by Peg Cochran
She scrolled through her timeline, laughing occasionally at the cartoons and jokes or frowning over the bad news—a high school classmate had died from cancer, an acquaintance from Chicago had been laid off, someone’s daughter had developed diabetes.
Other posts were more upbeat—pictures of vacation spots with impossibly blue water and white sand beaches, and snapshots of happy family reunions or important wedding anniversaries.
Someone had posted a quiz. Monica usually ignored those, but she needed something to take her mind off things. This one created your punk rock band name by combining the color of your pants and the first object to your right. Well, she was wearing blue jeans . . . she glanced to her right. It looked as if her group was named The Blue Teacup. She laughed to herself. That sounded more like a senior citizen knitting club than a rock band.
Monica scrolled some more and came upon another quiz: What Animal are You? She clicked through the questions . . . “What is your favorite night out?” Staying in wasn’t an option so she chose dinner and a movie. Then, “What’s your favorite item of clothing?” Monica didn’t really have one, but she chose her ratty old bathrobe because it was certainly the garment she’d had the longest. She finished the rest of the questions and then clicked on the tab to get the results.
According to her answers, she was a dog—faithful, loyal and protective. Monica laughed. Well, that was certainly true enough, although not terribly exciting or romantic. On the other hand, she’d hardly expected to be a lynx, jaguar or cougar. She was powering off her computer when the back door opened.
“It’s just me.” Gina pushed open the door and walked in. She plopped into the chair opposite Monica.
Gina’s casual updo was in disarray, but not the artful sort of disarray created by spending hours in front of the mirror—this time it was real. Her top had a fine dusting of sawdust on it, and there was a smudge of dirt across the bridge of her nose.
“What a long day,” she said, as she rotated her neck and flexed her fingers. “How did yours turn out?”
Monica fiddled with the latch on her laptop. “Detective Stevens was here again.”
Gina started. “What? Again?” Her face clouded over. “She wasn’t after Jeffie, was she?”
“No. This time I seem to be the prime suspect.”
“You? But that’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I told her, although not in those exact words, of course.” Monica gave a wry smile.
“If she can’t see you’re innocent, she’s a fool.”
“The problem is,” Monica pushed her laptop away and leaned her elbows on the table, “neither Jeff nor I have an alibi. He was here for dinner, but unfortunately Culbert’s murder took place sometime after that.”
“But what about that Mauricio fellow?” Gina rubbed her hands over her face, smudging her mascara. “His alibi didn’t hold up in the end, and why would he lie if he wasn’t guilty?”
“The problem is, he didn’t kill Cora.” Monica pushed her chair back, got up and went over to the refrigerator. She opened it and rummaged around inside. “Would you like some cheese and crackers?” she called over her shoulder to Gina.
“Sure. Now that you mention it, I am getting a bit hungry.”
Monica retrieved a box of crackers from one cupboard and a cheese plate from another. “I’m afraid all I have is a block of common, garden-variety cheddar.”
“That’s fine.” Gina twisted around in her seat to look at Monica. “You’ve said Mauricio didn’t kill Cora, but how do you know?”
“He has an alibi. He was rescuing the VanVelsen sisters’ cat and bringing it back to them. He was with them from the time Cora supposedly arrived home from work till past the time I found her body.” Monica placed the cheese and crackers on the table.
“Well, rats.” Gina smacked the table, rattling the plate. “It would be so convenient if he were responsible.”
“I know. Although I’m glad he’s not. He seems like a nice young man.” Monica pushed the cheese plate toward Gina. “Help yourself.”
Gina cut a slice of cheddar and balanced it on a cracker.
“Darlene told me something interesting today. I’m not sure what to make of it,” Monica said as she fixed a cracker for herself.
“Mmmm?” Gina mumbled around the food in her mouth.
“You remember how that carpenter at your shop told us about the mayoral election and how Greg Harper, the bookstore owner, lost to Sam Culbert?”
Gina nodded and brushed some crumbs off her top. “And he said Culbert cheated, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“Me neither.”
“So what did Darlene tell you?”
“She said that Greg and Culbert got into a huge fight about the election results.”
Gina’s eyes widened. “You mean they actually came to blows over it?”
“Just short of that, I gather. But apparently Greg threatened to kill Culbert.”
Gina snorted. “From what I’ve heard, half the people in town have done the same thing.”
“Yes, but Darlene seems to think he meant it.”
Gina stabbed a finger in the air toward Monica. “But what about Cora? You’re forgetting about Cora. Why would Greg Harper want to kill her?”
“Who knows?” Monica shrugged. “We didn’t think there was any connection between Mauricio and Cora, either, but we were wrong.”
“True.” Gina made a face. “But I don’t want it to be him.”
Monica laughed. “We can’t just choose who we want to be the murderer!”
“I know,” Gina said. “I was just making a joke.” She looked at Monica for a minute. “You look very tense.”
“I am.”
“Twilight is having a yoga session tonight that’s focusing on relaxation. Why don’t we go?”
Monica hesitated but then thought, why not? It would probably do her good. She’d gone to a few yoga classes in Chicago and had enjoyed them.
