Berried Secrets

by Peg Cochran

  She was looking into Cora’s living room. It was as tidy as the outside of the trailer, with a floral patterned sofa and a round, tiered table crammed with ceramic figurines.

  An armchair in the same floral pattern was at right angles to the sofa. Cora was sitting in it, slumped over and lifeless.

  Chapter 13

  Monica’s first instinct was to scream, but she managed to stifle it, and it came out as more of a whimper. She didn’t want to alert the entire neighborhood. There was still the possibility that Cora had simply fallen asleep sitting in her chair. Monica could remember occasions when she, herself, had been so tired after a long day at the cafe that she had fallen asleep sitting bolt upright on the sofa.

  She rapped hard on the window. There was no movement from Cora. Monica knocked again as hard as she could—it hurt her knuckles—but no response.

  She needed to get inside to see if Cora was okay. Somehow, Monica had the feeling that she wasn’t.

  Hopefully Cora wasn’t the sort who locked up tight every time she went inside. Monica tried the door, and the handle turned. Her heart was hammering hard against her ribs. She wasn’t particularly squeamish, but despite finding Culbert’s body in the bog, she was hardly accustomed to being confronted with corpses.

  Cora’s living room was as tidy inside as it had looked through the window. There was a mug with what appeared to be tea in it on the coffee table in front of her. Monica called Cora’s name as she approached the chair where Cora was sitting, but she already suspected it was hopeless. There was an unnatural stillness to Cora’s body—no rise and fall of her back to suggest she was breathing, and no whistling sound of her breath, either.

  As soon as Monica touched her, she knew Cora was dead. She backed away from the body quickly and fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. The call went through quickly, and Monica managed to keep her voice steady as she explained the situation to the dispatcher.

  The dispatcher promised to send someone over immediately, and it wasn’t long before Monica heard the sound of sirens in the distance. She went out on the deck to wait.

  The fresh air felt good. Monica grasped the deck rail as she breathed deeply, trying to steady the frantic beating of her heart. She heard a movement behind her and turned around. The woman next door was standing outside her back door lighting a cigarette. Monica suspected she was more interested in what was going on than having another smoke.

  The sirens got louder, and a minute later a patrol car came roaring down the quiet street. It pulled into Cora’s driveway and stopped. Both front doors flew open at the same time, and two uniformed patrolmen jumped out. They weren’t the same policemen who had arrived at Sassamanash Farm when Culbert’s body was discovered—they were both thin and wiry, and to Monica, they looked like rookies. They were too young to be anything else.

  They took the stairs to the deck in one giant step and stood uncertainly in front of Monica.

  “You okay, ma’am?”

  Monica wondered just when she’d segued from being miss to ma’am? It made her feel very tired all of a sudden, and she sagged against the deck rail.

  “You going to faint, ma’am?” the one cop asked, a look of alarm on his face.

  “No. I’m fine,” Monica reassured him. She waved a hand toward Cora’s door. “She’s . . . she’s in there.”

  Both policemen tried to get through the door at the same time. The one with the glasses scowled at the other, who dropped back to let his partner go first.

  Monica looked up to find the woman across the way staring at her. She was leaning on her deck rail, both arms crossed, a cigarette burning unheeded in her fingers. She jerked her head toward Cora’s trailer.

  “What’s going on?”

  Monica didn’t know what to say. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I think Cora has taken ill.”

  “Is it her heart?” The woman took a deep drag on her cigarette and then dropped the butt over the side of the deck. “My name’s Dawn by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dawn,” Monica said, trying to convey with the tone of her voice that she didn’t want to prolong the conversation.

  It had no effect on Dawn. She started down her deck steps and headed in Monica’s direction. Monica could smell the smoke on her as soon as she got close, and it made her feel slightly sick.

  “I’m not surprised she’s had a heart attack,” Dawn said, crossing her arms over her chest. “She puts in a lot of hours at that diner. The owner’s a slave driver.”

  Monica gave a noncommittal smile.

  “I’m guessing since the cops are here that she’s . . . well, that there’s not much hope.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Sad.” Dawn didn’t look particularly distressed as she pulled a fresh cigarette from the waistband of her sweatpants.

  By now several people had come out of their homes and walked down to stand in front of Cora’s trailer. Dawn assumed a superior air, as if she was somehow in the know. She waved to a couple of people and smiled smugly.

  Monica didn’t want to go inside, but she didn’t want to stand out here any longer with everyone staring at her, either. A couple of the women were still wearing their aprons, and one of the young boys had what Monica hoped was ketchup all down his shirt.

  Finally another car came down the street and pulled up to the curb outside Cora’s trailer. Detective Stevens heaved herself out of the driver’s seat. Monica thought she looked even bigger than the last time she’d seen her.

  Stevens mounted the three stairs to the deck, pulling herself up by the handrail. She was a little breathless as she stood in front of Monica.

  “Want to tell me what’s happened?” Suddenly she spun around. “There’s no need for you to be here,” she said to Dawn.

  Dawn looked sulky but she took off for her own trailer without complaint.

