by Peg Cochran
“I never said that.” Andrea bristled. She folded her arms across her chest.
“Maybe not in so many words. You said there wasn’t as much in the bank accounts as you’d expected.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I thought Bruce would do something illegal. Look.” Andrea leaned forward, her forearms resting on her legs, her hands open and outstretched. “I know Bruce was . . . a little rough around the edges. A bit too loud sometimes. But that doesn’t make him a criminal.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. All I know is what this fellow told me.”
“He must have been lying.”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway, what does this have to do with Bruce’s death?” Andrea began jiggling her foot.
“I don’t know,” Monica admitted. “Perhaps he crossed the wrong people?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you hear him mention any names you didn’t recognize? Or have phone calls with people you didn’t know?”
“I didn’t know most of his clients. Besides, he took those calls on his cell phone.” Andrea gave a half smile. “I never picked up the house phone and heard a strange voice uttering things in code, if that’s what you mean.”
Monica sensed Andrea’s mood turning. She was becoming defensive. Was it because she knew something or because she was angry that her husband had duped her?
“I’m sorry,” Monica said, putting down her glass and standing up. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Andrea walked with Monica toward the door. They stood in the foyer for a moment, Monica’s hands hanging by her sides. She tried to find the words to bridge the gulf that had opened between her and Andrea, but they didn’t come.
Andrea suddenly put her hand on Monica’s arm.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re only doing what I asked—trying to find Bruce’s murderer.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “About the cigarette smuggling. More than once I walked into Bruce’s study when he was on the phone with someone and he became . . . I don’t know . . . secretive. Once he got furious that I’d disturbed him. I assumed I was interrupting a confidential conversation with a client, but he’d never acted like that before. Maybe it was something else.” Andrea turned away from Monica and reached out to straighten a large conch shell displayed on the small table in the foyer.
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “One time I heard him talking to someone about a shipment.”
“Did you hear anything more than that?”
Andrea shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.” She hung her head. “I did wonder why Bruce often went out so early. He said he was jogging, but . . .” She paused and clenched her fists. “He never looked like he’d been running when he came back.” She waved her hands in the air. “He wasn’t sweating and his running shoes never seemed to get very dirty.”
“So he could have been out receiving smuggled cigarettes from . . . someone.”
“I guess.” Andrea grabbed Monica’s arm. “Listen. I’m sorry I got sort of . . . rude. It’s all so unnerving.” She buried her face in her hands.
Monica waited while Andrea got control of herself.
“I hope you won’t give up on me.” Andrea smiled. “I’m still technically under arrest even if they have let me out on bail.”
Monica squeezed Andrea’s hand. “I won’t abandon you. Please don’t worry. I want to solve this as much as you do.”
Andrea smiled. “Thank you.” She gave Monica’s hand an answering squeeze.
• • •
It was well past lunchtime by the time Monica got home, and she was starved. Mittens greeted her briefly then lifted her tail and stalked over to her food dish. Monica glanced at it and noticed it was half empty.
“Fine, I’ll fill it up for you,” she said to Mittens as she got the bag of cat food out of the pantry.
Mittens swished back and forth in front of Monica, meowing loudly as Monica tried to pour the food into her dish. When Monica was finished, Mittens looked at her bowl then turned on her heel and walked away. She settled into a pool of sun coming in the window and proceeded to groom herself.
It looked as if Greg had been home for lunch. The day’s newspaper was on the table, folded open to the classifieds. Greg was always on the alert for estate sales that might yield a collection of first editions in good condition. Monica felt a pang of disappointment at having missed him.
She retrieved the fixings for a turkey sandwich from the refrigerator and made herself something to eat. She put her plate and glass of water on the table and opened up the newspaper. A mixture of headlines were scattered across the front page, but the biggest headline—Police Seeking Information in Murder Case—was about the investigation into Bruce Laszlo’s murder.
Monica took a bite of her sandwich, folded the paper open to the lead story and began to read. The reporter had interviewed Detective Stevens. We have reason to believe that the murder actually took place near the marina of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club on Sunday morning.
It seemed as if the police had come to the conclusion that the murder had taken place where Laszlo’s boat had been docked. His body had then been loaded into the bowrider and set adrift.
When asked what evidence the police had found at the marina, Stevens declined to comment.
Monica finished her sandwich and put her dish in the dishwasher. She couldn’t stop thinking about the article in the newspaper. What if someone had seen something the day Laszlo was murdered but didn’t realize it was important? Perhaps there had been an argument between Laszlo and the killer. Someone might have heard it but dismissed it, never imagining a murder was about to take place.
The idea nagged at her as she headed to the farm kitchen. She continued to think about it as she rolled out dough, pulled baked goods from the oven, delivered the finished products to the farm store and cleaned up the kitchen.
Finally she made a decision. She pulled off her rubber gloves and stowed them under the sink. She was going to the Cranberry Cove marina to see if there was anyone around who might have seen or heard something the morning Laszlo was killed.
