by Peg Cochran
Gina sidled up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. He ambled over to her, still polishing the same glass.
“Listen, I don’t want no trouble,” he said, his eyes on Gina.
“Trouble?”
“With the cops. You know what I mean. I’d rather you ladies took your business outside.”
At first Monica couldn’t imagine what he meant, but then it dawned on her. She tugged at Gina’s arm and whispered in her ear.
“He thinks we’re ladies of the night.”
“Wherever did you pick up that quaint expression?” Gina said sourly as she gave the bartender a look that stopped him in his tracks.
“I’m going to ignore that remark,” Gina said imperiously. “We’re here to ask you a question.”
The bartender looked momentarily nonplussed but quickly regained his composure. He put the glass down on the bar and leaned his elbows on either side of it.
“Shoot.”
Gina looked at Monica.
Monica cleared her throat. “Do you know Dale Wheeler? He works at Peck’s Garage right outside of town.”
The bartender gave a laugh that ended in a wheeze. “Sure I do. He’s a regular. Or he used to be before he got nailed with that DUI.”
Monica’s ears perked up. “So he hasn’t been in recently?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” The bartender smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “He gets his buddies to drop him off by the back door—down that alley over there.” He pointed toward the wall of the bar. “That way his probation officer—nasty fellow always looking to catch Dale out—will be none the wiser if he spends the occasional night or afternoon knocking back a few with the guys.”
“Do you happen to know if he was here on Monday, June 21?” Monica asked.
“That was this Monday, right?” He frowned.
“Yes.”
“I think so.” He rubbed his chin. “Monday, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Let me check something. Give me a minute, okay?”
The bartender ambled off, leaving the polished glass behind on the bar. He disappeared through an archway into a back room.
One of the men playing darts began to walk in Monica and Gina’s direction, but Gina shot him a look and he shrugged, turned around and rejoined his buddies.
“What’s taking him so long?” Gina complained, one eye on her watch, the other on the men playing darts.
The bartender finally reappeared. “Yup,” he said, as he reached Monica and Gina. “Dale was in that morning.”
“Awfully early to be drinking,” Monica said.
The bartender laughed. “I could stay open all day and all night and still have customers.”
“How can you be so sure Dale was here on that particular morning? You must get a lot of people through here in a week.”
“It’s like this, see.” The bartender leaned on the bar, and Monica pulled back, away from his sour breath. “I had a delivery of beer. I’ve been having trouble with my back lately,” he put a hand to his lower back, “and Dale gave me a hand with the boxes. So, yeah, he was here late Monday morning.”
Chapter 18
Monica was still thinking about Dale Wheeler the next morning. With Dale out of the picture thanks to the alibi the bartender at Flynn’s was able to give him, Monica didn’t know where to go next. Rick had an alibi—he was at his lawyer’s—and she couldn’t believe Nora would so much as swat a fly let alone kill a person in cold blood. It wasn’t conceivable.
Monica leaned her left elbow out the window of the Focus. She was headed into town to check on Gerda and to get some takeout chili from the Cranberry Cove Diner. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but she’d been up for ages already and was craving some of the Diner’s most secret and famous dish. It wasn’t on the menu—if you were a local, you already knew about it, and if you weren’t . . . well, it was best you steered clear of the diner in the first place.
The sun was warm on her arm and her hair fluttered in the breeze as she sped down the hill into town.
She nabbed a spot right in front of Gumdrops. She hoped that was a good omen.
Hennie greeted Monica with a smile when she walked into the candy store. Monica was tempted to read something positive into that, but she knew that Hennie made it a point to smile at all of her customers no matter how she herself was feeling that day.
“I hope it’s good news about Gerda,” Monica said immediately, her fingers mentally crossed.
Hennie gave a genuine smile as she smoothed the pleats in her pink linen skirt. “Gerda got out of the hospital earlier this morning and is resting comfortably at home.” Hennie dashed at her cheek where a solitary tear glistened like a raindrop. “It’s so good to have her home again. It will be a while before she can come back to the shop full time, but she’s definitely on the mend.”
“That is good news.” Monica found herself breaking out in a grin almost as wide as Hennie’s.
“And she’s home in time for the Flag Day celebration. We haven’t missed a one since we were out of our cribs. We used to go with our parents, then we used to take them, dear things, when they needed walkers and canes, and now we’ve come full circle.”
Monica was pleased. She’d come to feel as if the people in Cranberry Cove were family—even cranky old Gus at the diner. When they hurt, she hurt, too.
“Can I get you anything, dear?” Hennie gestured toward the counter filled with colorful candies.
“Not today, thanks. I wanted to check on Gerda.”
“That’s terribly kind of you. Gerda will be pleased to hear it.”
“I’m headed to the diner. Is there anything I can get you?”
Hennie shook her head and her tidy gray curls bounced with the motion. “No thank you, dear. I brought some leftover erwtensoep for my meal.”
