by Peg Cochran
“I need to make a run to an estate sale just out of town. The deceased’s son assured me there were some real treasures in his father’s library. Shall we say in an hour and a half?”
“Perfect. I need to get cleaned up. I’ve been alternately working and sweating all day. I’m afraid I’m filthy.”
Greg laughed. “Don’t bother. I like my women that way. Come as you are.”
Monica whistled as she clicked off the call. Greg was exactly what she needed right now—a dose of humor, affection and something to take her mind off Jeff’s troubles, the farm’s finances and, most importantly, the possibility of murder.
She took a quick shower, added food to Mittens’s bowl—which was still half full, although the kitten was acting as if she was starving—and put on a pair of fresh white trousers and an emerald green T-shirt that she fancied brought out the color of her eyes. Despite that, she was ready way too early. She decided she would head into town and pop into Gina’s shop and say hello. Gina had a way of picking up news, gossip and other information, and might have heard something that would have a bearing on Lori Wenk’s death. Monica had no doubt that by now the entire town of Cranberry Cove knew that the police had been back to Sassamanash Farm.
She drove into town with the windows open to the fresh breeze. The sun had dipped a little lower in the sky and the air was cooling down. She wondered if she ought to have taken a sweater with her. This close to the lake, it could get quite chilly at night even in the summer.
Monica thought about Gerda as she passed Gumdrops. Worry about the VanVelsen sisters had been in the back of her mind all day. Hopefully there would be good news next time she stopped in.
There was a space in front of Making Scents and Monica pulled into it. Gina would be closing in a few minutes, but she could see her stepmother through the window, tidying the merchandise on the counters and getting ready for the following day’s business.
“Monica,” Gina exclaimed when Monica pushed open the door and walked into the shop.
She seemed slightly flustered and knocked over one of the bottles of essential oils, which surprised Monica. But what surprised her even more was finding a man standing in the corner of the shop—she hadn’t noticed him when she had glanced through the window.
He was tall—a good bit taller than Monica’s five foot eight inches—strongly built throughout the chest and shoulders with remarkable blue eyes and a thick, but neatly trimmed, gray beard. His eyes crinkled with amusement as he watched Gina’s consternation at Monica’s arrival.
Gina obviously noticed the two of them appraising each other.
“Monica, this is Xavier Cabot.” Gina turned to her companion. “Xavier, this is my stepdaughter, Monica Albertson.”
“I understand you’re Cranberry Cove’s writer in residence,” Monica said.
“That makes me sound far more exalted than I am,” Cabot said.
“I’m sure—” Gina began.
“I’m not producing anything literary, I’m afraid. Merely a chronicle of some of the more famous shipwrecks on the Great Lakes.” He made a face. “My deadline is fast approaching, and my editor is becoming more nervous by the minute. I thought that perhaps being in situ, so to speak, would spur my creativity, and the lack of diversions in Cranberry Cove would increase my productivity.”
He gave a slight smile. “I hadn’t counted on the lovely ladies of Cranberry Cove proving to be such a distraction.” He looked at Monica as he said it.
The man was certainly charismatic, Monica thought, even if there was a touch of blarney about him. She was surprised to find herself drawn into his spell in spite of herself. Only the sound of Gina clearing her throat jolted her out of it.
Gina came out from behind the counter and stood next to Cabot. “Xavier’s been telling me all about the wreck of the John V. Moran.” She looked up at Cabot and linked her arm through his.
“A fascinating story,” Cabot said in the tone of an experienced storyteller. “It was early February and the Moran was on its way from Milwaukee to Muskegon across the ice-covered lake. Despite having a strongly reinforced hull, ice managed to pierce the ship and water began pouring in. They dumped their cargo of flour and packaged goods but the ship was obviously still going to go under. A handful of men left the ship to walk across the frozen lake to try to catch the attention of the Naomi, which was about three miles away. The Naomi managed to plow through the ice and the entire crew was rescued.” He paused and stroked his beard. “I’m afraid I could go on forever—I didn’t mean to bore you. Lake Michigan is a veritable graveyard, with over three hundred ships lying on its bottom.”
“Actually that was very interesting,” Monica said.
He gave a slow smile. “Then I will look forward to sharing more stories with you soon.”
By now Gina was tapping her foot impatiently. “I’m sure Monica has something to do. . . .” She raised her eyebrows at her stepdaughter.
“I’ve taken up too much of your time,” Cabot said with a smile. “I’d best be getting back to work. Sadly, the book is not going to write itself.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Gina turned to Monica.
“What was that all about? You have a man of your own already—do you have to flirt with mine?” she snapped.
Monica felt her face redden. Had she been flirting? She didn’t think so.
“I wasn’t flirting,” she said firmly. “Merely being polite.”
“Xavier certainly seemed taken with you.”
“Don’t be silly. He was only being polite in return.”
Gina frowned. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
“He probably looks at all women like that.” While Monica might have found Cabot charismatic, his manner didn’t fool her.
“Hmmmph,” Gina said. “Xavier is mine . . . or at least he will be.”
Monica held up her hands in surrender. “He’s all yours, believe me.”
