Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  Monica smiled. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to ask you a question.”

  Mrs. Wenk slapped her hands down on her knees. “Certainly. Whatever you like.”

  “Did Lori ever mention to you that she might be . . . expecting?”

  “My Lori? No. Although I know she wanted to start a family. As soon as she and Dale were married she said. If she was expecting, I guess it happened sooner than she expected.”

  “But she never told you about it?”

  “Not that I remember. Of course my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Dr. Flikkema keeps trying to fool me—asking me if I know what day it is and who’s the president.” She shook her head. “I’m a little forgetful is all. Nothing to make such a big deal over.”

  “Is there someone Lori might have confided in about the pregnancy? A girlfriend maybe? She must have been quite excited about it.”

  “Let me think. There’s the one friend—they’ve known each other since they were at school together.”

  “Do you know her name?” Monica mentally crossed her fingers.

  Mrs. Wenk looked doubtful for a moment and then her face cleared. “Shannon. I remember thinking it was a lovely name.”

  “Do you know her last name?” Monica thought it was probably too much to ask of the universe that Mrs. Wenk would remember.

  “Sparks it was. Shannon Sparks.”

  “I don’t imagine you would know where I could find her?”

  “Sure. She works at Hair Magic. It’s near the harbor somewhere.”

  “I think I know it. Is Shannon a hairdresser?”

  “Yes. She does color, too. She always does Lori’s hair for free. Lori said they always have a wonderful time talking and gossiping—more like a party than an appointment at the beauty parlor.”

  Monica was about to get up when Mrs. Wenk began fumbling with the mound of bills on the coffee table.

  “Could you do me a favor, dear?”

  “Certainly.”

  Mrs. Wenk handed an envelope to Monica with shaking hands.

  “Can you tell me what this means? I’ve read the letter, but I don’t understand it.” She clasped her hands tightly and put them in her lap.

  Monica cringed. She felt like she was prying as she opened the envelope, but Mrs. Wenk had asked for her help. She pulled out the piece of paper inside and scanned it quickly.

  “This is from your bank, Mrs. Wenk. I’m afraid it says you’re overdrawn on your account.”

  Mrs. Wenk was already shaking her head. “That can’t be. My social security checks go right into my account. I don’t spend much—my mortgage, the utilities, some food. . . .”

  Monica handed her the letter, and it trembled in the woman’s hand like a leaf in a strong wind. Mrs. Wenk put the letter back in the envelope and put it beside her on her chair. She went through the remaining envelopes like a dealer shuffling cards before choosing one and handing it to Monica.

  “And this one. Can you read it for me?”

  Monica was loathe to pry any further into Mrs. Wenk’s affairs—didn’t Arline say there was a brother somewhere?—but the beseeching look in Mrs. Wenk’s eyes persuaded her.

  She opened the envelope and wrestled the letter out. It looked as if Mrs. Wenk had already looked it over many times—the paper was wearing at the creases and was a bit grimy as if it had been handled repeatedly.

  Monica’s heart sank as she read it. It was a notice from the mortgage company that Mrs. Wenk’s last few checks had bounced and they would have no choice but to start foreclosure proceedings unless she paid up. Monica had seen the negative balance on the letter from the bank—there was no way Mrs. Wenk would have enough for the amount due. Arline had joked about them being evicted, but it looked as if it was anything but a joke.

  • • •

  Monica hadn’t given any thought to having her hair cut in the near future. It was a tumble of auburn curls that she’d spent her whole life trying to tame and had finally given up on. She examined her reflection in the rearview mirror. Maybe she could use a trim. She held up a fistful of hair and examined the ends—as she suspected, many were split. She did need a trim. And Hair Magic would be the perfect place to get it.

  Monica mentally crossed her fingers that Shannon Sparks would be working today as she headed toward the harbor.

  Her car rumbled and jolted as she crossed the small wooden drawbridge that spanned the narrowest part of the horseshoe-shaped harbor.

  The Cranberry Cove Yacht Club was on the other side of the bridge. As far as Monica knew, virtually no one from Cranberry Cove was a member. The roster was filled with tourists and people who had summer homes along the shore. A handful of cars were in the parking lot—business was picking up now that it was warmer and boaters were anxious to take their boats out of dry dock. Soon all the outdoor tables with their jaunty blue umbrellas would be occupied and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses would float on the air.

  Monica passed the dark alley where the sign for Flynn’s bar was just visible. Monica shuddered. She’d spent an evening there once when she and Gina were on the trail of a clue. It was a seedy place frequented by hardcore drinkers ordering boilermakers and shots of cheap whiskey.

  Hair Magic was down another alley, sandwiched between The Angler, a shop selling fishing equipment, and one that repaired vacuums. Monica found a space for the Focus and pulled up to the curb.

  Colorful fishing flies dangled in the window of The Angler, trembling slightly in the draft from the shop’s ceiling fan. Monica went past it and stood in front of Hair Magic. She took a deep breath—the place looked clean and respectable. She pushed open the door.

