by Peg Cochran
“What’s so funny?” Greg said.
“If they’ve destroyed any of Jeff’s equipment, it will be the end of the farm and he’ll be forced to sell. Which is the exact opposite of what this person . . . or persons . . . want.”
“Hoist upon their own petard, so to speak.”
“Exactly.” Monica sighed. “It would be funny if it wasn’t so serious.”
They rounded the bend in the path and the storage shed came into view.
Monica stopped in her tracks and grabbed Greg’s arm.
“Look,” she said, pointing.
“What the . . .” Greg said.
“I’d better call Jeff,” Monica said, pulling her cell phone from her purse.
Chapter 14
Jeff arrived, breathless, his jacket thrown over a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. Monica remembered giving them to him for Christmas two years earlier. They’d obviously roused him from bed. Monica felt bad—Jeff needed his rest when he could get it. A farm was a seven-days-a-week job and Jeff rarely took time off.
As Jeff got closer, Monica pointed toward the side of the storage shed. Jeff stopped and turned to look.
He swore vehemently and Monica heard him even from where she was standing. Jeff yanked off his hat and threw it on the ground in a fury.
Monica looked at the side of the storage shed again. The wood was worn and the paint was peeling. Jeff had planned to paint it in the spring. But now he’d have to do it sooner to wipe out the words that had been spray-painted in giant block letters on the side: Don’t sell the farm. Or else.
It was the same message Monica had received in the note, the one handed to her as she walked down Beach Hollow Road. She hadn’t told Jeff about that, not wanting to upset him or to sway his decision despite the fact she was praying he wouldn’t sell Sassamanash Farm.
Jeff was near tears. “Who did this? Who would do this to me?”
Monica picked his hat up off the ground and handed it to him, urging him to put it back on. His ears were already bright red from the cold.
“I don’t get it,” Jeff said as he pulled his hat down over his forehead. “It’s no one’s business but my own whether or not I sell the farm.”
“It seems someone in town has a strong opinion about it,” Greg said mildly.
“I didn’t tell you, I didn’t want to upset you,” Monica said. Guilt gnawed at her. Jeff had a right to know about anything that might affect him. “Someone handed me a note yesterday. I was walking down Beach Hollow Road, and it warned you not to sell. Or else.”
Jeff spun around and looked at the message sprayed onto the storage shed. “Those are the same words.”
“May I suggest we head back to the cottage,” Greg said, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and his collar pulled up around his ears. “I think we’ll find it a tad warmer.”
They began walking back toward the cottage. Jeff stopped and kicked at a clump of icy snow alongside the path.
“Feel better?” Monica said with a smile. She’d always been able to cheer her younger brother up and she felt as if she was failing him.
Jeff gave a self-conscious grin. “I guess so.”
The cottage felt blessedly warm after the frigid temperatures outdoors, almost too warm. Monica felt her face flushing and quickly peeled off her jacket and other outerwear. She immediately got busy pouring out cups of hot coffee while everyone else shed their outdoor gear.
Jeff sank into a chair at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.
“I feel so guilty. And so . . . selfish for wanting to sell the farm when it is going to affect so many people.”
“You have to do what’s right for you,” Monica said.
She tried to keep her voice neutral, although inside she was screaming at Jeff not to sell. But she knew that was equally selfish. If Jeff had a chance to repair the damage to his arm, who could blame him for taking it?
“And who knows?” Greg said. He was leaning against the counter cradling a mug of coffee in his hands. “Maybe the townspeople will actually enjoy having a shopping mall so close at hand.”
Jeff looked up, a stricken expression on his face. “A mall? I thought the developer was going to build a couple of houses here. I’d managed to convince myself that that wasn’t too entirely terrible. It would mean more customers for the merchants in town.” He groaned and put his face in his hands again. “Now I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t think anyone would blame you for taking a chance on this new therapy, even if that does mean selling,” Monica said. “Maybe if you let people know . . .”
She wanted to reach out and touch Jeff, hug him, but she held back. She knew it would only embarrass him.
“Sure.” Jeff swiveled around in his chair to face Monica. “And then if the therapy doesn’t work, people will say I sold them out for nothing.” He moaned again. “Either way, I’ll be a pariah.”
• • •
“I don’t imagine the townspeople will be very pleased about a mall opening minutes away,” Greg said, up to his elbows in soapy water. He turned to face Monica and water dripped down his arms. “I wonder if there will be a big chain bookstore? That won’t improve business at Book ’Em, I’m afraid.”
Monica chewed her lip. What if Book ’Em went under? What would they do then? She supposed they could move back to Chicago. Greg could go back to work in his old field and surely she’d be able to find some sort of job.
“I suppose it would have an impact.” They’d have to do something to make Book ’Em even more attractive, Monica thought. Greg already sold used books, which many of his customers appreciated. He ran several book groups and he scouted out rare first editions for collectors who were willing to pay for that sort of thing. What more could they do?
Monica suddenly had an idea. She was so startled she dropped the pan she was drying.
