Berried Secrets

by Peg Cochran

  “Can you talk to this Darlene and get her to fess up?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Monica thought about it. “I guess I could try. She’s not working today, but we must have her address in the office.” She pushed her chair back. “I’ll do it as soon as I get these dishes cleaned up. I can see how Lauren is doing at the same time.”

  • • •

  As Monica had expected, Lauren was doing fine when she arrived at the store. Lauren was behind the counter ringing up purchases for one of their frequent customers—a tall woman with over-permed blond hair. Lauren gave Monica a brief wave as Monica headed to the office off the processing room.

  The office was little more than some seven-foot-tall partitions separating off the area and a door that didn’t want to stay closed. The furnishings were equally basic—a battered metal desk and filing cabinet and a chair that was starting to lose its stuffing.

  Monica pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and began going through the folders. She found one marked Employees and pulled it out. The folder had been used before and had been turned inside out and relabeled. There was a copy of Darlene’s W-4 withholding form and, paper-clipped to it, was her employment application. Her address and phone number were written on it in pencil. Monica copied both down and replaced the folder in the filing cabinet.

  She waved to Lauren again on her way out. She was waiting on someone else this time—a rather sophisticated-looking woman who had a basket filled with tea towels, pot holders and napkins. Monica had better check the stock when she got back—it might be time to replenish.

  She put the piece of paper with Darlene’s address on it beside her on the passenger seat where she could see it. It appeared as if Darlene lived in the same mobile home park as Cora—Park View Estates.

  Monica drove through the entrance and began checking the house numbers. She passed Dawn’s house, and, as usual, Dawn was out on the deck having a cigarette. Monica pulled over to the curb.

  “Hi,” she called out her open window.

  Dawn walked over to Monica’s car. “I didn’t expect to see you back here again.” She took another drag, her cigarette pinched between her thumb and index finger.

  “I’m looking for Darlene Polk. She works for my brother.”

  Dawn ran a hand through her dark hair, leaving it standing upright. With the blond streak in front, she reminded Monica of a skunk. “Never heard of her, I’m afraid.”

  Monica consulted the piece of paper next to her on the car seat. “She’s on Floral Drive.”

  “Keep going straight,” Dawn pointed down the street where a lone boy was riding around and around in circles on his bicycle, “and make the first left. I’m pretty sure that’s Floral.”

  “Thanks.” Monica rolled her window back up and headed down the street.

  She made the left turn onto Floral Drive that Dawn had indicated and began checking house numbers. Some of the houses had numbers that had fallen off or were missing altogether. Monica sighed in frustration and pulled over to the curb.

  A woman was sitting on a lawn chair in front of one of the houses. Monica walked over to her. There was a second, empty chair next to her. The webbing was coming undone and the frame was rusted.

  “Do you know where . . .” Monica consulted her piece of paper. “Number 2799 is? I’m looking for Darlene Polk.”

  “Darlene?” the woman said in a wheezy voice. She was probably in her forties but looked much older. She had thin, nicotine-stained fingers with yellowed nails and the remains of some red polish around the edges.

  “I’ve known Darlene since she was a baby. Sullen little thing, never a smile on her face.” The woman began coughing furiously. “I quit smoking a year ago. Doctor’s orders. I can’t get rid of this cough though,” she said when it finally stopped. “I have half a mind to take it up again.”

  She gestured to the chair next to her. “Have a seat.”

  Monica perched on the edge of the chair. “So you know Darlene?”

  “Sure do. Knew her mother, too. May she rest in peace, the poor soul. She was taken way too young.” She swiped at a tear in the corner of her eye.

  The wind picked up sending a swirl of dried leaves across the driveway and making the woman shiver. She was wearing jeans and a thin, long-sleeved top.

  “Why don’t you come inside where it’s warm?”

  Monica hesitated. She hated to be rude. Jeff used to tease her about her inability to say no, and would try to get her to agree to do outrageous things. It usually worked, she thought ruefully.

  The woman started up the stairs. “Name’s Brenda, by the way,” she said over her shoulder.

  The inside of the trailer was neat, although the furniture was worn.

  “Why don’t you go have a seat on the davenport, while I rustle us up something cold to drink.” She pointed to the sofa, where an orange and brown crocheted afghan was tossed across the arm.

  Monica sat down. The sofa fabric was rough and itchy. Moments later Brenda returned with two mismatched glasses of iced coffee. She handed one to Monica.

  “I hope that’s okay. I’m out of sugar.”

  Monica nodded and took a sip to be polite. “It’s fine.” She struggled not to grimace. The coffee was bitter and strong with that taste coffee gets when it sits on the warmer too long. She put the glass down on the coffee table and hoped Brenda wouldn’t notice she wasn’t drinking it.

  “Yes, I’ve known Darlene all her life, and her mother and I were friends. Darlene’s mother—her name was Heather—was smart. We all thought she’d leave Cranberry Cove and head to the big city but then she got,” she leaned closer to Monica and whispered, “pregnant.”

  A telephone shrilled from somewhere inside the trailer.

