Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

  “The police still haven’t found it?”

  Andrea made a face. “No. Frankly, I don’t think it’s much of a priority. Not with Bruce’s murder that still needs solving.”

  Andrea walked toward Laszlo’s desk. She opened a drawer and took something out.

  “This is what I wanted you to see.” She handed Monica what turned out to be a photograph.

  It was a picture of Laszlo with his arm around a woman—a pretty woman, fairly young, with long dark hair and large dark eyes.

  Monica frowned and turned to Andrea, her eyebrows raised.

  “I found it in Bruce’s desk under some papers,” Andrea said. “I knew he’d been dating someone before we met. I think that’s the woman.”

  Monica looked at the picture again. The woman was certainly attractive, although in a completely different way from Andrea.

  “Who is she? Do you know?”

  Andrea shook her head. “No. Bruce never told me her name, just that there had been someone else. He said he ended it with her when he met me.”

  “Oh?”

  “I believed him,” Andrea said. “Although he never showed me that picture.”

  Monica handed the photograph back to Andrea.

  “He did say the breakup was messy though, that it was a nightmare—she cried and carried on and even tried to hit him. He knew she owned a gun. He was afraid for his life.”

  “That is frightening.”

  “Do you think it’s significant though? Maybe that woman”—Andrea held up the photograph—“maybe she still wanted revenge. Maybe she was the one who killed Bruce.”

  “It’s possible,” Monica said. “He never mentioned her name?”

  Andrea shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “Not even a first name?”

  “I’m afraid not. I asked him, but he said it was water under the bridge.”

  “Can I see the photograph again?”

  Monica studied it closely. “If we could figure out where it was taken, perhaps that would give us a clue. Maybe someone would recognize her.”

  Andrea peered at the photograph with Monica.

  “You can’t see much of the background, but there is something familiar about it.”

  There was the very edge of a framed picture behind the couple and the woman had her hand on the back of a navy-blue-and-white-striped chair. It was tantalizingly familiar to Monica, but the answer eluded her—like a puff of smoke blown about on the wind.

  Suddenly it came to her.

  “That’s the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, isn’t it?” She pointed to the chair. “That’s one of the chairs in the lobby.”

  “I think you’re right,” Andrea said, taking the photo from Monica and peering more closely at it. “I wonder if anyone there would recognize the woman?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Andrea held the photograph out to Monica.

  “Would you mind showing this around at the yacht club? I’d do it, but it might cause a fuss seeing as how we’re members and all . . .”

  Monica groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to get any more involved in this than she had to. But she didn’t want to let Andrea down.

  “All right. I can’t make any promises though.”

  “Thank you,” Andrea said, giving Monica a quick hug.

  Monica tucked the photograph into her purse. She hoped she wasn’t going to regret agreeing to this. If this woman had a gun as Laszlo had claimed, and she discovered that Monica was going around asking questions about her, there was no telling what she might do.

  • • •

  The sun had ducked behind a mass of dark clouds, leaving the landscape in shadows when Monica left Andrea’s house. She’d parked her car at the end of the driveway and thought she felt a drop of rain as she was walking toward it.

  She glanced up at the sky. She thought of Jeff and his crew and hoped the weather would hold for the rest of the afternoon. Harvesting cranberries was wet enough work without rain rolling in.

  Monica was almost to her car when she heard a rustling noise and turned to see an enormous Great Dane rushing toward her. She barely had time to feel fear before the animal was upon her, its massive paws on her shoulders and its huge pink tongue licking her face.

  “Good dog,” Monica said reassuringly. “Good dog. Down now.”

  Suddenly she heard someone calling in the distance. “Duchess, come back here, you naughty girl.”

  The dog stopped licking Monica’s face and turned its head to listen.

  A woman came into view. She was wearing white jeans, a black zip-up sweatshirt and the sort of colorful and expensive sneakers that were currently in vogue.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” she said breathlessly when she caught up to Monica. She grabbed the Great Dane by the collar. “Down, Duchess, down. Naughty girl.”

  She managed to drag Duchess’s paws from Monica’s shoulders.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  Duchess looked at her for several seconds and then slowly lowered herself into a sitting position.

  “She’s a real sweetheart,” the woman said. “And she loves everybody. I hope she didn’t scare you too badly.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Philippa Wentworth. And this is Duchess.” She pointed to the dog, who had decided to lie down in the grass. “We live just down the street.”

  Philippa had silver hair cut short and pale blue eyes. Monica liked her instinctively.

  “Are you friends with the new Mrs. Laszlo?” she said.

  “Yes. We were in college together, although we hadn’t seen each other since until this summer.”

  “I don’t know the new Mrs. Laszlo well at all. I heard about her husband’s death. How is she taking things, the poor dear?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Philippa nodded. “It must be a terrible shock.” She glanced at Duchess, who had gotten up and was sniffing around the base of a tree. “We were surprised when Bruce married again so soon after the death of his first wife.”