  Hair Magic was more reminiscent of the shops Monica remembered frequenting with her mother when she was young than the glossy new ones out at the mall. The air that rushed out of Hair Magic when Monica opened the door was the same though—a combination of hair spray, shampoo, conditioner and the sharp chemical smell of permanent solutions.

  The reception desk was empty but a woman soon appeared from the back of the shop. Three old-fashioned hooded dryers stood in a row—two occupied with older women with heads bristling with rollers. Four chairs faced a large mirror on the wall, and a beautician was spraying the hair of the lone woman sitting there.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked when she reached Monica.

  “I’d . . . I’d like a trim,” Monica said, fingering a lock of hair. “I don’t have an appointment though. . . .”

  The woman paged through a dog-eared appointment book, her long, bloodred fingernail running down the entries.

  “Was there someone in particular you wanted?” She looked up at Monica.

  “I’ve heard that Shannon Sparks is very good. I don’t know if she’s—”

  “Shannon is finishing up with a customer”—she pointed over her shoulder to where the beautician was undoing the cape around her client’s shoulders—“but if you don’t mind waiting a moment or two . . .”

  “Fine. That’s great. I’m not in a hurry.”

  Monica quickly went to sit in one of the chairs banked against the opposite wall. She shuffled through a pile of magazines stacked on the table in front of her and was opening one when someone called her name.

  She looked up to find Shannon—at least she assumed it was she—standing in front of her. Monica felt her stomach drop. Shannon’s smile was warm enough, but her dark hair tipped with blond on the ends and the asymmetrical cut that came to her chin on one side and was nearly shaved down to her scalp on the other rather alarmed Monica.

  Shannon held out her hand. “I’m Shannon Sparks. Won’t you come this way?” She led Monica over to one of the chairs in front of the mirror.

  Monica sat down and Shannon stood in back of her. They both looked at Monica’s reflection in the mirror.

  Shannon ran her hands t
hrough Monica’s hair. “What are we going to do today?”

  “A trim. Just a tiny, tiny trim.” Monica held her fingers barely a quarter of an inch apart.

  Shannon frowned at Monica’s reflection. “I’d like to see you go a bit shorter to take off some of the weight.” She put her hands under Monica’s hair and held it up to her shoulders.

  What had she gotten herself into? Monica thought. This would teach her to go nosing around!

  “Are you giving any thought to color?”

  “Color?” Monica repeated blankly. She knew she had a few gray hairs but nothing she needed to worry about yet.

  “You’ve got some nice red tones here,” Shannon said, running her hands through Monica’s hair. “We could bring those out a bit and maybe add some highlights and a handful of low lights.”

  “No. No color. Not today,” Monica added hastily lest she offend Shannon. “Maybe next time.”

  “Okay, so only a cut today.”

  “A trim, but not too much,” Monica repeated as Shannon spun her around.

  She followed Shannon to the washbasins, trying to convince herself that even if she ended up looking like a French poodle, it would be worth it if she got the information she was after.

  Shannon washed Monica’s hair and Monica found herself relaxing under the stream of warm water and Shannon’s fingers massaging her scalp. But when they returned to the styling chair, Monica felt herself tense up again.

  “Just a trim,” she said one final time as Shannon reached for the scissors.

  Shannon spun Monica around again so she could no longer see herself in the mirror—which was fine since Monica had already squeezed her eyes shut tightly anyway.

  “Did someone refer you to Hair Magic?” Shannon asked, her scissors clacking industriously. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “Yes,” Monica said with her fingers crossed under the pink plastic cape Shannon had tied around her neck. “Lori Wenk did.”

  Shannon stopped what she was doing and leaned over the chair so she could see Monica’s face. “It’s terrible what happened to her. I just heard. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Did you know Lori well?”

  “Fairly well.” Shannon resumed cutting. “We went to high school together and we weren’t best friends or anything but we’ve always stayed in touch. You know, things like girls’ nights out and stuff like that. We’d always catch up even if it had been six months since we’d last seen each other.”

  “Her death must have been very hard for you then,” Monica said with as much sincerity as she could muster. “When did you last see each other?”

  Shannon’s scissors stilled for a moment. “Let me see. She came in for a haircut not too long ago, and me and Lori and some other gals we knew from school went out for a couple of drinks a week or two ago.” Shannon paused for a second. “Did you know Lori well? I don’t think she ever mentioned you. Of course we usually talked about stuff that happened in the past—like in school and when we were younger. Reminiscing, I’d guess you’d call it.”

  “No, I didn’t know Lori well at all. We’d only just met as a matter of fact. I heard she was expecting—that makes it even more of a tragedy, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” Shannon said, yanking a comb through Monica’s hair. “Although it was odd. . . .”

  “Odd?” Monica prompted. “What was odd?”

  “The way Lori acted. The last time we saw her—there were three of us who went out for a night on the town—she told us she was pregnant and getting married to that Dale guy she’d been dating. Dale had never seemed all that keen on marriage in the past, at least the way Lori told it, but this time she’d even gone out and bought herself a wedding dress.” Shannon reached for a spray bottle and misted Monica’s hair with water. “But the odd thing was she didn’t act pregnant, you know?”

