by Peg Cochran
“And she got the axe,” the other girl added, drawing her finger across her neck.
That was certainly an interesting turn of events, Monica thought as she walked back to her car. Dana had been out of work for six months. Perhaps finances were starting to get tight. And selling the family property would have solved all her problems.
• • •
Monica hurried back to the farm, feeling guiltier with every mile for leaving Kit to fend for himself again. No matter how many times he reassured her that he was fine, she still felt she was taking advantage of him.
Kit was humming when Monica walked through the door to the farm kitchen. He had several boxes filled with baked goods and was finishing packing the last one.
“I’ll take those to the store,” Monica said somewhat breathlessly. “You take some time off. You’ve been working too hard.”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” Kit said. “I think I’ll treat myself to a bowl of the diner’s chili.” He reached for his jacket.
Monica transferred the boxes to the cart and went out the door behind Kit, who was whistling now, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold. Monica could never understand why he refused to wear a hat or gloves or even a heavier jacket in these frigid temperatures.
Several customers were at the counter when Monica got to the store. She quickly arranged the fresh baked goods in the case and then went to help Nora ring up the sales.
Nora smiled at her gratefully as she filled a bag with half a dozen cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies.
A car turned into the parking lot. From the sound of it, the muffler was shot and the engine badly needed a tune-up. It backfired once and then the motor was cut.
The shop door opened, sweeping the room with a blast of cold air. Monica looked up from the scones she was wrapping in glassine to see Cheryl standing just inside the door.
She looked to be the very definition of tipsy—her hat slipping down nearly over one eye, her jacket somehow skewed to the right. Even from where she was standing, Monica could tell she was drunk.
She wove her way to the counter, putting out a hand to steady herself and nearly toppling a display of cranberry jam.
Her smile was as sloppy as her clothing and her cheeks were flushed with cold and drink.
“Hello,” she said to Monica, leaning heavily on the counter for balance.
She reeked of alcohol and Monica backed up slightly, putting some distance between them.
“I need to talk to you,” Cheryl said, her voice coming out louder than she probably intended.
Several customers looked in her direction and Monica saw them exchange a glance with Nora. Nora gave Monica a quizzical look.
“Why don’t we go to the farm kitchen, where I can make us a cup of tea or coffee,” Monica said, coming out from behind the counter and putting a hand under Cheryl’s arm to steady her. She left her leaning against the wall while she slipped on her jacket.
Cheryl let herself be led out of the shop without protest. She slipped on a patch of ice on the path and Monica grabbed her arm, nearly going down with her. Suddenly her face turned a ghastly color and she stopped dead in her tracks. Monica feared she was going to be sick but the feeling must have passed because she began walking again.
They finally made it to the farm kitchen and Monica breathed a sigh of relief. She found a chair for Cheryl, who nearly fell into it, her legs sprawled and her skirt riding up her legs.
Monica got a pot of coffee going and took two mugs from the cupboard.
“How do you take your coffee?” she said.
“Black is fine.” Cheryl waved a hand, as if dismissing the whole topic. A sly look came across her face. “You wouldn’t have a bit of something to add to it, would you? Just a drop or two to take the chill off.”
Monica gave her a stern look, and Cheryl scowled, sinking lower in her chair.
The coffee finished brewing and Monica filled the two mugs and handed one to Cheryl.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she said as she blew on her hot coffee.
The mug wobbled in Cheryl’s hand and Monica was poised to grab it in case she started to drop it.
“That woman came around asking me questions,” Cheryl said. “That detective. What’s her name?”
“Detective Stevens?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Nosy little so-and-so, isn’t she?” Cheryl slurped some coffee. “Asking all these questions.”
“That’s what detectives do,” Monica said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Well, I didn’t like it.” Cheryl peered at Monica with one eye closed. “Did you send her around to talk to me?”
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Because I’ve heard you’ve been asking plenty of questions yourself.” Cheryl momentarily closed both eyes and Monica feared she’d fallen asleep.
Cheryl’s eyes flew open again. “You need to tell her I didn’t have anything to do with Marta’s death.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
Cheryl looked at Monica as if Monica had just suggested she sprout wings and fly.
“She ain’t going to believe me, is she? They don’t believe people like me. But you . . .” She pointed a finger at Monica. “They’ll listen to someone like you.” Cheryl’s head drooped. “They ought to be asking questions of Joyce.” She pointed at Monica again.
“Joyce Murphy?”
Cheryl nodded. She gave Monica a sly look. “Marta was giving her money, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. But that was Marta’s business. Besides, how do you know that?”
“I saw her. I saw Marta giving Joyce a check.”
“Maybe she owed her money for something. Maybe Joyce went shopping for her.”
“I saw it more than once.” Cheryl tapped her head. “I asked Marta about it but she said it was nothing.”
Now who was being nosy? Monica thought.
