Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  Dessert would be equally no fuss—vanilla ice cream layered with some store-bought pound cake and cranberry preserves.

  Monica was slicing the zucchini when there was a knock on her back door. Before she could even yell come in, Gina burst into the kitchen, her arms laden with grocery bags.

  Her expensively highlighted blond hair—Gina made regular trips back to Chicago to shop and have her hair done—was in its usual deceptively simple looking twist. She was wearing black leggings and a leopard-print tunic along with leopard-print, pony hair ankle boots.

  Gina had come to Cranberry Cove for a visit and had decided to stay, opening an aromatherapy shop called Making Scents on Beach Hollow Road, right next to the hardware store.

  “I think I’m finally becoming one of you,” Gina said as she put the bags down on Monica’s kitchen table.

  Monica managed to stifle a snort. “What makes you think that?”

  “I went into the Cranberry Cove Diner, and Gus nodded at me. It was a very tiny nod, but I definitely saw him nod.” Gina plunged a hand into one of the bags.

  Gus Amentas was the rather taciturn short-order cook at the Cranberry Cove Diner. He had no use for the tourists who flocked to Cranberry Cove in the summer and fall, and refused to acknowledge anyone he didn’t consider a local. To get even so much as a nod from Gus meant you were slowly becoming accepted in Cranberry Cove.

  “What’s all that you’ve brought?” Monica said, watching Gina produce items from the grocery bags with the same flourish a magician uses to produce a rabbit from a top hat. “I am planning on giving you dinner, you know.”

  Mittens, who had been sleeping in the late rays of the sun coming through the window, tired from her afternoon outdoors, jumped onto the kitchen table and pounced on one of the empty grocery bags, knocking it on its side. She then proceeded to curl up inside the bag, purring loudly.

  “I thought it would be nice to have a little something beforehand. I went out to Fresh Gourmet and picked up a few things.” Gina waved a hand over the items spread out on the table. “I’ve got some pâté, a few different cheeses and,” she paused dramatically, “some champagne.”

  “Are we celebrating something?” After the events of the afternoon, Monica was hardly in the mood to celebrate. To her mind, champagne was something reserved for New Year’s Eve and very special occasions like weddings and notable birthdays.

  Gina shook her head. “Not really. But one doesn’t need an excuse to pop the cork on some bubbly.” She opened the refrigerator. “I’ll put these in here to chill.”

  Monica sliced the last zucchini, spread the slices out on a plate and drizzled them with olive oil.

  “Is your boyfriend coming?”

  Monica felt herself bristle. “I think I’m a little too old to have a boyfriend,” she said mildly.

  “Okay, your beau then. Is that better?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Good. I always enjoy talking to Greg. When are you two going to move in together?”

  Monica felt herself color. “We’re perfectly happy the way we are. I live here on the farm, and he has his place over his shop. It’s convenient.”

  Gina snorted. “Love is never convenient.” She looked over at Monica. “Your hair looks good like that, by the way. You should wear it up more often.”

  Monica was relieved when the front doorbell rang.

  “Do you want me to get it?” Gina asked.

  “That’s okay.” Monica wiped her hands on her apron and headed down the hall to the living room and the small front foyer.

  She opened the door to find Greg on the doorstep, clutching a paper-wrapped bundle of flowers.

  He bent and kissed Monica then handed her the flowers. “For my hostess,” he said with a smile.

  Monica buried her nose in the bouquet and sniffed. “They’re lovely.” She took Greg’s arm. “Come on back. Gina’s here.”

  Monica returned to the kitchen to discover Jeff had arrived via the back door. He’d changed into a clean shirt and pair of jeans and his hair was still slightly damp from his shower.

  “Jeff just told me about what happened this morning,” Gina said. “That poor woman.”

  Greg looked from Gina to Monica. “What happened this morning?”

  Monica explained about the bees and finding Lori dead from their stings.

  Greg whistled. “I had no idea. The village grapevine must be malfunctioning.”

  “They’re performing an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death,” Monica said.

  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the steaks she’d bought from Bart’s. They were wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with string. Bart believed in doing things the old-fashioned way.

  “An autopsy?” Gina said, mirroring Monica’s earlier tone when Stevens had mentioned the word. “Does that mean they suspect it wasn’t natural causes?”

  Monica undid the paper wrapped around the pieces of meat. “According to Detective Stevens, it’s standard operating procedure in the case of any unattended death.”

  Gina looked slightly disappointed, but then perked up. “Maybe it will turn out to be murder after all. We could use a dose of excitement. And here I thought living in a small town was going to be dull.”

  “There’s nothing dull about it,” Greg said, arranging the flowers in the vase Monica had handed him. “I think there’s as much intrigue in small towns as there is in big cities.”

  “You’re probably right,” Gina said. “Who’s up for some bubbly?” She opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of champagne.

  “Here, let me open it for you,” Greg said, taking the bottle from Gina. The outside was frosted with condensation.

  Monica retrieved a couple of mismatched champagne glasses from the cupboard and dusted them off with a towel. She could no longer remember how she’d come by them. Champagne wasn’t something she had very often—and when she did, more often than not, it was in a restaurant.

