by Peg Cochran
Berried in the Past
On a night of heavy snow and bitter cold, newlyweds Monica and Greg are comfortably nestled before a warm fire when they’re roused by a late-night knock at the door. Surprised to find a troubled and confused woman on the doorstep, Monica is even more shocked when the woman vacantly utters that someone is trying to kill her. Sensing distress but not danger, Monica decides to help this mysterious woman, but her clouded recollections yield little—until she dredges up memories of her sister and a nearby home, where they find the woman’s sister, dead.
Unable to deny her own curiosity or the woman’s request for help, Monica begins digging into the suspicious death, only to discover a murky family history of valuable land, a bullying brother, an unscrupulous real estate developer, and endless rumors of good deeds met with bad blood. And when the trail of the killer begins to turn cold, Monica realizes that while the family wants to bury their sister, someone is out to bury the clues—and if Monica’s not careful, to bury her as well . . .
Title Page
Copyright
Berried in the Past
Peg Cochran
Copyright © 2020 by Peg Cochran
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-950461-40-0
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Recipes
Books by Peg Cochran
About the Author
Chapter 1
Monica Albertson slid the curtain aside and looked out the window. It was snowing again, although not as heavily as before. The wind was blowing it into drifts along the side of the road and it was collecting in the corners of the windows. It reminded Monica of when she was a child and she and her mother would spray fake snow on their windows to decorate them at Christmastime.
Individual snowflakes froze to the glass panes, slightly distorting the view outside and turning it hazy, like looking through glass that was wavy with age. The wind whistled fiercely and a frigid draft made its way around the edges of the frame. Monica shivered, let the curtain drop back into place and went to stand by the fire, holding her hands out to warm them.
After a few stalled attempts that had temporarily filled the living room with smoke, they had managed to get a roaring fire going. Flames leapt and danced in the hearth as the fragrant wood crackled and spit.
Monica felt a strong sense of contentment sweep over her and realized she was very lucky indeed. After struggling for a few years running her small café in Chicago, where she sold coffee, tea and her own baked goods, she had agreed to move to Cranberry Cove on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan to help her half brother, Jeff, with his cranberry farm. Jeff had been wounded in Afghanistan and left with a partially paralyzed arm. She did the bookkeeping—having a better head for figures than Jeff—and also ran the farm store, which carried the baked cranberry goods she made. Recently several chain gourmet stores had started carrying Monica’s cranberry salsa, putting the farm on slightly more solid footing.
And it was in Cranberry Cove that she’d met her husband, Greg Harper, the owner of Book ’Em, the new and used bookstore in town. She glanced over at Greg, who was ensconced in a comfortable armchair, his feet up on an ottoman, reading the paper. Monica’s tuxedo cat, Mittens, was curled up next to him. He must have sensed Monica looking at him because he glanced up and smiled.
Monica had been surprised to find love in such an unlikely place and at an age when she was closer to forty than thirty. It hadn’t been a wild, whirlwind romance but rather a slow courtship that had allowed friendship to blossom into love.
They were living in the snug cottage that had been Monica’s on Sassamanash Farm. Greg had an apartment over the bookstore, which they eventually planned to turn into the upper floor of Book ’Em with a spiral staircase leading from one floor to the other. Meanwhile, they were studying plans for the house they intended to build on some property Greg owned halfway between the farm and the town.
Monica curled up on the sofa, pulled a knitted throw over her legs and picked up her book.
Lulled by the warmth of the fire and the soothing sound of the crackling of the logs, her eyes began to drift closed. She was nearly asleep when there was a knock on the front door.
Monica’s eyes flew open.
Greg looked up from his newspaper. “It’s nearly nine o’clock—who would be visiting now . . . and in this weather?”
“I certainly wouldn’t be going out in this storm unless absolutely necessary,” Monica said, glad to be tucked up warm and cozy at home.
Greg started to get up.
Monica held up a hand. “I’ll get it,” she said, smiling. “You look so comfortable.”
Greg smiled back. “I am, rather.”
Monica went out to the small foyer and pulled open the front door.
A gust of wind blew snow across the threshold and the blast of cold air made Monica shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself.
A woman stood on the doorstep. Monica had never seen her before. She was somewhere in her fifties with blond hair cut in a fashionable bob. She was tall and slim and wearing large square black-framed glasses. Her blue eyes behind the lenses looked troubled.