  “His first wife died?” Monica said. “For some reason, I thought they were divorced.”

  “Oh, no. It was a tragic accident,” Philippa said. “Or so Bruce would have had us believe. There were people who . . . well, never mind about that. It was only gossip. You know how people love to talk.”

  Especially in Cranberry Cove, Monica thought.

  “Gayle was dreadfully timid. And Bruce was so . . . so forceful, if you know what I mean. The poor thing was terribly intimidated by him.”

  “Was she afraid of him?” Monica said.

  Philippa froze. She didn’t answer for several long seconds. “I suppose she might have been.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Gayle? She drowned. It was terribly unfortunate.”

  Monica raised an eyebrow.

  “Gayle never did like the water. And she certainly didn’t want to go out that day with a storm obviously brewing.”

  “Was this in that motorboat of Laszlo’s?”

  Philippa gave a bark of a laugh. “Oh, no. That was just for running around. The Money Maker slept six people.”

  “Money Maker?”

  “Tacky, isn’t it? But then Laszlo wasn’t exactly known for his class. More like his crass.”

  Monica laughed dutifully.

  “He invested money for people and presumably made them money, hence the name of the boat.”

  “It must have been quite big to sleep six people.”

  “Oh, it was. He told Gayle he’d promised an investor and his wife that he’d take them on an overnight trip to Sleeping Bear Dunes up the coast. The funny thing is, when Laszlo came back to shore after the accident—the Coast Guard was still out looking for poor Gayle’s body—he was alone on the boat.”

  “Alone?”

  Philippa nodded. “Yes. So either he lied to get Gayle to go out with him or his investor canceled at the last minute.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It certainly is. Everyone
thought it was terribly fishy—no pun intended. It reminded me of that actress who fell overboard decades ago. Her husband was an actor. They never proved anything, but at the time, people wondered.”

  “And people wondered about Laszlo?”

  “They certainly did. Not that anyone said anything. They didn’t dare. Laszlo was the sort to have an attorney on speed dial, if you know what I mean.”

  Chapter 8

  Monica was about to head home when she changed her mind. She pulled over, punched some numbers into her cell phone and waited while it rang.

  Kit answered on the third ring.

  “Darling, what can I do for you?”

  “I have one more errand to run,” Monica said, glancing at the clock in her car. “Can you manage a bit longer? I feel terrible leaving you to do everything.”

  “Sweetie, don’t trouble your pretty little head about it. You do what you have to do. I’ve got this covered, no problem.”

  “Thanks, Kit. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “We aim to please.”

  Monica ended the call and pulled back onto the road. Moments later she was driving into the parking lot of the yacht club. There were more cars parked in the lot than there had been earlier—late-model foreign cars that made her ancient Taurus look completely out of place.

  Several people were sitting in the lobby, mostly men, reading the newspaper or having quiet conversations. Monica didn’t immediately see any staff so she walked into the restaurant.

  The tables were all set for dinner with white tablecloths and navy overlays. The crystal sparkled, the silver shone, everything was ready for the members who would be dining there that evening.

  A waitress scurried past Monica, an empty tray tucked under her arm.

  “Excuse me, miss. If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  The girl stopped in her tracks and spun on her heel, her long, dark braid twirling in the air.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m wondering if you know this woman.” Monica fumbled in her purse and drew out the picture of Bruce Laszlo with his arm around the dark-haired woman.

  The girl hesitated, then took the picture Monica held out. She studied it for several seconds then wrinkled her nose.

  “No. I’m sorry. I don’t know who she is. Is she a member here? I’ve just started here myself, see. This is only my second week.”

  She sounded apologetic, and Monica hastened to reassure her.

  “That’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I only thought you might recognize her.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose again—there was a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge where it was pink and peeling slightly.

  “You might ask Pete. He’s the bartender. He knows everybody.”

  “Pete? I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  The girl hurried away and Monica put the photograph back in her purse. She didn’t really think she’d get lucky on the first try. She mentally crossed her fingers that Pete would be more helpful.

  All but one of the seats at the bar were taken, and the small cocktail tables were full. Chatter and occasional laughter bounced off the walls. Pete was behind the bar mixing drinks with both ease and speed—shaking the silver cocktail shaker, pouring glasses of wine and pulling drafts of beer. For a moment, Monica wondered if he didn’t possess a second pair of hands.

  She hated to bother him when he was so busy, but she didn’t want to go home without an answer either if she could help it. She eased her way toward the empty bar stool.

  She slid onto the seat as Pete finished pouring the last order, a cocktail with a strangely blue tint that Monica couldn’t identify. Pete picked up a rag and began polishing a glass as he sauntered toward Monica. He turned his back to her, and when he turned around again, he’d filled the glass with water. He placed it on a coaster and pushed it toward Monica.