Cheryl frowned and her whole face sagged. “It really upset me when that detective came around. A . . . friend took me out to dinner at this nice place on the highway afterward and I could barely eat my steak I was that upset.” She glanced at Monica from under her lashes. “I couldn’t tell the detective where I was when it happened. When Marta was killed, I mean.”
“Why not?” Monica sipped her coffee. This was getting interesting.
Cheryl held a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret. I promised not to tell.”
She was swaying back and forth on her chair. The coffee didn’t seem to have had any affect at all, Monica thought.
“But I can tell you,” Cheryl said, winking at Monica. “You won’t tell, will you?”
“No,” Monica said, putting a hand on her heart.
“Well . . .” Cheryl drew the word out until it was six syllables long. She hesitated for so long Monica thought she had changed her mind, but finally she continued.
“I was at Primrose Cottage. You know, that bed-and-breakfast in town? Everything in there is so old.” She shuddered.
Monica thought of all the beautiful antiques Charlie had collected for her B&B. Clearly their charm was lost on Cheryl.
“Why can’t you tell Detective Stevens that?”
Cheryl giggled. “I wasn’t alone.” She wagged a finger at Monica. “I was a very naughty girl.” She giggled again. “I was with John Kuiper.”
Monica couldn’t have been more surprised if Cheryl had said she was with Santa Claus. John’s wife, while obviously high-maintenance, was admittedly also young and attractive. But then she remembered what Gina had said about John and his wife possibly divorcing. Maybe he had found solace with Cheryl?
If Cheryl was telling the truth, it meant that both she and John had an alibi.
Chapter 16
Monica wondered if it was true that Marta had been giving Joyce money, and if so, did Dana know?
She decided she would stop and see Dana before going into town to Bart’s for some meat fo
r dinner.
Someone had shoveled the walk at the Kuipers’ house. Salt grated under Monica’s boots as she headed toward the front door. No one answered the bell at first but Dana’s car was in the driveway, so Monica assumed she was home.
She was about to turn away when Dana opened the door.
She was wearing gray slacks and the sweater Monica assumed she had bought at Danielle’s. She had a pen in her hand and there was a smudge of ink on one of her fingers.
“Monica, please come in,” she said, holding the door wider.
The living room and kitchen were much warmer than they had been on previous occasions, Monica noticed.
“I had a man come out to check the furnace,” Dana explained. “Apparently it wasn’t working properly and that’s why it was always so cold in here no matter what temperature the thermostat was set at. I don’t know why Marta hadn’t had it fixed sooner.”
The kitchen table was covered in papers and a checkbook was open in front of one of the chairs.
“Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you. It looks like you’re busy.” Monica indicated the table. “And I have to run some errands before the shops close.”
Dana sighed. “I’m paying bills. Or trying to. There isn’t much in Marta’s account, I’m afraid, and she’s behind on a number of invoices.” She sat down and motioned for Monica to take a seat. “Did you want to see me about something?”
“Your cousin Cheryl came to see me.”
Dana drew back. “Cheryl? What on earth for? I hope she wasn’t too much of a bother.”
“She wanted to tell me something. It seems that she saw Marta giving Joyce money on several occasions.”
“You can’t believe everything Cheryl says. Besides, maybe Marta owed Joyce money for something. Or perhaps she was loaning it to her? Marta had a soft heart and was an easy touch, I’m afraid.”
“Is that her checkbook?” Monica said, pointing to the ledger in front of Dana.
“Yes.” Dana began to flip through it. She frowned. “I see Marta wrote a check to cash for five hundred dollars.” She looked at Monica. “That’s an awful lot of money. Marta’s income wasn’t very large. John and I helped when we could but . . .” She shrugged. “We felt we owed her since she’d given up any hope of a career caring for our mother. She worked part-time cleaning other people’s houses until she was old enough to collect retirement benefits.”
Dana continued to flip through the check register. She raised her eyebrows. “Here’s another check made out to cash for the same amount. I don’t understand. I suppose it’s possible she was paying some bills in cash.” Dana wrinkled her brow. “But I see checks for the electric bill, the gas bill, even to the grocery store. So what would she have needed that much money in cash for?”
Dana shook her head vigorously. “It’s not like Marta had expensive tastes. She bought clothes at the thrift store and ate simple dishes like the erwtensoep our mother used to make or pannenkoeken, pancakes, which we ate for dinner, or chocolate hagelslag, bread with chocolate sprinkles for breakfast.” Dana ruffled the pages of the checkbook. “She wasn’t one for expensive cuts of meat like filet mignon or beef tenderloin. She would make a meal out of stamppot, mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables. I can’t begin to imagine what she would have done with so much cash.”
“Do you think she might have given it away?”
Dana sighed. “It’s possible. It would have been just like Marta to have given money away willy-nilly when she had barely enough to live on herself.”
• • •
The butcher shop was empty and Bart was at his worktable behind the counter tying up a beef tenderloin with swift, practiced motions. He looked up and smiled at Monica.
“What brings you in today? I have a nice tenderloin here.” He patted the piece of meat.
