Berried in the Past

by Peg Cochran

  She crossed her fingers and headed toward it.

  She heard Dana’s breath catch in her throat as they approached. She pointed to the house. “I think that might be it,” she said in a shaky voice. They moved closer. “Yes, that’s it,” Dana said, her voice now excited.

  Monica turned down the driveway. It hadn’t been plowed recently and there were tire tracks in the snow. She pulled up in front of the house and parked.

  Dana had her door open almost before Monica turned off the engine.

  She began walking toward the house and mounted the three steps to the front porch that ran the length of the house. The wood was splintered and creaked under her feet.

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and turned around toward Monica.

  “It’s coming back to me. At least this part is.” She glanced around the porch and took a deep breath. “My sister lives here. The whole family did at one time but we all moved away. Marta was the only one who stayed behind to care for our mother. The poor woman had dementia toward the end.”

  “Do you think your sister’s home?” Monica said, stamping her feet to clear off the snow.

  There was no doorbell. Half the door knocker was missing and the remainder was hanging by one screw. Dana raised a hand and rapped sharply against the door. They waited several minutes but no one appeared.

  “Perhaps she’s gone out?” Monica said.

  Dana put her hand on the doorknob. It turned and the door swung inward, creaking on its rusted hinges.

  “Marta?” Dana called out.

  The small foyer was dark with cabbage rose wallpaper that once must have been bright and cheerful but was now faded and worn. A coatrack made of deer antlers hung on the wall to the left. A lone navy parka with patches on the elbows hung suspended from it. A knitted wool scarf was draped over the jacket.

  The living room was small and dominated by a large fireplace. Ashes were piled in the hearth, several scorched logs sat on the andirons, and a poker leaned against the wall.

  The sagging sofa was covered with a sheet and the armchair pulled up to the fireplace had a burn mark on the arm.

  The most eye-catching piece in the room was an ornate cuckoo clock hanging over the sofa. Monica gestured toward it.

  “That’s a very unique clock.”

  “My father made it. He was a woodworker. Frankly, I think it’s hideous, but Marta refused to part with it.” Dana inclined her head toward the ceiling. “Marta’s probably upstairs. She must still be sleeping.”

  Monica followed Dana up the uneven steps to the second floor, where they headed toward the bedroom at the back of the house.

  A double bed with a yellowing candlewick spread bunched at the foot dominated the room. As they approached, they realized a woman was in the bed, lying on her back, her hair spread out around her head.

  “It’s Marta,” Dana whispered. “I hate to wake her, but I have to. I’m sure this is where I was before I lost my memory. I’m hoping she can tell me what happened.”

  “Marta,” Dana called softly as she moved closer to the bed. “It’s me, Dana.”

  There was no response from the figure on the bed.

  Dana put her hand on Marta’s shoulder and shook her gently.

  “Marta,” she said again.

  Suddenly Dana froze. She bent her head toward Marta, and Monica noticed her place her fingers on her sister’s neck.

  She whirled around to face Monica, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and horrified.

  “I think she’s dead.”

  Chapter 3

  “Are you sure?” Monica said, moving toward the bed and Marta’s body. She picked up a pillow that had fallen on the floor and replaced it on the bed.

  “I don’t feel a pulse,” Dana said. “Will you check?” She stepped to one side.

  Monica put her fingers on Marta’s neck and waited. Was that the slight flutter of a heartbeat? She waited, holding her breath, but her fingers failed to detect anything further. She shook her head.

  “What do we do?” Dana cried. She clutched the fabric of her coat with both hands.

  “We need to call nine-one-one,” Monica said, pulling her cell phone from her pocket. “Why don’t you sit down while we wait.” She motioned toward a straight-backed chair in the corner of the room.

  Monica gave the details to the dispatcher and ended the call. She stuck her hands in her pockets. The room was freezing—she wondered if the heating was even turned on.

  It wasn’t long before they heard a siren in the distance. The wail was cut off abruptly. Monica moved the worn and slightly dingy curtain to the side and looked out. A police car was pulling into the driveway, its tires churning up snow as it made its way toward the house.

  “They’re here,” Monica said.

  Dana nodded numbly. She was slumped in the chair, her expression blank, her hands moving restlessly.

  “I’m going downstairs to let them in. Will you be okay?”

  Dana nodded.

  Monica had just reached the foyer when someone pounded on the front door. She opened it and two patrolmen stepped in. Another car came down the drive and pulled in back of the police cruiser. A woman got out.

  “Detective Stevens is here,” the shorter patrolman said to the other. “Let’s wait and see if she needs us.”

  They stood to the side as Stevens mounted the porch steps. She looked surprised to see Monica. She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything and silently followed Monica up the steps to the bedroom.

  Stevens was wearing a dark puffer coat, and when she took it off at the top of the stairs, Monica was surprised to see how thin she’d become.

  Stevens must have noticed Monica’s glance. “Chasing a toddler and eating his leftovers because you don’t have time to cook is a surprisingly effective diet and exercise plan,” she said dryly.

  Stevens pulled off her knitted cap, leaving her blond hair slightly ruffled. She smoothed her fingers over it impatiently.