  “I know you don’t drink,” he said, gesturing toward the glass.

  The twinkle in his eye was very attractive, Monica thought. She hadn’t noticed before how good-looking he was.

  “Oh, I do drink,” Monica said.

  Pete pretended to be affronted. He splayed a hand against his chest. “Just not with me then?”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t drink with you.”

  Monica suddenly realized he was flirting with her and she was actually reciprocating. She saw him glance at her hand where her brand-new gold wedding band shone in the light. She felt her face go red. She was a married woman now—no more flirting for her. Not that she’d ever done much of it anyway.

  “What can I do for you?” Pete said, flinging his rag over his shoulder. “Assuming you didn’t come in just for a glass of water.”

  “No . . . I . . . no,” Monica mumbled. She reached for her purse and pulled out the photograph.

  “I’m wondering if you can tell me who this woman is? The photograph looks as if it was taken here at the club. I thought perhaps she was a member or perhaps a frequent guest.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow as he took the picture from Monica.

  “That’s Bruce Laszlo, isn’t it—the man whose body was found in the boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a member, I can tell you that. Shocking what happened to him.”

  “What about the woman?”

  Pete smiled and flicked the photograph with his finger.

  “That’s easy. It’s Victoria Cortez. She’s the club’s finance manager.”

  Monica was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this to be so easy.

  “Do you know if she’s here now?”

  “She might be. I don’t get to that end of the building much, just to collect my check at the end of the week. But she’ll be down here in the bar at five thirty on the dot drinking a Tom Collins.”

  Monica glanced at her watch. It was only four o’clock. She didn’t want to hang around until five thirty, nor did she want to drive back later.

  “How do I find her office?”

  “There’s a door next to the reception desk that leads to the offices in back. It will be the third office on your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Pete smiled and Monica noticed him watching her as she walked out of the bar.

  • • •

  Monica found Victoria’s office easily enough. The door was open and Victoria was seated behind her desk. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her shoulder and her ear and was scrolling through something on her computer.

  Her words and tone were sharp—it was clear she was arguing with someone.

  Monica glanced around Victoria’s office. There was a generic framed poster on one wall with an inspirational saying on it, a quote about success that Monica had seen on posters, coffee mugs and T-shirts often enough.

  A framed photograph hung on another wall above what looked like a diploma. Victoria was in the picture holding a gun in one hand and a bullet-ridden paper target with the other. She was smiling broadly. Monica shivered.

  Victoria slammed the receiver down without saying goodbye. “Yes?” She looked up at Monica, who was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Victoria Cortez?”

  “Yes. Do you have an appointment?” She brought up a calendar on her computer screen and glanced at it.

  “No. But I promise not to take too much of your time.”

  Victoria leaned back in her chair. She was wearing a black skirt suit with a cream-colored silk blouse cut low enough to show a bit of lace camisole at the opening.

  Monica cleared her throat. “I understand you knew Bruce Laszlo. He was a member of this club.”

  “Yes, he was. Along with several hundred other people.”

  “So you knew him?”

  “Yes. But I know lots of other people, too.”

  “This photograph makes it look like you knew him quite well.” Monica removed the picture from her purse and handed it to Victoria.

  Victoria glanced at it and tossed
it on her desk.

  “We went out for a bit. There’s no rule against staff dating the club members.”

  “According to Laszlo, you were very upset when he broke it off with you.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  Victoria pushed her chair back so suddenly that it shot across the room and hit the wall behind her. She stood up, placed her balled-up fists on her desk and leaned over it toward Monica.

  “Who do you think you are asking all these questions? I know Laszlo was murdered, and you make it sound as if you think I killed him.” She was quiet suddenly. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You do, don’t you? You think I killed Laszlo. Well, let me tell you something.” She jabbed a finger in the air in Monica’s direction. “Laszlo was stabbed. I wouldn’t have had any need to stab him.”

  She gave a smile that chilled Monica to the bone.

  “I have a gun and I know how to use it.”

  • • •

  Monica was glad to escape the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, and she didn’t care if she never darkened its door again.

  The storm clouds had passed and the dying rays of the sun sparkled off the waters of Lake Michigan as Monica drove down Beach Hollow Road and up the hill that led to Sassamanash Farm.

  She was looking forward to cooking the steak she’d bought the day before for their dinner. Maybe she’d use her grill, which she had set up outside on the small brick patio that Jeff had laid for her. She’d pour herself and Greg a glass of wine, and he could keep her company while she cooked.

  Monica pulled into her driveway with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day, full of surprises, and she was looking forward to a quiet evening.

  She spun around when she heard the sound of tires crunching over the gravel drive. She recognized Gina’s Mercedes right away and groaned audibly. If there was anyone she wasn’t up for right now it was Gina, but she put a smile on her face and welcomed her stepmother.