by Peg Cochran
“Did Marta go with him?” Monica was engrossed in Mildred’s story and had barely noticed the passage of time. The sun had moved from the far corner of the window to the middle and its rays were now shining on the floor of Mildred’s room.
“No one really knows what happened but empty beer cans were found in the bottom of the boat and Marta had clearly been drinking when the rescue workers reached her.”
“Rescue workers?”
Mildred nodded. “Yes. There was a terrible accident. They crashed into a buoy in the channel. Matt was thrown from the boat and they assume he must have hit his head. He was a good swimmer but still he drowned. That often happens, doesn’t it?” She looked at Monica with a sad smile. “It was weeks before they found his body.”
“How horrible.”
“When the rescue workers took Marta aboard their boat they said that she was quite drunk. No one knows how many of those beers she drank, but it wouldn’t have taken very many to get her drunk since I doubt she’d ever touched alcohol before. Her parents didn’t approve of drinking and were quite strict about it.”
“Did Joyce blame Marta for the accident?”
“Of course. She wanted to know what Marta had been doing on that boat with Matt when she wasn’t there. She blamed Marta for distracting Matt when he was driving the boat. Although frankly, it’s hard to imagine Marta doing that. And Matt had always been very reckless, everyone knew that.”
“What did Marta say?”
Mildred plucked at a loose thread in the woven throw over her knees. “She insisted the outing had been perfectly innocent.”
“Did Joyce believe her?”
“I don’t think so. At least not at first.” Mildred’s eyes closed briefly then fluttered open again. “Poor Joyce never did marry. She mourned for Matt and what could never be for so long that everything passed her by.”
“But Joyce must have come around because they became friendly again later in life,” Monica said.
“I guess Joyce was finally willing to let bygones be bygones.”
• • •
But had she really? Monica wondered as she pulled out of the parking lot of Windhaven Terrace. Or had she nursed her anger all these years until it turned into murderous rage?
Monica thought about it as she drove home. She found it hard to picture Joyce in the role of coldblooded killer. It was much easier to imagine John doing the deed. He had a financial incentive to get rid of Marta. What incentive did Joyce have? Surely by now her bitterness over losing her boyfriend must have faded.
She remembered a conversation she’d had with Joyce. Joyce had told her that Marta’s cousin Cheryl had been at the house the day Marta had died and Joyce had heard them arguing.
It was easier to imagine Cheryl killing Marta in a rage over having been tossed out of the house. She was living in her car and picking up food at the food pantry. Life with Marta, no matter how stark, had to have been better than that.
And don’t forget Dana, a little voice whispered to Monica. She had a financial incentive as well, out of a job and in disgrace. Perhaps she had turned to murder to solve her problems?
Monica groaned. She felt no closer to the solution than she had been the day they’d found Marta’s dead body.
She decided to put all thoughts of Marta’s murder out of her mind as she drove home. She flicked on the radio and tried to follow an interesting program on NPR, but when she finally pulled into the driveway of her cottage, she realized she’d barely heard a word that had been said.
Greg was at the stove stirring something in a pot when Monica walked in. The kitchen was redolent with good smells and Monica sniffed appreciatively as she hung up her jacket and scarf.
“That smells delicious,” she said, peering over Greg’s shoulder.
“Arrabbiata sauce for some pasta,” Greg said. He kissed Monica on the cheek. “What do you prefer, penne or rigatoni?”
“I’ll leave that up to the cook. Is there anything I can do?”
“Set the table maybe?” Greg turned around. “Let me get my things off first, though.”
Papers, Greg’s laptop, and a calculator were spread out over the kitchen table.
“I’ve been going over the store accounts,” he said as he gathered things together.
“Is everything okay?” Monica paused with her hand on the cupboard door.
“Fine. Just routine bookkeeping.”
Monica opened the cupboard, took out bowls, silverware and napkins and carried them to the table.
Mittens wandered into the kitchen, stopped to stretch and then casually walked over to her dish and peered into it.
“I haven’t forgotten you,” Monica said and reached for the bag of cat food. She filled the dish and added some of Mittens’s favorite wet food on top.
“Did you have any luck with your source today?” Greg paused in his stirring.
Monica smiled inwardly at Greg’s use of the word source.
“Yes. I did learn something new. It turns out that—”
Monica’s cell phone rang, interrupting her.
“Hello?”
Monica was surprised to hear Dana’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Monica, I’m at Marta’s house. You won’t believe this but my memory is starting to come back.”
Chapter 20
Dana had said she wanted to talk to Monica in person. Monica finished her dinner, put her plate in the dishwasher and grabbed her coat.
Greg looked up from the papers he’d spread out all over the kitchen table again.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, that’s fine,” Monica said as she searched in her purse for her car keys. “You’re busy and there’s no need for both of us to go.”
Greg smiled at her. “Be careful then.”
Monica blew him a kiss. “I will.”
The road to Marta’s farmhouse was dark with the few streetlights spread far apart. A pickup truck was behind Monica, its headlights lighting up the interior of her car. She wished the driver would pass her. There was a dotted yellow line and a clear view of the road ahead.
