Berried in the Past

by Peg Cochran

  “Why would John do that?” Monica asked even though she knew the answer.

  “For the money, of course. He stood to inherit a third of the profits.”

  “I thought John was quite successful. Dana says he’s a surgeon. I’ve always heard they make a lot of money.”

  Joyce looked at her slyly and tapped the side of her nose. “Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?” she said cryptically.

  • • •

  Monica was pulling a sheet of cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies from the oven when she had an idea. She would put together a snack for Jeff, some cookies and a flask of hot coffee. He was out on the bogs laying down sand and would probably appreciate something to eat.

  She brewed some coffee, steam wreathing her face as she poured it into a thermos, placed several of the warm cookies in a bag and headed out.

  Jeff was out on a tractor at the far end of the bog nearest the farm kitchen. The bog was covered in a thick layer of opaque ice. Jeff had already spread a layer of sand over half of the bog. He was heading away from Monica, and when he turned she waved to him.

  He swung the tractor around and drove over to where Monica was standing.

  “I’ve brought you some hot coffee and cookies fresh from the oven. I thought you might be able to use a snack.”

  Jeff’s face lit up. It was ruddy from the cold, his cheeks and the tip of his nose bright red. “How did you know I was beginning to get hungry? You’re a lifesaver, Sis.” He opened the bag of cookies and sniffed deeply. “These smell delicious.”

  Monica unscrewed the cap to the thermos and poured him some coffee. “This should warm you up.”

  Monica held the cookies while Jeff cupped a hand around the coffee and took a sip.

  He sighed. “Just what I needed.” He handed the cup back to Monica. “I’ll take the cookies on the tractor with me.” He squinted at the sky. “I need to get this done before the sun goes down. There’s snow in the forecast for tomorrow.”

  Monica was walking back to the farm kitchen when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the number. It was Gina.

  “Hello?”

  “Monica? This is Gina. I found something you should probably see,” Gina said somewhat enigmatically. “I think it might relate to the death of that woman you were telling me about.”

  • • •

  Monica closed up the farm kitchen, got into her Focus and headed back toward town, her curiosity decidedly piqued by Gina’s call. What on earth could Gina have found that related to Marta’s death?

  She parked in front of the Purple Grape, the Cranberry Cove wine store that was mostly frequented by summer visitors. The local residents were more concerned with the price of a bottle of wine than its vintage and tended to go in for the boxed stuff sold at the large chain grocery store just outside of town.

  The sun was starting to go down and although the sky was still bright, the shadows were deepening. The large ceramic flowerpots outside the shops that overflowed with flowers in the summer were now topped with snow and snow was banked along the sides of the road where the plows had pushed it.

  Monica passed Bijou, the jewelry store, where a few pieces were displayed in the window—a strand of pearls, a gold watch and a silver charm bracelet.

  She crossed the street to Gina’s shop, picking her way through the slush that had accumulated along the curb. A customer was at the counter waiting while Gina rang up several bottles of essential oils. Monica pretended to study a display of books on aromatherapy while she waited.

  Finally the customer left and the shop was empty. Monica went over to the counter and leaned on it.

  “So what did you find? I have to say, I was terribly intrigued by your telephone call.”

  Gina took a rag from under the counter and scrubbed at a spot on the glass. “I wouldn’t have thought much of anything about it if it hadn’t been for that woman’s death and the bottle of missing pills you told me about. When we put out the food collection bins, I suspected that at some point someone was going to decide to use one of them as a trash can.” Gina rolled her eyes. “And I was right. People can be so lazy. They can’t be bothered to walk to the end of the block and dispose of their garbage appropriately.”

  Gina reached under the counter again. “I found this in our bin.” She put a prescription pill bottle on the counter. “Someone must have dropped it in there instead of in the trash can. I guess it was too far to walk.”

  Monica picked up the pill bottle. Could it be . . . ?

  The corner of the label was missing, but it was still easy enough to read. The bottle had been issued to Marta Kuiper and contained a thirty-day supply of atenolol—a generic beta blocker. And it was empty.

  Monica held it up. “There weren’t any pills in here?”

  “No.” Gina shook her head. “I only happened to find it because I accidentally dropped my keys in the bin when I was locking the door and had to fish them out.” Gina pointed to the bottle. “Do you think it means anything?”

  “I don’t know.” Monica bit her lip. “I think it might. I guess I’ll leave it up to Detective Stevens to decide.”

  • • •

  Detective Stevens furrowed her brow and tapped the pill bottle on her desk in a slow rhythm.

  Monica waited patiently. She was seated across from Stevens’s desk in her office at the police station. The chair was rather hard and she squirmed around trying to get comfortable.

  Stevens’s desk was awash with papers, some in labeled folders, many with coffee rings on top, and others loose. A chipped and stained coffee mug was next to her laptop and a piece of aluminum foil was balled up next to it. The remains of a stale doughnut sat on a napkin on top of one of the stacks of paper.

