes practice. Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here,” Meg said. She led the way across the drive and into the house, and the others followed. Inside, Meg shook her snow-covered coat before hanging it up, then went to make coffee. If Art had been out in the cold sorting out traffic problems, he would probably need it. She knew she needed something hot, now that the adrenaline of the confrontation with Jenn was ebbing.

The coffee was ready by the time Art arrived at the back door. He stomped his feet on the stoop, then stepped inside. “Can’t leave you all alone for a couple of hours without you getting into trouble. Seth gave me the basics, but you all want to explain now? And should I be putting together a search party for Jenn Taylor?”

“If she hasn’t gone home, I’d say yes,” Seth said grimly. “She lit out of here in a hurry.”

“Her mother-in-law said she was watching the baby,” Meg volunteered. “She didn’t know where John had gone.”

“Great. People wandering all over in the dark, in the middle of a snowstorm. Well, my guy Hanson’s down at the Taylor house, so if anybody else shows up there he’ll let me know. Okay, from the top: what happened?”

Meg set a mug of coffee in front of Art, then sat down and gave him the details of the plan they’d hatched and how they all came to be hiding out, waiting for the mystery harasser. “Bree stayed out in the barn, to give us eyes on that side. Seth and I took the house. Seth was upstairs asleep when Bree signaled the alarm.”

Art swiveled to Bree. “What happened in the barn?”

With evident relish, Bree recounted what had happened while she waited in the dark. Meg was impressed that Bree had waited until Jenn had come in through the back door—that is, when she was fully committed to what had to be breaking and entering. If Bree had spooked her by moving too early, Jenn could have disappeared into the night without being seen. “And then Meg showed up, and Seth maybe thirty seconds later. Seth got Jenn under control, sort of, and I got the pitchfork away from her. But when Meg called her house and found out that John wasn’t there, and Mrs. Taylor was alone with the kid, Jenn just freaked and got away.”