Berried in the Past

by Peg Cochran

  “Famous last words,” Monica said. “Jeff will be busy plowing tonight, I guess.” Monica took some potatoes from a basket in the pantry, rummaged in a drawer she had vowed a million times to clean out until she found her peeler, and began to peel the potatoes to add to the slow cooker now that the meat was nearly done.

  “Do you think the snow is going to stick?” she asked.

  Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s fairly light so far.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out two wineglasses. He held one toward Monica and raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes, thank you,” Monica said, opening the lid on the slow cooker and adding the potatoes. “I could do with a glass after the day I’ve had.”

  “Oh?”

  She told Greg about Detective Stevens’s call and the pathologist’s determination that Marta had died by smothering, helped along by a possible overdose of beta blockers.

  Greg poured them each a glass of red wine and held one out to Monica. She was raising the glass to her lips when she gasped.

  Greg frowned. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  Monica shook her head. “Not wrong, no. But I just remembered something.”

  “Oh?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

  “The pathologist thinks Marta had been smothered.”

  “And?” Greg smiled.

  “When Dana and I went to Marta’s house the day we found her body, I noticed a bed pillow was on the floor. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I can’t remember now but either Dana or I picked it up and put it back on the bed.” She looked at Greg. “But what if Marta had struggled and that’s how the pillow ended up on the floor?”

  “That could be. But there’s another possible explanation,” Greg said. He put his wineglass down on the counter. “The murderer has the pillow over Marta’s face.” He mimed smothering someone. “Then they hear something. Maybe a car coming down the driveway or someone moving around in the house. So what do they do? They throw the pillow down and run and the pillow ends up on the floor.”

  Monica’s face brightened. “Maybe it was Dana they heard.” She paced back and forth in front of the sink. “Dana thought someone was trying to kill her. Maybe they were.” She stood still for a moment, thinking. “Maybe she interrupted the killer while they had the pillow over Marta’s face. They threw the pillow away and went after Dana instead. Maybe they didn’t even know whether or not they’d killed Marta. It wasn’t until afterward that they learned they had.”

  “Good thinking, Miss Marple,” Greg said with a grin.

  Monica’s expression turned somber. “I shouldn’t be making light of this. It’s not a game—someone is dead.”

  “True.” Greg bowed his head. He looked up suddenly. “I do think your hypothesis has merit though. Are you going to share it with Detective Stevens?”

  Monica sighed. “I don’t think so. I’ve made enough of a pest of myself already.”

  • • •

  Monica was up early. The previous day’s snow had stopped but the temperature still wasn’t much above zero degrees. The thought of getting out of her nice warm bed was daunting but she forced herself to throw back the covers and pull on her robe.

  She tiptoed down to the kitchen—Greg was still asleep and even Mittens hadn’t stirred off the bed—to make some coffee. As soon as the machine stopped gurgling, she filled her cup and carried it back upstairs. She put her mug down on the edge of the sink and splashed her face with water. She gasped. She should have waited for it to heat up—it was always cold when you ran it first thing in the morning.

  She dressed quickly and headed downstairs for breakfast. She wanted to get to the farm kitchen early to begin baking. She was planning on taking some more bread and muffins to the food pantry and she needed some stock for the farm store as well.

  After a quick breakfast, Monica headed out, her parka zipped all the way to her chin and a scarf wrapped around her neck.

  The sun was just rising, its rays glinting off the new fallen snow into prisms of color. Monica took a deep breath. It was good to be alive.

  The door to the storage room was closed when Monica got to the farm kitchen. She supposed Kit was still sleeping—unless he’d found somewhere else to stay?

  Nonetheless, she made as little noise as she could, although it was impossible to stifle the noise the mixer made when she turned it on. She was putting the first batches of muffins in the oven when the storage room door creaked open.

  Kit stood in the doorway, yawning and scratching his head.

  “You’re here early today.”

  “I’m baking some things to take to the food pantry.”

  “Will you be okay if I run to the gym to take a shower?”

  Monica smiled. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Monica finished baking, packed everything into a box and carried it out to her car. It gave her a good feeling to be giving back to the community and helping those less fortunate.

  Monica took the winding road that led into town. The wind was blowing from the west and the waves on the lake, which she could see when she crested the hill, were tipped with white foam, and the water in the harbor, under the bridge, was choppy.

  A volunteer was unlocking the door to the food pantry when Monica got there. The woman, whose white hair was tinged with lavender, held the door open as Monica carried her box inside.

  “You’ve brought more fresh baked goods,” she said with an enormous smile. “How wonderful. I can’t tell you how much it’s appreciated.”

  “I’m glad.” Monica put the box on the counter. She recognized the woman as Dorothy, the volunteer she’d spoken to on her earlier visit to the food pantry.

  A sudden banging on the front door startled them both.

  “Honestly.” Dorothy pursed her lips as the person continued to rattle the doorknob. “What is wrong with some people? The door is open,” she called out.

