Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  Praise for the Cranberry Cove Mysteries

  “Author Peg Cochran has a truly entertaining writing style that is filled with humor, mystery, fun, and intrigue. You cannot ask for a lot more in a super cozy!”

  —Open Book Society

  “A fun whodunnit with quirky characters and a satisfying mystery. This new series is as sweet and sharp as the heroine’s cranberry salsa.”

  —Sofie Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Magical Cats Mysteries

  “Cozy fans and foodies rejoice—there’s a place just for you and it’s called Cranberry Cove.”

  —Ellery Adams, New York Times bestselling author of

  the Books by the Bay Mysteries,

  the Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries,

  and the Book Retreat Mysteries

  “I can’t wait for Monica’s next tasty adventure—and I’m not just saying that because I covet her cranberry relish recipe.”

  —Victoria Abbott, national bestselling author of

  the Book Collector Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Peg Cochran

  Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries

  ALLERGIC TO DEATH

  STEAMED TO DEATH

  ICED TO DEATH

  Cranberry Cove Mysteries

  BERRIED SECRETS

  BERRY THE HATCHET

  DEAD AND BERRIED

  Farmer’s Daughter Mysteries

  NO FARM, NO FOUL

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Peg Cochran

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698166561

  First Edition: May 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

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  Contents

  Praise for the Cranberry Cove Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Peg Cochran

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Recipes

  Chapter 1

  Monica Albertson drove down the hill, away from Sassamanash Farm and toward Cranberry Cove and Beach Hollow Road. It was sunny but dark clouds hovered over Lake Michigan in the distance. The wind was picking up, too, tipping the waves that rolled toward shore with white foam.

  As she passed a cottage on her right that had long been abandoned, she noticed a spiral of smoke rising from the chimney and a dusty green Jeep parked in the driveway. She was startled—the place had been unoccupied since she’d moved to Cranberry Cove last August. The shingles were weathered, the grass out front scrubby, and a number of the windows were boarded up.

  She wondered who could be living there. The place must need some work after having sat vacant for so long—much like her little cottage at the farm had. She’d scrubbed and spackled and painted for over a month, but now the place looked fresh and cozy, and Monica loved it.

  Monica continued on her way into town and Beach Hollow Road, where all the shop fronts along the main street were painted in soft pastel tones. The tulips, which had stood like brightly colored sentinels along the sidewalk in early May, were gone now, replaced by planters overflowing with flowers in every hue. Baskets of red and white geraniums hung from the old-fashioned gas lamps that a previous mayor of Cranberry Cove had had the foresight to convert to electricity.

  Monica found a parking space in front of Twilight, a store that sold healing crystals, tarot cards and other new age items. She waved to Tempest Storm, the proprietor, as she got out of the car. Tempest was dressed in one of her usual bizarre outfits—this time a long scarlet dress with bat-wing sleeves. There was a silver belt slung around her waist that made her look like the chatelaine of an old castle.

  Monica walked past Twilight and continued two doors down to the pastel pink façade of Gumdrops, the local candy store.

  Hennie VanVelsen greeted Monica as soon as she stepped into the shop. She was one of a pair of elderly identical twins who had been running Gumdrops for as long as anyone could remember. Her gray hair was set in precise marcel waves and her peach shirtwaist dress was as demure as something worn in the 1950s.

  Hennie normally greeted her customers with a bright smile but today she had an unaccustomed worried look on her face as Monica approached the counter.

  “Is everything okay?” Monica asked. Hennie was normally the more unflappable of the two sisters, and it surprised Monica to see her worried. “Where’s Gerda?”

  Hennie fumbled with a box of Droste chocolate pastilles. “She’s in the back.” She inclined her head toward the door to the storage room. “Lying down. She’s not been feeling well lately.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious?” Monica asked in alarm.

  Hennie turned the octagonal box of pastilles over and over in her hands. “I certainly do hope not. I don’t know what I’d do without—” She forced her shoulders back and put the candy box down on the counter decisively. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. You know Gerda.” She gave an indulgent smile. “Every little ache or pain sends her into a terrible tizzy and she immediately thinks she’s about to die.”

  Monica smiled. She’d been in Cranberry Cove long enough to know that Gerda was something of an alarmist, while Hennie was the stauncher sister. So seeing Hennie worried frightened her, even though Hennie had now put on a brave face.

  “I passed that abandoned cottage,” Monica said, hoping the topic would take Hennie’s mind off of her problems. “You know—the one on the road leading to Sassamanash Farm?”