Monica realized, even as she drove down the hill toward town, that her mission might be futile. The police might have already spoken to everyone at the marina. She hadn’t gotten any indication from Detective Stevens as to how far along the investigation was. But the threat of going to trial for her husband’s murder still hung over Andrea’s head, and Monica couldn’t bear to think of the anxiety she must be feeling.
It was chilly close to the lake and Monica retrieved her sweatshirt from the backseat of her car. She pulled it on, locked the doors and headed toward the docks, where a handful of boats bobbed with the gentle rise and fall of the water.
Most of the marina’s patrons were out on the water enjoying the last few weeks of good weather before their crafts would be hauled out of the water and put in dry dock for painting and other maintenance during the long Michigan winter.
Monica walked along the dock feeling it shift slightly under her feet. The lapping of the water was a soothing sound, broken only by the cries of the three seagulls flying in a circle overhead and occasionally swooping down low over the water in search of food. Her hair was blown across her face by the breeze coming in off the lake, and she brushed it back with her hand. She was glad she’d taken the time to put on her sweatshirt.
There was no one about that she could see except for a young man on his hands and knees scrubbing a portion of the dock. He looked up when Monica approached.
He had red hair and freckles and a bit of soft ginger fuzz on his chin and was wearing a cap with Cranberry Cove Yacht Club written on it in blue script. There was a gap between his two front teeth that Monica thought made him look more like a child than a young man. She guessed him to be college-aged.
“Hi,” Monica said.
“Hey,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. Soapy water dripped from the brush in his hand and ran down his arm.
“Do y
ou work here regularly?” Monica said.
He blinked at her rapidly. His eyelashes were so blond they were almost transparent.
“I work here during the summer. I go to school the rest of the year.”
“Were you here last Sunday? Sunday morning?” Monica said, crossing her fingers.
“Sunday? Yeah.” He pushed his hat back off his forehead.
“I’m wondering if you heard or saw anything unusual. Two people arguing perhaps?”
He shook his head, looking confused. “Nothing like that, no.”
“Thanks.”
Monica saw him shake his head as she walked away but she was grateful he hadn’t shown any curiosity as to why she was asking about the morning Laszlo was murdered.
She didn’t see anyone else but walked a little farther along hoping to encounter someone who might have been doing something in the cabin of their boat. She noticed there was a fueling station at the end of the dock. She walked toward it hoping that the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club had been thoughtful enough to provide its patrons with a full-service station. She couldn’t imagine the esteemed members of the club getting out of their boats to pump gas themselves.
As Monica got closer, the scent of gasoline drifted toward her on the air and she noticed an oily slick in the water that ebbed and flowed with the motion of the lake.
At first she didn’t see anyone near the pumps, but then she heard whistling coming from the small wooden shed just beyond.
“Hello?” she called out as she approached the shed.
A head of frizzy gray hair popped through the open door.
“Can I help you, miss?”
A man emerged from the shed. He had a gray beard to match his hair and was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a blue work shirt.
“Do you work here?” Monica gestured to the pumps.
“Yes. At least I do part-time. I’m retired actually, but social security isn’t enough to keep body and soul together so I work here during the summers.” He stroked his beard with a hand that looked as if it was used to manual labor. “I enjoy being outside and being able to chat with people as they come by. The missus passed away a couple of years ago and it’s lonely all on my own.”
He rubbed his hands together. “What can I do for you? I’m assuming you’re not after some gas.”
“You’re right. I was wondering if you were here last Sunday. In the morning.”
“I certainly was. Tuesday through Sunday, those are my days. Not so many people around on Mondays so the dockhand takes care of the fueling.” He thumped the gas pump affectionately.
“Did you hear anything unusual that morning? It would have been quite early.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “Unusual like what?”
“Maybe two people arguing?”
He smoothed his beard with two fingers and pursed his lips.
“Now that you mention it, I did hear some raised voices. They sounded pretty heated, if I recall correctly.”
“Do you remember which direction they were coming from?”
He turned around in a full circle before finally pointing to a spot midway down the dock adjacent to the one they were on. “It was right about there.”
Monica had gotten the location of the slip where Laszlo docked his boat from Andrea, and the fellow was pointing roughly in that direction. So it was entirely possible he’d overheard Laszlo arguing with his killer.
“Did you see anyone? Get a glimpse of either of them at all?” Monica tried to keep the excitement out of her voice.
“The men arguing, you mean?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. They must have been inside the boat’s cabin.”
“You heard two men arguing?”
“Yup.”
“Did you hear a woman’s voice at all?”
“Nope. Just the two men.”
Monica was disappointed. Either the two men arguing had nothing to do with Laszlo’s murder or Mattie wasn’t the one who had killed him after all.
Chapter 16
While she was in town, Monica decided to stop at Bart’s Butcher Shop and pick up something for dinner.