She hadn’t buttoned her camel-hair coat but rather was holding it closed with her hand. Monica noticed she was wearing a pair of low-heeled pumps that were totally inappropriate for the weather. It had been snowing for hours, lazily at first and then with greater intensity. Could she have been out and about and caught by surprise? It didn’t seem likely.
Monica sensed something off about her—not frightening, just peculiar. Her eyes had a vacant look to them and her mouth was moving nervously. She stared at Monica for a moment, opened her mouth and then closed it again. Finally she spoke.
“Someone is trying to kill me.”
Chapter 2
A number of thoughts went through Monica’s mind as she stood at the open door. Was someone really trying to kill this poor woman? Was she delusional? Was this some sort of ruse to get her to open the door?
The woman was well and expensively dressed. It didn’t seem possible that she was part of some sort of gang operation.
Monica felt as if she had hesitated for a very long time but in fact it had merely been several seconds before she invited the woman in.
By now Greg had appeared in the foyer, Mittens at his heels. He raised his eyebrows at Monica but she shook her head.
Together they ushered the woman inside. Greg pulled an armchair closer to the fire and urged her to sit.
The woman collapsed into the chair, hugging her coat around her. Monica could see she was shivering.
“Why don’t I make some tea?” she said as the woman continued to sit silently and nearly motionless.
Greg followed Monica to the kitchen, where she filled her ancient teakettle with water, put it on the stove and lit the gas under it.
“I’d put a shot of whiskey in that,” Greg said as Monica poured the boiling water over a tea bag in a ceramic mug. “She looks to be in shock.” He took another mug from the cupboard. “I think I’ll have some of that, too.”
“Me, too,” Monica said.
Greg reached for another mug. “Did the woman say what her name was? And how she came to knock on our door?”
“No. She said very little actually. But she did say something quite peculiar.”
Greg raised his eyebrows.
“She said someone was trying to kill her.”
Greg startled and some hot tea sloshed onto his hand. He winced.
“Do you think she’s mentally ill?” He ran cold water over his hand.
“I don’t know. It does seem awfully far-fetched, doesn’t it?” Monica smiled. “Frankly, nothing would surprise me anymore.”
They carried the tea out to the living room and Monica handed the woman a mug.
She gave the ghost of a smile as she wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “Thank you.”
Her voice was hoarse, as if it was rusty from not speaking for a long time.
“I’m Monica Albertson and this is my husband, Greg,” Monica said. She took a sip of her tea and waited.
The woman hesitated for a moment. “I’m Dana Bakker.” She looked down. “Thank you for the tea.” She glanced at Monica’s book laid facedown on the sofa and Greg’s newspaper scattered beside his chair. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your evening. I’m afraid my car skidded off the road and is stuck in a snow bank.”
Monica noticed Greg’s eyes narrow. “We’re quite out of the way here on the farm,” he said. “Were you lost?”
“Yes.” Dana smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I got turned around in the dark. I—I was in something of a panic.” She sighed. “I was hoping I could call a tow truck. I seem to have let my cell phone run down.”
Monica tilted her head. “You said someone was trying to kill you,” she said as gently as possible. “Do you want to tell us about it? Maybe we can help.”
The woman raised a hand and rubbed her forehead. Monica noticed that a plastic hospital bracelet was attached to her wrist.
“I don’t remember much. But I do remember someone was trying to kill me.” She frowned. “The police thought I had been drinking.”
“You’ve already gone to the police?” Greg said.
Dana shook her head. “No. It was after the accident.”
Monica and Greg looked at each other. Greg raised his eyebrows, as if to say you were right. The woman must be delusional.
“What accident was that?” Monica said.
“The police said I was speeding—sixty-five miles an hour in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone—and driving erratically, weaving in and out of traffic and passing cars on the shoulder.” Dana rubbed her forehead again. “I don’t remember anything, I’m afraid. They said I hit a tree and they took me to the hospital. Apparently I hit my head on the steering wheel.”
“You don’t remember the accident at all?” Greg said.
“No. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.” She held up her arm with the hospital bracelet on it. “I do know I would never normally drive like that.” She gave a small laugh. “I have a perfect driving record, so how could it be?” She shook her head. “No. I do remember I was running from something. I’m certain of it.” She looked at them with pleading eyes. “And I’m positive that someone was trying to kill me.”