  “Yes, I know the one.” Hennie touched a hand to her elaborate gray curls, which were in perfect order as usual.

  “I saw smoke coming from the chimney today and a truck—a Jeep—parked in the driveway.”

  “You don’t say?”


  “It looks as if someone is moving in. I thought maybe you might have heard something about it.”

  Hennie looked vexed—as if her sources had, for once, failed her. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard a thing. So you think someone is moving in?” Hennie shuddered. “The place must need quite a lot of work.”

  Monica shrugged. “I suppose someone could be cleaning the place out in order to sell it.”

  Hennie nodded. “I imagine they have a splendid view of the lake from there—it’s set up quite high. A lake view would make the property highly desirable. I’m surprised it’s sat vacant for so long.” She sighed and fiddled with the antique cameo brooch at her neck. “Someone will probably come in and build another one of those enormous summer homes.” She sighed again. “Cranberry Cove certainly isn’t what it used to be.”

  Monica hid a smile. The VanVelsens said that every time a new store opened or someone had the nerve to paint their house a different color.

  Hennie slapped her hands down on the counter. “I’m sure we will find out all about it soon enough. You can’t hide something like that in Cranberry Cove.”

  Monica laughed. “That’s certainly true.”

  “Now, is there something I can get you?”

  “Do you have any more of those delicious winegums?” Monica said. “My mother’s birthday is coming up soon and she particularly enjoyed those the last time she was here.”

  “You can’t go wrong with Katjes winegums,” Hennie said, retrieving a bag of the brightly colored sweets from the shelf. “They’re imported directly from the Netherlands, you know.” She put the bag on the counter.

  The influence of the wave of Dutch immigrants that had come to this area of western Michigan in the late 1800s was still strong, and the VanVelsens were carrying that tradition on with enthusiasm.

  Hennie plopped the winegums in a Gumdrops bag and handed it to Monica. Monica swiped her credit card and signed the slip Hennie put out on the counter.

  “Are you on the committee that has been planning the Vlaggetjesdag celebration?”

  Monica must have looked blank, because Hennie gave a smug smile and went on to explain.

  “Vlaggetjesdag is Flag Day, and a tradition in the Netherlands. We have our own little celebration here in Cranberry Cove.”

  Monica vaguely remembered seeing flyers about the event, but she’d been too busy to pay much attention.

  “Of course, in the Netherlands, Vlaggetjesdag is also the start of herring season and all the fishing boats crowd the harbor, their colorful flags fluttering in the breeze. And, as you can imagine, everyone eats herring.”

  “Don’t herring live in saltwater?” Monica asked, searching her memory for the very little she knew about fish.

  “Yes, so obviously we don’t have them here in Lake Michigan. Instead we have a Dutch food festival.” Hennie suddenly became animated, clapping her hands together, her eyes glowing. “We have tables and tables of delicious things to eat, games for the children and folk music.”

  The only Dutch food Monica had sampled so far was the erwtensoep and the Dutch treat known as oliebollen. She couldn’t conceive of an entire food festival geared around pea soup and doughnuts.

  “We have a fabulous rijsttafel, or rice table. The rijsttafel was adapted by the Dutch when they colonized Indonesia to show off to visitors the variety of dishes served in that part of the world. Gerda and I have always contributed something ourselves.” Hennie’s face suddenly darkened. “I hope Gerda will be up for it this year. She would hate to miss it.” She knitted her gnarled hands together. “She would be devastated, you know.”

  “Is she that ill? Maybe she should see a doctor?” Monica suggested.

  “She’s being rather stubborn about it. Dr. VanderWeide retired, you know, and Gerda’s terribly suspicious of his replacement—young Dr. Albers—although I’m sure he’s perfectly qualified.” She frowned. “Even if he does look terribly young.”

  Monica smiled. She’d been to Dr. Albers for a bout with strep throat during the winter, and he was at least forty years old. “I do hope Gerda feels better soon.”

  “I’m sure she will,” Hennie replied, a smile replacing her frown.

  “I’d better be going.” Monica tucked her receipt into her purse.

  “Have a good day, dear. And if you hear any more about that cottage, you will let me know, I hope.”

  • • •

  Monica continued down Beach Hollow Road toward Bart’s Butcher. The scent of the flowers spilling out of the planters competed with the smell of frying bacon coming from the open door of the Cranberry Cove Diner. A colorful poster taped in the window of the diner caught her eye and she stopped to read it. It was all about the Flag Day celebration. She couldn’t imagine how she had missed seeing it before.

