Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  She was wrong.

  Eleanor Mason, a retired schoolteacher with a wobbly gray bun loosely anchored to the back of her head, spoke up. “Who was hurt? How bad was it? Are they dead?”

  The questions came at Monica like staccato gunfire. She took a deep breath.

  “The young woman who works for Rick’s Bees—Lori Wenk—died, I’m afraid.” She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to have any more details wormed out of her. But she underestimated the women of Cranberry Cove.

  Phyllis put a hand to her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “Lori works part-time at the library. I can’t believe it.” She looked around at the others. “I didn’t know her well, but it’s still a shock. Her poor mother.”

  “Harriet Wenk might be too far gone to understand,” Eleanor said. “I know her from church—not well—but people have been saying that she’s suffering from dementia. I know Wilma Krondyke looked in on her just last week and said it’s getting worse.”

  “It was an accident?” Phyllis asked. She gave Monica a shrewd look.

  “Yes,” Monica said firmly. She thought about what Detective Stevens had said about the needle puncture that had turned up in the autopsy along with the ME’s suspicions about ricin—details she planned to keep to herself.

  “And here I thought that boyfriend of hers had finally done her in,” Phyllis said, raising her unkempt gray eyebrows.”

  “Him!” Hennie said, rolling her eyes.

  “If she thought she was going to drag Dale Wheeler to the altar, she had another think coming,” Phyllis said. “All he wants out of life is to sit at the bar at Flynn’s and drink beer.”

  “I hope this isn’t going to interfere with our Flag Day celebration,” Hennie said fretfully.

  “I don’t see why it should,” Phyllis snapped.

  “You never know,” Hennie said

  While they’d been talking, Greg had been in the back room brewing another pot of coffee. He came out carrying the newly filled carafe.

  “If anyone wants a refill, I’ve made a fresh pot,” he said, putting the coffee down on the table. He wheeled his desk chair to the head of the circle and sat down. “Shall we get down to our book discussion? Have you all had a chance to read Brat Farrar?”

  Everyone’s head bobbed up and down in assent.

  Monica had a hard time concentrating on the lively discussion that swirled around her. She was thinking about Lori and the comment Phyllis had made about Lori’s boyfriend, Dale. If this did turn out to be murder, he was a logical suspect.

  But so was Rick. The thought flew unbidden into her mind.

  Monica tried to turn her attention back to the discussion and felt guilty that she hadn’t contributed more. When it was over, and everyone had left, Greg put his arm around her.

  “You don’t seem like yourself. Is everything okay?”

  Monica smiled. Greg had a way of tuning into her feelings.

  “Everything is fine. But I can’t help thinking about the accident.” She hesitated for a moment. “Which appears not to have been an accident at all.”

  “You’re not serious?” Greg perched on the arm of the corduroy chair and stretched out his legs.

  “Yes. Detective Stevens said that the autopsy uncovered a puncture mark from a hypodermic needle on Lori’s thigh, along with signs that suggested she’d been injected with ricin.”

  “Ricin! This is beginning to sound more and more like an Agatha Christie novel.”

  “Only much more real.” Monica frowned. “By the way, I noticed that Gerda wasn’t here today. I thought she and Hennie went everywhere together. Were they unable to get someone to mind the store for an hour?”

  Greg’s expression was pained. “Gerda is in the hospital.”

  “Oh, no!” Monica twisted a loose thread from her shirt around her finger. “I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

  “I don’t know. Hennie didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Monica left Book ’Em and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. The door to the Cranberry Cove Diner next door was propped open to the fresh summer breeze. The smell of something frying mixed with coffee brewing drifted out.

  Monica hesitated then decided she would walk down to Gina’s shop. The air outside Making Scents carried the faint aroma of vanilla, lavender and citrus. The scent intensified as Monica pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  Gina was behind the counter, organizing small glass bottles of essential oils. She smiled and leaned on the counter when she saw Monica.

  “Has there been any more news about the death of that girl?” Gina asked. She picked up a bottle and spritzed some lavender oil into the air.

  “Not really,” Monica said. “Have you heard anything? I know news travels quickly around town.”

  “Not a thing. But guess who I met?”

  Monica tried to come up with a possibility but failed. “I give up. Who?”

  “The mysterious new occupant of that cottage on the road to the farm.”

  “Did he live up to your expectations?” Monica remembered how avidly Gina had listened to Greg’s description of the man.

  “He went well beyond,” Gina said. She fiddled with the links of her necklace. “Very good-looking.”

  “Greg did make it sound as if he was attractive.”

  Gina snorted. “You can never trust a man’s assessment of another man’s looks. Did I ever tell you about the time . . . well, that’s neither here nor there.”

  “What is the man’s name again?”

  “Xavier Cabot. Isn’t that romantic sounding? And with the looks to match. . . .” Gina sighed and leaned against the counter. “I’m determined to get him to ask me out.”

  “And I have no doubt that you’ll succeed. I’ll look forward to learning more about Mr. Xavier Cabot.”

  “How was your book club?”

  Monica started to open her mouth then realized she’d barely been present during the book club discussion.