  Monica didn’t know what that meant, not ever having been pregnant herself. “Act pregnant?”

  “Yeah. She ordered a rum and cola. Now, I don’t have any kids myself but even I know pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink alcohol. And she went out for a smoke at one point. I remember my co-worker Janice—we worked together at the same salon before I came here—almost went crazy trying to quit cigarettes when she learned she was having her first.”

  “That is odd,” Monica agreed.

  “Misty—she’s one of our friends from when we were back in school—has two kids, a boy and a girl. When she mentioned that she really liked her ob/gyn, Lori wasn’t even interested. Said she had plenty of time to shop around for a doctor.”

  A half hour later Monica emerged from Hair Magic with two things—some interesting information and a new hairdo. Shannon had taken a couple of inches off her hair and she was right—it did lighten it quite a bit. She had also used a blow dryer—a tool that Monica had abandoned shortly after the time she dropped it in a sink full of water and had had to turn the electricity off at the breaker—and her hair was sleek and shiny for the first time since her mother had insisted she have her hair done professionally for her graduation pictures.

  She also found the information about Lori interesting. Lori hadn’t acted pregnant—maybe she wasn’t? Maybe it was only a ruse to get Dale to marry her? Monica stopped as she was putting her key in the lock of her Focus. But Arline had found the pregnancy test in Lori’s wastebasket along with the test strip showing that the result had been positive.

  Obviously Lori had been pregnant but the baby was simply a means to an end. Was it possible for someone to want to be married that badly but care so little for the life she was carrying?

  Chapter 13

  Monica was on her way back to the farm when the Focus began making strange noises. It sounded as if something was loose somewhere—under the car perhaps? Monica knew next to nothing about automobiles, but she did know that this was a sound she should not be hearing—it wasn’t one that a functioning, smoothly running vehicle would be making.

  She felt her hands get clammy on the steering wheel. She didn’t have the money right now for any expensive repairs and she certainly didn’t have the cash for a new car. Perhaps a pebble or small stone had been caught in the undercarriage somehow? She knew she was clutching at straws, but the thought did make her feel better.

  The noise suddenly became louder and was alarming enough to warrant a trip back to the mechanic. Monica turned the car around and headed back toward Peck’s Garage, where she’d had her oil changed.

  The same woman was behind the counter when Monica walked into the office. She’d pushed a pair of half glasses on top of her head, where they were nestled in her short, bristly gray hair. She looked up when she heard Monica enter.

  “Yes?” She turned and looked at the clock in back of her.

  “I brought my car in the other day for an oil change,” Monica began.

  The woman nodded. “I remember you. Dale did the change for you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You having some trouble with it?”

  “Not exactly.” Monica devoutly wished she was more knowledgeable about cars—she’d have to make a point of asking Jeff to teach her the basics when he had time. If he ever had time, she added to herself.

  “So what’s the problem?” The woman began shuffling through some invoices stacked on her desk. “I take it you don’t have any complaints about the oil change.”

  “The car is making a funny noise.”

  “A funny noise,” the woman repeated, staring at Monica. “Do you have any idea how many problems a funny noise can encompass?”

  Monica raised her chin. “I know. But I do think it’s rather suspicious that the funny noise”—she gave the words extra emphasis—“started right after I had my oil changed.”

  The woman had been tilting her chair back but now she let it spring forward again as she straightened her posture. “Let
me see what the boys can do for you.”

  She opened the door to the garage and yelled, “Dale,” so loudly Monica jumped.

  The banging and hammering stopped briefly and one of the men called back, “He’s outside, talking to someone.”

  The receptionist scowled, accentuating the deep furrows crisscrossing her brow. “What’s he doing talking to someone? Is it a customer?”

  She muttered something under her breath. Monica caught the words work, lazy and good-for-nothing.

  The woman pushed her chair back. The wheels squeaked as they rolled across the pitted linoleum floor. She came out from behind the desk and yanked open the front door to the cramped office and waiting room and yelled, “Dale. You got a customer. Her car’s making a noise.”

  Monica stepped outside. Whoever Dale was talking to was getting into their car. The car looked familiar to Monica and so did the driver. It took her a moment before she recognized Detective Stevens. So the police had been talking to Dale—interesting.

  Sweat shone on Dale’s forehead when he joined Monica. He pulled a grimy rag from the pocket of his jumpsuit and swiped it across his brow, leaving a streak of grease.

  “What’s up?”

  Monica thought she caught the slightest tremor in his voice.

  “You changed my oil, and now the car is making a funny noise. It sounds like something is loose and rattling around in the undercarriage.”

  “Could be a screw loose.”

  He said it with a straight face, and Monica had to stifle the laugh that immediately rose to her lips. “Can you take a look at it, please?”

  Dale glanced toward the office. “Sure thing.”

  Monica waited outside while Dale got the car up on the lift and began poking around underneath. He called another mechanic over and they both stared up into the bowels of the Focus.

  The sun was warm, and Monica was tempted to go back inside, but the ancient air conditioner wheezing in the office window made it hardly any cooler than outdoors.

  Finally, Dale came toward her, wiping his hands on the same greasy rag.