Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

  “The surveyor said—” Mitzi began before she was interrupted.

  “I don’t care what the surveyor said. I had a survey done when we bought this house, and I know perfectly well where our property line is. And Laszlo’s fence is on the wrong side of it.”

  His face was very red now and there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Not only that, but you’re meant to put the attractive side of the fence facing out, so that’s what your neighbors see, and he didn’t. The cad had them put it up the other way around. When I confronted him about it, he said it was too late to change it.” Holt blew air out of his nose in a way that reminded Monica of a bull before it charges the red cape.

  “We had a huge row about it. He refused to listen to reason. We very nearly came to blows over it.”

  “So you were very angry with him.” Monica leaned forward slightly.

  Holt pulled back. “What are you getting at?” His voice got louder and his face even redder. “You’re not trying to say I killed him?”

  Mitzi turned and looked at her husband. “Well, did you, darling?” she said coolly.

  • • •

  On her way back from the Holts’, Monica decided to stop at Bart’s Butcher Shop to pick up a steak for dinner. She ought to still be able to find some juicy late summer tomatoes at the farmer’s market for a salad. And maybe a bottle of champagne? Why not, she decided. She and Greg would be having their first dinner in her cottage as a married couple.

  Monica hummed as she drove down Beach Hollow Road. The lowering sun glanced off the pastel-colored hues of the buildings. Monica passed the pale pink front of Gumdrops and thought she saw the lace curtain behind the window display twitch ever so slightly. She smiled. Neither Hennie nor Gerda could bear to let anyone go by without their knowing about it.

  A dusty red pickup truck was backing out of a space in front of Bart’s Butcher. Monica thought she recognized Dusty Mason at the wheel—she worked part-time filling in at the Cranberry Cove Diner during the rush. Monica waited, then pulled into the empty spot herself.

  The bell tinkled when she opened the door to Bart’s. Bart was behind the counter, wearing a large white butcher’s apron with rust-colored smears on it and whistling tunelessly as he arranged the last few pork chops on a tray in the old-fashioned glass-fronted case.

  “How’s the new bride?” he said and smiled when he looked up.

  Monica felt herself blushing a little. She still found it hard to think of herself as a new bride.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting to make a special dinner for your man tonight,” Bart said with a sly look. He pulled a platter of NY strips from the case. “Look at these beauties. Would one of these do?”

  “They’d do admirably,” Monica said, eyeing the plump, well-marbled steaks.

  Bart pointed to one. “This ought to do the two of you.” He held it up so Monica could see.

  “Perfect.”

  Bart pulled a length of brown butcher paper from the roll on the counter and began wrapping the steak.

  “That was quite a lovely do the other day. I never thought I’d see myself sipping champagne at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club. I’ll be dining out on that for a couple of years.”

  He grinned, showing strong yellowed teeth. They made Monica think of a horse’s mouth and she had to stifle a giggle.

  She didn’t know what had come over her lately. She was as giddy as a teenager and everything made her want to laugh.

  “I was surprised to see that Laszlo fellow there,” Bart said as he tied a piece of string around the carefully wrapped parcel.

  “Do you know him?” Monica was surprised. It didn’t seem likely that the two would have crossed paths.

  “I don’t actually know him.” Bart slid the wrapped steak into a white paper bag with Bart’s Butcher on the front in black lettering. “His missus used to come into the store all the time. They were good customers, always wanting the best. I imagine they entertained a lot because she thought nothing of ordering a whole butterflied leg of lamb or a five-pound standing rib roast. A bit much for just the two of them, wouldn’t you think? Especially her being as thin as wallpaper, as my grandmother used to say.”

  Bart handed Monica the paper bag. “I was surprised when she suddenly stopped coming in.” He grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter. “Then all of a sudden here’s this other lady coming in calling herself Mrs. Laszlo.”

  “Oh?” Monica’s ears perked up.

  Bart leaned his elbows on the counter. “A very different lady. Always in one of them tennis or golf outfits—you know what I mean. Tall and strong-looking, too.”

  Andrea, Monica thought.

  Bart laid his palms down flat on the counter. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  Bart’s interest in gossip wasn’t nearly as strong as the VanVelsen sisters’. Monica suspected that she would get no more out of him today.

  • • •

  Monica glanced at the clock. Nearly five o’clock. Greg ought to be home soon.

  Home—it gave her a warm feeling to say that. She was excited about the house they’d talked about building. They didn’t want much—a bigger kitchen perhaps and a small office for Greg. And maybe another bedroom.

  She and Greg had talked about starting a family. Monica thought it would be wise for them to spend at least a year alone—getting to know each other, establishing a routine—before introducing a baby into the family. She was more than content to wait.

  Greg’s car pulled into the driveway at twenty after five. Monica had already powdered her nose and touched up her lipstick—something she rarely, if ever, bothered to do.

  “Where’s my bride?” Greg called out as he strode in.

  “Right here.” Monica walked into the kitchen.

  Several minutes passed—Monica was astonished when she looked at the clock and saw how many—as they hugged and kissed.

  “How was your day?” she said somewhat breathlessly when they pulled away from each other.

