by Peg Cochran
“That’s wonderful!” Monica peeled off her gloves. “That will be great exposure for us and the restaurant.”
Lauren, who had graduated with a degree in marketing, often helped with public relations and marketing for the farm and Monica was very grateful for her help. It was time-consuming enough to do most of the baking herself along with the bookkeeping and accounting.
“Just let me know what I need to do,” Monica said as she slid the loaves of bread into the oven. The blast of heat from the open oven door blew tendrils of hair around her face.
“I will. I’m meeting with the reporter later today.”
Lauren continued to linger. It wasn’t like her—she normally took on life at a trot, filling her plate with as many things as she could, working remotely for a firm in Chicago, doing freelance work when she could get it, as well as finding innovative ways to market Sassamanash Farm.
Lauren wet her lips. “Did Jeff tell you about that new therapy that might help his arm?” she said finally.
“Yes, he did.”
Lauren raised her chin. “I think he should do it.”
“He said it was very expensive.”
“I know.” Lauren fiddled with the zipper on her jacket. “But I think it would be worth it.”
“I agree. But how would he be able to afford to pay for it? He said his insurance wouldn’t cover the cost.”
Lauren raised her chin. “I don’t know. I’m sure we can find a way.”
Monica thought over the conversation after Lauren had left. She had the distinct feeling that Lauren knew something that she wasn’t telling her.
Monica finished the morning’s baking, delivered the finished product to Nora at the farm store, and then realized she still hadn’t done anything about contacting Detective Stevens to see when they could meet.
She decided to make the call when she got back to her cottage. She was getting hungry and it was time for lunch.
Mittens was on hand to greet her when she opened her back door. Monica picked the kitten up and spent a few minutes scratching under her chin and rubbing noses. Greg had headed off to Book ’Em, but the faint scent of his aftershave lingered in the kitchen. Monica took a deep breath and felt herself relax.
She retrieved some leftover pea soup—or erwtensoep, as the Dutch called it—from the refrigerator and put it on the stove to heat. The Dutch had settled Cranberry Cove in the eighteen hundreds, farmers and furniture makers by trade, and their influence had continued to the present day with many of the residents of Cranberry Cove being descendants of the original settlers.
Monica decided she would call Detective Stevens while her soup heated. She dialed Stevens’s cell phone number but the call went to voice mail. Monica was about to dish out her soup when her phone rang. Stevens was returning her call.
Rather than meet at the police station, Stevens suggested they have a cup of coffee at the Cranberry Cove Diner—it would be more informal and more comfortable. And fewer tongues would wag, Monica thought. The townspeople were incredibly curious and loved to gossip, and they’d certainly want to know what she was doing if they caught her heading into the police station.
Monica finished her soup, put her bowl in the dishwasher, washed out the pan and left it to dry. She gave Mittens a scratch on the chin and headed out the door.
It was another clear day, and when she crested the hill leading into town, Cranberry Cove and Lake Michigan beyond were spread out in front of her. Closer to the shore, thick fingers of ice reached out into the twinkling water beyond. All the boats that normally bobbed in the horseshoe-shaped harbor were in dry dock and the parking lot of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club was nearly empty.
As Monica headed down the hill, the microscopic pastel dots in the distance resolved themselves into the shops along Beach Hollow Road. She passed Gumdrops, where the identical twin VanVelsen sisters held court, drove past Danielle’s Boutique and past Twilight, where Tempest Storm had arranged a display of crystals in the window that caught the light and reflected it back.
She couldn’t believe her luck when she found a parking spot right in front of the Cranberry Cove Diner. It was a bit past lunchtime—the residents of Cranberry Cove generally awoke early and went to bed early—and not yet time for dinner, when workmen arrived in their overalls and work boots to eat simple dishes like open-faced turkey sandwiches and meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
Gus Armentas, the owner of the Cranberry Cove Diner and the short-order cook, nodded at Monica as she entered. Monica had gone from being new to Cranberry Cove and not worthy of Gus’s notice to warranting a brief nod. Smiles were reserved for long-time residents and Monica had no idea how long it would be before she attained that status. Tourists to Cranberry Cove received a scowl when they entered, but that didn’t deter them—the delicious smell of bacon frying lured them in anyway. The line to get in for breakfast was always out the door in the summertime.