By now Monica had been in Cranberry Cove long enough to be able to translate erwtensoep as Dutch pea soup. It was a staple in the sisters’ diet. It was a thrifty meal but also very tasty.
“I’ll be going then. Have a good day,” Monica called over her shoulder as she left Gumdrops, the bells on the door tinkling softly as it shut behind her.
Monica paused in front of the window of Danielle’s—a high-end boutique that catered to the summer crowd with their fat wallets and gold credit cards. One of the mannequins sported a pale, celery green sundress that caught Monica’s eye. She would love to own something like that, but would she have the nerve to wear it? She’d spent so much time recently in jeans and T-shirts that a dress felt like an exotic costume.
No matter—it would certainly be too expensive for her.
The delicious smells from the open door of the diner pulled Monica down the sidewalk. She was already anticipating the taste of the chili—spicy with a hint of smokiness from what Gus claimed was a secret ingredient but what Monica suspected was chipotle peppers, jalapeños that had been smoked and dried.
Monica was about to enter the diner when something down the street caught her eye. She squinted—it was Gina waving madly at her. Monica began walking in the direction of Gina’s shop. She hoped nothing was wrong. The thought made her quicken her steps until she was nearly running by the time she reached Making Scents.
Gina was pacing back and forth in front of her shop, her backless sandals smacking against her heels with each step. Her carefully undone updo was now more down than up, and her cheeks were flaming red.
“What’s wrong?” Monica asked as soon as she reached her stepmother.
“Some people!” Gina fumed, her hands clenched at her sides.
“What’s happened? Tell me.” Monica kept her voice low and soothing.
“I’ll bet it was Tempest,” Gina said, gesturing down the street toward Twilight. “I should never have told her I was having drinks with Xavier.”
Uh-oh, Mon
ica thought. It looked as if something had hit the fan. She’d been afraid this was going to happen from the minute she’d found out both women were setting their sights on the same man.
“What did she do, and why do you think it was Tempest?”
“It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Why would anyone else do something like this?”
“Do what?” Monica had to restrain herself from screaming the word in frustration.
“Someone let their dog use my front mat as a bathroom.” Gina gestured toward her shop. “I’ve spent the last ten minutes cleaning it up.”
Monica noticed a bottle of bleach and a roll of paper towels alongside the mat.
“But Tempest doesn’t even have a dog.”
Gina looked alarmed. “If it wasn’t Tempest . . . maybe someone is trying to frighten me?”
“I don’t honestly see anything frightening about it. Disgusting, maybe, but frightening, no,” Monica said in the confident voice of a parent reassuring a child.
Gina grabbed Monica’s arm. “What if someone is trying to get me to leave town?”
Monica sighed. While the townspeople of Cranberry Cove had certainly been wary of Gina at first—the flamboyant out-of-towner who had landed in their midst—they’d come to accept, or at least tolerate, her in the same way they had Tempest.
“I’m quite certain no one did it to try to get you to leave.”
“Then Tempest must have done it,” Gina insisted stubbornly.
“Not necessarily. It’s far more likely to have been a careless dog owner. Besides, what did Tempest say when you told her you were going out with Xavier?”
“She wished me luck.” Gina tossed her head, nearly unraveling the rest of her hairdo. “She made it sound as if I would need it.”
• • •
Monica laughed to herself as she headed back down the street toward the diner. Gina and Tempest sounded like two high school girls fighting over the same guy. She hoped they could work things out without jeopardizing their friendship.
Delicious smells spilled from the open door of the diner, and Monica felt her stomach rumble. There was the ever-present lingering scent of bacon, the smell of hamburgers sizzling on the grill and the occasional spicy note of cumin and chili powder from the pot of chili simmering on the back burner.
Monica gave her order to the harried woman behind the takeout counter and stepped away as another customer approached. She’d asked for two orders of chili—she decided she would take one of them to Nora to cheer her up. Several minutes later, the woman gestured toward Monica and held out a white paper bag.
Monica took a deep breath of the delicious scents emanating from the bag and joined the line at the checkout.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she whirled around. It was Greg.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, giving her a quick hug. “I’ve been meaning to give you a call, but I’ve been so busy tidying up the shop and getting ready for Flag Day. When everyone has had their fill of Dutch food, music and games, they often wander down Beach Hollow Road to shop.”
Monica raised her eyebrows, and Greg laughed.
“I know. Tidying the shop is a Herculean effort. So far I’ve barely made a dent in the job. I’m concentrating on showcasing my first editions in case there are any interested out-of-town buyers. I have a Margery Allingham—Police at the Funeral—that should elicit some interest in anyone who is a collector.”
Gus was behind the grill watching everything that was going on in the diner while simultaneously flipping the burgers that were almost ready and turning over some potatoes that had browned sufficiently on one side.
“Hey, Gus,” the man in front of Monica shouted. “Are you going to have a booth at the Flag Day celebration?”
“Yes.” Gus looked in the direction of the man wearing overalls and a white T-shirt with Grateful Dead written across the front. “I’m going to have Greek food. Dolmades—stuffed grape leaves—baklava, spanakopita, souvlaki.”