  A man stumbled into the room. As he got closer, a very unpleasant odor washed over Monica. He smelled like Flynn’s, the dive bar next door—whiskey, spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. His shirt and pants were worn and rumpled and his hair, so greasy he couldn’t possibly have washed it recently, curled over his collar.

  Dorothy made a face. “Oh, no, here’s Don again. We haven’t seen him since Marta passed away.”

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Don said as he wove his way toward the counter.

  Dorothy didn’t say anything. She merely tightened her lips and gripped the edge of the counter.

  “Can I help you?” she said when Don reached her.

  “Gotta get me some food.” He smiled, showing brownish teeth. “I’m a pretty good cook, did I tell you that?”

  Dorothy withdrew into herself like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

  “Our volunteers are organizing the shelves,” she said, her lips still clenched together. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a few minutes.”

  Don turned to Monica and smiled. “Who’s this? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, sweetheart.”

  Monica gave a weak smile and turned to Dorothy for support.

  Don’s smile faded and he moved on, lurching toward the chairs in the waiting room.

  “Who is that?” Monica said, watching as Don banged his knee against a table before collapsing into a chair.

  “He’s the thorn in our side,” Dorothy said. “Everyone says he’s harmless but I’m not so sure. He comes around regularly, usually after spending some time at Flynn’s next door.” She rolled her eyes. “He was particularly drawn to Marta Kuiper, who used to volunteer here.” Dorothy fiddled with a pen on the counter. “Poor Marta! She was terribly quiet, a lovely lady but not very worldly, if you know what I mean.” Dorothy raised an eyebrow at Monica.

  Monica nodded.

  “So she really didn’t know how to deal with his attentions.” Dorothy gave a half smile. “I would have told him to scram, quite frankly.”

  Monica was surprised. Dorothy appeared meek and mild on the surface b
ut obviously she was made of sterner stuff.

  “He used to follow Marta around while she stocked the shelves. Patrons aren’t really allowed back there unless they’re picking out their food, and then we only let them go in one at a time, but somehow he always managed to slip in unnoticed.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Was he hostile toward Marta?” Monica said. “Do you think he meant to do her harm?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. For some reason he’d taken a shine to her. Maybe she reminded him of his mother, I don’t know. You never know with people, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Is he homeless?”

  “No. He said he has a room somewhere with a kitchenette. And he has a car, too. The muffler is gone and you can hear him coming from a mile away. When he’s sober enough, he does odd jobs around town.”

  Don was now sitting quietly in the waiting room, rocking back and forth and singing softly to himself.

  Monica looked at him. He seemed harmless enough, more a danger to himself than anyone else. Had he merely annoyed Marta or had she sensed something else in him—violent tendencies perhaps?

  As Dorothy said, you never knew with people. Maybe Don had snapped, infuriated by Marta’s lack of interest in him. Maybe he’d found out where she lived or had followed her home.

  Somehow Monica couldn’t see how he would have managed to give Marta an overdose of beta blockers, but perhaps she had accidentally done that herself? And he had found her nearly unconscious and had taken the opportunity to smother her?

  Chapter 9

  “Some man was pestering Marta?” Dana asked, her tone incredulous. “She never said.”

  Dana had stopped by Monica’s cottage to let her know that Marta’s funeral had been rescheduled now that the police had released the body.

  Monica had been hoping to finish her lunch and get back to the kitchen to bake some cookies and to have another go at a cranberry coffee cake she was trying to perfect, but she could hardly turn Dana away.

  Dana was sitting opposite her at the kitchen table with the cup of tea Monica had made her. She’d tossed her coat over the back of a chair but still had her silk and cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. Her lipstick had left a smudge of pink on the edge of her teacup.

  Monica explained about Don from the food pantry and how Dorothy had said he’d been fixated on Marta.

  “That really is curious,” Dana said. “Do you think he did it? Killed Marta, I mean.”

  “Dorothy, one of the volunteers at the food pantry, seems to know him and thinks he’s harmless albeit annoying.”

  Monica finished the last of her sandwich and brushed some crumbs from her sweatshirt.

  “Do you know someone named Cheryl DeSantis?” Monica asked. “I met her at the food pantry, too. She said she’s your cousin.”

  Dana made a face. “She’s our father’s stepsister’s daughter. When his mother died, his father remarried. Cheryl’s mother was unfortunately part of the package. She had Cheryl at seventeen. Cheryl has always been a handful almost from the minute she was born,” Dana hastened to explain. “Always in trouble of some sort whether it was shoplifting some eye shadow, drinking underage or driving without a license. You never knew what she was going to get up to next.” She sighed.

  “Cheryl said she used to live with Marta but she decided to leave because she wanted to get her own place.”

  Dana gave a surprisingly unladylike hoot of laughter. “She said that?” She shook her head. “Trust Cheryl to lie about something like that.”

  “So . . . that isn’t true?” Monica pushed back her chair, picked up her plate and carried it to the sink.