  Of course, she’d been very busy on the farm with all the baking and cooking, but the phrase time to get a life, crossed her mind. She would have to make an effort to get out more.

  Bart’s was empty when she got there. After perusing the case of crown roasts of pork dolled up with paper frills, lamb chops adorned with curly bits of parsley, and skinned and boned chicken breasts, Monica chose a couple of thick porterhouses.

  “Good choice,” Bart said as he pulled a sheet of butcher paper from the roll. He slapped the steak. “That’s a fine piece of meat.”

  Monica nodded, watching as Bart wrapped up her purchase with practiced ease. “By the way, do you know anything about that abandoned cottage—”

  “The one on the road to your farm? Why? You thinking of buying it?”

  Monica laughed. “Hardly. I have enough to do keeping up with the farm.”

  Bart gave her a sly look. “You could fix the place up, you know. You’d have a nice view from there. Perfect for when you and Greg get married. Very convenient, too. It’s halfway between the farm and his store.”

  “What makes you think Greg and I are getting—”

  Bart cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Everyone knows he’s going to ask you, it’s only a matter of when.” He chuckled. “They’ve got a pool going over at the diner.”

  Monica was momentarily horrified. People were actually talking about her and Greg?

  “I think the cottage is already taken,” she said, ignoring Bart’s last comment. “I saw a green Jeep parked in the driveway, and there was smoke coming from the chimney.”

  “You don’t say?” Bart paused with a piece of string wrapped around his finger.

  “You haven’t heard anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  Chapter 2

  Someone was certainly keeping his or her arrival a very guarded secret, Monica thought as she headed to the Cranberry Cove farmer’s market. If a local had purchased that cottage the news would be all over town by now.

  Monica looked over the stalls piled with fruits and vegetables and chose a head of lettuce and some zucchini. It was June and a little early yet for Michigan-grown tomatoes—she would enjoy those later in the season. The thought made her mouth water in anticipation.

  She walked back to her car, loaded her purchases in the backseat and began the drive back to Sassamanash Farm. She glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed that the heavy, dark clouds hanging low over Lake Michigan were now moving east at a brisk pace. It looked like they would soon be getting some rain. The day had started out mild and sunny, but weather changed quickly as storms blew across the vast waters of the lake.

  Monica turned into the driveway of her cottage, the gravel crunching under her tires as she pulled around toward the garage. The trellis outside her back door was dripping with pink climbing roses, bees happily buzzing from flower to flower. She stood for a moment breathing in their scent, feeling the soft breeze against her face. Spring had been a long time in coming, but it had been worth waiting for.

  Mittens, her little black and
white cat, greeted her at the back door. She was still very young and while she had certainly grown, she was still as playful as ever. She wove in and out between Monica’s legs as Monica walked back and forth between the kitchen table and the refrigerator, putting her groceries away.

  Monica had invited her half brother, Jeff, for dinner. He was the owner of Sassamanash Farm and the reason she had left Chicago to come to Michigan. He had needed help with his cranberry crop and the small farm store they ran, and Monica hadn’t hesitated when he’d called.

  She’d also invited Jeff’s mother, and her stepmother, Gina. Greg Harper was coming, too. Monica thought about what Bart had said again—about her and Greg getting married. They’d been going out for several months now but so far no commitments had been made on either side.

  Greg was busy with Book ’Em, the new and used bookstore he owned in town, and she was busy at the farm. Besides, she wasn’t sure she was ready for a serious relationship.

  Monica picked up the telephone. She’d better remind Jeff about dinner. He had any number of stellar qualities but remembering things like dinner engagements wasn’t one of them. She dialed his cell phone number, but after ringing a dozen times, the call went to voicemail. She looked at the clock. He was probably out at the bogs. The farm required a massive amount of work and there was virtually no such thing as a day off.

  Monica whistled for Mittens who came running up in back of her, skidding furiously on the slick tile floor and finally coming to a halt with her tiny black nose an inch from the refrigerator. Monica opened the back door and Mittens skittered out, peering over her shoulder and looking slightly guilty—like a prison inmate making a break for it.

  Monica took the path that had been worn into the dirt out past the pump house, where the equipment that controlled the sprinklers was kept. The grass had turned green again after the long winter and birds were singing in the trees and flapping their wings as if they were spreading the news about the coming storm, which was even more evident now as dark clouds continued to roll in.