  Stevens tapped the pill bottle against her chin. She let out a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t know. You said you found this in one of the food collection bins?”

  “Yes. Or rather my stepmother, Gina, did. It was in the bin in front of her shop Making Scents.”

  “I’m trying to decide if there’s any real significance in the fact that this bottle”—she waved it toward Monica—“is empty. It’s possible that Marta Kuiper took the pills out of the bottle and put them somewhere else.” She looked at Monica. “You did say she used a pill caddy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it only holds enough pills for the week. That prescription is for a thirty-day supply.”

  “Still. Why throw it in one of the collection bins? Why not the trash?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If your suspicions are correct,” Stevens continued, “that someone gave Marta Kuiper an overdose of these pills, that would make it . . . murder.”

  Monica nodded. “Yes.”

  Stevens’s shoulders rose up and down as she sighed again. “I’ll see what I can do. They still haven’t held the burial yet, have they?”

  “No. I believe it’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “I’m still trying to get the county to agree to an autopsy. But I can’t make any promises.” Stevens frowned. “If the body has already been embalmed—which I imagine it has—we won’t be able to get an accurate toxicology report. But if there’s anything else out of the ordinary, the pathologist will find it.”

  Chapter 8

  Monica was setting the table and Greg was ensconced in a chair by the fire with the newspaper when she heard a car coming down the drive.

  That was odd—it was an unusual time for a visit. Most people were in the midst of preparing dinner, eating it, or already cleaning up from it if they were early diners.

  Monica peered out the back door window as the car came into view. She recognized Dana’s fancy BMW.

  She turned down the water she was boiling for the pasta she was planning to cook for dinner and waited for a knock on the door.

  Dana’s expression, when Monica opened the door, clearly showed that something was wrong. Her mouth was set in a tight line and her eyebrows were dr
awn together in a frown.

  She was wearing boots this time—Monica recognized them from a display in Danielle’s window.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said as she wiped her feet on the mat. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  Monica held the door wider and showed Dana into the living room. Greg jumped to his feet, the newspaper sliding off his lap and onto the floor in a heap.

  “I am interrupting you, I’m afraid,” Dana said but made no move to leave. She perched on the edge of a chair.

  “Has something happened?” Monica asked, noting the look of distress on Dana’s face.

  “John is in a terrible state, yelling and screaming. He’s absolutely furious.” Dana shuddered.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “You know Marta’s service and burial were scheduled for tomorrow? The police called to say we have to postpone it. They are waiting for permission to do an autopsy on the body after all.”

  Greg cleared his throat. “Why don’t I make you a cup of tea?” he said to Dana.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  They were quiet for a moment, listening to the fire crackle and snap in the hearth. They could hear Greg filling the teakettle in the kitchen.

  “Why are the police doing an autopsy?” Dana said finally, twisting her gloves around and around in her hands. “Everything was all set. John is absolutely furious. His face went all red when he heard and I was afraid he would have a stroke.”

  Greg returned with a mug of tea. “Sugar, no cream, if I remember correctly.” He smiled and put the mug on the table next to Dana’s chair.

  “I can’t understand why they’re doing an autopsy at this late date. It’s horribly inconvenient.” Dana picked up the mug. “I was hoping to go back to East Lansing right after the burial.” She shivered. “I don’t feel safe here. I may not remember everything, but I do know someone was trying to kill me. How do I know they’re not going to try again?”

  “You don’t remember anything new?” Monica said.

  Dana pursed her lips. “Not really. Only the sensation of being in danger and of being pursued. I’m sure that’s why I was driving the way they claim I was and why I had the accident.” She studied her hands.

  “You say you remember the feeling of being in danger—”

  “Yes. Nothing specific, I’m afraid. Although I have had a flash of someone trying to hit me over the head with something.” She looked away from Monica, out the window. “I’ve been having nightmares about it. I keep thinking I hear someone trying to break into the house.” She shivered. “It’s a dismal place. I don’t know how poor Marta could stand it. I can’t wait to get out of there.”

  She looked at Monica, her eyes pleading.

  “I can understand how you feel. But the police are doing the autopsy because they’ve found some new evidence,” Monica said.

  Dana’s hand jerked and she knocked her mug against the table.

  “New evidence? What new evidence?”

  Monica couldn’t help but notice the look of fear in Dana’s eyes.

  What was she afraid of? Monica wondered. Had she killed Marta herself and blocked out the memory?

  And was her brother angry that the funeral and burial had been delayed or was he angry that the police were planning to perform an autopsy that might possibly reveal something damaging to him?

  • • •

  Kit was at the farm kitchen looking rumpled and bleary-eyed when Monica got there. The door to the storage room was open and she noticed his sleeping bag spread out on the floor. Obviously he’d spent another night bunking on the floor.

  “You look like you could use some coffee,” Monica said after saying good morning.

  Kit ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it further. “You could say that.”

  “Why don’t I put some on then.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll do it.” Kit turned away and Monica got the sense that he was glad of the distraction.

