Berried in the Past

by Peg Cochran

  “I do remember being terribly frightened and running down the stairs and out to my car.” She frowned. “That must have been why I was driving so fast and why I had the accident.” Her forehead puckered. “The police thought I banged my head on the steering wheel but maybe that person, whoever it was, had hit me over the head?”

  Dana downed the rest of her old-fashioned. Monica had barely touched her wine.

  “I so wish I could go home.” Dana’s voice became plaintive. She fussed at the silk scarf around her neck. “But the police want me to stay.” She gave a bitter laugh. “They haven’t ordered me to stay, but they made it plain nonetheless.” She pushed her empty glass to the side and leaned her elbows on the table. “I’m only an hour away in East Lansing but that didn’t hold any sway with them.”

  The waiter appeared with their lunches and placed the plates in front of them with a flourish before bowing and disappearing.

  “I wonder if I should move to the Inn here,” Dana said, picking up her knife and fork. “I can’t stand that house another minute. And if someone is out to get me, they’d have a harder time finding me here.”

  Monica reached for the salt. “Do you really think someone is after you? If you knew who the killer was, certainly you would have told the police by now. And surely the killer must realize that.”

  “I don’t know.” Dana sectioned off a piece of her fish. Her movements made it look as if she was dissecting it. “You have to be sure they haven’t left any bones in,” she explained. “Chefs can be so careless. I got one caught in my throat once when I was young and it frightened me. It was years before I was willing to eat fish again.

  “That house is so cold and drafty and dreary, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference how high I set the thermostat, I can never get warm. And every noise, no matter how innocent, makes me jump. I’m beginning to think it really would be more bearable if I moved here to the Inn.” She laughed. “There’s a view of the lake, but frankly, looking out at that cold gray water simply gives me the chills.”

  • • •

  Monica decided to stop by Book ’Em after finishing her lunch with Dana. Several people were browsing the shelves, which were filled willy-nilly with used books, loosely divided into sections like Romance, Mystery and Fantasy. The Nonfiction section was a gigantic hodgepodge where you might find a book on ornithology sitting between a cookbook and a book on the history of medieval England. Greg always claimed he was going to straighten everything out as soon as he had time, but so far that hadn’t happened.

  An older woman was sitting in one of the sagging slipcovered armchairs with a stack of books on the table beside her. She was leafing through a volume and humming softly to herself.

  Another patron, a young man with a beard, was sitting on the floor in the Mystery section, his back against one of the bookshelves.

  Greg came out of his office and smiled when he saw Monica.

  “I was about to make some coffee. Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks,” Monica said, unwinding her scarf. “I’ve already had a cup. I had lunch with Dana Bakker. She’s moving to the Cranberry Cove Inn.”

  Monica followed Greg into his office, which was barely bigger than a closet. Piles of papers littered his desk and books were stacked next to it on the floor.

  Greg sank into his office chair and Monica took the chair opposite. The space was so tight that their knees were almost touching.

  “Dana told me that she’s recovered some of her memory.” Monica relayed her conversation with Dana to Greg. “Now that she’s remembered a bit more of what happened, she’s more frightened than ever.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Greg said, pushing some books out of the way with his foot. “Hopefully the police will soon discover what really happened.”

  “I can’t help but wonder if Dana isn’t spinning us a grand tale—amnesia, remembering only bits and pieces of what happened, a car accident because someone was trying to kill her.”

  “It does seem a bit far-fetched.” Greg rocked back and forth in his chair. “Although she certainly seemed believable. And I rather like her. But at the same time, there is a lot of money at stake. If the brother needs money, maybe Dana does, too?”

  “Hmmm,” Monica said. “According to Dana, she barely knew her older sister. She was still quite young when Marta was already in her teens. Maybe there’s more to Marta than we’ve been told?”

  Greg cocked his head. “It’s possible.”

  “You know that photograph you found in that book, where it turned out two of the girls pictured were Marta and her friend Joyce?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder who the third girl was. Maybe she can tell us something more about Marta. I’m not convinced that Dana is telling us everything she knows.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. It’s a gut feeling. I think there’s something she’s leaving out.”

  Greg looked doubtful. “You’re not usually one to have gut feelings,” he said with a smile. “You usually rely on facts.”

  “I know. But I’m after facts—isn’t that sort of the same thing?”

  Greg didn’t look convinced.

  “Where did you get that book?” Monica said. “If the owner of the book kept that photograph, maybe they know something that might be helpful. They must have known Marta after all.”

  “I don’t know. It was an estate sale, although I believe they were putting the house up for sale because the owner was moving to a nursing home. I suppose you could give it a try.”

  Monica pulled a pad and pen from her purse. “What was the address?”

  She wrote down the directions Greg gave her, closed her notebook and slipped it back into her purse.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” she said as she stood up.

  Chapter 13

  Monica found the house easily enough. It was one of the older homes in Cranberry Cove, a moderate-sized Dutch colonial about a mile from Sassamanash Farm.