Greg gave her a funny look. “Everything okay?”
“We should open a café,” Monica blurted out.
Greg’s peculiar look became even more pronounced. “A café?” he said incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Book ’Em itself.” Monica was warming to the idea. “We are already planning to take over the second floor where your apartment is—that would give us plenty of space for a few tables and a counter. I could make the baked goods and we could offer coffee and tea.”
Greg closed his eyes as if considering the idea. “But most of the big chain bookstores have cafés in them. Why would people come to ours?”
“The personal touch,” Monica said triumphantly. Cranberry Cove residents appreciate going to places where the owners know their names and where they feel welcome. Are they going to get that in some large anonymous chain bookstore?”
“You might be right,” Greg said, plunging the last pan into the soapy water. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t know what Jeff’s decision is going to be yet.”
Monica paused with her hand on a cupboard door.
“Book ’Em wouldn’t be the only store that would feel the competition from mall stores. On the other hand, I don’t imagine people will stop going to Bart’s Butcher or the hardware store or the Purple Grape—people like convenience and that’s what they offer.
“And the mall is unlikely to include a butcher or a hardware store or a wine store,” Greg said dryly. “But most of them offer one of the bigger bookstores.”
“True,” Monica admitted. “But think of Tempest’s shop or Gina’s. They’re quite unique and probably won’t be duplicated. But what about the Pepper Pot or the dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn? A large chain restaurant would certainly give them a run for their money.”
“True. Maybe one of the owners of the restaurants is the person trying to send Jeff the message not to sell.”
“The Pepper Pot is under new ownership. I’m sure they’d be nervous about the competition.”
“Good point.” Greg ha
nded Monica the last pot. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”
Monica wasn’t so sure about that. A plan was hatching in her mind, but she decided it might be best not to share it with Greg just yet.
• • •
As soon as Greg left to run to the grocery store, Monica picked up her cell phone and dialed Gina.
“Why are you whispering?” Gina said after Monica said hello.
Monica cleared her throat. “I don’t know. I don’t want Greg to hear our conversation, but he’s left for the store. I guess I’m being overly cautious.”
“Now you really have me intrigued,” Gina purred.
Monica told Gina about the graffiti they’d discovered on the side of the storage shed that morning.
Gina gasped. “Oh, my poor Jeffie. Was he terribly upset? Who would do something like that to him?”
Monica explained her theory about how a restaurant owner, particularly Mickey Welch of the Pepper Pot, might be responsible for the messages meant to harass Jeff into deciding not to sell.
“What are we going to do?” Gina said. “I can’t bear thinking how upset Jeff must be.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” Monica said. “I have a plan.”
“I’m all ears,” Gina said.
“I think the owner of the Pepper Pot has the most to lose if a bigger, better-known restaurant opens nearby. It’s fairly new and so is the owner.” Monica paused. She had to put this delicately. “I need someone to feel him out, to get a sense of whether or not he might be the one behind this.”
Gina grunted. “I assume you want me to flirt with him a bit and see what I can weasel out of him. What does he look like?” She sighed. “Overweight and bald with false teeth, no doubt.”
Monica laughed. “Not at all. He has all his hair and all his teeth. He’s not unattractive.”
“Short? Tall?” Gina said.
“Tall enough. And muscular.”
“Oooh, I like muscular,” Gina cooed. “And if he invites me to dinner, at least the food will be good.”
“So you’ll do it?” Monica said.
“If this will help my Jeffie, of course.”
• • •
Wednesday morning, Monica prepared a carton of baked goods to take to the food pantry and carried it out to her car. It gave her such a good feeling to be able to contribute that she didn’t even mind the extra work or having to get up an hour earlier to get all the baking done.
Not that it had been easy to coax herself out from under her warm covers into the chill of the morning, but she’d managed it, having hit the snooze button on her alarm only once.
The skies were overcast with dark heavy clouds that portended snow. The water in the harbor was gray and choppy and gave Monica a chill. She turned the heater up a notch and luxuriated in the blast of warm air.
The volunteers at the food pantry had made a special effort to make it a relatively attractive place. The front window was gleaming and the sidewalk was cleared and swept, making it a total contrast to Flynn’s Bar next door, which looked even more derelict and dreary in the grim morning light.
Joyce was standing at the counter when Monica opened the door. She was dropping off a carton filled with cans of food and boxes of mixes. She smiled when she saw Monica.
“It’s Monica, isn’t it?” She turned to the volunteer standing behind the counter. “Monica is my patron saint. She saved me when I was waylaid by the side of the road with a dead battery.”
Monica tried to wave the compliment away, but Joyce was having none of it.
“I would have been stranded in the freezing cold,” she continued, “if it hadn’t been for her kindness in helping a poor old soul like me.”
“Really, it was nothing,” Monica insisted. She put her carton of baked goods on the counter.
“Mmmmm, those smell good,” Joyce said. “Some lucky people are really going to enjoy those goodies. What a lovely treat for them. And how kind of you to donate them.”