  She entered the room and for a few moments was silent as she looked around, then she began to move toward the body on the bed. Much as Dana and Monica had done, Stevens felt for a pulse then shook her head.

  “The medical examiner is on the way.” She turned toward Monica. “Who is this?” She motioned toward Marta’s body.

  Dana stepped forward out of the shadows. “It’s my sister, Marta Kuiper.”

  Stevens pulled a notebook and pen from her pocket. They waited while she scribbled down the name.

  “And you are?” She looked at Dana.

  “Dana Bakker. I live in East Lansing. I’m the registrar at the university there.”

  Stevens raised her eyebrows. “Address?”

  Dana wet her lips. She gave Stevens her address.

  “She was dead when you got here?”

  Dana shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  “Yes, she was,” Monica said quickly.

  Stevens looked at Dana. “She’s your sister. So I assume you just happened to stop by for a visit?” she said.

  Dana’s eyes darted back and forth between Monica and Stevens. “Yes,” she said finally. “And we found poor Marta like that.”

  “Had she been ill?” Stevens said, more gently now.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It might have been her heart. She did say the doctor found something wrong with it but she said he prescribed medication and she was feeling better.”

  “Do you know who her doctor is?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. We used to go to Dr. Krause when we were children, but he would be in his nineties by now if he’s even still alive.”

  Stevens paced around the room. She picked up a pill caddy that was on the nightstand by the bed, then put it down again. She opened the drawer in the nightstand and took out a prescription pill bottle.

  She frowned. “These were prescribed by a Dr. Thomas.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed the number on the bottle. “Chances are he’s your sister’s do
ctor.”

  Five minutes later she ended the call and returned her phone to her pocket.

  “It seems that Dr. Thomas has been treating your sister for high blood pressure and pulmonary hypertension. He believes it’s likely she died of natural causes, but we still have to see what the ME says.”

  Moments later they heard footsteps on the stairs and a man burst into the room. He was wearing a cashmere tweed coat with a velvet collar and had a silk scarf carefully tied at his neck.

  “Where’s the body?” he said brusquely, glancing around the room. He glanced at his watch, a slim gold affair. “I have to catch a flight within the hour. I’m attending a conference in Arizona and I can’t wait to get away from this blasted cold and snow.”

  Stevens motioned toward the bed and the ME hurried in that direction.

  “Was she under a doctor’s care?” He looked over his shoulder at Stevens.

  “Yes.”

  He looked annoyed. “Then you probably don’t need me.” He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began to examine the body. “No evident signs of trauma. This room is freezing so rigor mortis would have been delayed, but it’s already passed, so I’d say the poor thing has been lying here for anywhere from two to four days.”

  He snapped off his gloves and handed them to Stevens.

  “No need for an autopsy. Death from natural causes.” He picked up his bag and stomped from the room.

  Stevens waited until she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She turned to Dana.

  “That’s it, I guess. You can call the funeral parlor now.”

  Dana nodded. “I’m going to call my brother first. There may be arrangements already in place . . . I don’t know.”

  Stevens nodded. She touched Monica’s arm. “Good to see you again.”

  • • •

  Dana had started to shiver.

  “Why don’t we go downstairs,” Monica said. “I can see about making us a hot cup of tea.”

  Dana didn’t argue and followed Monica down the stairs to the living room, where she perched on the end of the sofa as if she was going to jump up and run away at any minute.

  The kitchen was as bleak as the rest of the house—the appliances were avocado green, which led Monica to suspect they hadn’t been replaced since at least the nineteen-seventies. The Formica counter was scarred and stained with a raised burn mark in the shape of a circle near the stove. It looked as if someone had set a hot pan directly on it.

  Monica rummaged in the cupboards until she found two mismatched mugs, a handful of tea bags and a bowl of sugar with a crust on top. There was no microwave. She located a pan, boiled some water and poured it over the tea bags. As the water darkened to a deep mahogany color, she added generous amounts of sugar and carried the mugs out to the living room.

  “I’m so sorry. This must be terribly hard for you,” she said to Dana as she handed her the tea. Dana cradled the mug and held her face to the steam rising from the hot liquid. She had stopped shivering.

  “Marta and I were once very close, although not as much recently. We ended up leading different lives—we lived in different worlds. She was my older sister, my only sister, and she always looked after me when we were growing up. Our mother often wasn’t well—she got terrible migraines—and Marta would make dinner for John and me. Nothing fancy—hot dogs and beans, spaghetti with sauce from a can, things like that. But she always made sure we had something to eat.”

  Dana took a sip of her tea. She stared into the distance for several seconds. “I did well in school and I wanted to go to college. All my teachers encouraged me. Our mother had early-onset dementia and Marta stepped in to take care of her so John and I could continue our studies. John became a heart surgeon. I was even married briefly. That wouldn’t have been possible if it hadn’t been for Marta.”

  A tear rolled down Dana’s cheek.

  “John is my older brother. We’re only sixteen months apart—Irish twins, they used to call us. Two pregnancies so close together put quite a strain on our mother. I always wondered if it didn’t contribute to her migraines.”