  Stevens turned to look at the crowd that had gathered in front of Cora’s. “You can all go home now. There’s nothing to see. A woman took ill, that’s all.”

  Monica could hear the group muttering as they slowly dispersed and made their way home.

  “Ghouls,” Stevens said as she watched them leave. She turned back to Monica. “You look cold. Do you want to go inside?”

  Monica wasn’t anxious to spend any more time in a room with a dead body, but her teeth were beginning to chatter, although she suspected it was more from shock than cold. She followed Stevens through the door.

  “Try to touch as little as possible,” Stevens said. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here yet. Although two murders in Cranberry Cove in less than a week is a bit hard to swallow.” She turned to the patrolmen. “Did you check for a pulse?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they chorused. “Nothing.”

  Stevens looked at Monica. “Do we know who she is?”

  “Her name is Cora Jenkins. She works at the Cranberry Cove Diner.”

  Stevens approached the body and looked it over carefully. She pulled a pair of gloves from the pocket of her trench coat and slipped them on.

  Monica turned away and looked out the window. The small crowd that had dispersed previously had gathered again at the end of Cora’s driveway with Dawn right in front. She still hadn’t donned a coat or jacket and was about to light yet another cigarette.

  Finally, Stevens was finished with the body. She stripped off her gloves and turned to Monica. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen?”

  Cora’s kitchen was spotless. A small round table by the window was covered with a clean white lace cloth with salt and pepper shakers painted to look like Kewpie dolls in the center. Ironed dishcloths printed with cranberries hung from the oven door handle. Monica wondered if Cora had purchased them at Sassamanash Farms.

  Stevens looked all around the room. She came to a halt in front of the sink. “That’s odd.” She pointed inside the sink. “Loo
k. There’s a dirty mug in here.”

  “There was a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of the . . . in front of Cora, too.”

  “Did you have tea with her?” Stevens jerked her head toward the sink.

  “No. She was already . . . dead when I got here.”

  Stevens glanced around the room again. “Not a thing out of place,” she said almost to herself. “Why would Cora leave a dirty mug in the sink?” She pointed to the dishwasher. “Why not put it in the dishwasher?”

  “Maybe she was in a hurry to leave this morning?”

  Stevens shook her head. “She was sitting in the living room with a fresh cup of tea. Surely while the water was heating she would have dealt with the dirty mug. No, I think she had a visitor, and she gave that person a cup of tea. And that person brought the mug out to the kitchen and left it in the sink. What we don’t know is, did that person also kill Cora?” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Assuming Cora didn’t die of natural causes. There’s no evidence of trauma—no wounds, no bleeding. Maybe she merely had a heart attack or a stroke. That would certainly make my job easier.” She rubbed her belly absentmindedly and gave a gusty sigh. “We’ll find out soon enough when the autopsy is done.”

  • • •

  By the time Monica turned her Focus into her own driveway, she was shivering again. This time she knew it was nerves—she had had the heater going full blast the whole way home but to no effect. She would make a hot cup of tea and this time she would spike it with the last of the Scotch in the bottle.

  She was getting out of the car when Gina’s Mercedes pulled in in back of her. Monica groaned. She’d been looking forward to a quick dinner, some reading and then early to bed. But she put a smile on her face and waved.

  “Gina. Hi.” She almost asked what Gina was doing there but bit her tongue at the last minute.

  “I hope you haven’t eaten.” Gina slammed her car door shut. She was carrying a plain white shopping bag.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Perfect. The chef at the Inn put together a little care package for us.” She followed Monica inside.

  “A care package?”

  “Yes.” Gina put the bag down on the kitchen table and began to remove the contents—several aluminum tins and a bottle of wine. “He’s sent chicken Marsala.” She opened the lid on one of the containers and breathed deeply. “Doesn’t that smell heavenly?”

  Monica had been sure that she would be too upset to eat, but she had to admit that the aroma drifting from the pans was enticing.

  “There’s also a side of pasta, a green salad and a huge piece of tiramisu we can split for dessert.”

  Monica grabbed some plates from the cupboard and a handful of silverware and quickly set the table.

  “Where’s your corkscrew?” Gina held up the bottle of wine.

  Monica rummaged in a drawer. “Here it is.” She handed it to Gina.

  Gina opened the bottle and poured each of them a glass.

  Monica took a sip. It was just what she needed, and as they sat down to eat, she realized that she was actually starving.

  Gina pointed her fork at Monica. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

  Monica finished her bite of chicken Marsala. “Like I told you I’ve been trying to track down some of the other people in Cranberry Cove who had a bone to pick with Culbert. I decided I would pay a visit to Cora Jenkins who is . . . was the waitress at the Cranberry Cove Diner.”

  “Was?” Gina said, her eyebrows raised.

  “I’ll explain. I went over to the diner at lunch to see if I could talk to Cora, but she was busy. She gave me her address and suggested I come by her place after work.” Monica put down her fork. Her appetite had suddenly deserted her. “I did, but she couldn’t tell me anything. She was dead.”

  Gina gasped. “Another murder!”