Monica suspected that Bart’s hadn’t changed since Bart’s father first hung the wooden sign with Bart’s Butcher Shop and an outline of a pig carved into it over the front door.
Bart was busy preparing a crown roast of pork, complete with paper frills, when Monica walked in.
“Well, if it isn’t the lady from Sassamanash Farm,” he said when he saw Monica. “How are things over there? Your brother finish the harvest yet?”
“Almost. I think there’s one more bog to go.”
Bart leaned his hands on the wooden counter. “I heard he’s getting hitched next spring. Having the wedding at the farm, is he?”
“Yes. With a big tent out by the bogs, which will be in bloom then,” Monica said as she eyed the meat in the case.
“That girl has made a big difference in him. When he first came back from Afghanistan we were all worried about him. You know, there’s all that talk about soldiers and what they’re calling post-traumatic stress syndrome. I don’t suppose it’s anything new—I’m sure my father and grandfather probably had it when they came home from the wars over in Europe. Like I said, we were worried about your brother, but that girl pulled him out of it.”
“We’re all happy he met Lauren.”
“So how’s married life treating you?”
“Fine.” Monica couldn’t control the smile that broke out on her face. “And speaking of marriage, I thought I’d make Greg a nice meat loaf for dinner tonight,” Monica said, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation around to something else.
“Then you’ll be after some ground beef and a bit of ground pork to round it out and add some fat to keep it moist. Not that pork is nearly as fatty anymore as it used to be.”
Bart pulled a tray from the case and scooped some meat onto a piece of butcher paper and placed it on the scale.
“Is this only for the two of you or do you want some leftovers?”
Monica thought of meat-loaf sandwiches with ketchup and mustard, and her mouth watered.
“Leftovers. Definitely.”
“Any news about that murder over by the yacht club?” Bart peered at Monica over the half-glasses perched on his nose. “I know you keep up with that sort of thing.”
She was gaining a reputation, Monica realized. She wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.
“Nothing that I know of. I haven’t been involved with it at all.”
“But you and your hubby found the body, didn’t you?”
Monica reluctantly agreed.
Bart placed the ground meat on the counter and began to wrap it in the butcher paper. He pulled a piece of string from a roll next to the counter and tied it up.
“Here you go.” He handed the package to Monica.
He was quiet as he rang up her order, and Monica was relieved when she was able to escape without any further questions.
• • •
Monica knew how to grill a steak or some chops and throw together a pot of soup but hadn’t explored much beyond that since she was only cooking for herself. She figured meat loaf ought to be something she could handle, along with mashed potatoes and applesauce.
She’d stopped at a farm stand on her way back to the cottage for a bag of Cortlands to make the applesauce from scratch. She’d pondered something for dessert but both she and Greg were watching their waistlines.
She was up to her wrists kneading ground beef, eggs, breadcrumbs and chopped onions in a bowl when she heard a car crunching over the gravel driveway. Was Greg home already?
When there was a pounding on the back door and she realized it couldn’t be Greg, she wiped her hands quickly and pulled the door open.
“That’s it. I’m done,” Gina said as she stalked into the kitchen.
She was wearing skinny jeans and a cropped mohair sweater with a pair of sky-high heels.
“Done with what?” Monica s
aid as Gina pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down.
“I’m done with men,” Gina said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Any man in particular?” Monica said. She raised an eyebrow.
“All of them.”
Gina swept her arm in an arc, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers. She glared at them and then stood them upright again.
“Does this have anything to do with Xavier?”
Gina exhaled loudly through her nose. “This has everything to do with Xavier.”
“I thought you were through with him?” Monica shaped the meat in her bowl into a loaf and put it in a pan. “After all, he cheated on you with that woman from the yacht club.”
“I decided to forgive him,” Gina said. “Again. Everyone makes mistakes, right?” She looked at Monica, her eyes wide. “Besides, I’m not getting any younger.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life, and I’m afraid that’s what’s going to happen.”
“But surely you don’t want someone who cheats on you and lies about it?” Once again Monica thought how lucky she was to have found Greg.
“No, but . . . what if no one else comes along? You may not realize this, Monica, but as I said, I’m not getting any younger.” Gina touched her brow, which she kept smooth with injections of Botox and various fillers.
Monica stifled a laugh. Gina was bound and determined to stop the clock, and she didn’t care how much it cost.
“Although the young man at the checkout counter at Fresh Gourmet did ask for my ID the other day when I was buying a bottle of vodka.”
“They ask everyone for their ID. It’s company policy.”
Gina pouted. “You did have to go and spoil it for me, didn’t you.”
By now, Monica had started peeling the apples for the applesauce, when the back door opened.
“Oh, hello, Gina,” Greg said as he stepped inside.
He went over to Monica and kissed her on the cheek. He looked at Gina. “Are you staying for dinner?”
“Yes, please stay for dinner. There’s plenty,” Monica said, hoping there would still be leftovers for sandwiches the next day.