“That’s a bit out of my league price-wise,” Monica said. “But I would like a pound of your excellent ground beef.”
“Coming right up.”
Bart selected a paperboard tray from a shelf and put it on the counter. He placed a piece of wax paper on the scale, eyeballed the ground beef and plopped some on top.
“Right on the nose,” he said, transferring the meat to the tray. “Anything else I can get you?”
“That’s all, thank you.”
Bart’s expression turned serious. “What’s this I hear about Jeff selling the farm? They’re holding a meeting tonight at the town hall to discuss it.” He pulled a piece of butcher paper from the roll on the counter and began wrapping up the ground beef. “I would never have expected Jeff to do something like that. The rumor is that the developer who’s interested in the property plans to build a mall.” He cut off a length of string and began tying up the package. He handed it to Monica. “We don’t want a mall here, I’ll tell you that right now.”
Bart put his hands palms down on the counter. “I have to say I’m disappointed in Jeff. I didn’t think he’d sell Cranberry Cove out like that.”
Monica felt her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. She held up a hand.
“Jeff hasn’t made up his mind yet,” she said. “He’s only thinking about it.”
“I hope he comes to the right decision,” Bart said, frowning. “If he decides to sell it could ruin Cranberry Cove and all of us with it.”
Monica hurried out of the butcher shop feeling chastened. As much as she believed in Jeff’s right to sell the farm if that’s what he decided to do, she couldn’t help but feel for the people of Cranberry Cove.
As she walked down the street toward her car, she felt as if people were looking at her with condemnation, although in reality she supposed it was probably just her imagination.
Primrose Cottage, a white Victorian house with mauve trim, was on the other side of the inlet from Flynn’s and the food pantry in a decidedly more hospitable and upscale atmosphere.
Charlotte Decker, more commonly known as Charlie, had started keeping Primrose Cottage open during the winter even though tourist traffic died to a trickle during those months. But it had become popular to visit the lake during the winter to view the fantastic ice formations that were created when there was a string of days with temperatures below zero.
Monica parked her car with the three others in the parking lot and walked to the front door.
The lobby, which was originally the parlor of the house and which was decorated with authentic period furniture, was empty.
“Hello?” Monica called.
A woman appeared. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and was holding a dustcloth.
“Can I help you?” she said in accented English. Her dark hair had a gray streak in front and was pulled back into a bun. She looked familiar even though Monica knew she had never met her before.
“Is Charlie Decker around?”
The woman smiled. “I will go get her for you.” She bowed slightly as she turned around and disappeared through a doorway.
“Yes?” Charlie said as she came through the same doorway moments later. “Oh, Monica, it’s you.” She smiled. “Not looking for a room, are you? You and Greg have a fight?” She laughed to show she was only teasing.
Monica shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” Charlie gestured toward a tufted velvet settee. “Let’s sit down. I’ve been up since dawn cleaning rooms and I’m bushed. There’s always so much to do, even with Bianca’s help.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes. She’s Mauricio’s sister. She came over six months ago. Their mother died and there was no longer anything keeping her from emigrating.”
“I thought she looked familiar. How is Mauricio?”
Mauricio was Charlie’s significant other. He had been in Cranberry Cove for quite a while now, long enough to be accepted by the residents, at any rate. During the harvest season he worked on Jeff’s crew and the rest of the time he helped out at Primrose Cottage.
“He’s well,�
� Charlie said. “He’s really happy to have his sister here. She’s been cooking him some of his favorite dishes—caldo verde, bacalhau, bifanas. He said it makes him feel less homesick.
“So,” Charlie said after a pause, “if you didn’t come to rent a room, I assume you came for some other reason. Are you investigating again?” She grinned.
“Yes. I guess I am,” Monica admitted. “Someone claimed to have stayed here and I wanted to know if she really was a guest.”
Charlie blew out a puff of air. “We usually keep those records confidential. No point in getting into trouble with someone’s wronged spouse.”
“That’s sort of the situation here, although the couple is apparently divorcing.”
“What’s the name?” Charlie called over her shoulder as she headed toward the antique escritoire that served as a reception desk.
“Cheryl DeSantis. But the reservation might have been made in the name of John Kuiper.”
Charlie stopped with her hand on the guest ledger. “I remember them. Yes, they did stay here.”
“Do you have the dates and check-in times?”
“Let me see.” Charlie flipped some pages. “Here it is.” She gave the information to Monica.
The dates coincided with the day of Marta’s murder. So Cheryl was telling the truth, Monica thought.
Charlie closed the book with a snap. “They were a complete nightmare to deal with. I was concerned when they showed up and had obviously already been drinking—at least she had. It went downhill from there.”
“What happened?”
“They got into a loud argument almost as soon as they got to their room and you could hear them all over the place. Fortunately they were our only guests that day.” Charlie shook her head. “Bianca went to clean the room but the Do not disturb sign was hanging on the door all day. They never came down to the lobby to check out. At first I assumed they’d decided to stay another day but then I began to get worried.”