The door opened and Cheryl DeSantis walked in. Joyce looked at her and sniffed.
“That’s poor Marta’s cousin,” she whispered to Monica.
“Yes, I’ve met her,” Monica said, trying to edge toward the door.
“She took advantage of poor Marta,” Joyce said, lowering her voice as Cheryl swept past them and took a seat in the waiting room. “Even on the day she died.”
Monica stopped her retreat toward the door and moved closer to Joyce.
“What did she do?”
“I went over to visit with Marta that morning like I always do. I’d baked a fresh coffee cake and I thought she’d enjoy some. When I got there, Cheryl’s car was in the driveway. I was going to leave—I certainly didn’t want to visit with that woman there—but I thought I’d leave her the coffee cake in case she wanted some for a midmorning snack.”
Joyce took a long, deep breath. “I went up to the front door and knocked. Usually I just walked right in, but seeing as how Cheryl was there I thought better of it. I knocked good and loud but Marta didn’t come to the door. It was unlocked so I went inside, calling her name like I usually do.
“Well, what did I hear? The two of them, Marta and Cheryl, going at it hammer and tongs, as my dear mother used to say.”
“They were having words?” Monica said.
“They were shouting,” Joyce said, putting her fingers in her ears. “It was horrible. And to think that was Marta’s last day on earth. It makes me want to cry.”
“What did you do?”
“Do?” Joyce smoothed the front of her jacket. “Nothing. The last thing I wanted was to get involved with that harpy.” She inclined her head toward the waiting room, where Cheryl was leafing through a magazine. “I put the coffee cake on the table in the foyer and I left.”
“And that was the day Marta died,” Monica said.
“The very same,” Joyce said. “Pity I didn’t get to see her. I’ll never forgive Cheryl for that.”
• • •
Monica thought about her conversation with Joyce as she drove toward town. Had Cheryl been the one who had tried to smother Marta? By all accounts, Cheryl had been angry when Marta asked her to leave, but that had been quite a while ago. Why wait until now to kill her?
Monica drove down Beach Hollow Road toward town. She noticed that there were yellow notices in a number of shop windows. She pulled into an empty space by the diner. She thought she would treat herself to some take-out for lunch. The same piece of yellow paper was tacked in the diner’s window. Monica was walking toward it when a woman came up to her and shoved a notice of some sort—yellow like the ones in the shop windows—into her hand.
“Hope to see you there,” she said before she continued down the street.
Monica noticed she was handing notices to everyone she passed on the sidewalk. Was it an advertisement for the high school musical? A garage sale? It was too cold for a concert on the green.
Curious, she looked at the piece of paper in her hand. It was announcing an emergency meeting of the city council tomorrow evening at seven o’clock at the town hall to discuss stopping the potential sale of Sassamanash Farm to a developer. All were welcome to attend.
Monica balled up the piece of paper and stuffed it in her pocket. So now it wasn’t just one person who was against the sale. Whomever it was who had spray-painted the storage shed at the farm and had written that note that was handed to her, this was now a town-wide effort to stop the sale.
Monica was about to open the door to the diner when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Greg.
“Hello.”
“How do you manage to always put a smile into your voice?” Greg said, his tone affectionate.
“Well, I only do that when it’s you on the other end,” Monica said.
“I should hope so.” Greg laughed. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He paused. “But I didn’t call you just to hear your voice, as lovely as it is
. I wondered if you’d like to have lunch?”
“I was just about to pick up some take-out from the diner. Shall I get you something and bring it over to the bookstore?”
“Sounds perfect,” Greg said. “As long as it’s one of their grilled cheese sandwiches and a carton of tomato soup.”
“You are such an old-fashioned type of guy,” Monica teased.
“Things become a tradition for a reason,” Greg said. “See you in a few minutes?”
“As soon as I get our order,” Monica said, hanging up.
Gus nodded at her as she entered and she could have sworn she saw his lips move in a silent hello. She was convinced the other less-fortunate patrons waiting for their orders looked at her with a spark of jealousy and it gave her a lift.
She stood in the take-out line staring at the spattered and stained menu on the wall. What should she get? She realized that she was starved, which didn’t help—she wanted everything. She finally decided on a bowl of chili, which had won the diner a blue ribbon in a contest Michigan Magazine had run and which had brought a fresh influx of tourists to Cranberry Cove. And also a side of fries. They smelled so good bubbling away and crisping up in the hot oil in the fryer behind the counter that Monica couldn’t resist. She was quite sure she could talk Greg into sharing them with her.
Finally it was Monica’s turn. She gave her order to the woman behind the counter and stood aside to wait. It wouldn’t take long. Like most diners, the Cranberry Cove Diner prided itself on providing speedy service, something the fast-food chains were always trying to claim they had invented but which diners had perfected decades before they came into existence.
Monica collected her order, thanked the woman behind the counter, gave Gus a brief nod and headed out the door.
“I could smell you coming,” Greg said as soon as Monica opened the door to Book ’Em. “You are a lifesaver. I’m starved.”