• • •
Monica dug around in her dresser until she found an old pair of leggings. There was a small hole in the knee, but she didn’t really care. She pulled them on along with a T-shirt that said Monica’s on it. She’d had the shirts made to drum up business for her café. Seeing it now was bittersweet. She missed having her own business, but she felt good about helping Jeff, and she enjoyed life in Cranberry Cove. Although she could have done without the murders, of course.
Gina was already downstairs by the time Monica was ready. She was wearing a psychedelic-looking pair of leggings with swirls of pink and mauve and a matching pink tank top.
“Ready?” she said when she heard Monica enter the room. She screwed the top back on the bottle of polish she’d been using to touch up her nails.
“Yes.” Monica grabbed her coat from the back of the kitchen chair. A wave of tiredness nearly overwhelmed her, but it was too late to back out now.
Gina drove them—one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing wildly as she described her day and the construction at her new shop. A couple of times she turned and looked at Monica for so long that Monica had to remind her to turn her attention back to the road. Monica was a little embarrassed by the frightened mewling noises she made several times as Gina veered a little too close to the oncoming traffic.
Fortunately they arrived at Twilight in one piece. Monica couldn’t imagine who in Cranberry Cove would be attending a yoga session, so she was surprised to see that quite a few people had already unrolled their mats on the floor of the room in the back of Tempest’s shop. It was a diverse group of both young and old—everyone from the new waitress Monica recognized from the diner to the woman who sewed the tea towels and napkins for Sassamanash Farm. There was even one gentleman—he had long, frizzy gray hair tied back in a ponytail and was lying on his mat doing a very complicated-looking stretch. Monica hoped she’d
be able to keep up with the class.
Scented candles flickered around the periphery of the room, and a fountain trickled softly in the corner next to a stack of folded blankets. Some sort of New Age music was barely audible in the background.
Monica and Gina unrolled their mats in the back and lay down on them. Monica hoped she wouldn’t fall asleep before the class started. She had to suppress a yawn and was struggling to keep her eyes from closing.
Tempest took up a position next to Monica. She was wearing black yoga pants, a long-sleeved turquoise top with an Indian-inspired design on the front and had a matching wide, cloth headband holding back her dark hair.
Monica barely had time to say hello before the instructor took up her position in the front of the room. Monica was surprised to see that she was an older woman with gray hair pinned back into a tight bun. She led them through an hour of poses, and Monica marveled at her flexibility. Her own muscles were tight and stiff in comparison. Halfway through the class she found her mind quieting, and a sense of well-being washed over her. She was almost sorry when the class was over and the instructor bid them Namaste.
“What did you think?” Tempest asked as she rolled up her hot pink mat.
“I enjoyed it more than I expected,” Monica said.
Tempest turned to Gina. “You have a good practice. You’ve obviously been doing yoga for a while.”
“It helps to keep the stress level down,” Gina responded. “Otherwise I’d have to go around with a cask of brandy around my neck like one of those Saint Bernard dogs.”
Tempest threw back her head and gave a full-bodied laugh. “Things have been unusually stressful in Cranberry Cove lately, haven’t they? Two unsolved murders—can you believe it?”
“Speaking of the murders,” Monica began. “I’ve been told that Greg Harper, the owner of Book ’Em, ran for mayor against Sam Culbert and lost.”
“That’s true.” Tempest looked at Monica curiously. “Greg’s a nice guy. I had my eye on him myself when I first got here, but I think I’m at the wrong end of forty for him.” She shrugged. “But surely you don’t think that he had anything to do with the murders?”
This time Monica shrugged. “I heard that he and Culbert got into a huge fight about it. Right in the middle of Beach Hollow Road. And that Greg threatened to kill Culbert.”
“Really? That’s the first I’m hearing of it.” Tempest turned and waved good-bye to an older woman who had a bright yellow mat rolled up and tucked under her arm.
“So you don’t know anything about the fight?” Monica asked.
Tempest shook her head. “No, and frankly I can’t imagine Greg Harper threatening someone like that. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, but even so, it doesn’t fit with the little I know of him.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Do you think that girl is embellishing the story just a teeny bit?” Gina asked. “She doesn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I mean. I used to know someone like her back when I was working at Neiman Marcus. Always dramatizing events. I think she was bored, poor thing. Never went out as far as I could tell.” Gina shuddered. “She lived in this pathetic one-room apartment and spent her nights eating in front of the television.”
Monica felt her spirits lift. She really didn’t want to think Greg capable of murder, and what Gina said made sense. Darlene was just the sort to make something like that up. Half the time she couldn’t tell if Darlene was telling the truth or not.
• • •
By the time they got back to Monica’s place, Monica was starving. She opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents.
“Would you like some pasta?” she called over her shoulder to Gina.
“Thanks, but Jeff is picking me up for dinner. He wants me to meet Lauren.”
Monica paused with her hand on the open refrigerator door. “That must mean they’re getting back together.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Jeff made some cryptic reference to ‘working things out.’”
