by Peg Cochran
“I do.” John walked into the room and they both jumped.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Dana said, gathering the papers together quickly.
John pulled off his leather gloves and slapped them down on the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down, loosening his coat.
“I came to see about the funeral arrangements,” he said. “I had a consultation nearby and didn’t want to waste my time coming back.”
“So you knew about the developer wanting to buy Marta’s house?” Dana said, looking at John. “You never said.”
“Our house,” John said. “Marta had life rights, but the house and property belonged to the three of us.”
“So we would all have had to agree to sell?” Dana said.
“Yes,” John said. He picked up his gloves and began playing with them. “But Marta refused to sell so there was no point in discussing it any further. That’s why I never mentioned it.” He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his high forehead. “I tried to convince her that selling would be for her own good. There’s a retirement place near me where she could have bought a modern apartment, had her meals in the dining room and been surrounded by people instead of stuck here all alone. But she refused to even consider it.” He stood up and pulled on his gloves. “But now with Marta gone, there’s nothing to stop us from accepting the developer’s deal.”
Afterward, Monica couldn’t help but wonder whether Dana really hadn’t known about the offer for the house and farm earlier. And whether John had really taken Marta’s refusal to sell so readily.
Chapter 5
Dana was turning out the lights and Monica was about to put on her coat when there was a tentative knock on the front door. Dana went to answer it.
An older woman was standing on the doorstep. “Dana,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Dana held the door wider and the woman stepped into the living room.
“Monica, this is Joyce Murphy, an old friend of Marta’s. You knew each other when you were teenagers, didn’t you?” Dana said.
“Yes. Marta and I go way back. We met in elementary school and have been friends ever since.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Dana said. She motioned toward the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down.”
“What is it, dear?” Joyce said, her voice trembling slightly. She fingered the homemade-looking bead necklace around her neck. She must have noticed Monica looking at it. “My granddaughter made this for me.”
“I’m afraid Marta has passed away,” Dana said as gently as possible.
Joyce gasped and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, no. Poor dear Marta.” She pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her sweatshirt and blew her nose. “Was it her heart?”
“We think so,” Dana said.
“It’s hard to believe. She seemed fine when I saw her. We had tea together. I tried to look in on her every day seeing as how we’re both alone.” She fingered her necklace again. “I was just leaving when your brother John arrived. He seemed upset about something.” Joyce began to shred the tissue in her hand. “I had barely closed the front door when I heard them start arguing.”
She put a hand to her face. It was trembling. “I almost went back inside. He was being positively awful to her. I felt terrible for her.”
• • •
Monica shuddered at the thought of getting out of Dana’s luxuriously warm car—even the seats were heated—as they neared Sassamanash Farm. The skies were still blue and sunny but the wind had increased and was shimmying the car slightly as they drove along Bluff Road.
Finally, Dana pulled onto the winding drive to the farm and up to the farm store and Monica had no choice but to get out of the car. She pulled her jacket more closely around her as she opened the door. The wind grabbed the door and nearly yanked it from her hand.
She thanked Dana and dashed for the shelter of the store.
The shop was empty except for one customer, a woman in yoga pants sitting at one of the café tables nursing a cup of coffee.
Nora was swabbing down one of the tables and turned around when she heard the door open.
“It doesn’t look as if you need any help,” Monica said. “I thought I’d bake up another few batches of cookies for this afternoon and I’ve got to get to work on the cranberry compote the Pepper Pot ordered.” Monica felt a slight thrill at the thought. “They’ve created a new dessert that uses our compote, cinnamon ice cream and dark chocolate shavings. They’re calling it Sassamanash Farm Delight.”
“That’s wonderful.” Nora smiled, highlighting the fine lines around her eyes. “Go on, then. I’ll be fine. I suspect we’ll need the cookies for the afternoon crowd anyway.”
Monica took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped back outside. The wind tore at her scarf and blew it across her face. She nearly slipped on a patch of ice as she pulled it away from her eyes. She was definitely going to be glad when spring arrived.
Someone was coming toward her in the distance. As the figure got closer, Monica realized it was Jeff. He was struggling to hold a stack of boxes under his right arm—his injured left arm hanging nearly useless at his side.
Suddenly the boxes began to slip and eventually all of them tumbled to the ground.
Monica could hear him swear as he bent and tried to pick them up. She waved and hurried forward.
Jeff looked up. “Hey, Sis.”
Jeff had always called Monica Sis, and even though they’d only spent part of their time together when Monica visited her father and stepmother, Gina, they’d always been close.
“Let me help,” Monica said.
Jeff stood up and scowled. “It stinks,” he said, kicking at one of the boxes and sending it spinning.
“I imagine it must be frustrating,” Monica said soothingly.
Jeff’s face was red and his right hand was clenched at his side.
“I can’t do anything with my arm like this. It’s not fair.” He kicked at another one of the boxes.
