Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

  The girl smiled. “Do you happen to have the license plate number?”

  Monica read off the number she’d jotted down in her notebook.

  “I will take care of it,” the girl said with an air of dismissal.

  “What now?” Greg whispered as they turned away from the reception desk.

  “We go back outside and wait.”

  “I wonder how long it’s going to be before she makes the announcement?” Greg said. “I’m starved.”

  “It shouldn’t be too long,” Monica whispered back. “At least I hope not.”

  They were on the threshold of the inn when they heard a voice come over the loudspeaker making the announcement.

  “Come on,” Monica said, grabbing Greg’s arm. “Let’s hurry and find a spot where we won’t be seen.”

  In the end they decided their best bet was to get back in their own car and wait. They could casually get out of the car when they saw the owner of the Escalade coming.

  Five minutes went by before the door to the inn opened, sending a shaft of light onto the flagstone path. The figure walking out cast a long shadow on the walkway. Monica couldn’t tell what he looked like yet. He passed under a lamp that illuminated his blond hair but did little to light up his face.

  “Let’s go,” Monica said as the man neared the Escalade.

  “That car could belong to anybody,” Greg grumbled as he opened his door. “If we don’t recognize the person what will we do?”

  But Monica was already out of the car and walking toward the Escalade. There was something familiar about the man’s broad shoulders and about the way he walked with an obvious sense of purpose. She felt sure she knew him from somewhere.

  “Pretend we’re simply walking toward the inn,” Monica whispered to Greg when he caught up with her.

  “We are walking toward the inn,” he said in a teasing tone.

  Monica gave him a quelling look and turned her attention back to the man standing by the Escalade looking slightly confused.

  “Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” Greg said. “He realizes his lights aren’t on.”

  “That’s okay,” Monica said as they got nearer. She drew in her breath.

  “What’s wrong.”

  “I know who that is,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Alton Bates.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the man who accused Bruce Laszlo of cheating in that Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago race. He said it could be the only explanation for a novice sailor like Laszlo winning.”

  “Is that the race that trophy was given for?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s this Bates doing with it then? If Laszlo won, it belongs to him.”

  Monica stopped dead in her tracks. “He had to have stolen it.”

  “It would certainly seem so.”

  She turned to Greg. “The trophy was stolen from the Laszlos’ house while Laszlo was being murdered somewhere out at sea. Which means Alton Bates can’t be the murderer.”

  • • •

  “You’re disappointed,” Greg said later that evening as he was helping Monica off with her jacket. He took a hanger from the coat closet by the front door and hung it up, pushing aside some of the other coats to make room.

  “I really thought Bates was the killer,” Monica said, easing off her shoes. “It would have made it so easy. Now I’m running out of suspects, but I still refuse to believe Andrea had anything to do with her husband’s death.” She held her hands out palms up. “Maybe it was completely random?”

  “It is hard to picture Andrea wielding that knife. Especially since the killing seems to have taken place on a boat out on the water.” He looked at Monica and raised his eyebrows. “Or have the police uncovered something else?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  They started up the stairs and were halfway up when Monica stopped.

  “If that knife that Lauren and I found in the bog is the murder weapon, how did it end up way out here? Does the killer have some connection to Sassamanash Farm?”

  “I can’t imagine they do. It would have to be one of Jeff’s crew, and I can’t imagine what connection any of them could have to that Laszlo fellow.”

  “That’s true.”

  Monica continued up the steps and into the bedroom, where she pulled the curtains closed and turned down the bed. She couldn’t shake her feeling of discouragement. If she hadn’t promised Andrea she’d do her best to investigate Laszlo’s murder, she’d happily forget the whole thing.

  • • •

  On Saturday mornings Monica used to allow herself the luxury of sleeping in. Sometimes she would make herself a cup of tea and take it back to bed with her along with the morning newspaper. Unfortunately, Greg still had to be up early to get to Book ’Em in time to open the store. He did have some part-time staff, but Saturday was usually a busy day and he liked to be there himself to oversee things, especially if a knowledgeable collector came in.

  Monica had rather reluctantly given up her Saturday routine in favor of getting up with Greg. While he showered, she made breakfast—something substantial that would last him into the afternoon if he didn’t have time for lunch, like bacon and eggs or pancakes and sausage.

  The farm store did its share of Saturday business, too, so Monica often baked extra product on Fridays to tide them over, and she wanted to go today to make another batch of her breakfast bars. As soon as she cleared up the breakfast dishes she’d head to the farm kitchen to begin work on extra muffins, scones and cookies too.

  Kit had the day off, although Monica was thinking about asking him if he could work Saturdays in exchange for having Mondays off.

  The kitchen seemed empty without his presence. Monica missed his amusing banter and the tunes he would whistle while he rolled out dough or creamed butter and sugar.

  Monica was drizzling a sugar glaze on a batch of scones when the telephone rang. She was surprised—the telephone rarely rang at the kitchen. She hoped nothing was wrong with Greg, although he would be more likely to ring her cell phone.

