by Peg Cochran
“That was a nice dinner last night with Xavier and Gina,” Greg said as he sprinkled salt on his eggs. “I like the guy. He’s very entertaining.”
“Gina likes him, too.” Monica stabbed the yolk of her egg with the tines of her fork. “Too much, I’m afraid. She seems to think he’s about to propose.”
Greg raised his eyebrows. “He doesn’t seem like the type to me.”
“Me, neither. I’m afraid she’s in for a disappointment.”
“Despite her rather fluffy exterior, Gina seems fairly tough. I imagine she’ll get over it.”
“As long as another man comes along. And single, appropriate ones are rather thin on the ground in Cranberry Cove, I’m afraid.”
“True.” Greg bit the end off his piece of bacon. “Do you think there’s any merit to what Xavier said last night about that fellow—what was his name?”
“Alton Bates?”
“Yes, Alton Bates. About Laszlo cheating in that sailboat race and this Alton having it in for him.”
“Murder never makes any sense to me, but I suppose it’s possible.”
Greg put down his fork and turned to Monica. “Please don’t get involved in this, okay? I know how you love to play Miss Marple, but leave it to the police this time. I’m sure they’ll find the culprit soon enough.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Monica said, thinking of her promise to Andrea. She crossed her fingers behind her back.
• • •
Monica tidied up the breakfast dishes and was about to leave to head to the farm kitchen when there was a knock on her door.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Stevens said when Monica pulled open the door.
“I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. Please come in.” Monica led Stevens into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks. I won’t take up too much of your time, I promise. You look as if you were about to leave.” Stevens pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down.
“Yes, but I can certainly spare a few minutes.” Monica leaned against the kitchen counter.
“I’m hoping you can help me.” Stevens loosened the belt of her trench coat and unbuttoned it. “I remember seeing the man you and your husband found in the boat—Bruce Laszlo—at your wedding reception, and I remember you saying you knew his wife.”
“That’s right,” Monica said, explaining again how she and Andrea had been out of contact until they ran into each other recently.
“So you don’t know her very well?”
“Not terribly well. Like I said, we hadn’t seen each other since college.”
Stevens looked disappointed. “Is there anything you can tell me about the relationship between your friend and her husband? Did she say anything about it to you? Did they get along? I gather they’d only been married a short time, so one would assume they were still in the honeymoon stage, but I know from experience that isn’t always the case.” Her mouth twisted bitterly.
Monica remembered that Stevens’s husband had left her shortly after the birth of their first child. Monica figured that entitled her to take a somewhat cynical view of marriage.
“We hadn’t spent all that much time together really. Greg and I did have drinks with her and her husband awhile back.”
“What was your impression of him?”
Monica hesitated. She hadn’t liked Laszlo on sight, but that was just her own feelings. Would Stevens make too much of that?
“You’re hesitating. Why?”
Monica held her hands out palms up. “Frankly, I didn’t care for him.”
“Why not? Any particular reason?”
Again, Monica hesitated, trying to find the right words. “He was terribly full of himself, if you know what I mean.”
Stevens nodded.
“And sort of . . . pushy.”
“Controlling?” Stevens pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her coat.
“I suppose you could call it that, yes.”
“Do you think his wife was afraid of him?”
The question took Monica by surprise. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” She frowned. “More intimidated maybe?”
Stevens nodded and made a note on her pad.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Monica thought about her wedding reception and the argument she’d overheard between Laszlo and Andrea. Should she tell Stevens about that? But she hadn’t been able to hear what they’d been arguing about—it could have been anything. Possibly not even anything important.
“No,” Monica said.
Stevens clapped her notebook shut and stood up. “Thank you.”
• • •
Monica made it to the farm kitchen half an hour later than she’d intended. Fortunately, Kit was already hard at work and had produced a couple dozen muffins and as many scones. He truly was a gem, and Monica prayed that he wouldn’t want to leave for many years to come.
She quickly tied on her own apron and got to work measuring flour and sugar for cranberry bread. They’d been out of almost everything in the store the day before and badly needed to restock.
She couldn’t help thinking about Andrea, however, and all the questions Stevens had asked. Did the detective really suspect Andrea? Monica had reassured her friend that being questioned by the police was strictly a matter of routine, but had it gone beyond that now?
Ever since Xavier had brought up Alton Bates, Monica had been wondering about him. She knew these sailing competitions could get fierce. Would someone actually kill over one? Perhaps if she could talk to Bates, she could get a sense of how riled he’d been over Laszlo’s flaunting of the rules of the race.
Within another hour, they’d baked enough product to at least partially replenish the farm store’s stock.
Monica looked over at Kit. He was busy chopping walnuts for their signature cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies. Monica had created the recipe last year and now customers loved them so much they actually went out of their way to pick up a dozen or more.
Monica hesitated then came to a decision. She began to untie her apron.
“Kit, would you mind holding down the fort for a bit while I run an errand?”
