by Peg Cochran
Monica parked the Focus and went inside. The interior smelled of ripe cheeses, smoked meats and freshly baked bread. It was intoxicating, and Monica found herself drifting toward the section where the sign reading Charcuterie hung over the cases. She was halfway there before she reminded herself that she was on a mission, and it wasn’t to indulge in gourmet food items she could ill afford.
She stopped in her tracks and scanned the overhead signs trying to decide where they would be likely to display fresh salsa. The deli counter seemed the most logical place, and she was rewarded when she found a refrigerated case of salsa, hummus, cheese spreads and dips.
The salsas were pedestrian fare, or so it seemed to her—tomatoes, peppers, cilantro—all the usual ingredients. She felt her heartbeat quicken. Sassamanash Farms’ cranberry salsa could really take off here. She had a lot of work ahead of her, but all of a sudden she was confident she could pull it off.
When she turned away from the refrigerated case, she knew she had a smile on her face. She hadn’t gone more than three feet when she bumped into Greg Harper.
His face lit up at the sight of her. “Good morning. I didn’t know you shopped here.”
“I don’t,” Monica admitted. She explained about the salsa.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Greg said.
He smiled and moved his cart out of the way of a stern woman who shot him a dirty look. Monica noticed Greg had selected several of the gourmet frozen meals and a jar of olives. She recognized bachelor fare when she saw it.
Greg gestured toward his cart disparagingly. “I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid. And I don’t have much time for it.” He looked at Monica’s face and laughed. “These frozen meals aren’t all that bad. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”
Monica had been cooking since she was a child—dragging the stepstool to the counter to help her mother as she prepared for one of the many dinner parties her parents used to give. She’d even had her own miniature apron that she had treasured more than any of her dolls or stuffed animals.
“And speaking of food,” Greg hesitated briefly and looked down at his feet. “Have you eaten yet? The Cranberry Cove Inn does a great brunch.”
Monica’s smile broadened. “I had a muffin several hours ago, and after smelling all the delicious aromas in here, I’m starving.”
“Splendid.” Greg’s smile widened as well. “I’ll check out and meet you there in ten minutes.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll just call ahead to make sure we get a table. It’s a popular place on a Sunday morning.”
As Monica headed toward the Cranberry Cove Inn she wondered if her outfit was up to snuff. Greg had been dressed just as casually in corduroys and a sweater. There was probably no need for her to worry, but she was glad she’d taken the time to add the silk scarf and to dab on some lipstick. She put a hand to her hair. Hopefully it wasn’t in too much of a tangle. Fortunately Greg didn’t seem like the type who cared. His own hair, more often than not, was a rumpled mess. Adorable, to be sure, but definitely not every hair in place.
Judging by the number of cars in the Cranberry Cove Inn parking lot, Greg had been wise to call ahead for a reservation. There was a line of people ahead of Monica waiting to be seated by the hostess. Monica peered into the dining room but it appeared as if Greg hadn’t arrived yet. She perched on the edge of a white wicker settee by the front door.
Greg strode in moments later, slightly breathless, his hair having blown into even greater disarray by the strong breeze coming off the lake.
“Sorry you had to wait. I stopped by the store to pick up this.” He handed Monica a book. “It’s a first edition Louise Penny—A Fatal Grace. I think you’ll like it.”
Monica didn’t know what to say—it was so unexpected. “Thank you. That’s terribly kind of you.”
“Have you read her before?”
Monica shook her head.
“Harper?” the hostess called, a stack of menus clutched to her chest.
“Here.”
Greg raised a hand, and he and Monica followed her to their table.
“A table by the window.” Monica smiled. “I’m impressed.”
“I have clout, you know.” Greg laughed. “Not really. We just got lucky I guess.”
Monica looked around. The dining room was nearly full, with several of the larger tables being the only ones unoccupied. Animated chatter, along with the melodic clinking of silverware, filled the room. Monica found herself relaxing for the first time in a long time.
Greg pointed toward the window. “Looks like another storm is brewing.”
Monica followed his gaze. Angry-looking dark clouds hovered on the horizon, and the waters of Lake Michigan were whipped into a froth.
A waitress in a pink apron appeared at their table and filled their coffee cups. “Ready to order?” she asked, holding the pot out to the side.
“I think so?” Greg looked at Monica.
Monica nodded her head.
“I’ll be right back.” The waitress turned and put the pot of coffee down on a warmer at the side of the room.
“I’ll have the eggs Benedict,” Monica said when the woman returned, order pad in hand.
“The waffles with strawberries for me.” Greg handed the waitress his menu. “I’ve got an insatiable sweet tooth,” he said to Monica.
“I’m more the savory type myself.”
They chatted easily until the waitress slid plates of food in front of them.
“I heard about poor Cora,” Greg said as he poured a puddle of syrup over his waffles.
Monica looked surprised.
“The tom-toms have been working overtime in the village lately. News like that won’t stay under wraps for long.” He forked up a bite of his breakfast. “I wonder if there’s any connection between her death and Culbert’s?”