  “I’m waiting on a call from my doctor. I’ll just be a moment.” Brenda heaved herself out of her chair. She stopped in front of a bookcase, pulled out a volume and handed it to Monica. “Here’s our yearbook. You’ll find my picture in there along with Heather’s.”

  Monica rubbed the dust off the cover where Cranberry Cove High School was imprinted along with a lion—she supposed that was the school’s mascot. The spine cracked when she opened it, and the volume fell open to a page that Brenda must have looked at often.

  It was the class poll page that was standard fare in almost all yearbooks—the most likely to succeed, best dressed, class clown. Monica scanned the pictures until she came to one that made her stop in her tracks.

  Chapter 24

  Monica read the names under the picture several times, but there was no mistake.

  Brenda came back into the room. Monica had been concentrating so hard she jumped.

  “Sorry about that.” Brenda pointed at the yearbook, and with a deep sigh sank into an armchair. “Did you see my picture?”

  Monica shook her head. “No, I was just looking at this page here.” She held up the yearbook for Brenda to see. “The class poll. I see Darlene’s mother and Sam Culbert were voted cutest couple.”

  “That Sam Culbert.” Brenda tsk-tsked under her breath. “The two of them were a couple all through junior high and high school. Then all of a sudden he takes off on a grand tour of Europe, and she disappears for nine months. Comes home with a daughter and refuses to tell anyone who the father is.”

  Brenda took a sip of her iced coffee. That caused a fit of coughing, and Monica waited impatiently for her to begin again.

  “But of course being as how I was her best friend, she did tell me a little something about it. Seems Sam Culbert’s parents didn’t approve of Heather. They had plans for their son that didn’t include settling down at eighteen with a wife and baby.” Brenda gave a loud sniff. “Scraped together every penny they had and then some and sent Sam off to Europe to take his mind off his girlfriend of six years. Gave Heather a lump sum of money and made her promise never to tell anyone wh
o Darlene’s father was.”

  “And Heather went along with it?”

  “Apparently. There was plenty of talk, believe me, but we assumed she and Sam had broken up. Besides, everyone thought Heather had taken up with someone else and gotten herself knocked up.”

  “So Sam never acknowledged Darlene as his daughter?”

  Brenda shook her head. “No, never. Not even after he made it big. He saw how they were living. He could have spared a couple of bucks to help them out, but no. It was as if Sam had never even known Heather.”

  “Do you think Darlene knew Sam Culbert was her father?”

  Brenda shook her head vigorously. “No. I’m pretty sure she didn’t. Heather was determined she wouldn’t find out. Heather kept her word, I’ll say that for her. It was hard on Darlene. People made comments. She couldn’t help but hear. I suppose that’s why she never smiled.” Brenda took a big gulp of her iced coffee, which set off another round of coughing.

  “I’d better be going.” Monica stood up. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “It’s been a lovely visit. You’re welcome to come back anytime. Nothing like a good chat to take your mind off things. Heather and I used to spend almost every evening together sitting outside on the deck with a cold drink in nice weather, or around the kitchen table when it was too cold or nasty to be outside. But now that’s she gone . . .”

  Brenda followed Monica to the door, where she pointed to a house catty-corner from hers. “That’s Heather’s place over there. Well, I suppose it’s Darlene’s now that her mother’s gone. Looks like her car is in the drive, so you should find her at home.”

  Monica decided to leave her own car where it was for the moment. Darlene’s place was only a short walk away—no point in moving it. She started to step off the curb when the blare of a car horn sent her jumping backwards. She wasn’t paying attention—she was still reeling from the discovery that Sam Culbert was Darlene’s father. Did Darlene really not know?

  Even before Monica could raise her hand to knock, Darlene yanked open her door. She must have been watching from the window and waiting. For some reason the thought gave Monica a prickle of unease.

  “I suppose you want to come in.” Darlene held the door wider but didn’t move, so Monica had to sidle past her, crab-like.

  A large television—not a flat screen but the old-fashioned kind that was almost as deep as it was wide—dominated the room. There was a dark green leather recliner with cracks that had been mended with black electrical tape, a stack of Star magazines on the coffee table and a large bookshelf stuffed with books. Judging by the lurid colors of the spines and the flowery fonts used for the authors’ names, most of them were romance novels.

  Darlene was wearing a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms with cats on them. She didn’t invite Monica to sit down.

  Monica was about to say that she’d come to check on Darlene—to see how she was feeling—but she could tell by the look on Darlene’s face that Darlene wouldn’t believe that.

  Monica shifted from one foot to the other uncertainly. Darlene still hadn’t asked her to sit down, but Monica perched on the edge of the couch anyway. Darlene continued to stand for several moments then finally collapsed onto the recliner, pushing the lever so that the chair tilted back. Her feet popped up, and Monica could see that the soles of her slippers were black with dirt. A tray table was open next to the recliner with some wadded up tissues, an empty glass and an open magazine on top.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the ring you found at the farm.”

  If Darlene was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  “I’ve given it to the police, since it might be evidence,” Monica said.

  Darlene was silent. She plucked at her lower lip.

