Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  She was about to head to the harbor at long last when she thought of Mrs. Wenk’s worried face and the stack of past due bills sitting on her coffee table. Maybe she should reassure the woman that, from now on, things would be okay.

  Mrs. Wenk didn’t seem surprised to find Monica on her doorstep again. Monica wondered if she’d already forgotten her earlier visit. She would have to talk to Arline about contacting Mrs. Wenk’s brother. The woman really shouldn’t be alone anymore.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs. Wenk asked as she headed into her living room.

  “No, thank you. I don’t want to keep you.”

  Mrs. Wenk gave a sad smile. “You’re not keeping me from anything, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s about your checking account. According to the bank, someone else has withdrawal privileges on it. Meaning they’re allowed to take out money without asking you.”

  Mrs. Wenk frowned. “Who would that be?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I know I signed some sort of paper from the bank, and I think it had something to do with the account, but I can’t remember.” She pressed a hand to her forehead.

  “Was it your daughter who gave you the paper?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m afraid I can’t recall.”

  “It had to have been Lori, so I don’t think any more money will go missing now.” Monica put a hand on Mrs. Wenk’s arm. “Everything will be okay.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  • • •

  It had to have been Lori taking the money, Monica thought again as she headed—finally—toward the lake and the harbor where the festivities were taking place. She drove through downtown Cranberry Cove, where the sidewalks were clogged with tourists and every parking spot along Beach Hollow Road was taken with a line of fancy cars from out of town waiting impatiently for a space to open up.

  Monica planned on leaving her car in the Central Reformed Church parking lot and walking back to the harbor and the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club.

  Traffic made slow going of the trip through downtown but Monica was able to see the harbor now and was enchanted with the view of the many small boats bobbing in the water, their colorful flags standing at attention in the stiff breeze. She was so enchanted, as a matter of fact, that she didn’t notice the cars in front of her had pulled forward until the person behind her leaned on their horn to get her attention.

  She muttered a silent Sorry about that, and stepped on the gas. The Focus sprang forward and soon Monica was through downtown and a block away from the church. The last few yards were tortuously slow but eventually she was pulling into a vacant space and shutting off the engine.

  The walk back to the path that led to the harbor was pleasant, with the sun warm on her arms and a sweet breeze cooling her face. She brushed at the tendrils of hair blowing across her forehead. Delicious smells drifted on the air currents and Monica could distinguish something spicy overlaid with the tantalizing aroma of baked sugar.

  Crowds mingled on the grassy slope leading down to the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, some standing, others sitting on picnic blankets holding cold drinks. Red, yellow and green umbrellas created inviting canopies over the food carts and stalls. The rijsttafel that Hennie had told Monica about was set up on the lower patio of the Yacht Club, while the upper patio was reserved for club members who lounged on canvas deck chairs with sweating glasses of wine, beer or pop.

  Monica felt her cell phone buzz in her pocket and pulled it out. There was a text from Greg.

  How is the Flag Day celebration? Business at the store has been modest. I hope to get away soon. I’ll call you. Love you.

  Monica couldn’t suppress a smile as she slipped the phone back into her pocket and continued down the hill toward the food carts lining the waterfront. Monica wandered along the path examining the wares of each stall, plotting just what she was going to go back and sample. Rieka, who worked as a secretary at the Cranberry Cove Health Department and was well known in town, was behind a table covered in a red-and-white-checked cloth, manning a deep fryer from which she pulled golden brown oliebollen—Dutch doughnuts. She placed them on a paper towel–lined plate and sprinkled them with powdered sugar.

  A woman with a Dutch accent and blond hair sprinkled with gray grabbed her companion’s arm and pulled her over to Rieka’s booth. “Look, Anneke. Oliebollen, still warm from the fryer.”

  Monica was tempted, but she was saving room for the many delights of the rijsttafel first.

  A young man, dressed as a clown and maneuvering down the sidewalk on a pair of tall stilts, had the children squealing with delight. Music drifted from the far end of the path, where an old-fashioned carousel had been trucked in for the day.

  Monica passed another stall where unusual looking frying pans with dimpled bottoms sat warming over a burner.

  A woman in traditional Dutch dress with a lace apron, lace cap and sturdy wooden shoes was pouring batter into the hot pans.

  “What are you making?” Monica asked.

  The woman gave her a slightly condescending smile. “These are poffertjes—pancakes made with yeast and buckwheat flour. You watch—they’re going to puff up like balloons.”

  As Monica watched, the batter did puff up into round fluffy balls that the woman placed on a plate. She grabbed a shaker and liberally dusted them with powdered sugar.

  Again, Monica was tempted, but she moved on. There would be time enough to come back to sample the poffertjes.

  It was time to try the rijsttafel. She turned around and headed back toward the Yacht Club.

  The smells were so tantalizing Monica found her mouth watering as she approached the table where the food was displayed in large warming trays.

  “Can I help you?” A young man smiled at Monica. He had blond hair and very blue eyes.

  “It’s overwhelming,” Monica admitted.