Monica hadn’t seen Jeff act like this for a long while now. When he’d first returned from Afghanistan, he’d been quite bitter and Monica had been worried about him. But over time—and with the help of his fiancée, Lauren—the bitterness had faded and been replaced by acceptance. As the farm took off and became more prosperous, Monica would have almost said that Jeff seemed happy, especially when he and Lauren became engaged.
But now some of his anger at his injury seemed to have returned.
Together they gathered up the remaining boxes.
“Where to?” Monica said.
“The processing shed if you don’t mind walking over there.” Jeff gave a slight smile. “I can see you’re cold.” He laughed. “Your cheeks are all red.”
Monica’s hand flew to her face. “I’m fine,” she said as she fell into step beside him.
“You look good,” Jeff said. “You look happy.”
Monica took a deep breath. “I am. Greg is . . . wonderful. I’m still surprised at how lucky I’ve been.”
“You deserve it.” Jeff sighed. “I can only hope Lauren and I will be as happy as you and Greg are.”
“You’re well-suited to each other. I think you will be.”
The processing plant was quiet. The fall crop had long since been harvested, processed, packaged and shipped. Jeff spent the winter months tending to the equipment, doing maintenance work and repairs, to be ready for the next growing season.
“Can I talk to you, Sis?” Jeff said after they’d stacked the boxes on a worktable.
“Sure. Shoot.” Monica pulled off her gloves and loosened her scarf.
“I read about this new therapy that’s supposed to treat injuries like mine.” Jeff indicated his left arm. “I don’t pretend to understand it, but it has something to do with stem cells.”
“It’s experimental?” Monica raised an eyebrow.
Jeff hesitated. “Yes. But it seems there isn’t much risk with the procedure. The real downside is that
it doesn’t always work.”
“So you’re thinking about it?” Monica said, her brow creased.
Jeff’s expression wasn’t readable. “Maybe,” he said. He scowled and kicked at a box on the floor. “This morning I had to ask Lauren to help me button my shirt. Normally I can manage by myself, but today my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.” He ducked his head. “I felt like a fool.”
“I’m sure Lauren didn’t mind.”
“That’s the thing.” Jeff looked Monica in the eye. “I’m afraid she’ll get tired of having to help me all the time, that she’ll go off and find somebody who has two functioning arms.”
Jeff squared his shoulders. “If I can get that therapy, I’m going to do it. I don’t care what it takes.”
• • •
Monica had just gotten back to her cottage when her cell phone rang. She put the groceries she’d purchased on the table and reached into her pocket.
The call was from Dana. She wanted to thank Monica and Greg for their hospitality and for all they’d done for her and invited them to dinner at the Pepper Pot.
Monica thought of the chicken she’d picked up at Bart’s Butcher but decided it could easily go in the refrigerator for another night and accepted the invitation. She didn’t think Greg would mind.
Moments later the back door opened and Greg walked in, stomping his boots to rid them of the last bits of snow clinging to them.
“We’ve been invited out to dinner,” Monica said, kissing his cheek, which was cold to the touch. “Dana wants to take us out as a way of saying thank you.”
Greg smiled. “I’m not going to argue with that. When?”
“I said we’d meet her at the Pepper Pot in an hour. She’s made a reservation.”
“Time enough then for a glass of wine.” Greg hung his coat on the hook by the door. “Shall I pour you one?”
“Sounds heavenly. Meanwhile, I’m going to spruce up a bit.”
Monica looked down at herself—her sweater was smudged with flour and she hadn’t even thought about combing her hair or touching up her lipstick all day.
She’d never been one to linger in front of the mirror, fussing with makeup or trying different hairstyles. A quick bit of powder on her nose, a slick of lipstick and a comb pulled through her hair usually sufficed in her opinion.
She changed from her jeans and sweater into a pair of black pants and her good cashmere sweater. Greg had a glass of wine waiting for her when she got downstairs.
“Drink up,” he said, reaching down to scratch Mittens, who was rubbing up against his leg looking for some attention. “We’d best be leaving soon.”
• • •
The night sky was clear and sprinkled with stars. Monica huddled in her coat, her hand warm in Greg’s, as they scurried from the parking lot to the Pepper Pot. A blast of heat hit them when they opened the door to the restaurant and they were bathed in mouthwatering smells.
The Pepper Pot specialized in comfort food with a slight gourmet twist and had been a welcome addition to the Cranberry Cove culinary scene, which previously had consisted solely of the Cranberry Cove Diner and the Cranberry Cove Inn.
The hostess smiled at them and motioned for them to follow her, letting them know that their party had already arrived.
Dana was seated at a table with a glass of wine at her elbow. She was perusing the menu and looked up when they approached. She removed the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and stood up to shake their hands.
She was smartly dressed in a black and white tweed sheath with a matching jacket. The confused look in her eyes was gone and she looked alert and focused.
The waiter appeared immediately and handed around menus. Monica’s stomach grumbled as she looked at hers. It was a treat to have someone else prepare dinner for a change. Everything looked so good she wasn’t sure how she would decide.
Greg snapped his menu shut.
“You’ve decided?” Monica said.