  A large sign on the front lawn read Estate Sale 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., and underneath, in smaller letters, Cranberry Cove Estate Sale Management.

  The front door opened as Monica was walking up the flagstone path and a woman emerged clutching an old-fashioned music box. She smiled at Monica as she passed.

  Monica stepped inside. A set of polished wood stairs led from the foyer to the second floor. The living room was off to the right and it was obvious that several pieces had already been sold and removed. Indentations were visible in the carpet where chairs must have once stood and most of the tables and end tables were bare of knickknacks.

  A woman bustled over to Monica immediately. She had a clipboard under her arm and was wearing a royal blue pantsuit with a flowered silk blouse. Her blue eye shadow, which had been liberally applied, matched her outfit.

  “May I help you?” she said, cocking her head to one side. “Is there anything in particular you would like to see? There are some fine Baker pieces, or are you more interested in china and crystal? I’m afraid an awful lot has been sold already.”

  “Actually, I wanted to speak to the owner of the house. Or one of their relatives perhaps?”

  The woman’s glance darted around the room and her mouth puckered as if she had tasted something sour.

  “The daughter is in the kitchen. But I don’t know . . .” She looked around as if hoping to pluck an answer out of the air.

  Monica put a reassuring hand on the woman’s arm. “I won’t disturb her. I promise. I just have a quick question for her.”

  “I suppose it’s all right.” The woman patted her lacquered hair nervously. “It’s straight down the hall.” She pointed toward the foyer.

  Monica found the kitchen easily enough. Several cupboard doors were open and boxes were lined up on the counter. A woman was bending over reaching into one of the lower cabinets.

  She straightened when she heard Monica’s footsteps. She gave a tired smile.

  “I’m afraid no
thing in here is for sale,” she said.

  She was short and slight and was wearing a pair of pants that looked too big on her, as if she had recently lost weight. Her light brown hair was liberally mixed with gray and was held back from her face with a tortoiseshell barrette.

  “I wasn’t looking to buy anything,” Monica said.

  The woman gave her a quizzical look.

  “My husband—he owns the bookstore in town—bought some books here—”

  “If he wants to return them, he’ll have to talk to Louise. She’s with the estate sales company. I don’t have anything to do with it. I hired them to deal with it. It’s been enough work getting my mother settled into the nursing home without taking this on as well.”

  “He doesn’t want to return any of the books,” Monica reassured her. “He found an old photograph tucked into one of the books and thought the owner might want it. They might have forgotten it was in there.”

  “I imagine that belonged to my mother.” She placed the pot she was holding in one of the boxes on the counter. “I’m afraid we had to put her in a nursing home. She fell and broke her hip and it’s obvious she can’t manage on her own anymore. We tried to get her to move sooner, but she wouldn’t hear of it.” She gave a weary smile.

  “Do you think she’d mind if I visited her and gave her the photograph?”

  “Of course not.” The woman smiled. “I imagine she would enjoy the company. We try to get there as often as we can but . . .” She shrugged. “The nursing home is in Holland. Not terribly far, but you know how it is.” She bent and pulled another pot from the cupboard. “It’s called Windhaven Terrace. My mother’s name is Mildred Visser.”

  Monica glanced at her watch as she left the estate sale. She had just enough time to drive to Holland and talk to Mrs. Visser. She sat in her car and dialed Greg at the bookshop. She’d ask him to pick up something for dinner.

  • • •

  Windhaven Terrace was near the town center of Holland not far from the Hope College campus, where students bundled in winter gear with books tucked under their arms strolled to and from the Dutch revival buildings.

  Monica found the nursing home and pulled into the parking lot. A woman was helping an elderly man into her car and another was pushing a frail-looking woman, huddled in a blanket, in a wheelchair.

  Monica found the entrance, went up to the desk and asked for Mildred Visser. She hesitated when the receptionist asked her name but finally said she was an acquaintance of Mrs. Visser’s daughter.

  That seemed to satisfy the woman and she picked up the telephone on her desk and had a short conversation with someone on the other end.

  “Third floor, number three-oh-seven,” she said, handing Monica a visitor’s badge.

  The lobby was bright and clean, if a bit worn, but there were fresh flowers in a vase on a coffee table where various magazines were scattered. Monica found the elevator and headed up to the third floor.

  The hallway was brightly lit and smelled of lemon air freshener. Monica found Mrs. Visser’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a rather frail voice answered.

  The room was small with space for a hospital bed, a recliner, a small armchair and a desk. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall and was tuned to the local news.

  Mrs. Visser was in a wheelchair, her legs covered by a crocheted throw that looked handmade. Her sparse white hair was neatly combed and she was wearing a white blouse buttoned to the neck.

  She peered at Monica, her head tilted like an inquisitive bird. Her blue eyes were cloudy.

  “Hello, dear. Are you one of the new therapists?”

  “No,” Monica said, bending down so Mrs. Visser could hear her. “I . . . I’m an acquaintance of your daughter.”