  “I’d hate for the police to waste their time on something that wasn’t . . . relevant to the case.”

  Darlene blinked, her lids lowering and lifting in slow motion.

  “What I’m trying to say is . . .” Monica could feel sweat breaking out on the back of her neck, and it wasn’t just because the trailer was terribly overheated—hot air bellowed out of a vent in the floor and swirled around Monica’s legs.

  Finally she decided on a frank approach. “Did you take the ring from Andrea Culbert’s dressing table and then put it near the bog where someone would find it in an attempt to incriminate her?

  Darlene looked baffled.

  “In order to make it look as if Andrea Culbert had been to the farm and might be a suspect in her husband’s murder,” Monica explained.

  “I was mad at her for firing me. It wasn’t fair. She said I didn’t clean good, but I know I did.” Darlene’s lower lip trembled.

  “I can imagine that made you mad,” Monica said soothingly. “But I need you to tell the police what you did. Otherwise, this will throw them off the track of the real murderer and waste time and effort, don’t you see?”

  Even as the words came out of her mouth, Monica was struck by the truth. Darlene had left the ring on the ground by the bog on purpose to mislead the investigation. Her intention hadn’t been to get back at Andrea Culbert but to distract the police.

  An icy coldness swept over Monica as the pieces fell into place like tumblers in a combination lock. She heard the thunk of the chair as Darlene levered the recliner back into place.

  “It wasn’t fair.” She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Him having all that money, and us nothing. And here he was my father.”

  “Did your mother tell you that?”

  Darlene shook her head slowly. “No. She made some kind of promise not to. But after she died, when I was going through the file where she kept important papers—Pastor Ken told me I should see if there was a will—I found my birth certificate. I’d never seen it before. It had my name on it, the place where I was born and my mother’s name—Heather Polk. And right where it said father, Sam Culbert’s name was filled in on the line, plain as day.”

  “So you lured him to the farm to ask him for money?”

  Darlene shook her head and her ponytail swished back and forth. “The next day, the day after I found out about Mr. Culbert being my father, I was supposed to clean for them. When I got there, he was in his office working on some papers. I waited until Mrs. Culbert had left to get her nails done, then I went in and talked to him. He tried to tell me he was too busy to listen, but I insisted. I told him I knew everything about him being my father.” Her eyes were glazed over, as if she was reliving the scene. “He asked me what I wanted, and I told him it was only fair that I share in some of the money he’d made all these years. Seeing as how he cheated me out of a daddy and my mother out of a good life.”

  “What did he say?”

  Darlene shifted in her chair. “At first he was angry, but then he asked me how much I wanted.”

  Did Culbert really think this was going to be a onetime payout—that Darlene was too naïve to go after more money later?

  Monica raised her eyebrows. “What did you tell him?”

  Darlene raised her chin. “I told him I wanted ten thousand dollars. I mean, he owed us . . . me. My poor mama worked hard all her life, and here he was living in a big house with a fancy car. He could have helped us out all along.”

  And how long would it have been before Darlene went through the ten thousand dollars and was back demanding more? Monica wondered.

  “What happened then? Did you ask him to meet you at Sassamanash Farm?”

  “No.” The word burst from Darlene. “He agreed to give me the money. A couple of days later, he called me and told me he had the cash. But he didn’t want anyone to see us so could I meet him out at the farm. I didn’t care one way or the other, just so I got my money. He told me to leave my car a short distance away and walk to the farm. I didn’t want to do that, but he said if I didn’t, he wouldn’t give me the money.” Darlene frowned. “I don’t
like to walk much.”

  “What happened then? Did he give you the cash?”

  Monica couldn’t imagine that Culbert had. Darlene struck her as the type who would have immediately gone over to Walmart to replace that old television set with one of the new flat screens.

  Darlene plucked at her lower lip again. “No, I didn’t get the money. He stood there in the shadows smiling at me. We were in that old shed—you know, where Jeff keeps some of the smaller equipment. He held out his arms to me and said, ‘Looks like I have a daughter now.’” She gave a loud sniff. “Then he tried to get his hands around my neck.” Darlene’s own hands went to her neck as if to demonstrate. “He tried to kill me.” The sniff became a wail.

  It wasn’t at all what Monica had expected. “What did you do then?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hardly breathe, and I was real scared. I reached around in back of me and found a rough piece of wood leaning against the wall. I grabbed it and hit him over the head with it real hard. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I really didn’t, but I couldn’t breathe.” She stared at Monica, her eyes welling with fresh tears.

  “What happened then?”

  “He fell over backwards and hit his head again—this time against the wall. I don’t think he was breathing anymore. Anyway, I had to get rid of him somehow or else someone might find out. I managed to get his body in that old wheelbarrow Jeff keeps in there. I wheeled him down to the bog and dumped him in.”

  “But he might have been alive.”

  Darlene shrugged and a hard look came over her face. “I didn’t care. I just didn’t want nobody to find out what I’d done.”

  “But if you had called the police . . . it was self-defense, after all.”

  Darlene sneered at Monica. She pointed to her chest. “Me against Sam Culbert? Do you think anyone would have believed me?”