“I’m having the steak frites,” he said. “Rib eye medium rare with French fries.”
Monica was still wavering but finally settled on the chicken with roasted winter vegetables.
They made pleasant conversation until the waiter arrived with their drinks, wine for Monica and a whiskey and soda for Greg. As soon as the waiter left the table, Dana reached for her purse and pulled out a piece of paper.
She looked apologetic. “I know this was meant to be a convivial evening, but I wanted to show this to you.” She put a piece of paper on the table and smoothed it out. “This is a receipt from the Cranberry Cove drugstore for one of Marta’s prescriptions. I found it rather odd. It’s for a beta blocker. That’s a pill that’s taken for high blood pressure or other heart irregularities.”
She turned the paper around so Monica and Greg could see it.
“The odd thing is I couldn’t find any of these pills in Marta’s bedroom, or anywhere else in the house, for that matter.”
Monica frowned. “That is odd. But do you think there’s anything questionable about it? People lose things all the time. So why not a bottle of pills? Maybe she forgot them at the drugstore or left them somewhere?”
“We talked to one of Marta’s friends,” Dana said, putting the receipt back in her purse. “Remember, Monica? Joyce saw Marta earlier in the day and said she seemed fine. She was out shoveling snow, for heaven’s sake.”
“Are you thinking there was something fishy about Marta’s death?” Greg said, tossing back the last of his whiskey.
“Joyce did say she heard Marta and your brother arguing.” Monica helped herself to one of the olives the waiter had brought with their drinks.
Dana ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I don’t know. It’s only a feeling.”
She sat up a bit straighter. “Yes. I think there is something fishy about it.” She rubbed her forehead. “If only I could remember what happened right before I had that accident. I’m sure it’s connected to Marta’s death somehow.”
Chapter 6
Monica wiped the sleep from her eyes and pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves. She reached for a bowl of dough that she’d covered with a clean dish towel. The dough had doubled in size, and when she removed the cloth the scent of yeast filled the air.
She was reaching for the flour to spread on the counter when her cell phone rang. She was about to let it go to voice mail when she realized the call might be from Greg. She yanked off her gloves, took her cell phone from her pocket and answered slightly breathlessly.
“Monica? This is Dana.” A slight pause and then, “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“No,” Monica said, glancing at the clock.
“You know how I found that receipt for a prescription of beta blockers for Marta?”
“Yes. Did you find the bottle of pills?”
“No. And as a matter of fact, I went through Marta’s pill caddy, which was still half full, and there were no beta blockers in it. I had the devil of a time identifying all the pills from some pictures online, but I’m quite certain none of them was the beta blocker.”
“Perhaps it was a new prescription?” The thought had just occurred to Monica.
“No. According to the receipt, it was a refill. I’ve done some research . . .”
Monica could hear papers rustling.
“According to an online medical source, an overdose of beta blockers can cause a slowing of the heartbeat and difficulty breathing. If not treated, it can be fatal.”
The word fatal hung in the air for several seconds.
“You think Marta was murdered?” Monica said.
“I don’t know what to think. I told you I thought something was fishy about it.”
“Could Marta have taken an overdose by accident?”
“I don’t see how. All her pills are arranged in the pill caddy. Plus, the beta blockers are nowhere to be found.” There was a lengthy silence. “Do you think I should go to the police?”
The question took Monica by s
urprise. So far all this had been mere speculation. She had to admit she’d found it an intriguing puzzle. But to involve the police?
“I have an idea,” Monica finally said. “I’m on fairly good terms with Detective Stevens. How about if I have an informal chat with her and see what she thinks?”
“Would you? That would be fantastic. I can’t get over the idea that something doesn’t seem quite right about Marta’s death.”
What had she gotten herself into? Monica thought when ended the call. She really hadn’t wanted to get any more involved in this than she already was.
She sighed as she floured her work surface, dumped the raised dough out of the bowl and began to knead it. As she worked, the dough snapped and popped, slowly becoming more elastic and less sticky. The dough was studded with cranberries and a swirl of cinnamon, and before baking Monica would add a cinnamon and sugar topping.
She was so engrossed in what she was doing, she almost didn’t hear the door open. She was surprised—Kit had taken the morning off and she didn’t expect him until after lunch.
But it wasn’t Kit, it was Lauren, Jeff’s fiancée. She was bundled up against the cold in a dark green fur-trimmed parka and a chunky knitted cap, her blond hair streaming down her back.
“It smells so good in here,” Lauren said as she pulled off her cap. “I’m starved.”
“There are some muffins in that basket over there.” Monica pointed to the counter. “Please help yourself.”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
Lauren reached for a muffin and took a bite. “Mmmm, delicious.” She brushed some crumbs from the front of her jacket. “I have some good news for you.”
“Oh?” Monica looked up from the dough she was arranging into loaf pans.
“The magazine Michigan Today wants to do an article on the Pepper Pot here in town. The owner told them about his new culinary creation, Sassamanash Farm Delight, and they want to include a little something about the farm and your cranberry compote.”
