by Peg Cochran
Monica realized Darlene had a point. “But what about Cora? Did you kill her, too?”
“She would have told,” Darlene blurted out. “She and Mama had become good friends. I’m pretty sure Mama told her about Sam Culbert being my father. They were always whispering together with that Brenda over a cold beer after work. I was at the diner getting my lunch when she told you to come by later that afternoon—I heard the two of you talking. I couldn’t take the chance that she would tell you the truth. You’re smart. You would have figured it out.”
“Sugar,” Monica said suddenly. “Hennie VanVelsen said your mother had the sugar—diabetes.” She looked Darlene in the face. “She took insulin, didn’t she?”
Darlene nodded very slowly.
“You injected Cora with an overdose of insulin and left her to die.”
“Cora would have told,” Darlene said plaintively. “It wasn’t my fault. Mr. Culbert should never have done what he did.”
“Did you take his car?”
Darlene’s face resumed its sulky expression. “I wasn’t going to walk all the way back to my car. I told you. I don’t like walking much. It makes the inside of my legs rub together and that hurts.” She rubbed her thigh.
Monica reached for her purse. “I’m going to call the police, and you need to tell them everything.” She stuck her hand in her bag and began to rummage for her cell.
“I’m not telling the police anything.”
“You have to, Darlene. We’ll get a lawyer, and he’ll handle things. I’m sure the court will go easy on you.”
“I’m not going to jail,” Darlene said, her voice rising belligerently.
Monica had her cell phone in her hand and had punched in the number nine when she noticed Darlene reaching for something on the tray table underneath the splayed magazine.
Before she could tap the next number on her keypad, Darlene lunged forward, and Monica felt a sharp prick in her thigh. She looked down and watched as Darlene injected the contents of a large syringe into her leg.
Chapter 25
Monica scanned her body for any unusual sensations. At first she didn’t notice any, but then she realized she was becoming light-headed and slightly shaky. Sweat broke out all over, making her skin feel clammy, and her heart was like a jackhammer in her chest. She tried to get up from the chair but her muscles refused to cooperate. Her body felt liquid, as if she would slip from the chair and end up as a puddle on the floor. She forced herself to concentrate. She had to do something, but her thoughts were jumbled like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle dumped out of the box.
Darlene had disappeared into another room and came back wearing jeans, sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt. She was carrying a stack of newspapers. She tossed them onto the sofa and pulled something out of her pocket. Monica tried to see what it was, but her vision was blurred, and it was hard to focus.
She heard the flare of a match and smelled the acrid scent of sulfur. She struggled to see what Darlene was doing.
“What are you doing?”
Darlene stopped with the lit match in her hand. “These trailers will burn to the ground in eleven minutes. Mama always worried about fire—she was always fussing over the smoke alarms.”
“Why are you—”
“It’ll take the fire department six minutes to get here. Assuming someone notices the flames and bothers to call them. I doubt they’ll find much left of you by the time they get the fire put out.”
The match in Darlene’s fingers had burned down, flickered and gone out. She scraped another match along the striking strip, and it burst into flame.
Darlene held the match toward Monica. “You know they dye the tip of the match red. I learned that on some show on the Discovery Channel. Mama always liked watching those shows. She was smart. She should have gone to college.”
Darlene leaned forward and held the match to the edge of one of the newspapers. It caught, and the flame quickly intensified.
Monica sagged against the chair. Concentrating was so hard. She wanted to close her eyes and rest . . . only for a minute. The first whiff of smoke had her sitting bolt upright.
“Help me,” she called to Darlene, but Darlene spun on her heel and made for the front door, slamming it hard in back of her.
Monica struggled to her feet, swaying wildly.
The whole pile of newspapers had now caught and was turning to black ash as the flames licked at the curtains over the front window. The fabric exploded in fire, and acrid smoke filled the room. It burned Monica’s eyes and made them tear.
Flames had now crept along the worn carpet, blocking the path to the front door.
Monica staggered toward the kitchen. If she could get some sugar in her system, it might counter some of the effects of the insulin. Maybe then she could think more clearly.
Walking the few feet between the living room and kitchen felt like running a marathon, but Monica made it and, with a sigh of relief, closed the kitchen door behind her. Hopefully that would keep out some of the smoke and buy her some time.
She ripped open the cupboards until she found a half-full bag of sugar. She yanked it off the shelf, her hands shaking and clumsy, and it fell onto the counter, spewing its contents all over. Monica had a momentary thought about the mess attracting ants before she realized she was being ridiculous—in a few minutes there would be nothing left of Darlene’s trailer. She scooped up a handful of sugar and put it in her mouth.
It was grainy and sickly sweet. It stuck to her tongue and the roof of her mouth. For a moment Monica thought she would choke, but she finally got the first handful down and scooped up another.
The sugar hit her bloodstream, and she began to feel a little less wobbly, although she was still sweating and her hands continued to shake. Maybe the dose of insulin hadn’t been as strong as Darlene thought. Of course she had managed to kill Cora, but perhaps Cora had had a weak heart? Monica didn’t want to think about that right now. She had to concentrate on getting out of the trailer. If only she hadn’t left her purse and cell phone in the living room. The low blood sugar had made her too groggy to have the presence of mind to grab them.