Gina’s sulky look lifted slightly. “He is attractive, isn’t he?”
“Very.”
Gina held her hand out in front of her and examined her hot pink–painted nails. “He’s going to be a challenge, but I’m up for it. What’s that saying? Nothing worth having is easy?”
“Something like that.” Monica glanced at her watch. “I’d better shove off. Greg will be waiting.”
Gina’s expression turned serious. “Greg is a good man. Don’t let him slip away.”
“I know,” Monica said. “And I won’t.”
• • •
Monica turned right outside the door toward Book ’Em. Bart was in the window of his butcher shop taping a sale sign to the glass. He waved as Monica went by. She smiled and waved back.
She thought about Gina. Monica supposed she was lonely—she wasn’t exactly a good fit for small town living and had made little effort to blend in, maintaining her wardrobe of animal prints, high heels and tight tops. She hoped for Gina’s sake that this relationship with Cabot worked out.
Greg was watering the planters in front of his shop when Monica got there. She felt a sense of warmth come over her at the sight of his slightly disheveled hair and quick smile.
He gave her a kiss. “My geraniums are doing well, don’t you think?” He grinned. “Considering I’m not much of a gardener. Two planters are about all I can handle.”
Monica eyed the red and white flowers. “They look splendid. You might want to do some deadheading on the ones over there though.”
Greg looked at her blankly. “That sounds very sinister.”
“It means removing the dead flowers.”
He laughed. “Much better than what I was picturing.”
Greg poured the remaining contents of his watering can into the planter on the left and then reached for the door handle.
“You do like lamb, don’t you? I’m grilling the cho
ps with a mushroom wine sauce.”
“That sounds delicious.”
Monica followed him through the shop, straightening a tower of books that threatened to topple off the table they were perched on as she went past.
Greg lived in a small but cozy apartment above the store. It was moderately more tidy than the shop, with comfortable armchairs, a slightly less worn sofa and, of course, stacks of books on every available surface.
Monica followed him out to the kitchen, where he removed a paper-wrapped piece of meat from the refrigerator.
“I heard the police have been out to the farm again,” he said as he grabbed a head of lettuce, a tomato and a cucumber from the crisper drawer.
Monica was no longer surprised by the speed at which news spread around Cranberry Cove.
“Jeff found a piece of beekeeper’s protective gear—a glove—hidden in the bushes alongside the path that leads to the bogs. We didn’t want to touch it in case it was evidence so we called Detective Stevens. She found the rest of the outfit in the tangle of the evergreen’s branches.” Monica took a sip of the chilled pinot grigio Greg had poured for her. “But the hat and the face veil were missing. The police searched the property and still didn’t find it.”
“Why hide the beekeeping outfit though?”
“Perhaps it was Lori’s, and the murderer didn’t want her to have access to it.”
Greg nodded. “That makes sense.” He retrieved a serrated knife from the drawer and began slicing the tomato. Juice squirted onto the cutting board as the knife bit into the fruit. “But why not dump the hat and veil with the rest of the gear?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the murderer wore it when they let the bees out. They had to get them agitated in order for them to swarm like that. Rick—he’s the beekeeper—said that stings to the face are the most painful and most likely to cause a reaction.” Monica traced a circle in the condensation left on the table by her glass. “The murderer couldn’t afford to get stung. It would be a dead giveaway.”
“No pun intended, I assume.” Greg put down the knife and leaned against the counter. “And maybe the murderer didn’t have time to hide the hat. They’d probably hidden the other gear before they let the bees out.”
“Or didn’t need to—if they’d only hidden the gear to keep Lori from using it.”
“True,” Greg said as he placed the lamb chops on the grill pan that had been heating on the stove.
“Stevens thinks the stings were meant to mask the mark left on Lori’s thigh by a hypodermic needle.”
“That sounds very clever at first, but surely everyone knows that an autopsy and tox screen would quickly uncover the real cause of death if she’d been injected with something lethal.” Greg carried the salad to the table. “But then maybe our murderer doesn’t watch television or read detective novels.”
Greg opened the refrigerator. “More wine?” He held the bottle toward Monica’s glass. “From what I’ve heard, this Lori was a fairly unassuming person—certainly not the sort to get herself murdered.”
“Not like Sam Culbert,” Monica said, referring to a murder that had taken place shortly after she’d arrived in Cranberry Cove.
“Exactly.” Greg removed the lamb chops from the pan, placed them on the plattes and took them to the table.
She nodded. “Lori did have a boyfriend. At least she called him her boyfriend. He insists it wasn’t anything serious—nothing more than a couple of dates.”
“Aha, the boyfriend did it.” Greg laughed. “Don’t let anything happen to you or I might come under suspicion.” He squeezed Monica’s shoulder. “Don’t let anything happen to you. Period.” His tone was serious.
“I won’t,” Monica assured him.
“I don’t know.” Greg leaned against the counter. “It sounds like you’re up to your investigating tricks again. That’s proved . . . unhealthy, shall we say, in the past.”
Monica held her breath for a second. She remembered only too well how she had cheated death the last time she’d been involved in a murder case.
“I’m only doing it because of Rick,” she said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of her voice.