  “How lovely of you to come and visit.” She reached out and grabbed Monica’s hand in a surprisingly strong grasp. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Monica pulled the desk chair out and sat down. She fished in her purse for the photograph and held it out to Mildred.

  “What’s this, dear?” She glanced at it. “Would you hand me my glasses, please? They’re on top of the desk.”

  Monica handed them to her and she put them on. She looked at the picture.

  “Why, that’s Marta and Joyce,” she said, smiling at Monica. “I can’t believe how young they were. I lived next door to Joyce and used to babysit her when she was too little to go with her parents to the Wednesday night church service.” She pulled at a loose thread on the afghan. The skin on her hands was thin and blue-veined.

  “Marta and Joyce were like the Bobssey Twins, always together. People even called them that.”

  Mildred looked off into the distance. “As they say, those were the days. Hard to believe it’s all over and this”—she waved her arm to indicate the room—“is my final stop. Heaven’s waiting room, we call it.” She chuckled softly.

  “What was Marta like?” Monica said.

  “Marta? She was on the quiet side—shy, I guess you’d say. Not like her brother and sister, they were always getting in trouble for talking in class.” She giggled. “Marta was a very good student, making the honor roll regularly, and she helped take care of her mother when her mother came down with dementia. Her mother wasn’t very old, poor thing.

  “None of us ever got into real trouble in those days. Not like today with all the drugs and guns and whatnot. It makes me glad my time is almost up. At least there wasn’t any trouble until that one thing happened, that incident, but then Marta and Joyce were older by then.”

  “What was that? What happened?” Monica said, sensing this could be something important.

  “What? What thing, dear?”

  Just then there was a knock on the door and a woman walked in. “Time for your physical therapy, Mildred,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “But we haven’t finished our conversation,” Monica objected.

  The aide wagged her finger at Monica. “We mustn’t be late, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s been lovely visiting with you, dear,” Mildred said to Monica as the aide began to wheel her from the room.

  Monica could have screamed. She had the feeling that Mildred had been about to tell her something that was possibly important. Maybe even very important.

  • • •

  Monica glanced at her bedside clock. It was still fairly early and there was no reason she couldn’t sleep in a little longer, but she decided to get up and surprise Greg with some waffles for breakfast.

  She crept out from under the covers, being careful not to wake her husband, and took her clothes into the bathroom to dress. The tile floor was cold under her bare feet and she quickly pulled on some jeans, a sweater and a pair of thick socks.

  The water, when it came out of the tap, was cold and Monica let it run for a few minutes until it was warm enough to splash on her face. She peered out the window. It was rimed with frost around the edges of the glass like icing on a cake.

  She paused in the hall to bump up the temperature on the thermostat—they always turned it down at night—and then headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

  It was still dark out. She flipped on the switch and blinked in the sudden bright light. Mittens, who had been curled up contentedly at the foot of their bed, made an appearance, yawning and stretching in the doorway before wandering over to her dish.

  “I get the hint,” Monica said, picking up the cat’s dish and carrying it to the counter.

  She filled it with Mittens’s favorite food and put the dish on the floor. Mittens wandered over, sniffed the dish, then, with her tail in the air, wandered off to groom herself in the corner of the room.

  Monica mixed the batter for the waffles, adding a handful of dried cranberries to the mix and stirring it up. She started the coffee and put six strips of bacon in the frying pan.

  The last drops of coffee were dripping from the machine into the carafe when Greg appeared, his face still creased with sleep and his hair ru
mpled.

  “What are those delicious smells?” he said.

  Monica smiled. “Coffee, bacon and cranberry waffles.”

  “You’re too good to me,” Greg said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll get the paper.”

  Monica heard the front door open and Greg grunt as he bent over to pick up the newspaper. He came back into the kitchen with a quizzical look on his face.

  “This was on top of the newspaper,” he said. “It’s addressed to you.” He handed Monica a folded sheet of paper torn from a yellow pad. Her name was written on top. It was the same block lettering that had been on the note she’d been handed yesterday. The sight of it gave her a chill.

  She opened it up. The note inside was short and to the point.

  Check out that building behind the last cranberry bog to the south. We told you not to sell and we meant it.

  Monica gasped. “That’s the storage shed where Jeff keeps all his equipment.” The paper fluttered in her hand. “If they’ve done something to his equipment . . .”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Greg said. “We’d better check it out first.”

  They grabbed their jackets, hats and gloves and pulled them on as they were rushing out the door.

  The air had a knife edge to it that felt especially sharp to Monica after the warmth of the cottage kitchen. The sky was heavy with low-lying angry-looking clouds but there were patches of blue sky that indicated the day might turn fine after all.

  Monica huddled inside her parka, hoping that walking briskly would warm her up. But her heart was chilled as well. If someone had done something to harm Jeff, she didn’t know what she would do. He couldn’t afford to buy new equipment, it would ruin him.

  She gave a bitter laugh.