Smoke was curling under the closed kitchen door—she didn’t have much time. She ate another handful of sugar for good measure, and made her way to the back door.
Monica reached for the handle to the door to the outside, but it was loose and jiggled in her hand. She pushed against the door, but it didn’t move. She pushed again. Nothing. She stepped back to examine the door and noticed that it didn’t fit properly. There was a small chink between the door and the jamb through which she could see daylight. Then she noticed the nails—the door had been nailed shut, probably because it didn’t stay closed properly, and it was easier to nail it closed than have it fixed. Unfortunately the only other door to the trailer was in the living room, which was now filled with smoke and flames.
For a second, Monica felt like sinking to the floor and weeping, but she forced herself to take a breath and think. Why hadn’t she realized sooner that Darlene was the killer? She never would have come to the trailer alone.
She wasn’t going to become another one of Darlene’s victims. She was still shaky—she held her hands out in front of her, and they weren’t quite steady—but the sugar was beginning to take effect. She felt a surge of energy, and her mind started to clear. She had to get that door open. She jerked out one of the kitchen drawers and rummaged around. Maybe a knife would do? She grabbed one, ran back to the door and carefully slipped the knife blade under the head of one of the nails. The nail didn’t budge, and the knife snapped in two.
Monica threw it on the floor and went back to the cupboard. She opened another drawer and frantically pawed through the contents. Nothing useful, just a mishmash of cooking utensils—a nutcracker, lemon juicer and vegetable peeler along with a mismatched set of silverware.
A thin broom c
loset ran alongside the end of the counter. Monica yanked open the door and a mop fell out, hitting her on the forehead. She uttered an unaccustomed swear word and pushed it aside. There was a tangle of items on the floor of the closet. Monica knelt down and began to paw through them—dust rags, a feather duster with half the feathers missing, a can of furniture polish—and then her hand closed on something cool and metal. Monica held her breath—it was a screwdriver.
Flames were now licking around the edges of the kitchen door. She didn’t have much time. Monica staggered back to the door with the screwdriver.
She slid the blade under the head of the first of the three nails someone had used to keep the door from swinging open and pushed down on the handle of the screwdriver. The nail slid out about an eighth of an inch. Monica moved the screwdriver slightly and tried again. Now the nail was half out.
She was able to pull it out the rest of the way, but by now the kitchen was filling with smoke. Her eyes watered, and it was hard to breathe without coughing. Two more nails to go. The second one came out easily, but the third one was stubborn. Time and time again, the blade of the screwdriver slipped, gouging the doorframe.
Monica could barely see, and her lungs burned from the smoke. She could feel the heat of the fire against her back. Flames licked along the kitchen floor and climbed the wood counters. She had minutes left, if that, before the whole room was engulfed in flames.
She couldn’t restrain a sob as she tried pushing against the door, hoping the last nail would give way, but no luck. She slid the head of the screwdriver under the nail head and tried again. This time it began to budge. Monica hit the screwdriver handle so hard, her palm stung, but the nail slid out of the wood, and the door swung free with a loud creak.
Monica stumbled out of the smoke-filled trailer and collapsed on the ground. The sky above her was blue with fast-moving white clouds. She watched them, fascinated, as she tried to catch her breath.
Moments later she heard the wail of sirens, and a fire truck, quickly followed by another one, pulled up in front of the trailer. Right behind them was an ambulance.
People were pouring out of their homes now. Monica recognized Brenda and Cora’s neighbor, Dawn. Someone held her head up and put a glass of water to her lips, then a paramedic was suddenly bending over her.
Another face popped into Monica’s view. It was Detective Stevens.
“You’re still—”
“Here? Not quite.” Stevens rubbed her belly. “I was on my way to the hospital when I heard the squawk over the radio.” She grimaced and rubbed her belly. “I took a bit of a detour to check things out. Someone will be around to talk to you shortly,” she said over her shoulder as she began to walk away.
Chapter 26
Monica was surprised when she woke the next morning in an unfamiliar bed in unfamiliar surroundings. She put a hand to her throat—it felt raspy and raw, as if she were coming down with a very bad cold, and her eyes stung. She rubbed them and looked around her as everything that had happened the day before flooded her mind all at once. She was in the hospital. She had protested vehemently, but the doctor had insisted on keeping her overnight for observation. Monica had inhaled a fair amount of smoke, the doctor had said, and she wanted to be sure there wouldn’t be any complications.
Monica slipped into the tiny adjacent bathroom and washed her face, brushed her teeth and combed her hair. She still smelled like smoke and was contemplating a shower when there was a knock on her door.
“Yoo-hoo,” a voice called from the hallway.
Monica opened the door to find Gina nearly hidden behind the most enormous bouquet of flowers Monica had ever seen.
“I brought you a little something to freshen up your room.”
“That’s so sweet,” Monica said as she accepted the bouquet. “But I’m sure the doctor will be around to discharge me shortly. She said they only needed to keep an eye on me overnight.”