  “Splendid,” Greg said, plopping into one of the kitchen chairs. “Those first editions I told you about—the Allingham and the Carr and the Innes . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “All first-rate. Perfect condition. I couldn’t believe it. The son obviously knew nothing about books because he quoted me a ridiculously low price. I insisted he take more. I would have felt as if I’d robbed him otherwise.”

  Greg pulled Monica toward him and she sat on his lap. “And how was your day?” he said, his lips whispering the words against her hair.

  “Fine. I got us a nice steak for dinner. And what are probably the very last of the fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market.”

  “Sounds good.” Greg nuzzled Monica’s neck. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

  Monica was settling into Greg’s arms when the phone rang.

  “Do you have to get that?” Greg said.

  “I suppose I’d better.”

  Monica slid from his lap and reached for her cell phone on the counter.

  She listened briefly then turned to Greg and put her hand over the mouthpiece. She made a face.

  “It’s Gina. She wants to treat us to dinner with her and Xavier at the Pepper Pot. What do you think?”

  Greg sighed then shrugged. “Why not? The steak will keep, right? And they do a wonderful chicken hash there.”

  Monica took her hand from the phone’s mouthpiece and told Gina they’d be glad to take her up on her offer.

  “We’re to meet them at seven o’clock,” Monica said, clicking off the phone. “They’ve made reservations.”

  “Great. That gives us time to . . . relax.” Greg waggled his eyebrows at Monica.

  • • •

  The Pepper Pot was the newest restaurant in Cranberry Cove. While the dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn was generally frequented by tourists and locals celebrating a special occasion, the Pepper Pot was more affordable, and while attractive, less forbidd
ing than the inn with its tuxedo-clad waiters and extensive wine list.

  The Pepper Pot had wooden floors and beamed ceilings and tables set with white cloths and dark green napkins. The menu featured what had become known as comfort food—roast chicken, potpies, beef stew and other familiar dishes.

  It was crowded when Monica and Greg arrived. They looked around, but it was obvious that Gina and Xavier hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Shall we sit at the bar?” Greg asked, gesturing to the handful of round, high tables flanking the long polished wood bar.

  He helped Monica onto a stool and pulled out the one opposite.

  “Yoo hoo, here we are,” Gina called, walking toward them with open arms. Xavier trailed behind her, an unlit pipe in his hand.

  Gina was wearing a leopard-print silk blouse, black leather leggings and black suede booties—a fairly tame outfit for her, although the blouse was cut low enough to reveal plenty of décolletage. Once again Monica marveled at how her father could have married two such different women—Gina and her leather and animal prints and Monica’s mother with her twin sets and pearls.

  “How are you two lovebirds?” Gina kissed Monica and Greg on the cheek, then took the seat that Xavier had pulled out for her.

  Xavier shook hands with Greg. He glanced toward the bar then looked around.

  “Looks like they’re pretty busy. I don’t see a waitress.”

  “Let’s go to the bar and get the drinks ourselves then,” Greg said, getting up. “What would you ladies like?”

  “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” Monica said.

  Greg nodded.

  “I don’t know.” Gina put a finger to her lips. “What are you having?” She turned to Xavier.

  He raised an eyebrow. “The usual. Assuming they have some decent single-malt Scotch here.”

  Gina let out a sigh. “Bring a martini then. Dirty,” she added, looking at Xavier from under her eyelashes.

  Xavier appeared not to notice as he and Greg headed to the bar.

  Gina watched the men until they were out of sight and then turned to Monica.

  “Remember I told you at your reception that I thought Xavier might be getting ready to pop the question?”

  “Yes,” Monica said cautiously.

  “Well! My birthday’s next week, and Xavier has been hinting that he has a big surprise for me.” She waggled the fingers of her left hand at Monica. “What do you want to bet that it’s an engagement ring?”

  “I don’t know, Gina. Do you really think—”

  “Isn’t it wonderful, being in love?” Gina said before Monica could finish her sentence. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  Monica raised an eyebrow. “I thought my father was everything you ever wanted.”

  “Well, he was until he ran off with that tacky Vegas showgirl.” Gina fiddled with the special drinks menu, spinning it around and around. “But this time I know I’m right.”

  “And you’re sure Xavier feels the same way?” Monica took a deep breath. “For some reason I’ve gotten the impression that he’s the perennial bachelor type.”

  “Oh, pooh.” Gina waved a hand at Monica. “All it takes is the right woman to change that. And I know I’m the right woman.”

  “Here we are, ladies,” Greg said as he approached their table with their drinks.

  He was about to sit down when a waitress approached them.

  “Your table is ready. If you’ll please follow me.”

  They trooped behind her to a table in the corner and took their seats.

  “I know I want the chicken hash,” Greg said, lowering his menu. “How about you?” He looked at Monica.

  “I’ll have the shepherd’s pie. It seems perfect for a night like tonight. It seems to have gotten colder and that was quite a wind coming off the lake.”

  Gina opted for the grilled salmon with dill sauce, and Monica wasn’t surprised when Xavier ordered a porterhouse cooked rare.

  “What do you make of that fellow being found dead?” Gina asked when the waitress left.