  “I learned something interesting.”

  Gina leaned farther over the counter. “Really?”

  “Lori had a boyfriend named Dale Wheeler, according to Phyllis Bouma. And it sounded like Lori wanted to get married but he didn’t.”

  “Lots of men don’t want to get married, but they don’t kill their girlfriends over it.”

  “True. But maybe Dale had another reason for killing her,” Monica said. “She certainly can’t have had that much in the bank, so it couldn’t have been for money.”

  Gina let her chin rest in her hand. “Have the police said anything more . . . ?”

  Monica shook her head. She thought about what Nora had told her and guilt prickled at her skin like hives. She ought to tell Detective Stevens, but she didn’t want to betray Nora’s trust.

  “At least this is one murder you won’t have to investigate,” Gina said with a laugh. “No one is accusing Jeff or me or your mother. We can leave the detective work to the police this time.”

  Uneasiness washed over Monica. Didn’t she owe it to Nora to try to get some information at least? Nora had been such a huge help to her and Jeff.

  “What?” Gina asked.

  “Nothing,” Monica said sharply.

  “Come on. It’s not nothing. I can tell by the look on your face.”

  She really had to work on her poker face, Monica thought with dismay.

  “You know Nora Taylor who works in the farm store?

  Gina nodded.

  “There’s reason to believe . . .” Monica tried to think of how to put it without revealing the confidences Nora had shared. “Nora is afraid the police will accuse her husband.”

  Gina looked startled. “Why?”

  “Let’s say they have their reasons.”

  “Do be careful.” Gina pu
t a hand on Monica’s arm. “Last time you almost . . .”

  “I will, don’t worry. All I plan to do is ferret out some information if I can.”

  “As long as you’re careful,” Gina said. She fiddled with three of the glass bottles, arranging and rearranging them. Finally she looked up. “Do you think Jeff has seemed—I don’t know—not quite himself these days?”

  “How do you mean?” Monica thought back to the last time she’d talked to Jeff.

  “Sort of down. I wonder if something is wrong?”

  “I imagine his experience in Afghanistan is bound to haunt him at times. No amount of therapy can wipe out the horrible memories.”

  “True,” Gina said briskly. “I’m probably worrying for nothing.

  Monica agreed with her but made a mental note to pay more attention to Jeff the next time she was with him.

  Chapter 8

  Monica left Gina’s with a number of worrisome thoughts swirling through her head. She started the Focus and began heading out of town toward the road to the farm when the light on her dashboard reminded her that she needed to get her oil changed. The light had been coming on for a few days now, but she’d been too busy to take care of it. She didn’t think it would be wise to ignore it any longer.

  Monica had had a friend in college whose driving lessons hadn’t included instructions on changing the oil and whose transmission had ultimately seized up. Monica had taken it as a cautionary tale and always made sure to heed all the warning lights on the dashboard of her car.

  She made a right turn into a driveway that wound through cornfields toward a house and barn that were invisible from the road. She put the car in reverse, backed out of the drive and headed in the other direction. There was a garage a mile or two outside of town near the highway.

  Monica pulled into the parking lot of Peck’s Garage, loose bits of macadam crunching under her tires. The door to one of the bays was open and a Jeep Grand Cherokee was hoisted on the lift. Two men in dirty coveralls with bandanas sticking out of their pockets gathered underneath it, pointing at various parts of the automobile’s innards.

  Monica knew next to nothing about cars and was always happy to leave any tune-ups or repairs to the experts. Jeff was a whiz with mechanics—he maintained and repaired all the Sassamanash Farm equipment, changed the oil himself and could spend hours with his head stuck under the hood of a car or a truck. And if it was something he couldn’t handle because of his paralyzed arm, he would direct a crew member how to do it for him.

  He had offered to change Monica’s oil for her, but she knew he was busy from dawn to dusk, and she didn’t want to add anything more to his to-do list.

  Monica pulled open the door to the small office next to the garage. The smell of motor oil and gasoline permeated the room and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Jimmy Carter was president. An orange plastic chair with a triangular-shaped piece missing from the back was placed in front of a small, scarred wooden table stacked with magazines that were more than a year out of date.

  The woman behind the desk looked up as Monica approached. She had the hardened face and wrinkled skin of the habitual smoker. Her steel gray hair was cropped close to her head, and she had a hoop and a stud earring in each ear.

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I was wondering if someone could do an oil change,” Monica said.

  The woman stared at Monica for a second before turning and yelling “Hey, Danny,” through the open door that connected the office to the garage. “Anyone got time for an oil change?”

  One of the men clustered around the Jeep turned around. “Sure. Tell ’em to pull around up front—second bay.”

  The woman jerked her head toward the garage. “Bring her up front, and Danny’ll find someone to do it for you.”

  Monica was glad to step back into the fresh air, although gas and oil fumes still wafted from the garage. The door to the second bay went up and Monica pulled the Focus inside as a stocky guy with curly blond hair and a baseball cap worn backward motioned her into position.

  He looked familiar to Monica, but she couldn’t place him.