“It’s a good sign at least.” Monica pulled a half-full jar of pasta sauce and the makings for a salad from the fridge and pushed the door shut with her knee.
“I guess I’d better get ready.” Gina glanced at the clock. “I didn’t realize how late it had become.”
Gina disappeared upstairs, and Monica began to boil water for her spaghetti. She was cleaning lettuce for a salad when Gina reappeared in a gauzy top over a pair of reptile-print leggings. Monica couldn’t help but stare.
Gina must have noticed. “When I was with your father, I had to wear all these conservative clothes like those buttoned-up St. John’s knit suits. Now I can let my own personality out.” She circled in front of Monica. “Like it?”
Monica managed to stifle her initial reaction. “It’s certainly . . . creative,” she said finally, searching for a word that she could use with a straight face and that could still be considered complimentary.
“Thanks.” Gina perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, her foot jiggling in its customary fashion. “I wonder where Jeffie is?” she asked a few minutes later. “He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
“He may have gotten held up by something.” Monica looked out the kitchen window. It was already dark—Jeff was unlikely to still be out at the bogs.
Another ten minutes went by, and Gina’s foot was now jiggling double time. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and tapped in the number with the tips of her manicured nails.
After several seconds she lowered the phone and looked at Monica. “No answer.” She frowned. “This isn’t like Jeff. It’s not like him at all.”
Monica had to agree, but she didn’t want to sound alarmist. Jeff was only twenty minutes late—there could be any number of perfectly ordinary reasons why.
Monica finished putting her dishes in the dishwasher. She turned toward Gina. “Do you want something to eat . . . ?”
“No, thanks. I’m too wound up.” As if to corroborate that, Gina’s foot jiggling picked up even more speed, nearly becoming a blur.
Ten minutes later, Gina was pacing around the kitchen. “Maybe we should go check on him? Maybe he’s ill or hurt or . . . something?”
“You know Jeff—if we do that he’ll think we’re babying him because of his injury. Why don’t you try calling him again?”
“Okay.” Gina stopped moving long enough to dial. She pressed her phone to her ear so tightly, Monica could see her knuckles turning white.
“Anything?”
Gina shook her head. A tear trickled down her cheek, and she swiped at it impatiently. “It’s just that Jeff is all I have. Your father left me, my parents are long gone. I have no sisters or brothers. My father had a sister, Aunt Clarice, but she’s in a nursing home somewhere in Iowa.” She made a circular motion around her temple with her finger. “Dementia. I tried calling her once but she had no idea who I was—thought I was her long-dead mother.” Gina collapsed into her chair. “What am I going to do?” She burst into full-fledged tears.
Monica was at a loss. She’d never been very good at dealing with other people’s upsets. Her parents had considered emotions to be messy things that other people indulged in, but not them. She ran to the powder room to fetch a box of tissues and pushed them across the table to Gina.
“I think we’re both worrying for no reason.”
Gina grabbed one and blew her nose loudly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.” She looked up at Monica with tear-swollen eyes. “You mean a lot to me.” She reached out and grabbed Monica’s hand. “I know you don’t approve of me, and I don’t blame you for being bitter that I broke up your parents’ marriage—”
Monica was already shaking her head. “No, you didn’t.” She squeezed Gina’s hand. “Now that I’m older I can see that it was over before Dad ever me
t you.”
Gina gulped and gave a thin smile.
They both jumped when the front doorbell rang.
Gina’s smile got even bigger and she leapt to her feet. “That must be Jeff now. I wonder why he didn’t come to the back door the way he usually does?” She picked up her purse and slipped into the jacket she had draped over the back of the kitchen chair.
Monica frowned. Gina was right—it wasn’t like Jeff to ring the front bell. He normally just walked in and gave her that lopsided grin that had been melting her heart since he was a toddler. She feared that Gina was going to be disappointed. She hadn’t said anything—she didn’t want to worry Gina even more—but she was getting very concerned about Jeff herself.
Monica made her way to the front hall, Gina tight on her heels. She pulled open the door, and they both stood there for a moment, stunned.
It wasn’t Jeff on Monica’s doorstep but Lauren, her face pinched with worry. Her car was pulled up in front of Monica’s cottage in such a way that it looked more abandoned than parked.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she began.
“It’s no bother,” Monica assured her. “Come in. It’s getting cold out there.”
The wind had picked up and dried leaves were swirling around the driveway, making a sharp rustling sound.
“What’s wrong?” Monica asked as soon as they were inside.
“It’s Jeff.”
“I knew it,” cried Gina, stuffing the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth.
“Please, sit.” Monica pointed at the sofa. “Can I get you anything?”
Lauren shook her head and perched on the edge of the sofa. “Jeff was supposed to pick me up for dinner,” she said, gripping the fabric of her trousers with both hands. “He was late, which isn’t like him. I tried calling him, but there was no answer. I thought maybe I misunderstood and was supposed to drive to his apartment myself.” Lauren took a big gulp of air. “He wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to do so I thought I would come here. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked from Monica to Gina with pleading eyes. “I was hoping he was here, and we’d just gotten our signals crossed.”