  “I suppose we’ll have to wait until the police release some news,” Monica said, hoping to put an end to the topic. The last thing she wanted to think about tonight was Laszlo lying stabbed in his boat.

  “You haven’t heard anything?” Gina said. “I thought you and that Detective Stevens had become quite chummy.” She snorted. “I still can’t forgive her for thinking my boy Jeffie might have been a murderer.”

  “Everyone was a suspect—” Monica began.

  “Anyway, I wonder if the fellow had enemies? He looked like the sort who would. I thought his expression was awfully mean, didn’t you?” She turned to Monica, then Greg and then Xavier.

  “He was something of a rough-looking character,” Monica agreed.

  Xavier took a sip of his Scotch, rolled it around in his mouth and swallowed. He tilted his chair back on two legs and took a breath. “All men who have really lived have enemies,” he said in sonorous tones.

  He had a rich, deep voice and knew how to use it to good effect.

  “But I wonder if there was someone specific. Someone here in Cranberry Cove who hated him,” Gina said a little testily.

  “I can think of one,” Xavier said, letting his chair fall back into place. He sat up a bit straighter, as if preparing to make a speech.

  “You’ve heard of the Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago sailboat race, I presume?” He looked around the table.

  Monica shook her head.

  Xavier looked startled. “It’s an annual event and draws sailors from all over the country anxious to test their mettle. A lot of them underestimate the power of our Great Lakes.”

  “But what does that have to do with that man who was killed?” Gina said, impatience clear in her voice.

  Xavier held up a hand. “I’m getting to that.” He picked up his glass, inhaled deeply and took another sip of his Scotch. “It’s a privilege to take part in this race, and while there are few rules, participants are expected to act with honor and integrity.” He took a deep breath, puffing out his broad chest.

  “But they don’t always?” Greg said.

  “Exactly. Cheating is part of human nature. Most of us resist the temptation but not all.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with that man’s murder.”

  Again, Xavier held up a hand. “I’m getting to it. Your victim, Bruce Laszlo, took part in the race last year. He was a newcomer—most of the other sailors had been in it for years and most likely their fathers and grandfathers before them. And as is usual, a newcomer is looked at somewhat askance until they’ve been able to prove themselves.”

  They were quiet as they waited for Xavier to continue.

  “For the last several years the race has gone to Alton Bates, and he was favored to win again this year. He grew up on the water, and among them the crew has over a hundred and fifty years of experience. Chandler Gates was expected to provide some stiff competition, having come in second last year despite being caught in a bad storm.”

  Xavier took a sip of his Scotch and stared off into the distance.

  “But then Bruce Laszlo, the new kid on the block, comes out of nowhere to take the race. There was a lot of talk at the time, and it was never proven, but everyone agreed he’d cheated somehow.”

  “How do you cheat in a sailboat race?” Monica said.

  “Oh . . . illegal propulsion and things like that,” Xavier said, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “I’m merely an amateur sailor myself and the rules are complicated. But sailors proficient enough to enter a prestigious race like this one are expected to know the ins and outs of what’s legal and what’s not. And that includes Bruce Laszlo, even if this was his first big competition.”

  Greg looked slightly mystified. “But to kill someone because they cheated in a sailboat race? You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Xavier looked affronted. “It’s a matter of honor, and sailors take these things ver
y seriously.”

  “Enough talk about that,” Gina said. “We’ve forgotten to toast the newlyweds.” She held up her glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, which Xavier had ordered to go with their meal.

  Monica smiled dutifully, but her mind was elsewhere. If what Xavier had said was true, then this Alton Bates had a potential motive for murder.

  The waitress approached with a tray and distributed their meals, and they chatted amiably while they ate. Finally, Xavier pushed his plate away.

  “Does anyone want dessert?”

  “I’m stuffed,” Greg said. “And I have an early morning tomorrow. I think we’d best think about heading out.”

  Xavier raised his hand. “Check, please?”

  “My treat,” Xavier insisted when the waitress brought the bill.

  He signed his name to the credit card slip with a flourish, stood up and pulled out Gina’s chair.

  Greg and Monica followed behind them as they walked toward the exit.

  A waitress in a low-cut blouse with puffed sleeves, somewhat reminiscent of a barmaid in an old Shakespearean play, passed close by them.

  Monica couldn’t help but notice how Xavier’s head automatically swiveled in her direction, following her passage until she was out of sight.

  She sighed. She feared that Gina was in for a major disappointment, and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.

  Chapter 6

  Monica smelled coffee when she got out of the shower. She smiled. Greg was so thoughtful—putting on the coffee and feeding Mittens while she luxuriated in her morning shower.

  She quickly got dressed and went downstairs to find Greg frying a couple of eggs. The smell of bacon was in the air now as well.

  “Good morning,” Greg said, handing her a steaming cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, and you?”

  “Perfectly. I’ve done some eggs over easy. Hope that’s okay,” Greg said as he lifted the eggs from the pan and placed them on a plate. He added a couple of slices of crisp bacon and put the plate on the table at Monica’s place.

  He filled his own plate then took the seat next to her.