  She wiped her hands on a paper towel and grabbed the receiver. It was the Cranberry Cove Inn. They’d run short of her cranberry salsa, would it be possible for her to deliver some more for that evening’s dinner? The chef had put duck breast rubbed with coriander on the menu and thought the cranberry salsa would go perfectly with it.

  Monica was thrilled to get the order—every sale helped to keep the farm afloat—but she knew she had to get to work to make sure she’d be able to deliver on time. She began mincing the jalapeños, onion, and cilantro, then got to boiling the berries with sugar.

  By noon she had her containers filled and ready to go. She packed them in cardboard boxes and began carrying them out to her car. She was heading back inside for another load when she noticed Jeff in the distance. He was walking back from the bogs, his waders slung over his shoulder. She waved and he waved back.

  When Monica came out of the kitchen with the last box of containers of salsa, Jeff was standing by her car.

  “Are you stopping for some lunch?” Monica said.

  Jeff scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. We’re almost done with the harvest fortunately.”

  “I’m glad. You look tired.”

  “I am tired. The frost alarms went off at three o’clock in the morning and I had to scramble to flood the remaining bogs. Luckily we’d already harvested most of them. I managed to trip over a tree root in the dark and fell flat on my face.”

  “Oh, no. Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Only my pride. Good thing no one was around to see me.”

  “I hope you’ll take some time off when the harvest is done and get some rest.”

  Jeff grinned. “Lauren’s got me booked for any number of things as soon as I’m free—cake tasting, menu planning, an engagement photography shoot and I don’t know what else. I think it would be more restful to be working. I su
ggested we elope, but that idea didn’t go over very well.”

  Monica laughed. “I should imagine not. Lauren is very excited about this wedding.”

  “I just want her to be my wife no matter how we do it.”

  Monica pulled her keys out of her pocket. “I’ve got to get this salsa over to the inn.”

  Jeff looked down and toed the ground. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing for the farm. I wouldn’t have been able to make a success of it without you.”

  “It’s been good for me, too,” Monica said. “I wouldn’t have met Greg if I hadn’t come to Cranberry Cove to help you.”

  Jeff smiled. “That’s true. Greg’s a great guy. I really like him.”

  “So do I. I think I’ll keep him,” Monica said, reaching for the car door handle. “And I’d better get going.”

  She was about to get into the car when she had a thought.

  “A question for you,” she said. “Is Sassamanash Farm selling fresh cranberries to the Cranberry Cove Inn?”

  Jeff frowned. “No. Why?”

  “I saw one of the waiters from the inn here the other day. He was talking to a member of your crew.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Maybe they’re friends?”

  “Probably. I was just surprised to see him here. I thought maybe you’d started doing business with the inn other than for the salsa.”

  Chapter 15

  Lunch was in full swing at the Cranberry Cove Inn when Monica pulled into their parking lot. A fresh crop of tourists must have arrived for the weekend, she thought. The leaves were beginning to change but the temperatures hadn’t yet plunged to uncomfortable levels. The parking lot was crowded, and she was glad she didn’t have to hunt for a space. Instead she headed around back to the service door.

  She found a spot as close to the entrance as she could get, although she would still have to make several trips. She opened the trunk and retrieved the first carton of salsa. She pushed open the door to the service entrance with her hip and shoulder and carried the box down the corridor to the kitchen.

  There was an odd atmosphere in the kitchen. Monica felt it as soon as she walked in. The sous-chef and several line cooks were hard at work, their heads lowered over their cutting boards or the pots on the stove, which wasn’t unusual. But it was quieter than normal—none of the banging of pans or shouting of orders that she would have expected in a kitchen going full steam ahead preparing a meal. The staff looked as if they were trying their best to disappear, or at least to escape notice.

  Suddenly a roar came from a small office off the kitchen . . . followed by a string of words in a language that sounded like German to Monica. But no matter the language, it was fairly obvious they were swear words.

  “Thar she blows,” said one of the line cooks with a smirk.

  “Again,” replied another.

  “What’s going on?” Monica said, shifting her cardboard box to one hip.

  One of the line cooks hurried toward Monica and took the box from her.

  “It’s the chef,” he said over his shoulder as he carried the salsa to the refrigerator. “He’s in a tizzy.”

  “A tizzy? He’s furious,” one of the other line cooks said.

  Monica heard banging coming from the office, as if someone was slamming drawers or throwing things on the floor.

  “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  “He thinks one of us did it,” the line cook said as he closed the door to the refrigerator.

  “Or one of the waiters,” someone else said. “He always has it in for the poor waiters.”

  “What are you trying to pin on us now?” The swinging door from the restaurant to the kitchen had opened and Eddie walked in. “It’s always our fault, isn’t it?” he said with a laugh as he picked up a tray of food.

  “It has to be,” the line cook shot back. “We all know better than to even touch them.”

  By now Monica was thoroughly confused. What shouldn’t the staff touch?

  Finally, one of the line cooks, laughing at the confused look on her face, took pity on her. “Someone took one of the chef’s knives,” he said. “He’s furious.”