Two people sat at the counter watching as Gus flipped a couple of burgers and lowered French fries into a vat of bubbling oil. A woman with impossibly red hair and obviously false eyelashes sat in one of the booths texting on her cell phone, pecking at the keys with long artificial nails. She wasn’t a resident—Monica thought perhaps she was a realtor from out of town. The rest of the seats were empty.
Monica had just settled into a booth when Stevens arrived, pushing back the hood of her parka and stripping off her gloves.
Her look, when she slid into the seat opposite Monica, was one of curiosity.
“What have you gotten yourself involved in this time?” She smiled.
Monica took a deep breath. She felt somewhat ridiculous even bringing the matter up with Stevens, but she’d promised Dana.
She explained about Dana finding the receipt for the beta blocker pills and how the pills themselves were nowhere to be found in Marta’s house.
They were quiet as the waitress placed two cups of coffee on the table. Some of the coffee sloshed over the side of the cup. Monica grabbed several napkins from the dispenser and soaked up the spilled liquid from the saucer.
Stevens reached for the sugar and added two packets to her cup.
“And you think that means something?” she said to Monica after stirring her coffee.
“I don’t know. Dana—Marta’s sister—thinks it does. Unfortunately there wasn’t an autopsy.”
Stevens nodded. “The ME ruled it death by natural causes.” Stevens blew on her coffee and took a sip. “Is there a reason to doubt that? Other than those missing pills, and I’m not sure that’s related.”
“A big developer wanted to buy Marta’s property for a very tempting sum of money. But Marta wasn’t the sole owner of the property—it was left to her along with her brother John and sister Dana. They all had to agree to sell, and according to John, Marta refused.”
Stevens raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like that could be a motive. Still . . .” She toyed with her spoon.
Monica hadn’t decided whether or not she would tell Stevens about Dana’s amnesia. It was possible it had nothing to do with the case. On the other hand, what if it did?
“There’s another thing. Dana Bakker showed up at my door on Saturday night claiming someone was trying to kill her.”
Stevens’s jaw dropped. “What?” She dropped the spoon she had been playing with and it hit the table with a clatter.
“Why didn’t she go to the police? What was she doing at your house?”
“She said she had amnesia and couldn’t remember what had happened before the accident that sent her to the hospital. She was here in Cranberry Cove looking for the house she remembered being at—one of the only things she could remember.” Monica ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “Her car skidded off the road and ended up moored in a snowbank.”
Stevens frowned. “What was she doing at your place? Unless she was coming to see you?”
Monica shook her head. “It was dark, and she said she turned down the street to our cottage by ac
cident, having gotten confused as to where she was.”
“What was this accident she claimed to have had?” Stevens took a sip of her coffee and momentarily closed her eyes.
Monica explained about the accident and how Dana was convinced she’d been fleeing someone.
Stevens pinched the bridge of her nose. “That certainly changes things, although I’m not sure how. It would be quite convenient for Dana to claim amnesia if she’d killed her sister herself.”
“So you do think it’s possible that Marta was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes?”
Stevens held up a hand. “Whoa, I wouldn’t go that far. But I do agree there are some questions. Some very curious questions.” She picked up her coffee cup. “Have they had the funeral yet?”
“No. At least not that I know of.”
“I’ll see if I can get an order approved for an autopsy. I can’t make any promises—the county doesn’t like spending any more money than it has to—but I’ll do my best.”
• • •
Monica felt conflicted when she left the diner. She’d felt obligated to tell Stevens about Dana but at the same time she felt slightly guilty for doing it, as if she had betrayed Dana’s confidence somehow.