  “I suggest you start with some rice—we have plain nasi goreng, which is fried rice, or nasi kuning, which is yellow Indonesian rice. A rijsttafel is meant to offer an array of tastes, textures and spices such as hot, cold, sweet, salty, sour, bitter, crispy, chewy, slippery and so on. Rice makes a perfect base for all the other dishes.”

  “What’s that?” Monica pointed at a tray filled with skewered barbecued meats.

  “That’s satay. It’s served with sambal kacang, or peanut sauce. You should try it.”

  “Okay.”

  He reached for a plate, added a spoonful of yellow rice and a skewer of meat, then drizzled sauce over the meat.

  “I’d suggest some of the opor ayam—chicken coconut curry.” He added a spoonful of that to her plate.

  Monica added a few more things to her now heaping dish and went in search of a place to sit. She found a shaded spot on the rock wall that bordered the Yacht Club and sat down.

  The food was delicious—the myriad of tastes was like an explosion of flavor in her mouth. She hoped Greg would have a chance to sample some of the food before it was gone. There was a long line of people waiting to fill their plates.

  Monica finished her meal and sat for a moment, watching the crowd and enjoying the fresh air. She thought she had some room left for dessert—she had decided she wanted to try a poffertje.

  The woman behind the food stall had just finished making a fresh batch when Monica got there. She accepted the warm, powdered sugar–covered pancake the woman handed her and took a bite. She closed her eyes—it was the perfect end to a delicious meal.

  She finished the poffertje and contemplated having another one, but thought better of it. She wiped her hands on her paper napkin, dropped it in a wastebasket and continued down the path. Despite already being full with delicious food, tantalizing aromas of garlic and herbs and spices drew Monica forward.

  She rounded a slight bend to
find Gus manning a food stall festooned with fluttering blue-and-white Greek flags. His usual grimace had temporarily been replaced by a stiff and painful looking smile. He was wearing white pants, a navy-and-white-striped T-shirt and a black fisherman’s cap. He gave Monica an almost imperceptible nod.

  Skewers of meat sizzled on the grill in front of him and a tiered stand held bites of pastry that looked as if they’d been drenched in honey. The smells were tantalizing, and Monica’s mouth watered in spite of having already finished a fairly large meal.

  She continued on until she came to a table loaded with books standing on end so their spines were facing up. A hand-lettered sign stuck between the rows of volumes read Library Book Sale. All Proceeds Benefit the Cranberry Cove Library. Behind the table was Phyllis Bouma, wearing a blue visor with Save the Animals written on it.

  “I didn’t know the library was going to have a sale,” Monica said as she approached the table.

  Phyllis grunted and waved her hand over the books. “Time to clean out the collection. If we make a little money, too, that’s all the better.”

  “Do you have any mysteries?”

  Phyllis ran a hand over the spines of the books. “You want this section over here.”

  Monica scanned the titles. Nothing really caught her interest. She saw a book on ships that made her think of Xavier Cabot. There were a number of unusual titles including one on the mating habits of bees. It brought Lori’s murder to mind, and Monica shivered.

  Phyllis noticed Monica’s hand lingering on the book.

  “I’ll never look at bees the same way again,” Phyllis said, retrieving a cloth from under the table and swiping it over the covers of the books. “Been stung more than a few times myself and while it wasn’t pleasant, at least it didn’t kill me.”

  Monica was about to tell Phyllis that it wasn’t the bees that had killed Lori but then changed her mind. It might be a detail the police were withholding from the public.

  “I never had any idea how important bees are—a major number of our crops depend on bees for pollination.”

  Phyllis raised her eyebrows.

  “I know cranberries do,” Monica said.

  “Is that why Jeff had all those bees out at the farm that day?”

  “Yes. Apparently there aren’t enough native bees to do the job effectively.”

  “It seems like there are plenty of them around to me, especially when I’m out trying to do some work in my garden, but I don’t pretend to understand it. That reminds me. You know that woman who works for you?”

  “Nora?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “No, the other one. The one who helps you with the baking.”

  “Arline?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I’d forgotten all about it until right now, but shortly before the death out at your farm, she took out a book on bees. A big volume—The Beekeeper’s Bible. And it’s overdue,” Phyllis grumbled.

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s certainly a coincidence.” Phyllis straightened a row of books that were threatening to topple off the table like dominoes. “She said Lori was always talking about bees and all the things she’d learned working with them, and it made her feel like she didn’t know anything.”

  Phyllis leaned across the table toward Monica. “Some people may think being a librarian is dull work, but they have no idea. Of course the minute we go to one of those systems where the patrons check the books out themselves, I’m retiring. Where’s the fun in that?”

  Monica shrugged her shoulders. Indeed, she thought.

  “You can learn a lot about a person by the books they take out. People think I don’t notice, but I do. I know that Dirk VanHuizen likes to bird watch and old Mr. Voorhees grows orchids. Or at least he likes to read about growing them. Mildred Victory likes those romance novels with the half-naked men and women on the front. Oh, she always hands me the books with the cover side down, but I know what she’s up to. And get this.” Phyllis leaned farther across the table and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “The pastor’s wife checked out one of those books about you-know-what. What used to be called a marriage manual. She didn’t even have the grace to blush when she handed it over!”

