Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  “Nora sure enjoys working with you,” Rick said, leaning back and giving an easy grin. “She’s always talking about it.”

  “I’m glad.” Monica cleared her throat. How to broach the subject she’d come here to discuss?

  “What can I do for you?”

  The phone rang, and Rick swiveled his chair around toward the desk, glanced at the number on the caller ID and shrugged.

  “I’ll call them back later.” He smiled at Monica.

  “Nora asked me to speak to you,” Monica began.

  Rick frowned. “About what?”

  Monica took a deep breath. She thought of how her father had taught her to plunge boldly into the cold lake instead of inching her way in a foot at a time.

  “Nora doesn’t understand why you won’t go to the police with your alibi. She knows you had an appointment with a lawyer—Dieter Oostendorp.”

  Rick sighed and his face relaxed slightly.

  “And here I thought I was being so discreet. I didn’t want to worry Nora. She can make a mountain out of a molehill faster than a magician can pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

  Monica held out her hands, palms up. “But don’t you see? The meeting with the lawyer gives you an alibi. If you tell the police, they’ll leave you alone.”

  Rick concentrated on picking a speck of dirt off the knee of his jeans. After several seconds, he finally looked at Monica.

  “There’s only one problem. I didn’t go to the lawyer. I changed my mind at the last minute. It seemed like a waste of time and money. I thought I’d be better off trying to convince Lori to drop the suit.”

  Monica let out her breath in a sharp exhale. This wasn’t good. They were back to square one—neither Rick nor Nora had an alibi.

  “Please don’t tell Nora.” Rick held his hands out in supplication. “She’s already worried enough as it is.”

  Monica was about to say something when there was a knock at the front door.

  “Hang on a sec. Let me see who that is. I’m expecting a delivery of containers. We’ve started selling honey and royal jelly over the Internet.”

  Rick spoke briefly to the man at the door, then turned to Monica.

  “I’ll be right back. I need to show Shep where to put the boxes.”

  Monica felt a sense of defeat settle over her. What was she going to tell Nora? Nora had been so hopeful that Monica would be successful.

  She pushed her chair back and leaned her elbow on the edge of the desk. It must have been Lori’s desk. Tacked to the side of the cubicle were numerous photographs. Monica wheeled her chair closer for a better look.

  There was a black-and-white strip of photos of Lori and Dale that looked as if it had been taken in one of those photo booths they often had at fairs and carnivals. Lori was smiling broadly, her arms wrapped around Dale’s neck. Dale was scowling in each of the pictures.

  Some of the photographs were of Lori and a group of girlfriends—at the lake, at a rock concert and some taken in various bars with the girls holding up drinks topped with maraschino cherries and miniature paper umbrellas. In one of the pictures, a blond girl was wearing a sash that had Bride written on it. Monica might have been imagining it, but she thought the look on Lori’s face was half wistful, half jealous.

  She was about to pull out her cell and check her email when a last photo caught her eye. Lori was sitting on a man’s lap, and the man wasn’t Dale. He looked familiar. Monica leaned closer. It was Mauricio who was Charlie Decker’s boyfriend and who used to work for Jeff.

  Had Charlie found out about Lori and her boyfriend? Lori had done Charlie wrong once already—was this the final straw that had ripped the bandage off that old wound?

  Chapter 19

  On impulse, Monica removed the photograph of Lori and Mauricio from its place on Lori’s cubicle and slipped it into her purse. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but she had the feeling it could be important.

  Rick came back from dealing with his delivery. He didn’t sit down but stood by his desk, his lanky frame looming over Monica.

  “I’d rather Nora didn’t know about our conversation, if that’s okay with you.” He ran a hand around the back of his neck. “It would only worry her.”

  “Sure,” Monica said wondering what she was going to say when Nora asked her about the meeting. She’d have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Rick hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No. No, thank you.” Monica stood up and the swivel chair she’d been sitting in shot backward, nearly tripping her.

  Her shirt was stuck to her back with perspiration—the makeshift office wasn’t well air-conditioned and her nerves hadn’t helped any.

  Rick stood by the door and watched as Monica walked toward her car. She noticed the dust on the wheels and the dried mud on the side of her Focus and vowed she would make a point of washing it as soon as she got the chance.

  She sensed Rick was still standing at the door as she reversed, turned around and headed back down the long driveway.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the main road. From her vantage point, she could see the increased activity down by the harbor in preparation for Flag Day. More boats than usual bobbed in the bay, their decks festooned with colorful flags. According to the VanVelsen sisters, boats would be cheek-by-jowl by Saturday when the celebrations officially got under way.

  Monica’s thoughts went back to the photograph she’d stolen from Lori Wenk’s cubicle. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it—show it to Charlie? That would only upset her and make her mad. Besides, what good would it do? Charlie would hardly admit to murdering Lori because she wanted to even old and new scores.

  What about Mauricio? she wondered. Maybe she could ask him if the photo actually meant anything. Maybe he and Lori had only been fooling around. Maybe they were friends. Then she could feel him out and see if either of them had an alibi.