“Not at all, sweetie. You leave everything to me. I can handle it.” He picked up one of the long-handled wooden spoons and began to twirl it like a baton, pretending to march around the kitchen.
Monica laughed. “Thanks. I really appreciate it. I think the store is well stocked with salsa—I took a batch over yesterday—but other than the cookies, I think Nora could probably use at least a few more dozen muffins if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m on it,” Kit said, attacking the walnuts on the chopping board again.
Monica felt horribly guilty leaving all the work to Kit, but she promised herself she wouldn’t be away that long—just a quick trip to the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club and then back to the kitchen to help out.
• • •
As she crested the hill into town, Monica could see Lake Michigan and the horseshoe-shaped marina of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club. A handful of boats were moored in the marina—mere specks from this distance—and a lone sailboat, its white sail puffed out stiffly, was silhouetted against the horizon.
Monica drove down the hill, into town and into the parking lot of the yacht club. There weren’t many cars in the lot. The good fall weather had lasted longer than usual, but even so, many sailors had already put their boats in dry dock and had headed back home, their summer vacation over. She hoped she’d find at least one person who knew about the Cranberry Cove–Chicago race Laszlo had participated in.
Floor-to-ceiling windows in the yacht club bar provided a nearly panoramic view of Lake Michigan. The décor was appropriately nautical—a navy blue and white color scheme, a large refurbished wooden wheel from the helm of a stately sailing vessel mounted to the wall, rope fashioned into reef knots, butterfly loops and
sheetbends framed and displayed as art.
Three men sat at the bar, their noses and the backs of their necks sunburned and peeling from hours spent on the water. One was nursing what looked like a Bloody Mary, the other two beers. All were wearing polo shirts, khakis and boat shoes.
Monica didn’t dare order a drink since she wasn’t a member of the club; besides, the last thing she wanted this early in the day was a cocktail or glass of wine—she’d be asleep before lunch.
Monica cleared her throat and one of the men turned around. He had dark red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose that made him look younger than Monica suspected he actually was. His blue eyes had crinkles around them that suggested he laughed easily and frequently.
“I’m hoping you can help me,” Monica said.
“Sure thing. What can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering if you know anything about the Cranberry Cove–Chicago sailboat race?”
The fellow laughed. “I should hope so. I’ve been in it every year for the last ten years. Even placed third a couple of times. What would you like to know?” He patted the empty bar stool next to him. “Have a seat.”
Monica hopped onto the stool and turned to face her neighbor.
“Name’s Ted Walker, by the way.”
“Monica Albertson.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you a writer, then? Going to write one of those bestsellers they put up in the window of Book ’Em?”
Monica laughed. “That would be nice,” she said, skirting the truth.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“A glass of water would be fine,” Monica said. Nerves had made her mouth dry.
Ted whistled for the bartender, who placed a cold glass of water in front of Monica moments later.
Monica took a sip then turned to Ted. “Do you know a Bruce Laszlo? I understand he competed in the race last year.”
Ted frowned. “The name is familiar.”
“I believe he won the race.”
“That’s right. Now I remember. He captained the Bronco, a sixty-four-footer. Beautiful boat.”
Monica fiddled with the coaster under her glass of water. “I heard that there were complaints about Laszlo—accusations that he cheated.”
Ted scratched the bit of stubble on his chin. “I do remember something like that.”
The man sitting next to Ted turned toward them. He was bald with a huge mustache that Monica suspected he’d grown to make up for the lack of hair on his head.
“I remember that,” he said, leaning his arm on the bar. “It was quite a scene. A bunch of us, including Laszlo and some of his crew, came back here to knock back a few after the race. Then Alton Bates—he was crewing on the Starship—came in and began going at it with Laszlo, saying he cheated and things like that.”
He paused and took a swig of his beer. “Bates got real hot under the collar and Laszlo was having none of it. Called Bates a sore loser. That did it. Bates took a swing at Laszlo and fortunately missed.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “By then security had gotten wind of the argument, and they showed up in force. They made Bates leave, and he was furious. Kept saying it was all Laszlo’s fault. He still hasn’t gotten over it—talks about it all the time, swears he’ll make Laszlo pay one of these days.”
“Because he thinks Laszlo cheated in a race? Doesn’t that seem a bit . . . extreme?”
“It’s a big deal,” Ted said, glancing at the man sitting next to him. “Sportsmanship is taken very seriously among sailors.”
“So it would seem,” Monica said.
“That would make a good story, don’t you think?” Ted said.
“Yes,” Monica agreed.
As she left the yacht club she couldn’t help but wonder if sportsmanship could be taken so far as to lead to murder.
Chapter 7
Monica spent the rest of the morning—what was left of it at least—in the farm kitchen with Kit finishing up the baking and taking inventory of their supplies.
By one o’clock, she was famished and decided to head back to her cottage to make a sandwich. She was about to open a can of tuna when the phone rang.
It was Andrea, and she sounded rather distraught. She insisted that Monica come to lunch, and Monica reluctantly agreed.