She shrugged her feelings off as she headed down the street to Gumdrops, the pastel pink candy store next to Danielle’s. She stopped in front of the boutique’s window for a moment to admire the beautiful mohair coat on display. It wasn’t something she would ever need—her life was all about jeans and sweatshirts for working and her black pants and silk blouse for occasions that might warrant something dressier.
Hennie VanVelsen was in the window of Gumdrops rearranging a display of packages of salty black licorice, a much-beloved Dutch treat, and boxes of Droste chocolate pastilles.
She smiled broadly when Monica entered the shop.
“How are you, dear? It’s been a while. Keeping busy at the farm, are you?”
Gerda came out from behind the counter to join them. She and her twin were wearing identical pale blue skirts and cardigans, and even though Monica had known them for a while now, she still had trouble telling them apart.
“What can we get for you today, dear?” Hennie said.
“Some Wilhelmina mints perhaps?”
Monica knew her stepmother, Gina, enjoyed them, and it gave her an excuse to talk to the VanVelsens, who loved to gossip and were the unofficial town historians.
Hennie reached for a tin of the peppermints with the silhouette of Princess Wilhelmina on the front.
“You didn’t by any chance happen to know Marta Kuiper, did you?”
Hennie looked almost affronted. “Of course we did.” She patted the marcel waves in her silver hair. “I was sorry to hear that she was gone. Marta was the niece of a dear friend of ours who also sadly passed away two years ago.”
“Such a strange girl,” Gerda piped up.
“Oh?”
Monica knew she didn’t have to say much to keep the conversation going—the floodgates were open.
Hennie nodded. “She tended to keep to herself.”
This time Gerda nodded. “Shy and reclusive, you could say. Even as a young girl. Although it got worse as she got older.”
Hennie’s mouth curled down. “Her brother took advantage of that, if you ask me. He and his sister went off and left Marta to care for their mother, the poor thing.”
“Marta claimed she didn’t mind, but what kind of a life was that? Stuck in that old house. Their father was as stingy as they come and refused to spend any money for repairs or modernization. Now, I believe in thrift—all the Dutch do—but he took it too far.” Gerda smoothed the front of her ruffled blouse.
“And still there wasn’t all that much money left after he passed,” Hennie said. “Everyone was quite surprised.”
“Had you stayed in touch with Marta?” Monica asked.
“We tried to,” Hennie said. “It’s what our friend would have wanted. We invited her for dinner occasionally or we went to her place for tea.” Hennie picked a bit of lint off her sweater. “We hated to think of her living in that house alone without any company.”
“She did have that cousin of hers living there though,” Gerda said.
“Yes, of course.” Hennie looked slightly irritated. “Cheryl DeSantis. I’d forgotten about her.”
“Was she still living with Marta, do you know?” Monica asked. It hadn’t looked to her as if anybody else had been occupying the house.
“No, I don’t think so. We were there just the other day and didn’t see her,” Gerda said. “It’s so hard to believe the poor thing is gone.”
“What day was that?” Monica said, her excitement rising.
“It was Friday, wasn’t it, Hennie?”
Hennie nodded. “Yes, it was Friday. I remember because that’s one of the days we have a girl come in to help us in the shop. We usually take the afternoon off to go to the beauty parlor or to visit the cemetery and our dear parents’ grave.”
“On the way back from the cemetery we passed Marta’s house and decided to stop in,” Gerda said.
“We didn’t stay long.” Hennie’s mouth turned down again. “We were having a nice visit and cup of tea with Marta and her friend Joyce when Marta’s brother arrived.” Hennie shuddered. “I never could stand the man. Even as a young boy he was arrogant and pushy. Of course, he was very smart and went on to become a surgeon.”
“He said he had important things to discuss with Marta, so we had to leave,” Gerda said. “He practically threw us out.”