  Monica was at a loss for words, but right then a gentleman with tousled white hair, wearing a cardigan sweater despite the pleasant warmth of the day, approached the library’s table.

  He smoothed his mustache with his finger. “Do you have any books on local history, perhaps?”

  Monica waved good-bye to Phyllis and hurried off. She needed to think. Why had Arline borrowed a book on bees? Her explanation to Phyllis didn’t ring true. Arline was hardworking and a good baker but she’d never seemed interested in anything more intellectual than what was happening on her favorite television programs and gossip about movie stars.

  Monica was so engrossed in her thoughts she nearly collided with a woman in denim capris and a tank top who was eating an ice cream cone that Monica nearly toppled from her hand.

  “Excuse me. I’m so sorry,” Monica said.

  The woman smiled at her. “Oh, no, that’s okay, you’re fine.”

  Thoughts collided in Monica’s head like pinballs. For some reason thoughts of the story Xavier Cabot had told about the sailor who had sent his captain and the rest of the crew into that deadly storm suddenly surfaced.

  Hadn’t Arline said that Rick had been calling for Lori’s help right before Lori had walked out of the farm kitchen and into the swarm of bees? But Rick’s truck hadn’t been there at the time—he’d already left for his aborted trip to the lawyer in town. Which meant Rick couldn’t possibly have summoned Lori.

  Had Arline been like that sailor in Xavier’s story—sending Lori into a deadly swarm of bees to cover up the nearly invisible mark from the hypodermic needle?

  But why would Arline want to kill Lori? They seemed to have gotten along okay. Was she looking at things from the wrong angle? Monica wondered was Dale the killer after all and there was a perfectly innocent explanation for Arline taking a book on bees out of the library.

  She continued walking along the path that ran alongside the harbor. Sailboats and motorboats were moored in the channel, their occupants sprawled on the prow, soaking up the sun or lounging in deck chairs with cold drinks. A girl with her bikini top untied was stretched out facedown on a striped beach towel, an old-fashioned radio propped next to her. Music drifted from the boat—“Can’t Buy Me Love” by the Beatles.

  Monica was barely aware of her surroundings as she walked along, and several times she earned dirty looks from people she nearly collided with. Right now she had a random handful of jigsaw puzzle pieces and the trick was going to be to put them together. But every time she thought she’d completed the puzzle, the last piece would refuse to fit.

  By now she’d reached the end of the path, where the crowds were sparser and the delicious food smells considerably fainter. She turned around and started back, putting up a hand to ward off the sun that was shining in her eyes. She could feel the warmth of it on her arms and legs and thought it looked as if her skin was getting a bit pink. Monica didn’t tan easily—her fair skin usually turned red and then peeled before ever achieving the golden brown look that came so easily to other people.

  She passed Gus’s stall again. He was counting a stack of bills before tucking them into a green canvas zippered pouch that hung from the belt around his waist.

  Money! Monica stopped so short that the person behind her slammed into her, nearly knocking her off balance.

  “What do you mean stopping like that?”

  He was wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo shirt that matched the stripe in his shorts. Both were festooned with well-known logos of expensive brands.

  Monica immediately labeled him as a tourist—an entitled one who probably had a yacht anchored in the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club marina.r />
  She made profuse apologies, smiled sweetly and went on her way. She imagined she could hear him continuing to fume in back of her.

  She didn’t care. She thought she’d found a way to fit the final puzzle piece into place.

  Chapter 24

  Monica tried to pay closer attention to where she was going as she walked along. She had no particular destination in mind, but walking helped her think.

  Maybe the withdrawal slip for Mrs. Wenk’s bank account hadn’t fallen out of Lori’s pocket. Maybe it had fallen out of Arline’s instead.

  The faster Monica walked, the more things came into focus. Mrs. Wenk had signed some papers that gave another person access to her bank account but couldn’t remember who it was. Monica had assumed that that person must have been her daughter, Lori. But what if Arline had convinced Mrs. Wenk to sign the paper—perhaps saying she wanted to help her because her daughter was obviously not interested. The woman was easily confused—it would have been child’s play to pressure her into signing.

  Money had gone missing from Mrs. Wenk’s account—money she insisted she hadn’t withdrawn. Had Arline used the money to line her own pockets?

  But why kill Lori then? Unless Lori had found out and confronted Arline with the evidence.

  Once again, Monica stopped short. But mercifully no one was behind her this time.

  The argument the neighbor had overheard between Lori and Arline—it wasn’t long afterward that Lori was killed. If Lori had threatened to go to the police, Arline might have been desperate to stop her—desperate enough to kill.

  Monica pulled her cell phone from her pocket and hesitated. Detective Stevens needed to know about this, but she didn’t want to believe that Arline would kill anyone. She would have to let Stevens decide if it was important or not. She punched in the detective’s cell phone number and waited for the call to connect.

  It rang multiple times before going to voicemail. Monica hesitated—should she leave a message or call back later? She finally decided to leave a brief message asking Stevens to call her. She stuffed the phone back in her pocket and began walking again.