  “It won’t take too long. You can wait in the office if you want,” he said to Monica.

  He was turning away when Monica caught sight of the name embroidered above the pocket of his shirt—Dale.

  She was about to ask him his last name—how many Dales could there be in Cranberry Cove?—but he had already walked away.

  Monica was glad to escape to the relative coolness of the office, where an ancient air conditioner wheezed in the window, sending clots of dust scampering across the floor. She picked up a dog-eared copy of Time magazine that was two years out of date and began to leaf through it, but her thoughts kept returning to the mechanic. He had to be the Dale who was Lori’s boyfriend.

  She tossed the magazine back on the table and approached the woman behind the desk.

  Monica pointed toward the garage. “I noticed the mechanic who is servicing my car is named Dale. Do you happen to know his last name?”

  The woman looked up from the invoices she was shuffling around on her desk. “Sure. It’s Wheeler.” She tilted her hand and looked at Monica. “Do you know him?”

  Monica shook her head. “No. I know somebody who knows him.”

  “One of the bartenders down at Flynn’s?” The woman’s laugh quickly turned into a gurgling cough.

  “His girlfriend,” Monica said.

  The woman looked up, surprised. “I didn’t know Dale had a girlfriend. I thought he steered clear of stuff like that.”

  Just then there was a shout from the garage. “Hey, Sally, tell the lady her car is ready, would you?”

  “Looks like your car’s ready.” Sally jerked her thumb toward the garage.

  “Thanks.”

  When Monica got back outside she found her car had been pulled out of the bay, and Dale was walking away with his back to her.

  Monica didn’t want to miss this chance to talk to him.

  “Hey,” she called, and he turned around. She motioned for him to come back.

  “Is something wrong?” Dale asked when he reached Monica.

  “No, no. I wanted to know if everything else is alright with the car,” she fibbed.

  “Yeah. I didn’t see anything.” He frowned. “Why? You been hearing funny noises or something?”

  “Nothing like that, no.”

  “I’d say she’s in pretty good shape.”

  Monica couldn’t think of an appropriate segue so she decided to go for bluntness. If Dale told her to mind her own business, so be it.

  “Listen, I gather you knew Lori Wenk.”

  Dale looked startled. “Yeah.” His eyes were wary.

  “I heard you were dating.” Monica made it more of a statement than a question.

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah? Who said that?”

  Monica shrugged and held her hands out, palms up. “Somebody. I don’t remember who.”

  “Yeah? Not dating exactly. We went out a couple of times, sure. But you know—nothing serious.”

  “I assume you heard she died?”

  “Yeah. News travels fast around this town.”

  “Still. You must have been upset.”

  Dale looked down at his feet. He rolled a piece of loose macadam back and forth underneath his right shoe.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, still not meeting Monica’s gaze. “No one ought to die that young, you know?”

  • • •

  The sun was still high in the sky as Monica drove back toward the farm. The inside of the Focus was warm, and her hands felt sticky on the steering wheel. The faint scent of motor oil clung to the interior of the car. Monica turned off the air conditioner, which was blasting lukewarm air into her face, and rolled down the windows. Fresh air rushed in, redolent of the sc
ent of hay, grass and dirt warmed by the sun.

  Monica decided she would stop in at the farm store. She was worried about Nora and could imagine Nora’s panic, thinking her husband had had a motive in Lori’s death.

  A lone car was leaving the small parking lot as Monica pulled in. Traffic at the store was unpredictable, which made Monica even more relieved that she’d scored the contract with Fresh Gourmet for her salsa. It was a relatively steady source of income until the next cranberry crop could be harvested in the fall.

  Nora was running a feather duster over the tops of some jars of cranberry jam when Monica pushed open the screen door to the store. Nora’s usually cheerful expression had been replaced by a down-turned mouth and eyebrows drawn together over the center of her forehead.

  “Been busy today?” Monica asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  Nora shrugged. “On and off. We’ve sold all the muffins.” She pointed toward an empty wicker basket lined with a red-and-white gingham cloth. “I was about to put the basket in the back.”

  Monica looked at her watch. “We might get some customers yet. There are a few who stop in in the late afternoon to buy something to have for their breakfast in the morning. I’ll head over to the kitchen and make up a couple more batches.”

  Monica reached for the basket and hesitated, her hand on the woven handle. “Are you okay?” She didn’t want to pry but she couldn’t ignore the distress on Nora’s face.

  “I guess so.” Nora sniffed and swiped a hand across her eyes. She gave a sob and buried her face in her hands. “No. I’m really not okay.”

  “What is it?” Monica put a hand on Nora’s arm.

  “I’m still worried that Rick’s going to be blamed for that girl’s death.” Nora looked at Monica, her face tearstained. “It’s not fair.”

  “But you and Rick were together when it happened,” Monica said, even as she remembered the look of doubt that had crossed Nora’s face when she’d heard that Rick had said that.

  Nora sniffed loudly. “I know. But they could claim he was operating his business unsafely.” She gave a sob that turned into a hiccough. “We could be sued.”