  “Not in the least. It couldn’t be further from the truth.” Dana pushed her teacup away, put her arms on the table and leaned toward Monica, who had taken her seat again. “Marta threw Cheryl out, pure and simple.” She paused for a moment. “Actually, to put it more accurately, John and I threw Cheryl out. Marta didn’t have the heart to do it.”

  She took a deep breath. “Cheryl abused Marta’s kindness—coming home drunk at all hours, smoking in the house when Marta asked her not to.” She blew out some air. “More than once Marta woke up, only to run into a strange man on her way to the bathroom!” She shuddered and turned to Monica. “Can you imagine? Cheryl brought men home with no regard for Marta’s feelings or privacy.”

  Dana narrowed her eyes. “I wonder if the police will ever solve my poor sister’s murder?” She stood up, put on her coat and gathered together her belongings. “Thank you for the tea,” she said as Monica opened the door for her. Her expression turned serious and she put a hand on Monica’s arm. “I do appreciate your support.”

  Monica watched as Dana backed down the driveway and then disappeared down the road.

  Thoughts were spinning in her head. Cheryl had lied to her, which probably wouldn’t have meant anything under ordinary circumstances. Cheryl sounded like the type of person who wouldn’t think twice about stretching the truth if it suited her. But if Cheryl was the killer, she might have lied for a different reason. She might have realized that the truth would have given her a motive. Because no doubt she would have been extremely angry about being ejected from the comfort of Marta’s house, only to end up living out of her car.

  On the other hand, had Dana had an ulterior motive in telling Monica all this since it pointed a finger at Cheryl and away from herself?

  • • •

  Monica was reaching for her parka when Jeff knocked on the back door. She stifled a sigh as she opened it.

  Jeff stamped his feet a couple of times, kicking off the snow, and walked into the kitchen.

  Monica thought his expression was rather hangdog.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Monica glanced at the clock. Hopefully Kit would start on the cookies after he finished his lunch. He was definitely a self-starter, so Monica imagined she was worrying for no reason.

  Jeff slouched in his chair, his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. Monica got the impression he was nervous. What was it he wanted to tell her?

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee would be great.” Jeff’s tone was glum.

  Monica measured out the coffee, filled the carafe with water and poured it into the machine, all the while trying to imagine what Jeff had to tell her that had him looking the way he did.

  She waited until the machine had finished, poured each of them a cup and carried them to the table.

  “So,” she said in what she hoped was a positive-sounding voice, “what is it you want to tell me?” She smiled reassuringly at Jeff.

  Jeff reached for the sugar bowl and carefully added two spoonsful to his cup. He took his time stirring it in, all the while avoiding meeting Monica’s eyes. Finally, he looked up.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  Monica felt her stomach clench. Was something wrong with Jeff? With Lauren? Had they broken up?

  “Sometimes you just have to say it,” she said, reaching out and patting Jeff’s hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed in me, Sis.”

  Monica recalled her conversation with Greg. “I could never be disappointed in you.” She smiled reassuringly. “So, come on. Out with it. It can’t be that bad.”

  Jeff took a deep breath like someone about to dive into a pool.

  “I’m thinking of selling the farm,” he said in a rush.

  Everything stood still. Monica felt her head swim. The ticking of the clock sounded exceptionally loud to her ears and she felt her breath speed up.

  “But wh-why?” She could only stutter. “Why would you do that?”

  Jeff spread his hand out, palm up, on the table. His other hand lay limply in his lap. He picked up his damaged arm with his good one. “Because of this.”

  He let his arm drop back into his lap.

&
nbsp; “But aren’t you managing? I thought you were managing okay. I mean, I know it hasn’t been easy but . . .”

  “Ever since I heard about that new therapy for injuries like mine, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I dream about it—about putting both my arms around Lauren’s waist and not just one. About being able to cut my own meat and not need help buttoning my shirt.” He choked back a sob.

  “I didn’t realize,” Monica said. “I thought you had come to terms with it.”

  “I had. I have,” Jeff said. “But I’m tired of it. I’m tired of simply managing. I want to be my old self again.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course, no one comes back from that hellish place like their old selves. There will always be scars.”

  He looked at Monica and straightened his shoulders. “So I want to sell the farm to get the money for the procedure.”

  “But what will you do? Where will you go without the farm?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Maybe the buyer would let you stay on and manage the farm.”

  Jeff immediately shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” He ducked his head. “The buyer doesn’t want the farm, he wants the land.”

  “The land? What is he going to do with it?”

  “He’s a developer. I suppose he’ll build homes here.”

  “Not another one of those developments with huge modern houses? That will ruin Cranberry Cove.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Believe me. If there was another way . . . But I don’t see how I could raise the cash otherwise.”

  Monica was stunned. She couldn’t imagine bulldozers ripping the farm apart and houses being built where the bogs were now. What about all the birds and other small creatures that would be displaced?

  “I wish I knew what to say to change your mind,” she said.

  She only wanted what was best for Jeff, she always had. And she could understand how much he wanted to be rid of his disability.