Monica leaned back as the waitress refilled her coffee cup. “Mauricio—he’s the fellow who was working on my brother’s crew—seems the most logical suspect in Culbert’s murder.”
The waitress moved around to the other side of the table and held the pot of steaming coffee over Greg’s cup. “More coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Greg said.
“Culbert was forever threatening to report Mauricio because he didn’t have his papers,” Monica continued. “And he acted suspiciously when the body was found. But as far as I know, there’s no connection between him and Cora at the diner.”
The waitress had finished pouring Greg’s coffee and was about to turn away when she stopped. “You’re talking about that Portuguese fellow, right? I mean, there can’t be more than one person in Cranberry Cove with that name.”
Monica was startled. “Do you know him?”
“Sure. He used to work here but left for some reason. Went to work at the Cranberry Cove Diner. I can’t imagine the tips there would be as good although I gather he wasn’t there long either.”
“I wonder why he left the diner?” Monica said when the waitress moved away.
Greg stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “Maybe Gus got cold feet about his lack of papers.”
“Or, maybe there was another reason. Maybe he did something . . . something not quite right, and Cora caught him. And then she told Gus about it.”
“You could be right, Miss Marple,” Greg said with a smile.
Monica laughed. “I guess I am playing amateur detective.” Her expression grew serious. “It’s not that I don’t trust Detective Stevens to get to the bottom of things. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. But until she does solve this, people in Cranberry Cove will continue to think my brother had something to do with the murders.”
• • •
Monica enjoyed her brunch with Greg, but for some reason, it left her feeling restless. She paced her small living room unable to settle down to
anything—her book, the Sunday crossword or a favorite old movie that was showing on television.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what Greg had said—that Cora and Mauricio had worked at the Cranberry Cove Diner at the same time. Now she really wished she’d had the chance to talk to Cora.
Monica was making a cup of tea when the thought struck her. She hadn’t been able to talk to Cora, but maybe she could talk to someone about Cora. Perhaps there was someone Cora had confided in—a friend or relative. Monica had no idea who that might be, but she knew where she was going to start—Cora’s next-door neighbor. She was obviously nosy and perhaps she had managed to worm some information out of Cora.
Monica had had an acquaintance like that in college. No matter how much you wanted to keep something a secret, she had a way of badgering you until you finally gave in and told her everything. More than once Monica had sworn to keep her mouth shut, but then the next thing she knew she was spilling the beans. She hoped Cora’s neighbor Dawn would turn out to be the same way.
Monica finished her tea and put the empty cup in the sink. She needed to empty the dishwasher, but she didn’t feel like doing it now. It wasn’t something she would normally let go, but all of a sudden, she couldn’t wait to talk to Dawn.
She was halfway there when she had to turn on her windshield wipers. The rain was coming down heavily, drops bouncing off the window, when she turned into Park View Estates. The narrow streets were deserted, as Monica had expected. She pulled up in front of Dawn’s trailer, edging the car as close to the side of the road as possible.
Dawn was standing outside, huddled under the green-and-white striped metal awning that hung over her front door, a cigarette in her hand. She looked up when she heard the slam of Monica’s car door.
Her face held a look of curiosity as she watched Monica pick her way up the uneven stone path that led to the entrance to the trailer.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” Dawn said, but her voice was friendly enough.
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s no bother.” Dawn waved her hand, and smoke drifted toward Monica’s face.
It was cramped with both of them sheltering under the awning. Water dripping off the edge trickled down Monica’s back.
Dawn stubbed out her cigarette with the bottom of her shoe. “Come on inside.”
The interior of Dawn’s trailer was clean and tidy, with the scent of bleach lingering in the air. A large black leather sectional, placed in front of a flat-screen television, took up most of the room. A teenaged boy was stretched out on it.
The walls were hung with original paintings—stark landscapes that were very striking. A painting in progress sat on an easel in the corner of the room.
“Are these yours?” Monica gestured toward the oils.
Dawn ducked her head. “Yeah. It’s a little hobby of mine. I took it up the last time I quit cigarettes in order to keep myself busy.” She shrugged. “It didn’t work. I went back to smoking but continued with the painting.”
“These are very good.” Monica looked around the room again. Dawn’s oils were as good as anything she had seen in galleries in Chicago. “Have you had any exhibitions?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Monica shook her head. “Not at all. There’s a gallery in town. You should show them your stuff.”
“I don’t know. . . .” Dawn twisted the edge of her T-shirt in her hands as if she were wringing out wet laundry. “Do you really think . . . ?”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry. I should have asked you to sit down.” Dawn turned toward the sofa. “Shoo, Terry, go watch TV in your room. And turn that off.” She pointed to the set.
The young man unfolded himself from the sofa, a sulky expression on his face. He had long, shaggy hair with bangs that hung in his eyes.
Dawn shook her head. “I can’t believe how big he’s getting. He’s taller than I am now. And he’s eating me out of house and home.” She laughed. “Sit.” She pointed toward the sofa.
