Berried in the Past

by Peg Cochran

“Ted,” he called to the young man he’d hired to help him in the shop. “Can you man the front desk while we have lunch?”

  Ted appeared around the end of one of the bookshelves. He tossed his head so that his shock of ginger-colored hair was flung off his forehead momentarily before it flopped back again. According to Greg, he knew the current bestselling authors inside and out and had been invaluable in recommending new books to customers.

  They took their bags of take-out into Greg’s office at the back of the shop. Greg moved a stack of papers from the chair to the floor and cleared a space on his desk by sweeping his arm across it.

  Monica felt her toes curl up. She wouldn’t be able to work in such a disorganized space but it didn’t seem to bother Greg in the least.

  Delicious odors filled the air when Monica opened the bag from the diner. She inhaled deeply and her stomach grumbled loudly.

  “You are hungry,” Greg teased.

  “And that surprises me since I just saw something rather upsetting.” Monica pried the lid off her chili container and spooned up a bite. “They are holding an emergency city council meeting tomorrow night to hear arguments against the sale of Sassamanash Farm to that developer, Bob whatever-his-name-was from Shoreline Development.”

  “Tapper. Bob Tapper, I think he said.” Greg unwrapped his grilled cheese sandwich. “Does that mean Jeff has already made up his mind to sell, I wonder?”

  Monica shrugged. “I don’t know. How else would the town have gotten wind of it?”

  “The developer might have met with them to discuss his plans, to make sure there wouldn’t be any problems with zoning if he did go through with the purchase.”

  “Wouldn’t the town have told him that Jeff’s farm isn’t zoned for commercial development?” Monica plucked a French fry from the container on Greg’s desk.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is zoned for that. Who knows when the zoning laws were passed? They might have assumed Jeff’s farm would always be there so it wouldn’t ever become an issue.”

  Suddenly Monica wasn’t so hungry after all. She put down her container of chili.

  Greg raised his eyebrows. “What’s the matter? I thought you were hungry.”

  “I was. But the thought of Jeff selling the farm is making me feel sick to my stomach.”

  “We don’t know he’s going to sell. This might be a preemptive move on the part of the city council in case Jeff decides to sell. The developer isn’t going to buy the property if he can’t build his mall.”

  “True.” Monica sighed. That made her feel slightly better. She picked up her container of chili again and took a bite.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” she said, pointing her plastic spoon at Greg. “I dropped some baked goods off at the food pantry and Cheryl DeSantis was there. She’s Marta Kuiper’s cousin.”

  Monica took a sip of her iced tea. “Joyce Murphy was there, too, and she sure had a lot to say about Cheryl.”

  “Oh?” Greg paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth.

  “I got an earful about Cheryl—about how she took advantage of poor dear Marta.” Monica clutched her hands to her chest. “Sometimes I wonder if Marta was really the saint everyone makes her out to be.”

  “A hidden life?” Greg teased with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Maybe not that exactly. But a secret perhaps? Everyone has secrets.”

  “So what did Joyce have to say about Cheryl?”

  “This is the interesting part. Joyce went over to Marta’s house the day Marta died. She’d made a coffee cake to take to her. But apparently Cheryl was already there.” Monica reached out and took another French fry. She motioned to the container. “Have some.

  “Joyce heard Marta and Cheryl arguing. Going at it hammer and tongs, as she put it.”

  “Did she hear what they were arguing about?” Greg removed the lid on his container of tomato soup, releasing fragrant steam into the air.

  “Unfortunately, no. She put the coffee cake on the table in the foyer and left.”

  “So you’re thinking that Cheryl killed Marta in the heat of an argument,” Greg said.

  “That seems possible, but what about the beta blockers? How would she have managed to get Marta to take them?” Monica said.

  “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe Marta took them herself. She took too many accidentally and began to get woozy so Cheryl urged her to lie down. And while Marta was weakened and faint from the pills, Cheryl took advantage of it and smothered her.” Greg rummaged in the paper bag for a spoon.

  “I still think John had the strongest motive though. He obviously needs money and Marta was standing in the way of selling their property.” Monica scraped the last bit of her chili out of the container.

  “What about Dana? How do we know she’s telling the truth? Maybe she doesn’t have amnesia at all, maybe she made it all up. She might have the same motivation as John—money.”

  Monica dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “Dana has a good job. She doesn’t look as if she’s desperate for money, at least not desperate enough to kill.”

  “You never know,” Greg said. “Look at her brother. You said he drives a Jaguar and his wife is all decked out in . . . what do you call it? Bling?” He sighed. “I wish I could do that for you.” His tone was wistful.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Monica slapped him on the knee. “I couldn’t care less about bling. It’s you I want.”

  • • •

  Monica phoned Kit after leaving Book ’Em and he assured her he was managing fine without her, which she had to admit did give her a slight pang. She had decided to visit Windhaven Terrace again in hopes that she and Mildred Visser could continue their interrupted conversation.

  Snow was starting to fall as Monica drove out to Windhaven Terrace—lake-effect snow according to the weatherman on the radio. The day was dark and streetlights were already coming on, illuminating the swirling flakes. Monica flicked on her headlights and turned on her windshield wipers.

