Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Monica felt as if they were wrapped in their own unique bubble of intimacy—sharing breakfast after having spent the night together.

  She was astonished when she looked up and noticed the time on the clock.

  She put down her knife and fork and pushed back her chair. “Let me help you with the dishes, and then I have to get going. Hopefully Arline has already started the baking without me.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” Greg said as they filled the dishwasher with the dirty dishes. He turned and took Monica in his arms, nuzzling his lips against her neck. “I hope that someday you won’t have to.”

  Monica’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to say, but she could feel her heart speed up and a wide grin spread across her face.

  Greg gave Monica a final squeeze, letting go of her reluctantly. She gathered her things together, and he walked her down the stairs and stood at the open door, watching as she went down the street.

  Beach Hollow Road was quiet and hushed, the sun hanging low on the horizon. The air had a slight morning chill to it. Bart was outside his shop, a clean apron tied around his waist, putting up the metal shutters that he pulled down every night over his plateglass display window. Breakfast smells were already wafting out of the propped-open door of the Cranberry Cove Diner.

  “Good morning,” Bart called to Monica as she went past. The shutter rattled and groaned as it went up, revealing the empty window. “Any news on the murder out at your brother’s farm?”

  “No,” Monica said. There’d been no more news from Detective Stevens, and she was as much in the dark as anyone else.

  “It’s strange, don’t you think?” Bart stuck his thumbs in the apron strings encircling his waist. “A young girl like that. Hardly old enough to have made many enemies.”

  “I don’t know,” Monica said. “Some people manage to collect enemies the way other people collect coins or stamps.”

  Bart nodded. “True. There are those who rub everyone the wrong way without even meaning to or even knowing they’re doing it.”

  Monica thought the situation with Lori Wenk was a little more complicated than that, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I’d best be going,” Bart said. “I’ve got a side of beef that needs butchering.”

  Monica shuddered. She loved nothing more than a fine steak or some juicy chops, but she didn’t like thinking about the process of getting the meat from the hoof to her table.

  She waved good-bye to Bart and continued down the street. Gina was standing in front of Making Scents, her keys in her hand. She stopped and turned when she saw Monica coming down the sidewalk.

  She looked as surprised as a kid on Christmas morning. A grin spread across her face and she waggled her eyebrows comically when Monica reached her.

  “You’re either out awfully early, which makes no sense since everything but the diner is still closed . . .” She paused dramatically. “Or you never went home,” she finished triumphantly.

  Monica willed herself not to blush and was only partially successful.

  “You were at Greg’s,” Gina stated without waiting for Monica’s explanation. “It’s about time.”

  Monica bristled. “I wanted to be sure. Ted hasn’t been gone all that long.”

  “Pooh, your fiancé died almost two years ago. It’s time to move on. Listen to mama Gina, don’t let this fish slip off the hook.”

  Monica was about to protest the fishing analogy and that she hardly wanted to hook Greg—that made it sound so Machiavellian—but she knew it was useless. Gina’s view on male-female relationships was based on the behavior of animals in the wild—the male stalked the female until the female was captured and subdued.

  Monica let Gina prattle on, only half listening because she was thinking about what Greg had said—how he hoped there would be a time when she didn’t have to go. Without thinking, she blurted it out to Gina.

  Gina stopped midsentence, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with excitement.

  “He proposed!”

  Monica was so taken aback she actually took a step backward. “No, no,” she protested. “It wasn’t a proposal.”

  “It’s as near to one as makes no difference,” Gina insisted, clapping her hands. “What did you say?”

  “It wasn’t a question,” Monica insisted. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, then it’s only a matter of time before he pops the question officially. Is he going to pick out the ring or are you going to do it together?”

  No amount of protesting on Monica’s part could convince Gina that Greg’s words hadn’t been a proposal, tacit or otherwise.

  By the time she said good-bye to her stepmother, she had started wondering herself—what exactly had Greg meant by saying that?”

  • • •

  In contrast with Beach Hollow Road, the harbor hummed with activity. A number of small boats adorned with colorful flags bobbed in the calm waters of the lake, while off in the distance, others headed toward shore, sails aflutter. Canopied food stands were being set up on the grounds of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, this being the one time when the tourists mingled with the locals. A white paneled truck with Van Veldhuizen’s on the side in black lettering was backed up to one of the stands, and a blond-haired young man was unloading a huge stainless steel steam table.

  Monica thought of the traditional Dutch rijsttafel Hennie VanVelsen had described to her, and felt her mouth water. She was looking forward to the festival, but first she had to get some work done.

  Monica headed back toward the farm. She had the windows open and relished the sweet breeze blowing in. She passed the once-abandoned cottage. Xavier’s green Jeep was missing from the driveway, replaced by a blue pickup truck carrying several large, framed windows. A man in baggy overalls and a red baseball cap was standing on a ladder leaning against the side of the house. Monica noticed that the boards had been removed and replaced with a new window.

  It looked like Xavier planned on staying awhile. That was good news for Gina.