  Greg filled their glasses, and they nibbled on the treats Gina had brought.

  Monica glanced at the clock. “I think it’s time I put the steaks on.”

  She took the meat outside to the small brick patio Jeff had created for her as a surprise last year. It was bordered by a white trellis covered with pink climbing roses, and was just big enough for her new gas grill, a café table and a chaise longue.

  Monica turned on the gas and lit three of the burners. Her parents had had a charcoal grill and her father had always had trouble getting the fire going. Monica had decided she would make it easier on herself and go for gas. She was glad she had—she’d grilled out almost every night since she’d bought it.

  Once the grill reached the right temperature, Monica put on the steaks. The meat sizzled and spat and soon good smells were drifting on the air.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she discovered that Gina had cleaned and set the table. Monica mixed the salad and tossed it with dressing while the steaks rested.

  Finally they were all seated around the table with full plates and a glass of the red wine Monica had bought for the occasion.

  “There’s another mystery I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Monica turned to Greg.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You know that abandoned cottage on the right just before you head into Cranberry Cove?”

  Greg nodded.

  “I noticed smoke coming from the chimney and a truck parked out front.”

  “I know the place you mean,” Gina said, pointing her fork at Monica. “There was a Dumpster out back last week filled with building materials.”

  “Well. . . .” Greg leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.

  “Don’t tease us,” Monica said, lightly punching him on the arm. “You know something. I can tell.”

  Greg l
et out a laugh. “You’re right. For once I know something before the VanVelsen sisters do. You’ll have to excuse me while I bask in that glory for a moment.”

  Monica snorted. “Hennie didn’t know this morning when I asked her, but I’ll bet they know by now.”

  Greg put on a comically sad face. “Please! Don’t puncture my balloon.”

  Monica felt Gina jiggling her foot under the table.

  “I don’t think you know anything,” Gina said, giving Greg a challenging look. “You’re stalling so you can make up some tall tale to tell us.”

  Greg straightened up and put both hands on the table. “Au contraire, madame. I do happen to be in possession of the information you are so desperately seeking.”

  “Then tell us before I pull my hair out,” Gina said, putting her hands to her head threateningly.

  “Okay.” Greg relaxed back in his chair. “It was almost closing time when this fellow walked in.”

  “What did he look like?” Gina immediately asked.

  Greg held up a hand. “I’m getting to it, don’t worry. He was tall and . . . I can only say robust looking.”

  “Fat?” Gina inquired.

  Greg shook his head. “No, not fat. Muscular.” He pretended to flex the muscles in his arms.

  “Age?” Gina’s foot was still going a mile a minute under the table.

  Greg held his hands out, palms up. “Middle-aged? He had a full gray beard and thick hair. And very blue eyes. He reminded me of an old-fashioned ship’s captain.”

  Gina raised her eyebrows.

  “Which is ironic actually. He’s a writer, and he’s holing up in that old cottage to finish his latest book. It’s going to be on the famous shipwrecks in the Great Lakes like the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

  Gina’s eyes widened. “Did he mention his name?”

  Greg nodded. “Xavier Cabot.”

  Gina gave a pretend shiver. “Oooh. I am definitely going to have to meet Mr. Xavier Cabot.”

  And Monica didn’t doubt for a minute that Gina would find a way.

  Chapter 5

  Monica spent the night tossing and turning. Scenes from the afternoon—Lori lying on the grass, her face suffused with red and hideously bloated—worked their way into her dreams, causing her to wake abruptly, sit bolt upright in bed and gasp for air as if someone was attempting to suffocate her.

  She finally managed to catch a scant few hours of uneasy slumber before the alarm went off at six thirty.

  Mornings in late June were still chilly, even though the temperatures in the afternoon could climb into the eighties. Monica pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a T-shirt that could use a good bleaching and a sweatshirt with a hole in the elbow. She could remove the sweatshirt later when it finally warmed up.

  She made her way downstairs, Mittens weaving in and out between her legs and making for a rather perilous journey. Yawning, she filled the coffeepot with water and ground beans, and was nearly dozing off, leaning heavily against the counter, when the coffee began trickling into the pot.

  The smell jolted Monica awake. She grabbed a thick white mug from the cupboard and waited impatiently as the last of the coffee dripped into the carafe. She poured herself a cup, inhaled deeply as the steam wreathed her face and took a sip.

  “Ah . . .” Monica sighed and closed her eyes in rapture. She was still trying to shake off the effects of last night’s dream.

  With caffeine coursing through her bloodstream, Monica filled Mittens’s bowl with fresh water, opened a can of cat food and forked it into the kitten’s food dish. While Mittens devoured her meal, Monica microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal mixed with cranberries that had been harvested in the fall and dried. Thus fortified, she grabbed her keys from the hook by the back door and headed down to the farm kitchen.

  Dew sparkled on the grass, reflecting the rays of sun piercing the thin, scattered clouds. Monica followed the well-worn path, enjoying the cool, moist air against her face. She could feel her hair curling in the humidity, and she brushed it back from her forehead and tucked it behind her ears.