  In her heart of hearts she didn’t think that was the case, especially given Lori’s reputation as a man-eater. She had the feeling Lori had wanted something from Mauricio and the picture had been part of her plan.

  Monica was loathe to face Nora after her conversation with Rick—how was she going to tell her that Rick didn’t have an alibi after all? What she’d prefer to do is talk to Mauricio first, but it would have to seem like a casual encounter. She didn’t want to raise Charlie’s suspicions. Monica shivered. She’d had run-ins with a few murderers already, and while she sincerely suspected Charlie was innocent, she didn’t want to willingly put herself in danger again.

  She was driving past Primrose Cottage—Charlie’s bed-and-breakfast—when she noticed a ladder leaning against the side of the shingled cottage. A dark-haired man was standing on it, methodically swiping a paintbrush back and forth across the shutters.

  It looked like Mauricio. Monica quickly switched on her blinker and pulled into the parking lot. By now she knew she could trust Arline with the baking that needed to be done—nothing would happen if she stole a few more minutes away from the kitchen. Hopefully she would soon find out what Mauricio’s relationship with Lori had actually been—a moment of fun in a photo booth or had he really been cheating on Charlie?

  Monica parked her car and walked up the path that was bordered with pink, purple and white primroses. Mauricio was headed down the ladder, a bucket of paint in his hand, when Monica reached him. He smiled when he saw her.

  “Good day,” he said. “How is Jeff? I miss working on his crew but Charlie needs help now that the season is picking up.”

  “Jeff’s fine. I’m sure he misses working with you, too.”

  Mauricio jerked his head in the direction of the cottage. “Are you looking for Charlie? I think she’s in the office.”

  “No. Actually, it’s you that I wanted to tal
k to.”

  Mauricio gave Monica a quizzical look. “Me?” He pointed a finger at his own chest.

  Monica noticed the shadow of worry that passed over his face. She knew that Mauricio still didn’t have his papers and lived in fear of being deported. She felt vaguely guilty for causing him alarm.

  “Do you know Lori Wenk?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light and non-accusatory.

  “Who?” Mauricio made a big show of scratching his head.

  “She’s the woman who was killed out at Sassamanash Farm.”

  Mauricio’s shoulders lifted up and down. “I don’t know. The name is somehow . . . familiar?”

  Monica reluctantly pulled the picture of Lori and Mauricio posing together in the photo booth out of her pocket where she’d stashed it. She held it out toward Mauricio.

  Mauricio recoiled as if the picture was radioactive. “What’s that?” He frowned, drawing his eyebrows into a deep V, wrinkling his normally smooth forehead.

  Monica put the picture in his hand.

  He held it hanging at his side, not looking at it.

  Monica motioned toward the picture. “Where was that taken?” she asked.

  Mauricio glanced at the sepia-toned photo briefly. His entire face collapsed like a soufflé abruptly snatched from a hot oven.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “Lori had it pinned to her cubicle at work.”

  Mauricio drew his lips back in a grimace and stomped his foot, kicking up a clod of moist earth. “She . . . she made me do it.” He glanced at the photo in his hand again. “She saw me with Charlie at the tulip festival in May. They were friends when they were in school, but they had a fight.” He wiped a hand across the back of his neck.

  “I heard about that.”

  Mauricio nodded. “Charlie didn’t like her at all. When she saw Lori at the festival, she took my arm and pulled me in the other direction.”

  “So how did you end up . . .” Monica motioned toward the photo Mauricio still held in his hand.

  Mauricio bit his lip and looked at the ground. “Charlie had to come back here, to the cottage, because guests were coming later that day. I stayed at the festival—I was going to meet Jeff and some of the crew for a beer.”

  Monica waited as Mauricio angrily toed the tufts of grass alongside the path.

  “Then that woman caught sight of me. Charlie said her name is Lori. All of a sudden she was all over me—trying to get my attention, touching my arm, offering me a bite of her ice cream.” He shuddered. “I didn’t want to have anything to do with her—not after what Charlie told me, and anyway. . . .” He blushed slightly. “I mean, Charlie and I are together.” He held up two fingers side-by-side. “I don’t want anything to come between us.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “She saw the photo booth.” He waved the picture at Monica. “Where this picture was taken. She asked if I would pose with her. She wanted to make her boyfriend jealous.” He shook his head. “She said she wanted to get married.” He spread out his hands, palms up. “I don’t understand. Who wants to marry someone like that?”

  “Why did you pose for the picture?” Monica asked gently. “Obviously you didn’t want to.”

  Mauricio’s shoulders sagged. “She said she would tell the immigration authorities that I didn’t have the proper papers if I didn’t do it.”

  “How did she know that you don’t have your papers yet?”

  Mauricio shrugged. “I think everybody in Cranberry Cove knows.” He gave a brief smile. “You know how this town is.”

  Monica smiled back. “I certainly do.” She thought back to her early days in town—when she’d just arrived to help Jeff. “People knew who I was before I even introduced myself.”

  Mauricio kicked at a clod of dirt he’d loosened. “Then you know how I feel. I feel . . . exposed. I never know when someone might turn me in to the authorities. Maybe I make them mad without realizing it, or they just don’t like me. So you understand, right?” He looked at Monica with pleading eyes.