  “Took it?” Monica said, feeling a frisson of excitement shoot down her spine. “Or stole it?”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?” the line cook said. “Chefs bring their own knives to the job. They don’t like using someone else’s. And they don’t like anyone using theirs. They don’t even like it if someone touches them.” He put both hands down on the counter, his fingers splayed. “I remember when I got my first job in a kitchen, it was down in Battle Creek. It was a small place, nothing special. I borrowed the chef’s knife to cut my sandwich in half at lunch. The chef went ballistic. I was out on my ass within the hour.”

  “So someone helped themselves to one of the chef’s knives. Did that just happen? Is that why he’s so upset?”

  The line cook scratched his head. “No one knows. Chef Zimmermann only discovered it was missing today. It’s what they call a boning knife. We had boned duck breast on the menu for tonight and when Chef Z went to get his knife, it was gone.”

  “Does everyone who works at the inn have access to the kitchen?” Monica said.

  The line cook scratched his head again. “The people who work in the restaurant, sure. I wouldn’t say anyone’s forbidden to come into the kitchen—although Chef Z wouldn’t like it, it’s not against the rules or anything like that. It’s more of an unwritten rule, if you know what I mean.”

  “So anyone would have access to the chef’s knives?”

  “I guess so. I mean, unless you worked in the restaurant or kitchen you really wouldn’t have any reason to be in here.”

  Monica carried the rest of her cartons of salsa into the inn’s kitchen almost without realizing what she was doing. Bruce Laszlo had been stabbed. Someone had stolen Chef Zimmermann’s boning knife. And she and Lauren had found a boning knife hidden in the grass alongside one of the bogs at Sassamanash Farm.

  Was it that much of a stretch to think there was a connection between them?

  • • •

  Mattie Crawford had access to the Cranberry Cove Inn’s kitchen, Monica thought as she drove back to the farm. It wouldn’t have been all that hard for her to sneak in and steal Chef Zimmermann’s knife. She worked at the inn—it wouldn’t have seemed that unusual for her to walk into the kitchen.

  Or perhaps she had waited till after hours when the restaurant, and the kitchen, were closed. She had access to the building, and again, no one would have thought twice about seeing her there.

  Unfortunately, there was no way she could prove it, Monica realized. And until Stevens got the lab analysis of the knife back, there was no confirmation that it was even the knife that had been used to kill Laszlo.

  Monica was nearly halfway home when she remembered she wanted to talk to Andrea about Laszlo’s supposed cigarette smuggling. Instead of continuing along the road to the farm, she turned off onto a dirt road that eventually led to the neighborhood where the Laszlos lived. The road wound up a modest hill that elevated the houses enough to offer them a view of the water.

  Perhaps she should have called first, she thought as she pulled into Andrea’s driveway. There was no guarantee Andrea would even be home.

  But Andrea answered the bell a few moments after Monica rang it. She was wearing black Lycra workout shorts, a purple tank top, and had a white towel around her neck. She was breathing heavily and was covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No. I’ve finished.” Andrea swiped at her face with the towel. “Forty-five minutes on the treadmill. I’m bushed.”

  She stood aside and waved Monica into the foyer.

  “We can sit on the three-season porch. The handyman was just here to take out the screens and put in the glass. Bruce used to do it himself, but I’m afraid I can’t manage it all by myself. It’s quite lovely out there at the moment. The trees
keep it shaded from the sun.”

  She led the way to a large glassed-in porch.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Andrea asked as Monica took a seat.

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No bother. I have a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. Will that do?”

  “Yes. That would be lovely.”

  While she waited, Monica looked around. The porch was furnished with a wrought iron dining table and chairs, along with several wicker chairs and matching ottomans upholstered in coral and white stripes. Towering houseplants in ceramic pots stood in the corners of the room.

  Andrea returned with a tray with two glasses of iced tea and a plate of cookies, which she set on a small glass coffee table. She took a seat in the chair opposite Monica.

  Monica took a sip of her iced tea and cleared her throat.

  “I heard something rather . . . odd,” Monica began. “I’m afraid it might be distressing, but I wanted to know if it was true. One of the members of my half brother’s crew at Sassamanash Farm told me that he was buying bootleg cigarettes from your husband.”

  Monica studied Andrea carefully. Various emotions chased each other across her face—shock, anger, dismay.

  “What do you mean, bootleg cigarettes?”

  “Apparently because of the varying states’ tax laws, cigarettes are cheaper in Indiana than they are here in Michigan.”

  “So people . . . smuggle them?” Andrea looked incredulous.

  Monica nodded. “Yes.” She set her glass down on the coffee table. “Did you know anything about this? Did Bruce talk to you about it?”

  Andrea placed a hand against her chest, her fingers splayed. “Did I know about it? No, absolutely not. Bruce never said a word. Why on earth would he get involved in smuggling cigarettes?” She waved a hand as if to encompass the house. “There was no need. He had his investment business. He had no need to do something so . . . tawdry.”

  “You told me that the investment business wasn’t going that well.”