Monica was startled. She didn’t think she’d ever heard Gus do more than grunt before. Greg looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Who’s going to eat that stuff?” the fellow in the overalls called back, and several people laughed.
Gus shook his spatula at them. “It’s good stuff. You’ll like it.”
By now Monica had moved to the front of the line. She fumbled in her purse for her wallet, pulled out her money and handed it to the cashier.
Greg squeezed her arm. “I’m going to grab that empty seat at the counter. I’ll call you later. It’s time we had dinner at the Pepper Pot. We haven’t been there since the grand opening, and I thought it was pretty good then.”
Monica waved good-bye to Greg, scooped up her change and headed out the door.
• • •
Nora was finishing up with a customer when Monica got to the farm store. She checked the cases and the cooler while she waited, making a note of what was running low.
Finally the customer left with two bakery bags full of muffins and scones.
“I’ve brought you something.” Monica put the containers of chili on the counter. “I thought you might enjoy some of Gus’s finest.”
Nora’s eyes welled with tears. “That’s so kind of you. I didn’t have a chance to put together anything for my lunch.” She gave an indulgent smile. “The boys were almost impossible to corral this morning. It took them forever to finish their breakfast.”
They pried the lids off the containers, and Monica handed Nora a plastic spoon. The air in the farm store quickly became redolent of spices mingling with the scents of sugar and cinnamon.
“What do you have arranged for the kids this summer?” Monica asked, blowing on her first spoonful of chili.
Nora stirred her chili around and around in her cup. She didn’t look at Monica.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t make enough money to warrant hiring a sitter, and all the other options are sort of hit or miss—Bible camp for a week; their grandparents will be here visiting another week.” She looked at Monica. “I don’t know.”
Monica felt a moment of panic. Nora was a wonderful employee—how would she manage without her. Maybe Arline could mind the store while Monica did all the baking?
“Listen.” Nora stopped stirring for a moment. “I’ll figure out something. I love working here.”
They were quiet for a moment, concentrating on their containers of chili.
“Have you spoken with Rick about the lawyer—that you know that’s where he was when Lori was killed?” Monica asked after several minutes.
Nora dropped her spoon into her container and blew out a puff of air that fluttered her short, curly bangs.
“I did. A lot of good it did.” She balled her fists. “He can be so stubborn sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“He refuses to go to the police even though it would give him an alibi.” Nora’s shoulders drooped. “I wish there was someone who could talk him into it. I’m certainly not having any luck.”
“Does he have a good friend maybe? Or a brother or sister? Someone he might listen to?”
Nora was already shaking her head. “We don’t want anyone else to know about this whole . . . nightmare.”
“I can understand that.” Monica spooned up the last of her chili.
Nora turned toward Monica so suddenly she nearly knocked over her container. “What if you talked to Rick? Maybe he’d listen to you.”
“Me?” Monica pointed to herself. “I hardly know him. Maybe Jeff—”
“No, you would be perfect. You’re so calm and rational.”
“So is Jeff . . .”
“I think Rick would be more likely to listen to a woman.”
Monica tried to quell the sigh that rose to her lips. The whole thing seemed . . . awkward. What if
Rick got angry with her for interfering? She could hardly blame him.
“Please?” Nora clasped her hands together. “I have this feeling he would listen to you.”
This time Monica did sigh. “Okay. I suppose it can’t hurt. But I can’t promise anything.”
• • •
The chili Monica had so looked forward to felt like molten lava in her stomach as she drove out toward Rick’s Bees. She rehearsed possible openings over and over again in her head but they all rang false. She’d have to trust her instincts once she was face-to-face with Rick.
The farm was down a rutted dirt road with fields of clover on either side. A wooden sign with Rick’s Bees and a caricature of a bee on it stood outside the entrance. A chain-link fence bordered the farm. The front gate hung open, and by the rust on the hinges, Monica guessed it was rarely, if ever, closed.
A truck with Rick’s Bees on the side was pulled up outside a weathered white building. The fields beyond were dotted with square wooden boxes holding the beehives.
Monica knocked on the door. She hoped the presence of the truck meant Rick was in.
The door opened so abruptly, Monica had to stifle a startled gasp. Rick was wearing jeans worn to a pale blue, a white oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves cut off and work boots encrusted with dried mud.
“Is everything okay?” he said. A look of alarm passed over his face. “Nothing’s happened to Nora has it?”
Monica hastened to reassure him. “Nora is fine. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Come in then. I’m afraid the place is a bit untidy at the moment. Lori was the one who used to fuss about straightening things.”
“Thanks.”
Monica followed Rick into a small office with two desks separated by worn cubicle partitions. He grabbed a desk chair from each of the spaces and arranged them so they were facing each other.
“Please. Have a seat.”
Monica sat down on the edge of one of the chairs. It wobbled slightly. Rick took the other seat. Their knees were almost touching, and Monica pushed her chair back a few inches.