  She nodded. She did understand.

  “Did Charlie know about the picture?” Monica gestured toward Mauricio’s hand.

  He hung his head. “I told her.” He looked up at Monica, his dark eyes earnest.

  Monica was startled. “You did? Why?”

  Mauricio shrugged again. “Why not? If Charlie knew about it, it couldn’t do me any harm.” He held his hands out toward Monica. “I love Charlie.” He touched his heart with his fist. “I don’t want to have secrets from her.” He scowled. “That woman,” he brandished the photo of Lori, “does not know what real love means. It is sad, don’t you think?

  “Yes, I do.” Monica hesitated. “I imagine Charlie must have been quite angry when you told her about the photograph.”

  Mauricio was already nodding. “She was. She was furious. Especially because of what Lori had done to her when they were in school. She said this was too much and she wanted to get even with her somehow.”

  He must have noticed the look on Monica’s face because he held up both hands, palms out. “No. Charlie wouldn’t do something like that. Never. Someone else killed Lori. Maybe that boyfriend she was chasing after. You have to believe me.”

  Monica was quiet.

  “Besides, she was with me when it happened. We were painting the bathroom on the third floor. The one in the Primrose Suite.”

  Monica smiled and put a hand on Mauricio’s arm. “I didn’t mean to imply I thought Charlie had anything to do with Lori’s death.” Monica mentally crossed her fingers. No need to upset Mauricio.

  Mauricio let out a deep sigh and his shoulders relaxed. He smiled. “I’m sorry. I was afraid that that was what you were thinking.”

  Monica shook her head. “That’s okay.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better be going.

  Mauricio said good-bye, picked up his paint can and headed toward the cottage. Monica stood for a moment, thinking.

  Mauricio may have said that Charlie was with him, but Charlie had lied for Mauricio once—giving him a false alibi when he’d been suspected of murder. Wouldn’t it make sense that now he would lie for her?

  Chapter 20

  Monica noticed traffic had increased on Beach Hollow Road and more people than usual crowded the sidewalk as she drove back toward the center of town. Flag Day was the unofficial start of the summer tourist season in Cranberry Cove and soon the cash registers would be ringing, the restaurants would be full and men and women in boat shoes would be relaxing with drinks on the deck of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club.

  Monica glanced at the clock on her dashboard. She had time to make a trip to the bank before it closed. Nora had said that they were running low on change at the farm store.

  The bank was a few blocks removed from the main part of town. It was a small brick building with pillars flanking the front door and only two teller windows and a walk-up cash machine. The fluted white pillars always made Monica smile, as if someone had been attempting to dress it up—they looked like fancy trim on a plain cotton shift.

  The bank was rarely busy so Monica was surprised to see several people lined up along the velvet rope that separated them from the tellers’ windows and provided those doing their banking with a modicum of privacy.

  She took her place behind a young woman in her twenties who was wearing very short cutoffs, rubber flip-flops and a T-shirt with a deep V-neck. Every few seconds she gave an impatient sigh as she checked the texts on her cell phone.

  Monica assumed she was a tourist used to the fast pace of a larger city and wasn’t accustomed to waiting in line at the bank—especially when the two elderly tellers moved at a snail’s pace, wetting their finger and carefully counting out the money two or three times before handing it over.

  Monica was thinking about Mauricio and Charlie when she heard a rais
ed voice. She glanced toward one of the windows where a woman was standing, her back to the waiting customers. Something about her was familiar. Monica recognized the short gray hair but at first she couldn’t place its owner.

  The woman turned to the side, gesturing frantically, and Monica realized it was Mrs. Wenk. Her voice was loud and was getting even louder and had a plaintive edge to it.

  “I should have money in my account. What are you telling me?” Mrs. Wenk leaned closer to the teller as if that would help the teller to understand.

  Monica couldn’t hear the teller’s response—only Mrs. Wenk’s querulous voice—as she continued to argue.

  “But I can’t be overdrawn. My social security check should be in my account,” she said, her tone pleading.

  Monica wasn’t sure what to do. It was obvious that Mrs. Wenk was in distress, and from Monica’s previous encounters with her, she knew that Mrs. Wenk was easily confused. She hesitated for a few more seconds and then stepped forward, going up to Mrs. Wenk and gently touching her on the arm.

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  Mrs. Wenk’s face brightened. “Would you, dear? That would be wonderful.” She tilted her head to one side. “You look familiar.”

  “I knew your daughter, Lori,” Monica said.

  “Yes, of course—Lori. She should be home any day now.” She smiled at Monica.

  Monica didn’t have the heart to correct her. At least her memory loss was protecting her against the harsh reality that she’d lost her daughter. Maybe in this case it was for the best.

  Monica leaned across the counter toward the teller. The women’s posture was ramrod straight, her mouth set in a tight line and her thinning brown hair sprayed into place.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Monica asked.

  The woman hesitated, her fingers plucking at the pearl buttons on her long-sleeved lace blouse.

  “We’re not supposed to reveal information about our customers.” Her face took on a brighter look. “Unless your name is on the account.” She looked at Monica expectantly.