“Rick?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?” He slid a plate in front of Monica and brought the platter of lamb chops, a gravy boat with the mushroom wine sauce and a bowl of mashed potatoes to the table.
“Everything looks delicious,” Monica murmured as she unfurled her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Rick is the beekeeper. No need to be jealous. His wife, Nora, works in the farm store.”
Greg sat down opposite Monica.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten. You’ve mentioned Rick. But why would anyone think he was the culprit?” Greg glanced at Monica.
Monica helped herself to a piece of lamb, some rice and salad. Greg picked up his fork and waited until Monica took her first bite.
“Yes.” She cut a piece of the lamb and tasted it. “Mmmmm, delicious.” She patted her lips with her napkin. “Lori was planning to sue Rick for sexual harassment.”
Greg stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What kind of a guy is this Rick?”
“Not that kind of guy,” Monica said emphatically. “Nora thinks it was a form of retaliation.”
“Retaliation for what?” Greg took a sip of his wine.
“Lori had a crush on Rick. She made some overtures but he rebuffed them. And it made her mad.”
Greg whistled. “And vindictive it seems. Very Glenn Close and Fatal Attraction. Even if Rick is as innocent as you say he is, a lawsuit like that would cost a lot of money just to defend—it might put him out of business or he might lose his house.” He speared the last bite of his salad. “If you ask me, it’s the perfect motive for murder.”
“No,” Monica said so vehemently that Greg looked momentarily taken aback. “I mean, I can’t see him doing something like that.”
“You know him well?”
Monica felt slightly foolish. “I’ve only just met him. But Nora talks about him all the time and how wonderful he is. . . .”
“Ted Bundy’s victims thought he was handsome and very charismatic.”
“I know I need to keep an open mind, but . . . I can’t picture it. I can’t picture Rick as a killer.”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know. Dale—he’s the sometime boyfriend—seems harmless enough as well.”
“Maybe it’s someone who hasn’t been uncovered yet. You don’t know much about the victim, do you, and if you believe Agatha Christie and her fellow mystery writers, it’s the victim who is the key to the crime, not the killer.”
By now they had finished their dinner, and Greg had stacked the dirty dishes in the sink. He grabbed their glasses and the bottle of wine and they moved into the living room.
They sat on the sofa and batted around ideas as the sun faded, leaving the room in shadows.
Monica stifled a yawn. “Sorry. It was an early morning. And another early one tomorrow.” She stood up. “The dinner was lovely. Thank you so much.”
Greg walked her to the door. They stopped on the threshold and he put his hands on Monica’s shoulders.
“You don’t have to leave, you know. You could stay.”
Monica hesitated. A million thoughts ran through her mind. She almost said yes but instead said, “Maybe next time.” She gave Greg a quick kiss and went out the door before she could change her mind.
Chapter 10
Monica thought about Greg the next morning as she rolled out dough for scones and beat batter for muffins. Why hadn’t she taken him up on his invitation to spend the night? She was well over the death of her former fiancé, and it was certainly time to move on.
She sighed as she took off her apron and hung it on the hook. If Greg asked again, she wasn’t saying no.
Arline was wrapping small
squares of cranberry-printed fabric around the tops of the jars of homemade cranberry jam and affixing them with cranberry grosgrain ribbon. The print matched the cranberry pattern that bordered the Sassamanash Farm label affixed to each jar. Arline had flour on the front of her apron and in her short dark hair, giving the illusion of a broad white streak above her left eye.
“Will you be okay?” Monica asked as she ran a hand through her own hair—her go-to method of combing it. “I need to run into town to pick up a few things.”
Arline looked up from the jar she was concentrating on, the tip of her tongue caught between her front teeth—something Monica noticed she did when she was focusing on a task. “Sure. Go on. I think we’re on top of everything.”
“Is there anything you need?”
Arline shook her head, and some of the flour in her hair flew into the air. “No, but thanks for asking.”
“I’ll stop in when I get back.”
“Fine.” Arline went back to the ribbon she was attempting to secure around the jar.
Although the farm kitchen was equipped with a sophisticated cooking system, it still heated up when the ovens were going full blast, which was most of the time. Monica was grateful to step outside, where it was early enough that a cool breeze was still blowing. She dropped off the batch of baked goods Arline had made that morning at the farm store and headed toward downtown Cranberry Cove.
Traffic in town was beginning to pick up with the warmer weather. Tourists came to spend an afternoon at the lake, although the water was still cold enough to deter all but the hardiest of swimmers or those wearing wet suits, like the surfers hoping for some waves. Soon the summer people would be arriving in full force and all the dark and shuttered cottages would be bursting with occupants, music drifting from porches and open windows, people enjoying their vacation by the shores of the lake.
Monica needed to pick up some shampoo and soap at the drugstore and a paintbrush at the hardware store—she was hoping to finally find time to paint the bathroom. At the moment it was a plain and serviceable white, but she had picked out a color called English Apple Green that she hoped would give the room a spa-like feel, despite the fact that it lacked any of the amenities of a spa and instead boasted an antique claw-foot tub with rust stains around the drain and a small pedestal sink with a chip in the basin.