  A thin coating of snow covered the parking lot of the nursing home by the time Monica got there. She found a parking space as close to the door as possible and dashed toward the building. Nonetheless, she had to brush snow off the shoulders of her coat when she reached the shelter of the lobby.

  A different woman sat behind the front desk this time. Monica asked for Mrs. Mildred Visser.

  “She’s right over there.” The receptionist pointed toward the other end of the lobby, where a wheelchair was pulled up to the gas fireplace. She handed Monica a visitor’s badge.

  Monica pinned it to her coat as she crossed the lobby. An aide was sitting with Mildred and they were chatting.

  “Good afternoon,” Monica said as she approached.

  Mildred looked more frail than she had the day before and her hand shook as she smoothed the afghan over her knees.

  Monica bent down toward her. “Do you remember me? I visited you yesterday. My name is Monica Albertson.”

  Mildred’s eyes looked unfocused. She became agitated, plucking at the quilt in her lap. “Who, dear?”

  “Monica. Monica Albertson. I showed you a photograph of you and your friends Marta Kuiper and Joyce Murphy.” Monica cursed herself for leaving the photo at home.

  “If you say so, dear,” Mildred said. She smiled.

  Monica sighed. “You were going to tell me a story about Marta and Joyce. Something that happened a long time ago.”

  “Was I, dear? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  The aide, who had a kind face etched with deep wrinkles, reached out and patted Mildred’s hand. She looked up at Monica.

  “It’s called sundowners. It often happens to patients with dementia, even those who are only lightly touched by the disease. It occurs in the late afternoon and evening and can cause anxiety and disorientation. That’s why I’m sitting with Mildred. She was becoming agitated and aggressive earlier.”

  “Can something be done about it?” Monica said. What an awful disease, she thought.
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  The aide looked sad. “I’m afraid not. We try to keep to a routine, which helps minimize it, but there’s no way to prevent it altogether.”

  Monica grabbed an armless chair and pulled it up close to Mildred.

  “Do you remember anything about Marta and Joyce?” she asked gently.

  Mildred’s face brightened and Monica’s spirits soared.

  “I do remember they were great friends,” Mildred said. “They did everything together.” She leaned closer to Monica. “Sometimes they even dressed alike.” She gave a satisfied smile. “They liked to pretend they were sisters. Joyce was an only child and Marta’s sister was barely older than a baby.”

  “Last time I was here, you started to tell me about something that happened with Marta and Joyce. It sounded as if it was something important.” Monica held her breath.

  Mildred’s expression became troubled, and Monica noticed the aide moving closer.

  “I don’t know, dear. There are lots of stories, but I don’t think they would interest you. There was the one time though . . .”

  Monica held her breath, hanging on Mildred’s every word.

  “Joyce had a boyfriend. He was a bit wild and came from what we used to call the wrong side of the tracks. Joyce accused Marta of flirting with him and they got into an awful row. But then something terrible happened.” She rubbed her forehead. “I wish I could remember what it was.”

  Monica was disappointed. She was certain that wasn’t what Mildred had planned to tell her the last time she was here. But it didn’t seem as if she would be able to get anything more out of her. Mildred’s hands were becoming still in her lap and her lids were heavy and starting to close.

  “I think the poor dear is ready for her bed,” the aide said, smiling kindly at Monica.

  She released the brakes on the wheelchair and began wheeling it toward the elevators.

  Monica reluctantly got up and buttoned her coat. She was disappointed. She was certain there was something important that Mildred had buried in the depths of her memory.

  Chapter 15

  The snow had stopped by the time Monica left Windhaven Terrace. The accumulation in the parking lot was already melting, the heavy dark clouds had moved on and the sliver of a moon was visible in the sky.

  She shivered as she cranked up the heat and pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the highway. Traffic was moving slowly because of the weather and Monica was relieved when she saw the Welcome to Cranberry Cove sign. The shops along Beach Hollow Road were already closed for the night. Streetlights shone on their front windows but the interiors were dark and shadowed.

  The road was a bit slick going down the hill to the farm, but Monica slowed and made it without incident.

  Her mind was whirling with ideas and information. Greg had suggested that Dana might not be as innocent as she seemed, and now Monica was not so sure herself. She decided she would start by verifying that Dana really was employed as a registrar at Michigan State University, as she’d said. Perhaps she was unemployed and needed money as much as her brother did?

  The cottage was dark when Monica arrived home. Greg had said he would be late—he’d had a shipment of new books come in and needed to enter them in the inventory and make room for them on the shelves.

  Monica spent a few minutes petting Mittens, who appeared glad to see her but who marched off in high dudgeon when Monica tried to scratch her tummy. Clearly Mittens was not in the mood for that tonight.

  Monica set her laptop on the kitchen table and powered it up. Her first search was on the Michigan State University website. She clicked on the About section, where she looked for Dana Bakker’s name to be listed as the current registrar.