Monica perched on the edge of one of the cushions.
“You want something to drink? I got some cold beer in the fridge. . . .”
“No, I’m fine. But thank you.”
“I imagine you wanted to talk to me about something?” Dawn gestured toward the easel in the corner. “I hope you don’t mind if I continue working. I don’t want it to dry before—”
“No, no, not at all. I realize I’m interrupting.” Monica looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
“Hey, I’m glad for some company.” Dawn picked up a brush and applied a dab of red to the painting on the easel.
“I wanted to talk to you about Cora.”
“Cora?” Dawn jerked her head toward the trailer next door.
“Yes.”
“She was a good neighbor. Quiet. Kept her yard up. She brought us a plate of cookies every Christmas.” Dawn frowned as she dabbed the brush against her canvas. “She used to be a hairdresser, you know. She still did hair for people in the park—the older ladies would go to her for their permanents.” Dawn wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know how she could stand the smell of that stuff.”
“It sounds like she was a hard worker.”
“You can say that again. Put in long hours at the diner. Did double shifts when one of the other gals didn’t show up. Gus works his employees hard.” Dawn took a step back from the painting and considered it. “Of course, she had her own business until Sam Culbert raised the rent so high she could no longer afford it. I told her she needed to raise her prices, but she said people around here didn’t have that much money, and she couldn’t take advantage of them. She didn’t attract the summer trade.” Dawn squeezed more paint onto her palette. “She was too old-fashioned for them. Still used rollers and sat people under the dryer.” Dawn laughed. “Frankly, when I heard Sam Culbert had been murdered, I half wondered if Cora had gotten up the gumption to do it herself.”
“Did you notice if she had any visitors yesterday?”
“You know the police asked me the same thing,” Dawn said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I was hardly looking out the window the whole time, but I didn’t see any cars in her driveway. And I went out every half hour for a smoke.” She jerked her head toward the far wall. “Don’t want the kid breathing in all those noxious fumes. I keep trying to quit but so far no luck.”
“Did you happen to notice what time Cora got home? She told me she was getting off work at five.”
Dawn nodded her head. “She got home just a bit after. I was on the deck, and she waved hello.”
“And I got here around five thirty, maybe a few minutes later.”
“If someone had stopped by for a visit, I would have seen the car. I’m sure of it.”
“Did she ever mention someone named Mauricio?” Monica asked, holding her breath.
Dawn tilted her head to one side. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Apparently he worked at the diner with Cora.”
Dawn stabbed a finger into the air. “That’s why it sounds familiar. Yeah, he worked with Cora. I remember she told me.”
“Did she say anything else about him?”
Dawn stood holding her brush in the air. “Now that you mention it, she did. She told me she thought he was taking money from the cash drawer.”
“What happened?”
Dawn shrugged. “I think she told Gus about it, but I’m not sure.”
Cora must have, Monica thought. And Mauricio had harbored a grudge. Otherwise he would have had no reason to kill her.
Chapter 16
Monica thought about what Dawn had told her as she drove back to Sassamanash Farm. The rain had stopped, and the faintest rainbow hung over the lake. She hoped that was a good omen.
She felt conflicted. As much as she wanted to solve Sam Cul
bert’s murder—and Cora’s, if it did indeed turn out to be murder—she had been hoping the killer wasn’t Mauricio. She had instinctively liked him.
Monica groaned when she saw Gina’s car in her driveway. Not now. She was tired. But she plastered a smile on her face as she opened the back door.
Gina was sitting at the kitchen table with an open bottle of wine and a glass in her hand. Next to her were several suitcases.
The smile on Monica’s face grew stiff until she was quite certain it looked more like a grimace than a smile.
“Surprise!” Gina declared.
Gina was always a surprise, Monica thought. She devoutly hoped that the bottle of wine was meant to be the surprise, but she doubted it.
“I’ve come to stay with you for a bit.” Gina put her glass down and jumped up from the table. “Would you like some wine?”
Monica nodded weakly and sank into one of the kitchen chairs.
“What’s wrong with the Cranberry Cove Inn?” Monica resisted the temptation to put her head down on the table and bang it.
“Someone booked the suite I was in. Not to mention the entire Inn. Apparently there’s a wedding next weekend at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, and the bride, her mother and an entire posse of bridesmaids are arriving early. There weren’t any decent rooms left.” She handed Monica a glass of wine. “It’s only for a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”
Monica took an enormous gulp of her drink and began to choke. Gina patted her on the back.
“Where will you be staying . . . permanently?” Monica asked with extreme trepidation.
Gina’s face split into a huge grin. “I’m going to have the most wonderful space,” she crowed. “Above my shop. The architect has plans to turn it into a showplace.” She looked down into her glass of wine. “I’ve never had my own place, you know.” She looked up at Monica with an expression of intense yearning. “Before I married your father, I shared apartments with girlfriends because I could never afford the rent myself. Then your father and I had our condo in downtown Chicago for weekends and the big house in Evanston. But I never really owned any of it. This place is going to be mine!”