“Do you remember anything at all from before the accident?” Monica set her mug on the coffee table.
“The doctor says I have amnesia—brought on by the blow to my head. All I remember is that I was here—somewhere in Cranberry Cove. The next thing I remember is coming to in the emergency room at the hospital. The rest, I’m afraid, is a blank.”
Greg cleared his throat. “You say you remember being here in Cranberry Cove. Do you know when or where?”
Dana took a deep breath. “It had to have been a day or two ago.” She glanced at her feet. “I wouldn’t go out in a storm in these shoes so it had to have been before the snow started.” Dana turned the hospital bracelet around and around on her wrist. “I was at a house. I know that.” She smiled apologetically. “I know that isn’t much to go on. I think the house had a red front door.”
“I don’t know that there are too many of those in Cranberry Cove,” Greg said.
Monica glanced at him. “Perhaps we can drive around and see if we can locate it.” She looked at Dana. “It might jog your memory.”
“I don’t think we want to go out in this weather.” Greg glanced toward the window. “We have a small guest room. Why don’t you spend the night? We can go looking tomorrow.”
• • •
Monica got Dana settled in their guest room, which barely accommodated a twin bed, nightstand and small dresser, with a stack of fresh towels and one of her own flannel nightgowns. Even with the heat going full blast, the room was chilly, but there was a fluffy down comforter on the bed that ought to keep their guest warm enough throughout the night.
Monica said good night and joined Greg in their bedroom, where he had already changed into his pajamas and was propped up in bed reading.
“Do you think we’ve done the right thing?” she said as she slipped on her own flannel nightgown. “Letting Dana stay here?”
Greg put his book down. “I think we have. It would have been impossible to get a tow truck out here in a decent amount of time and we could hardly let the poor woman freeze. You don’t think she means any harm, do you?”
Monica thought for a moment. “No, I don’t. But if someone is really after her and wants to kill her . . . what if they find her here?”
“Frankly, I think she’s imagined that part. People can have vivid dreams when they’re knocked unconscious. She thinks it’s real, but most likely it’s not.”
Monica slipped under the covers and Mittens jumped up to join her. “You’re probably right. I’m worrying for nothing.”
She picked up her own book and began to read.
• • •
Monica awoke to the smell of bacon frying. She dressed quickly in a pair of jeans, a warm knitted sweater and socks and ankle boots and went down to the kitchen.
Greg was standing at the stove, an apron tied around his waist, cracking eggs into a frying pan. Once again Monica gave thanks for having a husband as wonderful as Greg.
He turned around and smiled. “Good morning. Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”
Monica gave him a kiss and then poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. She was stirring in a spoonful of sugar when Dana appeared in the doorway.
Her clothes from the night before were rumpled but she’d obviously run her fingers through her blond hair to get out the tangles and she was wearing a coat of light pink lipstick.
“I’m really being a bother, aren’t I?” she said as M
onica offered to pour her a cup of coffee.
“Not at all,” Greg said, swinging around. “Have a seat—the eggs and bacon are nearly done. Would you like some toast?”
“No, thank you.” Dana smiled as she pulled out a chair.
“As soon as we eat, we can head out to see if we can find your house with the red door.” Monica glanced toward the window. “The storm is over and the sun’s shining. I heard the plows earlier so the roads should be relatively clear.”
• • •
Greg had suggested that Monica take his Volvo—it was far from new but it was easier to handle on snow- and ice-covered roads than her Ford Focus, which was even older than his wagon.
Monica bundled up in a bright red parka, gloves and hat. She offered Dana a scarf and also some boots but unfortunately they didn’t wear the same size.
The driveway to the cottage had been plowed by one of Jeff’s men but Monica still skidded slightly, the rear end of her car fishtailing as she backed out. She remembered her first winter in Cranberry Cove, when she hadn’t been nearly as confident driving in the ice and snow. Living in Chicago, she’d depended on public transportation or her own two feet to get around.
Dana was quiet in the passenger seat as they made their way to the main road. Monica hesitated at the crossroads. Which way to go? She decided to head south first, away from Beach Hollow Road and the town center. There were a number of farmhouses in that direction, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember whether or not any of them had a front door that had been painted red.
They passed numerous houses with black doors, white doors and even a yellow one, and Monica was about to give up and turn around to head in the other direction when she noticed another house on the horizon. It sat on a slight rise and was surrounded by snow-covered farmland.