The longer the person followed her, the more nervous Monica became. She wished she’d let Greg come with her. Her hands were starting to sweat and she pulled off her gloves. She’d driven this road many times before so that didn’t bother her. It was a general sense of unease that the dark night and the persistent tailing of the truck behind her were causing.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she turned into Marta’s driveway and the pickup truck zoomed past her on its way to somewhere else.
She was letting her nerves get the better of her. She took a deep breath and parked the car.
There was only one light on in the house, shining out of Marta’s bedroom window. That was strange, Monica thought.
She was sitting in her car for a minute collecting her thoughts when an idea struck her. It made perfect sense. All the pieces fit and it tied everything together.
Her excitement mounting, she rang the front doorbell and waited.
Dana was slightly breathless when she answered the door. She was wearing a pair of jeans but looked as elegant as always in a cashmere V-neck sweater and an artfully tied silk scarf. She was holding what looked to Monica like legal papers.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” she said, opening the door wider. “I was upstairs in Marta’s room.”
Dana went into the living room and turned on several of the lights.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks. I’ve just finished dinner,” Monica said.
Dana put a hand to her mouth. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your meal.”
Monica shook her head. “Not at all.”
“Please sit down,” Dana said, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. She tapped the papers she’d been carrying in her hand before tucking them alongside her on the chair. “I found Marta’s will. It was in her dresser drawer under her nightgowns.”
�
��You said your memory has started coming back,” Monica said.
“Yes. Not all of it, unfortunately, just more bits and pieces. It’s like fog clearing and you catch a glimpse of what’s ahead, but then it descends again before you can see the whole picture. It’s been so frustrating.” Dana rubbed her forehead. “I do now remember being hit on the head by someone. It’s quite clear. They grabbed something off the nightstand and lunged at me.” She shuddered. “I was so frightened. I managed to get away. I remember nearly tripping on my way down the stairs.” Dana traced the burn hole in the arm of the chair with her finger.
“But still no memory of who the person was?”
“I’m afraid not. That part is still a blur. When you arrived I was up in Marta’s room trying to find whatever it was the person had hit me with. The proverbial blunt instrument.” She gave a harsh laugh. “I even looked under the bed, but there’s no sign of anything that could have been used as a weapon.”
“Perhaps the killer took whatever it was with them?”
“They must have.”
“Do you still have Marta’s checkbook and bank statements?” Monica said.
“Yes, of course.” Dana frowned. “Why?”
“I had an idea about those five-hundred-dollar checks Marta regularly wrote to cash.”
“Oh? I still have all her financial stuff on the kitchen table. I’m afraid I still haven’t gotten around to filing it all away.”
Monica followed Dana into the kitchen. Dana sat at the table and pulled a stack of papers toward her. Sandwiched in between them was Marta’s checkbook.
“Did you look to see who endorsed the backs of those checks?”
Dana looked puzzled. “No, why?”
“I have a theory,” Monica said. “But I could be wrong.”
Dana flipped through the checkbook. “Here’s one of them,” she said, pointing to the check register. “Let me see if I have the statement.” She glanced at the register again. “December fifth is the date so the check should be in the December statement.”
She reached into a bin full of folders on the floor beside her chair and ruffled through the contents.
“Here it is.” She pulled out an envelope and removed the bank statement and canceled checks. She glanced at the register again. “Number one zero seven eight.” She glanced at Monica. “I’m so glad Marta never did her banking online and also that she put her checks in order every month. She was very conscientious like that.”
Monica glanced around the kitchen while Dana looked for the check. It was still as grim as it had been when she first saw it. If Marta was able to cash checks for five hundred dollars each, why hadn’t she done something to make the house more livable?
“Here it is,” Dana said triumphantly, pulling a check from the stack. She turned it over and her jaw dropped.
“What is it?”
Dana looked up, puzzled. “The check was endorsed by Joyce Murphy.”
Monica nodded her head. “That’s what I thought.”
“But why?” Dana stuttered. “Did Marta owe Joyce money?”
“No.” Monica shook her head. “I don’t think so. Your cousin Cheryl told me that she had seen Marta giving Joyce a check on several occasions. I think it was partly bribery on Joyce’s part and partly out of guilt on Marta’s.”
“What on earth did Marta have to feel guilty about? As far as I can tell she’d been blameless, sacrificing her own life to care for our mother, allowing me and John to live our own lives.”
“Did you look at Marta’s will?” Monica said.
“No.” Dana touched the papers on the table. “I just found it now right before you came.”
“You might want to look it over.”
Dana reached for her glasses, which were on the table under some papers, and put them on. She began reading. Slowly her expression changed.
“Marta’s left her share of the house to Joyce,” she said in astonishment. She looked at the paper again as if she wasn’t sure she’d read it correctly. “We’d all agreed that we would leave our shares to each other so that the house and farm stayed in the family.” She wiped a hand across her brow. “It’s not a working farm anymore, but if John has children, who knows?” She shrugged. “They might decide to bring it back.” Dana put her head in her hands. “Why would Marta do that?”