  Monica pulled into the driveway of her cottage and parked around back. She planned to change her clothes—she didn’t want to take any chances on anyone else recognizing that they were the same ones she’d worn yesterday and drawing the obvious conclusion. Besides, even with an apron on, she was sure to get something on her good slacks and blouse.

  Mittens greeted her at the door. Monica picked her up and they rubbed noses, Mittens purring loudly with satisfaction. She let Monica stroke her head a few times and then, wriggling with impatience, leapt from Monica’s arms and scampered toward a sunbeam coming in the kitchen window, where she proceeded to chase the dust mites hanging in the air.

  Monica checked Mittens’s water bowl and added another half cup of food to her dish.

  Mittens scampered after her as she went upstairs to change into jeans and a T-shirt. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a loose ponytail. She glanced in the mirror—that would have to do.

  By the time she headed down the path to the farm kitchen, the sun was higher in the sky and the air warmer. The sky was blue and cloudless—a perfect day for the Flag Day celebration, assuming the mercurial Michigan weather didn’t change within the next couple of hours.

  Monica quickened her pace as she approached the farm kitchen. There were a number of cars in the farm store parking lot, which meant they might be running out of stock soon. But she would shortly have a warm batch of baked goods fresh from the oven to take down to Nora.

  Monica was surprised to see that the windows of the farm kitchen were dark. Arline should have been there by now. Monica felt a twinge of annoyance as she inserted her key in the lock and opened the door.

  She immediately knew something was wrong. The overpowering smell of natural gas nearly gagged her as she walked in. The door
to the oven was open and all the burners on the stove were on, although Monica couldn’t see a flame from where she was standing. She suspected there was none.

  It was obvious someone had done this deliberately. It might be possible to leave one burner on, not realizing it hadn’t lit, but not all of them—and the oven, too.

  Monica backed out immediately and moved a safe distance away. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911.

  “What is your emergency?”

  Monica was surprised to find her voice shaking as she relayed her discovery. The operator promised help would be on the way and warned her not to go near the kitchen until they arrived. Monica was tempted to dash in and at least turn off the gas, but she agreed to wait until help came.

  A police car, followed by a Michigan Gas Utilities truck, soon rumbled down the path, much to Monica’s relief. She knew it wouldn’t take more than a single spark to send the farm kitchen flying sky-high. And although they had insurance, there would be the deductible to be covered, not to mention the time lost. The thought made her feel sick.

  She wasn’t surprised to see Jeff running down the path moments later. He stopped in front of Monica panting, his face creased with concern.

  “What’s happened?” he asked when he’d caught his breath.

  “Someone turned on all the burners in the kitchen and blew out the flames. The oven, too.”

  “Someone had to have done it on purpose.”

  Jeff looked around. “Where’s Arline? Did she—”

  “She’s not here yet. I don’t know where she is. Someone obviously took advantage of the fact that no one was here.”

  Jeff pushed his cap back and scratched his forehead. “But why?”

  “To frighten me?” Monica guessed.

  “But why?” Jeff asked again. “Why you? What kind of a sick jerk would want to do that?”

  “I may have asked the wrong questions of the wrong person,” Monica admitted reluctantly.

  “You mean about Lori’s murder?”

  “It’s the only thing I can think of. It can’t have been an accident. I wouldn’t be so careless and neither would Arline. This had to have been done deliberately.”

  “If that’s true then you’ve got to go away,” Jeff said, grabbing Monica’s arm. “You could have been killed. The killer might try again. You won’t be safe until they’re caught.”

  The idea was tempting—Monica was scared, even if she would only admit it to herself.

  “I can’t. There’s too much to do here at the farm. Besides, where would I go?”

  “You could visit your mother in Chicago.”

  Monica made a face.

  Jeff laughed. “It wouldn’t be that bad.”

  “I don’t like the idea of running away. It smacks of cowardice.”

  “It wouldn’t be running away,” Jeff said, looking Monica in the eyes, his own pleading. “It would be the safest thing to do. At least until the police have this wrapped up. Until then, you’ll be in constant danger.”

  Monica was about to say something in rebuttal when they heard someone shout in the distance.

  “What’s going on?”

  Monica turned to see Arline running down the path, waving frantically. She skidded to a stop in front of them. She was panting and her short dark bangs were plastered to her forehead.

  “What happened?” she said. “What’s wrong? I heard the sirens. . . .” She bent over and put her hands on her knees, her breath coming in gasps.

  Monica explained about the gas being left on. Arline began to shake.

  “It’s my fault.” Her words ended in a sob.

  “You mean you . . .”

  “No,” Arline protested. “I didn’t leave the gas on—I would never do something like that. It’s Bruce. It has to be. He works with Dale at the station. We double-dated with Dale and Lori a couple of times, but we didn’t hit it off. At least I didn’t. Even after I’d turned him down for a third date, Bruce kept calling me.” Arline put trembling hands over her face. “Sometimes I’d come out of the house and he’d be standing on the sidewalk across the street, waiting for me. Or I’d be in the grocery store, and he’d be there watching me.” Arline shivered. “It was so creepy. I told him to stop but he said I was going to have to pay for turning him down.”