  Monica tied on her apron and began measuring out flour and sugar for the first batches of cranberry muffins. She was getting butter out of the refrigerator to soften when Kit handed her a steaming cup of coffee.

  “This smells heavenly.” Monica took a sip.

  She was worried about Kit. His usual ebullient personality was diminished, like a light that had been dimmed. Surely he and Sean had made up by now? Kit was so good-natured, Monica couldn’t imagine his staying angry for long.

  “Don’t tell me you and Sean haven’t made up yet?” she said.

  Kit looked stricken. His shoulders slumped and his mouth turned down. He held his hands out, palms up.

  “We have. There’s just one problem.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “The argument we got into was over a bad investment Sean had made, one he hadn’t told me about.” Kit gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “And now I’m afraid we’ve lost our house.”

  “What?” Monica was so startled she nearly dropped her mug. “But how?”

  Kit shrugged. “Sean got this stock tip from a friend. Several actually. It was supposed to be foolproof. Guaranteed to earn us money.” He rolled his eyes. “Sean used all our money to buy the shares. Instead of making money, we lost all of our savings. And on top of that, Sean’s been laid off from his job.”

  “Oh, no.” Monica knew how tenuous people’s financial circumstances could be. More than once since she’d arrived, Sassamanash Farm had been skating on particularly thin ice. Several times Jeff had been convinced the farm was going to go under but somehow they had always pulled through.

  “So you have nowhere to live?” Monica asked in disbelief.

  “Not at the moment, although we did come into some luck. And it’s about time.” He tossed his head. “Sean has managed to lease a small apartment above Twilight, Tempest Storm’s shop on Beach Hollow Road. But we won’t be able to move in for a few days.” Kit reached for his apron and tied it on. “Sean is bunking with a friend.” He curled his lip. “I’m afraid this friend of his isn’t a fan of me. I think he and Sean might have been romantically involved at one time, although far be it from me to ask questions.” He pretended to lock his lips. “I decided it would be a good idea for me to camp out here instead.” He made an exaggerated sad face.

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. I hate to think of you here all night. Why don’t you come up to the cottage and stay in our guest room?”

  “You’re a sweetheart, you really are,” Kit said. “But this is fine as long as it’s temporary. Please don’t worry, darling. It will give you wrinkles.”

  • • •

  Monica took the last tray of cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. She’d been so distracted by thoughts of Marta’s death, Dana and autopsies, that she’d burned the previous batch slightly.

  She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that and it wouldn’t be the last. The cookies couldn’t be sold—she prided herself on the quality of all of Sassamanash Farm’s products—although they were still edible. She’d save them for Jeff and his crew. They were always happy to eat her missteps or her experiments that didn’t quite work out.

  She’d once tried to create a cranberry-based pudding that had sadly been a dismal failure, which she couldn’t pawn off on anyone—including Jeff’s workers.

  Monica was transferring the cookies to cooling racks when her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Monica? This is Tammy Stevens. I wanted to let you know that an autopsy was performed earlier on Marta Kuiper.”

  “Can you share the results? Did they find anything new?” Monica held her breath. She knew Stevens wasn’t always at liberty to reveal information during the course of an investigation.

  She heard Stevens sigh.

  “We’ll be releasing the information to the papers tomorrow, so I suppose it won’t hurt to share it with you now.”

  Stevens cleared her throat, and Monica heard papers rustling.

/>   “As I suspected, the body had been embalmed, making a tox screen unreliable. The pathologist performed one anyway, but we don’t have those results back yet. The pathologist was able to determine one thing though.”

  Monica held her breath. She hoped the results indicated natural causes—that would put Dana’s mind at rest, assuming she could be convinced of it.

  Stevens continued. “It seems the pathologist discovered signs that Marta had been smothered.”

  Monica stifled a gasp.

  “The ME was in such a hurry that he missed the signs, but the pathologist who is filling in for him while he’s at that conference in Arizona basking in the sun did notice the signs. Granted, they were subtle. If you’re right about the beta blockers, an overdose would have slowed her heart rate and her breathing, making it much easier for someone to smother her. They wouldn’t have needed much strength at all, and she probably wouldn’t have even been able to put up much of a fight.”

  • • •

  Monica was greeted with delicious smells when she opened the door to her cottage. She’d put a pot roast in her slow cooker that morning and the aroma was heavenly enough to make her mouth water.

  Mittens was on hand to greet her too, meowing loudly to indicate that it was time for dinner.

  Monica retrieved a can of cat food from the cupboard and, with the cat winding in and out between her legs, managed to open it and spoon it out into Mittens’s bowl.

  Mittens gave a satisfactory meow before digging into the meal.

  The back door opened, ushering in a blast of frigid air. The wind blew fresh snow across the threshold to the kitchen.

  “Is it snowing?” Monica asked, turning her head for a kiss.

  Greg’s lips were cold and his hands on her cheeks were even colder. “Yes. It’s started up again, I’m afraid, but it doesn’t look like it will last.”