  She avoided looking at the spot where Lori had been found the day before, but instead focused on the building that housed the commercial kitchen.

  Monica slipped the key into the lock, opened the door and flicked on the lights.

  Within half an hour she had the first batch of cranberry muffins in the oven and was working on the dough for some cranberry bread with streusel topping. She glanced out the window as she mixed a batch of berries into the dough.

  The lights were on in the farm store—Nora had obviously arrived and was setting up for the day. Soon Monica would be able to take her some bread and muffins, still warm from the oven. They had a handful of customers who stopped by on their way to work to add a freshly baked goodie to their morning cup of coffee.

  Working with practiced ease, Monica soon had several batches of dough in the oven. While they baked, she wiped down the counters, scooping any random sprays of flour into the palm of her hand and dumping them into the stainless steel sink.

  The timer dinged and Monica checked the first batch of bread. It wasn’t quite done so she set the timer for another five minutes. Meanwhile, she finished cleaning up. She had her wicker baskets lined up on the counter by the time the timer dinged again. This time the bread was golden brown and pulling away from the sides of the pan. The muffins were done as well, and Monica pulled the pans from the oven.

  As soon as everything was cool enough to handle, Monica turned out the bread and muffins and arranged them in the baskets for transport to the farm store.

  With the baskets slung over her arms, Monica felt a bit like Little Red Riding Hood as she made her way down the path toward the store.

  Within minutes, she was at the door, the goodies in her basket still warm from the oven, which was one of the reasons she’d been grateful they’d been able to build a commercial kitchen at the farm instead of having to rent one miles away.

  “Good morning,” Monica said as she pushed the door open with her hip. A bell tinkled overhead, announcing her arrival.

  Nora was straightening a stack of cranberry-themed tea towels. “Good morning.” She turned around and held out a hand for one of Monica’s baskets. “These muffins smell delicious.”

  Nora went behind the counter and pulled out several of the antique silver trays Monica had found at an estate sale. She covered them with lacy paper doilies and then began arranging the muffins. Monica took one of the trays and arranged slices of cranberry bread, studded with pecans and topped with buttery streusel, on it.

  Nora glanced at Monica from under her eyelashes. “You look tired.”

  “I am.” Monica sighed. “I didn’t sleep well last night because of. . . .” She waved a hand in the general direction of the cranberry bogs.

  “I can understand that,” Nora said. “Neither did I. Such an unfortunate accident.”

  Just then the door to the shop opened and they both pivoted around to welcome their first customer of the day.

  The greeting died on Monica’s lips when she saw Detective Stevens standing in the doorway. She was wearing a navy cotton skirt and white linen blouse and had a Styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand from one of the fast food places out on the highway.

  “Something smells delicious,” Stevens said as she glanced into the case where Monica and Nora had placed the day’s baked goods. She held up her cup. “I could use something to go with my coffee. Toby was fussy this morning—he didn’t want to eat his cereal—and by the time I finished feeding him, it was too late for my own breakfast.”

  “We have muffins, cranberry bread, scones. . . .” Monica immediately went into saleswoman mode so she didn’t have to wonder why Stevens had stopped by in the first place. She was quite sure it wasn’t only for something to eat.

  “Those muffins look delicious.” Stevens began pullin
g her wallet from her purse.

  Monica held up a hand to stop her. “Please. It’s on us.” Monica laughed, a little hysterically given her fatigue and nervous edginess. “Or is that considered bribing a police officer?”

  Stevens smiled. “I don’t think a single muffin would count as a bribe.”

  Monica grabbed a sheet of glassine, selected the plumpest muffin in the case and handed it to Stevens. “Unless you’d like a bag . . . ?”

  Stevens shook her head. “No thanks. I’m eating this right away.” She took a bite and rolled her eyes. “Heavenly.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” Monica asked, hoping that the muffin really was all Stevens had stopped in for, although she sincerely doubted it.

  “Just a couple of questions.” Stevens wiped crumbs from her lip with the napkin. “The ME performed the autopsy on Lori Wenk yesterday.”

  “Yes?” Monica had the feeling she wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

  Stevens was quiet for a moment as she chewed another bite of the muffin, which she chased with a gulp of coffee. “The victim sustained multiple bee stings.” She looked at Nora. “I gather that it wasn’t the normal procedure to approach the bees without the appropriate protective gear. Am I right?”

  Nora nodded. “Rick never does anything with the bees without putting his gear on.”

  Stevens nodded. “So that was unusual in and of itself.”

  By now she’d finished her muffin. She crumpled the glassine and was about to stick it in her pocket when Monica took it from her and tossed it into the trash can behind the counter.

  “Now I would assume that Lori would have brought her beekeeping gear with her since they planned to release the bees that morning.”

  “Yes, but Rick said it was too cloudy,” Nora added.

  Stevens nodded. “Still, those were the original plans. So you’d think the hat with the veil thingie.” Stevens twirled a hand over her own head. “You’d think that and the gloves and the other stuff would have been in her car, right?”