  Suddenly Monica’s computer froze. She groaned in frustration and tried to refresh the page. Nothing. Their Internet was out. Even though the snow had stopped, the wind had picked up and was howling around the house and rattling the windows. It must have affected their connection.

  Monica sighed, powered down her laptop and closed it. She felt antsy. She didn’t want to wait until the Internet came back up. She glanced at the clock over the sink. Greg probably wouldn’t be home for at least an hour yet and she had a container of butternut squash soup in the freezer they could heat up for dinner.

  She grabbed her jacket, pulled it on and headed back out the door.

  The sky had cleared completely now and was sprinkled with stars. Monica turned up the car heater and headed into town.

  There were a few cars in the library parking lot when Monica pulled in. The lights shining through the windows and over the front entrance were bright against the dark night.

  A blast of warm air greeted Monica when she pushed open the front door. It felt stuffy inside after the freezing temperatures outside. She quickly unzipped her jacket and took off her gloves and scarf.

  Phyllis Bouma was behind the checkout desk sorting through a stack of DVDs. She looked up and smiled at Monica. She didn’t go back to what she’d been doing but watched Monica instead, one hand still resting on the stack of DVDs.

  She was beginning to make Monica feel uncomfortable. Why was Phyllis staring at her with such intensity? Then it struck her and she nearly stumbled.

  Phyllis was still convinced that Monica was pregnant and was looking for any signs that her guess was right. Monica felt her face flush. Soon everyone in town would be wondering and watching, too.

  She hurried to one of the desks hidden from view behind one of the stacks and quickly got her computer up and running.

  The website for the university loaded quickly and Monica once again clicked on the About section. She scrolled down until she found the administration tab. Numerous names were listed but she found the name of the registrar easily enough.

  And it wasn’t Dana Bakker.

  Why had Dana lied about her position? Had she recently resigned or retired?

  • • •

  Monica was surprised to find that Kit had already started baking when she arrived at the farm kitchen the next morning.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said when he noticed Monica’s look of surprise.

  “So you’re still mad at Sean, I take it.”

  “I’m starting to mellow.” Kit grinned. “There’s nothing like sleeping on a hard floor to persuade you to change your mind.”

  “That’s good news.” Monica hesitated. “Since you’re already so far along with the baking, would you mind if I ran some errands for a couple of hours?”

  “Be my guest, dear,” Kit said, sifting flour into a bowl. “Leave me to it. No need to worry.”

  “Great. Thanks.” She hesitated. “You are a lifesaver, you know.”

  Kit threw his hands in the air. “Girl, now you’re making me blush.”

  • • •

  The drive to East Lansing was fairly quick. Traffic was light at this time of day, the commuters already getting settled at their desks at work. After little more than an hour Monica exited the highway and turned onto Grand River Drive. The Michigan State University campus was on the right. She turned into the main entrance and stopped a young woman wheeling a bicycle down the path to ask for directions.

  Monica rehearsed what she was going to say as she drove past the majestic brick buildings toward the Hannah Administration Building, and by the time she arrived was feeling slightly more confident.

  The office was busy with a number of students, laden with bulging backpacks, gathered around the front desk. Monica finally made her way to the front of the line.

  “I’m here to see the registrar, Dana Bakker,” she said, trying to sound confident.

  The woman behind the counter looked confused. She perched the glasses that had been hanging from a chain around her neck on her nose, as if they would help illuminate the situation.

  “Dana Bakker? I’m afraid she left six months ago. Our new registrar is Jaclyn Morris. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Monica said. “I . . . I’m
an old acquaintance of Miss Bakker’s, we were at school together. I was told she worked here and since I was in the area, I thought I would stop in and say hello.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, removing her glasses and letting them drop back onto her chest. “I wish I could help but I can’t give out any more information than that.”

  Monica turned to leave and nearly bumped into two girls standing behind her. They were both giggling, their hands over their mouths.

  “You asked about Miss Bakker,” the taller one said. She giggled again. She had long dark hair and bangs that nearly brushed her eyelashes. “You didn’t hear what happened?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Everyone was talking about it,” the other girl said. She had her blond hair gathered into a wobbly bun on top of her head.

  “Let’s go outside,” Monica said, casting an eye toward the woman behind the counter. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure,” the girls chorused eagerly. “There’s a Starbucks not far from here.”

  “Starbucks it is then,” Monica said. “You lead the way.”

  The girls chattered to each other as they walked out to Grand River Avenue and the local Starbucks.

  The place was busy, and when Monica looked at the menu she was surprised that college kids could afford the prices. She got herself a plain coffee and lattes for the girls.

  “So tell me about Dana Bakker,” Monica said when they were all settled with their drinks.

  “She had to resign her position,” the girl with the bangs said.

  The blond snorted. She looked at her friend. “More like she was fired.”

  “True, but the university tried to put a good spin on it.”

  “Why? Why was she fired? Do you know?”

  The girls exchanged a glance.

  The dark-haired girl spoke. “She was having an affair with a student, which is frowned upon but not something they could fire her for. I mean, the guy was over twenty-one. But then he posted some . . . um . . . pictures of her on the Internet. When the administration found out, they said it was conduct that went against the university’s values.”