  Monica held up a hand. “Not necessarily. Detective Stevens said it could have been a stroke or a heart attack or some other natural cause. We won’t know until the autopsy is completed.”

  “When will that be?”

  Monica shrugged. “Stevens said they would make it a priority, so hopefully soon.”

  Gina unwrapped the piece of tiramisu. “Do you think Mauricio did it?’

  Monica pursed her lips. “Mauricio? I can’t imagine why. I don’t know if he even knew Cora.”

  “But don’t you think it’s a little too coincidental? I mean, two murderers in the same small town?”

  “We don’t know if Cora was murdered.”

  Gina licked some whipped cream off her upper lip. “True, but let’s face it—the whole setup smells. Two murders in Cranberry Cove seem pretty unlikely, but it’s just as unlikely that Cora suddenly dropped dead from some heart issue at the same moment she was about to talk to you. My guess is she had more to tell you than just her opinion of Culbert.”

  “You’re probably right.” Monica picked at her piece of tiramisu. “I suppose we’ll have to wait to see what the autopsy reveals.”

  “I’d bet anything it’s going to show that foul play was involved.”

  Chapter 14

  Monica gathered up the remnants of her dinner with Gina. She threw the containers in the trash, tied the plastic bag closed and opened the back door to take it out to the garbage can. A strong breeze caught the edge of the open door and nearly yanked it from Monica’s hand. She hesitated, feeling the chill wind. Should she get her jacket? The can was only a few yards outside the back door. She would brave it.

  By the time Monica got back inside, she was shivering. The sharp edge of the wind had cut straight through her sweater and turtleneck. It wasn’t particularly late, but the thought of crawling into bed with the news magazine that had just come in the mail was too enticing to resist.

  The second floor of the cottage was noticeably chillier than the first floor. Wasn’t heat supposed to rise? Monica thought. She opened the hall closet and pulled out a second down comforter and spread it out on the bed. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and filled the hot water bottle she kept for nights like these. She tucked it into the bed to warm the sheets while she changed into a pair of flannel pajamas.

  Monica didn’t last long. The soothing warmth from the hot water bottle and the coziness of her bed had her eyes closing before she knew it. She tossed her magazine onto the bedside table and turned out the light.

  She woke abruptly several hours later. She glanced at her alarm clock—it was one a.m. Had she heard something? Or had the noise been part of a dream? She could hear the wind whistling and rattling the old cottage’s windows but otherwise it was quiet.

  She put her head back on the pillow and burrowed deeper under the covers. It must have been a dream. She’d barely finished the thought when she heard a noise again. This time it was obvious someone was pounding on her door.

  Who on earth . . . ?

  Monica grabbed her robe and quickly tied the belt around her waist. She turned the hall light on and was nearly blinded as she made her way down the stairs. The knocking was coming from the back door. Monica felt her way through the darkened kitchen. She stubbed her toe against a chair leg and winced but kept on going as the knocking intensified.

  “Who is it?” she called when she was within earshot of the door.

  “It’s Jeff. I need your help.”

  Jeff? Monica’s heart began to pound. Was something wrong with him? She pulled open the door, and the wind tried to snatch it from her hand, as if they were playing some sort of game.

  “What’s the matter—” Monica began but Jeff was already talking.

  “There’s been a frost warning. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t rouse any of the crew, and I need help checking the sensors in the bogs that we haven’t harvested yet.”

  “Of course,” Monica said, even though she dreaded the thought of going out on such a bitte
r night. “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

  “Here.” Jeff thrust a battery-operated lantern at her. “Take this with you. You know where the pump house is?”

  Monica nodded.

  “Meet me there, and I’ll show you where to go.”

  Monica was about to shut the door when Jeff stopped her. “And bring your cell, okay?”

  Monica went back upstairs and began pulling on her warmest clothing—thermal undershirt, turtleneck, heavy wool sweater and socks, corduroy pants. She shivered as she listened to the wind knocking at the windows and felt the draft working its way around the edges of the old, ill-fitting panes.

  She pulled on a pair of boots, her down jacket, a fleece hat and a pair of gloves and stood hesitating by the back door. She really didn’t want to go out there—her bed had been so warm and cozy—but Jeff needed her help. She resolutely pulled open the door and flinched as the cold air hit her. It certainly felt as if a frost was imminent. She hoped they were in time to save the berries.

  The moon was bright and lit the dirt path quite well, but when a cloud floated across it, obliterating the light, Monica turned on her lantern. The ground was uneven and slightly spongy beneath her feet, and she had to move slowly to avoid tripping. She thought she saw a glint of light from the corner of her eye. It came through the trees over toward the rutted dirt road that led past the farm. But who would be out at such an hour? It was probably just the moon flickering through the trees.

  Finally, Monica could see the pump house looming like a grotesque shadow in the distance. The old boards were weather-beaten and peeling. Monica knew that giving the structure a fresh coat of white paint was on Jeff’s summer agenda.

  Jeff came around the side of the pump house and called out. “Over here.”

  Monica aimed her flashlight in the direction of Jeff’s voice and could just make out his face.

  “I can’t thank you enough—” Jeff began when Monica got there, but she waved him to silence.