  At that point Arline began crying in earnest, her small shoulders heaving as she buried her face in her hands again.

  Monica put an arm around her. “Why didn’t you tell someone about this? The police would have helped you.”

  “I was too scared. I didn’t think anyone would take me seriously. And I didn’t know what Bruce would do if he found out. He warned me not to say anything.”

  “Of course you would have been believed.” Monica squeezed her shoulders.

  Jeff smiled over the top of Arline’s bent head. “I guess this settles it. They were after Arline, not you, and you don’t have to go visit your mother after all.”

  Monica managed a small smile, although her neck still ached with tension. She massaged the muscles with her hand. “You’re right. That’s one good thing at least.”

  Monica glanced toward the open door to the kitchen. The windows were open, too, and two workmen in dark blue pants with Michigan Gas Utilities in white on the back of their dark blue shirts stood talking to the two policemen who had come screeching down the drive in their patrol car.

  One of the workmen began walking toward Monica. He had intense blue eyes that peered out from under the brim of his cap. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the farm kitchen.

  “We’ve turned the gas off and opened all available doors and windows. Still, I’d give it some more time to air out. It doesn’t take much gas to cause an explosion.”

  “I have things that need to get done,” Monica said, clenching her hands together. “When do you think . . . ?”

  “Give it another half an hour to clear. And if you don’t smell gas anymore, it will be okay for you to go back inside.”

  “Look, sis,” Jeff said. “Let it go for today. We’ll close the farm store early if need be. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “But if we close early, people will think we’re unreliable and they’ll stop coming around.”

  Jeff shook his head. “No, they won’t. Besides, everyone is going to be at the Flag Day celebration. I’d be surprised if we had more than one or two more customers today.”

  Monica sighed. She didn’t like it. Unreliability was death to a business. She’d seen it happen with the small boutique that had been down the street from her café in Chicago. The owner, a young woman with dyed purple hair, had been quite sketchy about her opening and closing times. At first, there had been a steady demand for her stock of vintage clothing, but eventually business had died off. Monica couldn’t bear to see that happen to the farm store.

  She looked longingly toward the open door of the farm kitchen and sighed. “I suppose it will be okay to wait half an hour. That will still give me time to get a couple of batches of muffins and scones in the oven.”

  Jeff threw his good hand in the air. “Have it your way.” He grinned. “I see we’ve both inherited the Albertson stubborn gene, so there’s no use arguing. But you’re not going in there a minute before the half hour is up. As a matter of fact, I’d feel a whole lot better if you gave it forty-five minutes.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it your way.”

  “I’m glad you’ve seen the wisdom of my reasoning.”

  Monica punched Jeff on the arm. “Don’t kid yourself. I’m humoring you, little brother. Nothing more.”

  Chapter 22

  It took all of Monica’s self-control to wait the forty-five minutes she’d promised Jeff. She spent the time going over the farm’s accounts—something she’d planned to do later in the week anyway. When she finally did return to the farm kitchen, she
sniffed carefully for any lingering odor of gas but couldn’t detect any. Still, when she turned the oven on to preheat it, she found herself cringing in spite of herself. She let out a sigh of relief as the flame caught and lit the heating element.

  Monica set about measuring her flour and sugar and retrieving a bag of frozen cranberries from the stainless steel freezer. She’d told Arline not to bother to come back—the poor girl had been badly shaken by the events of the morning. Monica hoped Arline was right, that turning on the gas had been an act of revenge by the fellow she’d spurned for a date, and not something Lori’s killer had done to frighten Monica. Monica didn’t want to think about the fact that filling the kitchen with gas had more likely been done to silence her for good than to simply frighten her.

  Her hands were trembling as she began patting out the dough for cranberry scones, but the longer she worked, the steadier they became, taking up the familiar and soothing rhythm of rolling dough, measuring flour and stirring batter.

  Monica might have been present in the Sassamanash Farm kitchen, but her mind was elsewhere. Her brain went around and around with thoughts of Lori’s murder and who the culprit might be. There was no proof that Rick or Nora hadn’t committed the crime, but Monica refused to believe either of them capable of such violence—even thinking about it was a waste of time.

  Dale had been ruled out, but perhaps he’d bribed the bartender at Flynn’s to give him an alibi. But if he had, then why hadn’t he told the police about it? Certainly being caught violating his probation carried a lesser penalty than cold-blooded murder.

  Charlie? She’d lied to protect Mauricio once so there was no reason to think he wouldn’t lie to protect her. Monica didn’t want to think Charlie capable of murder, either—she liked and admired the woman—but Monica did have to admit that there was a ruthless streak to Charlie that might have made it possible for her to commit murder.

  Then again, the killer might be someone Monica hadn’t even thought of yet—a colleague of Lori’s at the library or someone she had dated other than Dale.