“I think Joyce made her do it.” Monica pointed to the checkbook. “Just like I think she made Marta write those checks.”
“That does sound like some sort of . . . bribery. But why? They’ve been such good friends since they were children. That’s what I’ve always been told.”
“They were,” Monica said. “But then something happened.”
“You’re right about that,” a voice said. “Something did happen.”
Monica jumped up. They hadn’t heard the front door open, nor had they heard Joyce walk in. And they certainly hadn’t expected Joyce to be pointing a rifle at them.
“What on earth,” Dana said, half rising from her chair. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw lights on in the house. I was worried that someone had broken in.” Joyce motioned with the gun. “Sit down.” She turned to Monica. “You, too.”
Monica sank back into her chair, her eyes glued to Joyce. All she could think about was Greg and how she had to get home safely to him so they could live their lives together.
She felt tears pricking the backs of her eyelids at the thought that that might not be possible now. Not unless she could talk Joyce into putting down the gun and turning herself in.
Joyce must have caught Monica looking at the rifle. She waved it toward Monica.
“Don’t worry. I know how to use this. My daddy used to take me hunting with him. I’ve been shooting one of these since I was a young girl. If we bagged ourselves a deer, it meant we had meat for the whole winter, and for no more than the cost of a hunting license.”
“But why did you kill Marta?” Dana said. “You were friends. You said so yourself.”
Joyce gave a sly smile. She pointed the rifle at Monica. “She knows. Don’t you?”
Monica nodded. “I think I’ve guessed.”
Joyce tapped a finger to her head. “Smart girl. You’re right. Marta and I were friends—for a long time. Until that one day when she went on a boat ride with my boyfriend.” Joyce’s face began to turn red. “I knew Marta liked Matt. A lot of girls did. But he was my boyfriend.” She poked a finger at her own chest.
Dana looked annoyed. “But good heavens, you must have forgiven Marta. It was a misunderstanding. You were friends.” She waved a hand in the air.
“We were until . . .” Joyce said and stopped.
“Until what?” Dana sounded exasperated. Monica got the impression she wasn’t taking Joyce seriously.
Joyce looked at Monica.
“Until Marta confessed what she’d done,” Monica said. She looked at Joyce. “Am I right?”
“Yes. Marta ruined my life. I wish she had never told me the truth.” She swiped at her eyes with her free hand. “Matt and I were going to get married. He’d proposed the night before he went out on that boat with Marta. But Marta ruined it.”
“How? How did Marta do that?” Dana said. “It was an accident. Matt drove the boat into a buoy. He was ejected from the boat and died. It was lucky that Marta didn’t die as well because of his recklessness.”
Joyce was shaking her head vehemently. “Marta finally told me the truth about that day. She said the guilt was eating at her and she couldn’t stand it any longer. She wasn’t well, you know. She didn’t want to die having lived a lie.”
Joyce stifled a sob and raised the rifle a little higher.
“Marta was the one driving that boat that afternoon. They’d been drinking and Matt suggested she try her hand at steering so she took the helm. She ran them straight into that buoy and didn’t have the courage to admit it. She let everyone believe it was Matt’s fault when it wasn’t. People blamed Matt and called him reckless and wild. H
is memory was besmirched.”
“Joyce, I’m terribly sorry,” Dana said, getting up from her seat and reaching for Joyce’s hand. “I had no idea.”
Joyce backed up quickly and waved the gun at Dana. “Don’t come any closer.”
“So you were bribing Marta,” Monica said. “Did you force her to include you in the will? To leave you her share of the house?”
Joyce’s eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed several times before she spoke. “It wasn’t a bribe,” she insisted. “She stole my life from me, the life I should have had—marriage, a husband, a home, children. She was paying me what she owed me for taking all that away from me.” The rifle wavered slightly in her hands. “I did it for Marta. It helped to ease her guilt to think she was making it up to me somehow.”
What incredibly twisted logic, Monica thought. Joyce was—to borrow a phrase Gina often used—off her rocker. She glanced at the gun. But that didn’t make her any less dangerous.
“I suppose the cash she was regularly giving you wasn’t enough?” Dana said, her lip curling in disgust. “You wanted to hasten her death so you could collect on the sale of the house.”
“Marta was refusing to sell,” Joyce said. “That offer wasn’t good forever. If she waited too long that fellow would have withdrawn it and found another property.”
He did find another property, Monica thought, Sassamanash Farm.
Monica cleared her throat. “Did you give Marta the extra beta blocker pills?”
A sly smile came over Joyce’s face. “That was quite clever of me, don’t you think? I put several extra pills in her pill caddy, enough to make her feel quite faint. I suggested that she go lie down in bed until the feeling passed. It wasn’t hard to smother her with the pillow. She barely struggled.”
“Oh, my poor sister,” Dana cried, putting her hands over her face.
“I dumped the rest of the pills and dropped the empty container in one of those food bins that are all up and down Beach Hollow Road. I figured it would eventually end up at the food pantry and might point a finger at Cheryl.”