Gina put the flowers down on the bedside tray. She opened her purse, dug around and pulled out a cell phone. “Here.” She handed it to Monica. “I got you a new phone. I was able to get you the same number, but I’m afraid all of your other data is lost. You’ll have to enter all your contacts again.”
“Thanks.” Monica looked at the phone and smiled. “It’s so nice and shiny and new.”
She heard someone clear their throat and looked up to see Jeff standing in the doorway with a huge grin on his face.
“Jeff!” Monica held out her free arm and gave him a huge hug. She let go of him and took a step back. “Where have you been? You had us all worried to death.”
Jeff ducked his head. “I was sleeping rough in this old barn just outside of town. Mauricio turned me onto it. With the heat off him, he was able to move back into Primrose Cottage where he’d been living with Charlie.”
“What’s going to happen to him now? The authorities know he doesn’t have any papers.”
Jeff shrugged. “I think they have bigger fish to fry. Mauricio’s managed to dodge them for over five years now. He’ll manage.”
Gina plumped the pillows on Monica’s bed and straightened the covers. “I’ll ring for the nurse to bring a vase for those.” She pointed at the flowers. “And you’d better get back in bed.” She patted the mattress. “You’re still awfully pale.”
“I’m fine,” Monica said, even as a wave of tiredness swept over her. She didn’t protest any further but slipped between the covers gratefully and rested her head against the pillows.
Jeff and Gina took the two chairs reserved for visitors—uncomfortable-looking molded plastic, as if the hospital wanted to discourage anyone from staying too long.
“How is the harvest going?” Monica turned her head so she could see Jeff where he sat with his long legs outstretched.
“All done. We got the last bog cleared real early this morning, and everything is ready for delivery. You’ll have your work cut out for you writing checks to pay all the bills as soon as the cooperative deposits that nice chunk of change in the farm’s account.”
“It’s a task I’m looking forward to,” Monica said, reaching out a hand to grasp Jeff’s. “But did you talk to that inspector from the cooperative?”
Jeff nodded. “I found two voicemails from him on my cell so I gave him a ring back first thing. I’ve satisfied him that we disposed of the berries harvested from the bog Culbert’s body was found in. They’re going to make fantastic mulch for next year’s planting.” Jeff grimaced. “I hated losing the money that those berries represented. I was awfully tempted to include them with the rest, but I guess my conscience got the best of me.”
Gina grinned. “I might not be the best mother in the world, but I still think I raised you right.” She turned back to Monica. “I can’t believe it was that wretched girl from the farm shop all along.”
“Darlene? I should have suspected her sooner. She knew enough about the farm to take an educated guess that I would be out helping Jeff that night with the sprinklers. She took a chance, and it paid off. It was just her bad luck that that blow to the head didn’t send me hurtling into the irrigation ditch.”
“How on earth do you suppose she got Culbert’s body in the bog in the first place?” Jeff scratched his head.
“He was already unconscious, so she only had to wrestle him into that old wheelbarrow of yours.”
“She is a big girl.” Gina rolled her eyes.
“Now that I think of it, there was something of a resemblance between her and Culbert,” Jeff said. “Something about the way they walked.”
“Darlene is bowlegged,” Gina said. “Maybe Culbert was, too?”
“Yeah. His legs did kind of go like this.” Jeff traced an arc with each hand.
“So he was her father and never acknowledged her all these years. Isn’t that something?” Gina rummaged in her handbag. She handed Monica a white paper bag with Gumdr
ops on the front. “Those two old ladies who run that candy shop wanted me to give you these.”
Monica peered into the bag to find a box of Wilhelmina peppermints. She was touched. Maybe they would take the taste of smoke out of her mouth.
Monica’s cell phone shrilled from the small bedside table where she’d left it. She grabbed it and checked the number—not one she recognized.
“Hello?”
The voice at the other end was unfamiliar. They chatted briefly and Monica could barely suppress a squeal of excitement. Both Gina and Jeff were looking at her quizzically when she hung up.
“Well?” they said in unison.
“Fresh Gourmet has approved our application for product placement in the store. I’ll be presenting Sassamanash Farms Cranberry Salsa to them at their next product review meeting,” Monica blurted out.
“That’s wonderful.” Jeff jumped up from his chair and gave Monica a hug. “I had no idea. . . .”
“I didn’t want to say anything and get your hopes up, in case things didn’t work out,” Monica admitted. “Of course they still have to accept the product, but I have confidence it will win them over.”
“Now you really are looking tired,” Gina said, sounding concerned. “Come on, Jeff. Let’s let Monica get some rest.”
Monica’s eyes were drifting shut as Gina and Jeff tiptoed out, shutting the door behind them.
She didn’t wake until an aide came by with her lunch. Monica reached for the tray eagerly. She realized she was starving. Surely that was a good sign, and they would let her go soon?
She was taking the lid off a plate with a sandwich and a scoop of potato salad on it when there was a timid knock on her door.
“Come in.” Monica expected one of the endless nurses who checked on her night and day.
“Hi.” Greg Harper stuck his head around the edge of the door. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course.” Monica struggled upright on her pillows and ran a hand through her hair, glad she’d taken the time to brush it earlier.