  She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I suppose I should call John.”

  She retrieved her phone from her pocket and punched in some numbers.

  “He’s leaving right now,” she said when she ended the call. “He’s about an hour away. He works at the Fred and Lena Meijer Heart Center in Grand Rapids.”

  While they waited, Monica checked the thermostat and found she was right, the heating had been turned off. How peculiar. Perhaps Marta turned it off when she went to bed at night? She knew she and Greg lowered the temperature before going to sleep.

  Monica set the thermostat to seventy degrees and went out to the kitchen to clean up the tea things.

  Dana was sitting on the couch in the same position when Monica returned to the living room. She took a seat in the armchair and leaned toward Dana, her elbows resting on her knees.

  “Why didn’t you tell Detective Stevens that you thought someone was trying to kill you?” Monica said softly.

  Dana jerked as if waking from a dream.

  “Why? Because I knew she wouldn’t believe me. She would think I was crazy just like the doctors at the hospital did.” She glanced down at her hands. “They sent a psychiatrist to examine me. And I heard them talking about transferring me to a psychiatric hospital. I . . . I couldn’t let them do that.” She gave a bitter smile. “I guess you could say I escaped. As soon as I was alone I changed into my clothes and walked out.”

  • • •

  Not quite an hour later they heard a car outside and tires churning up the icy driveway.

  “That must be John,” Dana said, getting up.

  Monica went to the window and saw a late-model bottle green Jaguar negotiating the long snowy drive. Its driver was clearly impatient, stepping on the gas as the car became stuck in a rut and sending its tires spinning furiously. Finally the car jolted forward and the driver pulled up to the house and parked.

  Soon they heard footsteps on the front porch, boots stomping and a loud rap against the front door. John didn’t wait for an answer but pushed the door open and stepped into the foyer.

  He was in his fifties, tall and trim with thick silver hair swept back from a high forehead and an imperious expression. A woman entered the room behind him. She was clearly at least twenty years younger and was wearing an improbable outfit given the slush and snow outside—a dark brown leather coat and thigh-high suede boots. Her hair was long and blond and two words immediately came to mind when Monica saw her—expensive and high-maintenance.

  “What’s this all about?” John said as he stood at the entrance to the room.

  Dana took a step toward him, one hand outstretched. “It’s Marta, I’m afraid. She’s dead.” Dana sniffed and pulled a tissue from her pocket.

  “You called Dr. Thomas, I presume?” John pulled off his leather gloves and stuffed them in his pockets.

  “Yes. He seems to think it was her heart.”

  “And you disagree with his diagnosis?”

  Dana took a step backward. “I—I . . .”

  What a bully, Monica thought.

  John’s expression softened slightly. “I suppose it was to be expected given the condition of her heart. Was she taking her medication regularly?”

  “There was a pill caddy on her nightstand,” Monica said. “It appeared to be well organized.”

  He glanced at Monica. “Who are you?” John raised his eyebrows. “And what are you doing here?” He looked at Dana with a stony expression.

  “This is Monica Albertson,” Dana said. “She’s a . . . friend.” Dana looked at Monica, her eyes pleading.

  Monica had no intention of betraying Dana’s secret. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t trust John—it was a gut feeling. It wasn’t his arrogance that had brought her to that conclusion, but something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  The woman with John still hadn’t
said a word. Monica noticed a large diamond solitaire along with a diamond band on the ring finger of her left hand, so Monica assumed she was John’s wife. He obviously couldn’t be bothered to introduce her.

  Dana seemed to sense Monica’s thoughts. “Monica, this is my sister-in-law, Tiffany,” she said.

  Tiffany was certainly aptly named, Monica thought. Besides the bling on her ring finger, she was wearing diamond studs and a heavy gold bracelet that clinked when she moved her arm.

  “Have you called the funeral parlor?” John said. “They need to be notified to come and get the body.”

  He breathed out heavily through his nose, reminding Monica of a thoroughbred at the gate impatient to get on with the race.

  Dana looked as if someone had thrown cold water at her. “Not yet. I don’t know if Marta made any prior arrangements. Perhaps there’s something among her papers.”

  “I don’t think we need to waste time on that,” John snapped. “There must be an outfit in town we can call.”

  Monica cleared her throat. “There’s Mingledorff and Hoogerwerf. They’ve been in Cranberry Cove for more than a hundred years.”

  “I imagine they’ll do.” John snapped his fingers at Dana. “Best get them on the phone.”

  Dana’s hand shook as she held her phone.

  “Let me do it,” Monica said. She retrieved her own phone, did a search for the telephone number and punched it in.

  The woman on the other end at Mingledorff and Hoogerwerf was professionally sympathetic but also efficient. She took down all the information and promised to send someone to retrieve the body of the deceased immediately.

  “Everything seems to be in order,” John said when Monica ended the call. “I’ll be leaving. I’ve some medical journals to catch up on and then I have a surgery scheduled for later this afternoon.”

  Monica waited while Dana walked John and Tiffany to the door and said goodbye.