Hennie gave Gerda a stern look. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Gerda ignored her sister. “Then as we were leaving, Marta’s sister, Dana, arrived. She was the youngest and we never really knew her all that well. She was a polite little girl, very studious. I think she moved to the other side of the state.”
“Sounds like some kind of family powwow,” Monica said.
“I should imagine.” Hennie fingered the cameo pin at the neck of her blouse. “They hardly ever visited Marta. And John did say they had important matters to discuss.”
Monica thought she had a good idea of what it was that John wanted to discuss with Marta and Dana—the offer from the developer to buy their land. Had that discussion led to murder?
• • •
Monica decided to walk down to Making Scents, Gina’s shop, and give her the peppermints since she hadn’t seen her for a few days. Gina had arrived in Cranberry Cove from Chicago in all her finery—fancy car, leather pants and expensively highlighted hair—and had decided to stay to be near her son. Monica’s father had left her mother for Gina and had subsequently left Gina for a younger model. The three women had created a cordial alliance, sharing their heartbreak and giving each other support.
Somehow Gina, who had been extremely high-maintenance, had managed to adapt to life in a pokey little town where the local beauty parlor still boasted hooded hair dryers, and had opened a shop selling essential oils. Everyone had been surprised when she’d survived her first year in business and had slowly built a loyal clientele. Tourists loved her shop, and her, and stocked up while they were in town for the summer or the autumn leaf tours, and even some of the locals had come around to the idea of aromatherapy.
Monica left Gumdrops and picked her way down the sidewalk—there were still patches of ice here and there despite the merchants having scattered plenty of salt in an attempt to melt it.
She passed the Cranberry Cove Diner, and even though she wasn’t in the least bit hungry, the smell of frying bacon made her mouth water. She popped into Greg’s shop, Book ’Em, for a brief hello and a quick kiss and then continued down Beach Hollow Road.
The lake, visible in the distance, was the color of steel and made Monica shiver when she looked at it.
Gina’s shop was next to the hardware store. She had added a jaunty blue and white awning to dress up the front and bottles of essential oils were carefully arranged in the window. Making Scents was
spelled out in elegant gold letters above the window.
Monica was surprised to see a large bin sitting next to the front door.
A bell tinkled melodically when Monica pushed open the door. The air was perfumed with the mingled scents of lavender, mint and eucalyptus.
Gina was teetering on a chair, swiping a feather duster at the elaborate crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the shop.
“Careful,” Monica said, holding out a hand as Gina jumped down.
The one thing Gina hadn’t done was bow to the sartorial customs of Cranberry Cove, which generally included jeans or work pants, warm sweaters in the winter and T-shirts in the summer.
Gina was wearing leopard-print leggings, a black velvet tunic with a V-neck, high-heeled, open-toed suede booties and a pendant on a long silver chain that looked as if it had probably come from Tempest Storm’s shop, Twilight.
“I’ve brought you a present,” Monica said, holding out the paper bag from Gumdrops.
Gina peered inside. “Why, thank you. You know I love these. That’s sweet of you.” Gina opened the tin and offered it to Monica.
“Why is that bin outside your front door?” Monica said as she helped herself to a mint.
“That’s for our food drive. I’ll be putting a sign on it as soon as they arrive from the print shop. All the merchants are participating. You’ll soon be seeing similar bins up and down the street.”
“What are you collecting the food for?”
“The local food pantry. January and February are difficult months for them. Everyone donates during the holidays—from Thanksgiving to Christmas they are usually well stocked. But donations fall off as soon as the new year starts.”
Gina fiddled with some bottles on a mirrored tray on the counter. “I couldn’t bear the thought of people not having enough to eat so I decided to organize a food drive.”
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Monica said. “I’d be glad to do my part. I can donate some breads and muffins.”
Gina pursed her lips. “It might be best if you take those directly to the food pantry. We have volunteers collecting the food from the bins outside everyone’s shop, but I don’t know how often they will be doing that.”