She hung up the phone and sighed. She’d been looking forward to a quick and quiet lunch and then back to work in the farm kitchen. But Andrea had her concerned, and she felt she owed it to her friend to sit with her for a bit.
Mittens rubbed up against Monica’s leg and purred loudly.
“Sorry, Kitty,” Monica said. “We won’t be having the tuna after all.”
She knew she was imagining it, but she could have sworn that Mittens actually looked disappointed, as if she’d understood every word Monica had said.
Monica slipped on a light jacket and headed out the door.
The trip to Andrea’s didn’t take long and soon she was pulling into the circular drive in front of the Laszlos’ house.
It was a lovely home with gray shingles and white trim—the sort of house Monica imagined might have been built by a ship’s captain. The garden was still in bloom with late perennials that lined the flagstone walk to the front door.
Andrea answered the bell almost immediately. She was wearing a casual—and casually expensive—pair of cream-colored slacks and a black cashmere short-sleeved sweater. Her short hair was sleek and shiny, as if she’d actually polished it until it actually shone.
Monica immediately felt underdressed in her jeans and flannel shirt, which she realized still had flour on it. She wiped her feet carefully and followed Andrea into the house and down the hall to the kitchen.
Monica looked around. The room was stunning with white cabinets, granite countertops and a bay window offering views of the lake.
Monica noticed a wineglass sitting on the counter—half empty—with lipstick on the rim that matched Andrea’s.
“I hope you don’t mind if we eat in the kitchen?” Andrea said. “The dining room is so large and formal, I thought we’d be more comfortable in here.”
“This is lovely,” Monica said, eyeing the carefully set table with its blue and white flowered placemats and matching napkins.
“It’s nothing fancy,” Andrea said as she pulled open the door to the enormous stainless steel refrigerator and removed two lunch plates. She set them on the table. “Why don’t you sit there,” she said, pointing to one of the seats. “You’ll be able to see the view then.”
Monica took the seat Andrea indicated and put her napkin in her lap.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” Andrea asked. She opened a cupboard and took out a wineglass.
“No, thanks. Water is fine.”
Andrea shrugged, retrieved a chilled bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and topped up the glass Monica had noticed sitting on the counter. She filled another glass with water and ice and handed it to Monica.
Andrea had prepared shrimp salad in lettuce cups along with sliced tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Monica was starved and really enjoyed the meal. She noticed that Andrea, though, made a pretense of eating by pushing her food around on her plate, barely taking more than a tiny nibble of her shrimp salad.
“I hope you’re not still letting the fact that you were questioned by the police bother you,” Monica said when she’d finished eating.
“It’s hard not to,” Andrea admitted, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “If Bruce were alive, he’d tell me to stop worrying. He always said I worried too much.” She frowned. “But it’s difficult not to under the circumstances.”
“Of course,” Monica said. “I can understand.”
“And there’s so much to do.” Andrea ran a hand through her hair, leaving it unusually rumpled. “Not just the funeral arrangements—that’s all been taken care of. But going through Bruce’s things, our accounts, his desk . .
.” She sighed. “It’s a huge amount of work.”
“I understand,” Monica said again. “It’s also very emotional work.”
“Yes, it is. And I think that’s what’s really getting to me. There were good times, too, you know.”
Andrea drained the last bit of wine from her glass, pushed back her chair and got up.
She opened the refrigerator and took out the bottle of chardonnay again.
“Are you sure you don’t care for some?” She held the bottle up toward Monica.
“No, thanks.”
Andrea refilled her own glass, returned the wine to the refrigerator and sat down again.
“Bruce took care of our finances. After all, that was what he was good at. I never asked any questions, and if I did, he would tell me not to bother myself about it.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been going over everything trying to familiarize myself with it, although in the end, I suppose I shall let our accountant deal with it. The strange thing is . . .” She ran her finger around and around the base of her wineglass. “There’s plenty of money in our accounts—checking, savings, CDs and all that. But . . .” Again, she hesitated. “Bruce’s investments weren’t doing well. Stocks on the decline, that sort of thing.”
Andrea took a sip of her wine. “I don’t pretend to understand it all but . . .” She shrugged and pushed her chair back. “Can I show you something?”
“Yes.”
Monica stood also and followed her into a room off the central hall that was obviously Bruce’s study. The study was comfortably but nicely furnished with a large antique wooden partner’s desk with a very modern-looking computer on top. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in white duck and the walls and the tops of the end tables were covered in framed photographs, mostly sailing pictures: the Laszlos’ boat; Laszlo at the helm on the open water, his curly blond hair blowing in the breeze; Laszlo proudly holding up a fish he’d caught.
Monica went up to one picture to examine it more closely. In it, Laszlo was holding a silver cup and grinning broadly.
“That’s when Bruce won the Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago challenge,” Andrea said, coming up in back of Monica. “He was very proud of that trophy. He had a special case built for it. It’s in the living room. He would be devastated to know that it’s been stolen.”
