by Peg Cochran
“I mean,” Monica amended, “you’ll look into the incident with the noose?”
Stevens gave an exasperated sigh. “We’ll try. We’re spread quite thin right now. We haven’t publicized it yet, but there’s been a string of robberies in those big houses along the lake. The mayor wants us to make that a priority.” She smiled. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
• • •
She’d have to be content with that, Monica told herself as she left the police station and headed into town.
Gina motioned from the door of Making Scents as Monica walked past on her way to her car.
“You look excited,” Monica said, sniffing the air inside the shop. “Chamomile?” she said.
“No, actually it’s an essential oil called helichrysum,” Gina replied. “It’s used for speeding healing of wounds. It’s antibacterial and very good for your skin. Not many people know about it—they think essential oils are all about lavender, rosemary and peppermint.” Gina reached under the counter and took out a small bottle. “Here’s a sample for you to try.”
“Thanks.” Monica dropped the vial into her purse, where she suspected she would immediately forget about it.
“I have big news for you,” Gina said.
Monica groaned inwardly. Gina’s big news could be something as harmless as the fact that she’d decided to dye her hair or as life-changing as her decision to move to Cranberry Cove had been.
She gave a smile that made Monica think of the cat that ate the canary.
“I had a date last night,” Gina announced triumphantly.
“Oh.” Monica felt relieved that that was all it was. “Who with?”
Gina twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “Mickey Welch. The proud new owner of the Pepper Pot.”
“So you were able to lure him into it!”
Gina leaned closer. “Frankly, it wasn’t difficult. He fell hard.”
“Did you learn anything useful?”
“Well . . .” Gina paused. “He told me that the Pepper Pot isn’t making money . . . yet. He had to buy a new stove for the kitchen and some of the fixtures needed updating even though the place wasn’t that old. But he’s confident that he’ll be turning a profit within six months.”
“Did he sound desperate enough to do something drastic?”
Gina shook her head. “Not really, no. He seemed quite confident. Although he was worried about the possibility of that mall being built. Very worried, as a matter of fact. Without it, he knows he’ll soon be in the black, but with it . . . he’s not so sure.”
“Did he know anything about the restaurant being proposed by the developer?”
Gina shrugged. “It sounded like it’s one of those places with a really extensive menu, where there’s something to please everyone—from a steak to tacos to spaghetti and meatballs.” She scowled. “No way a real chef could make that many diverse dishes in one night. I’m sure they’re microwaving them.” She took a deep breath. “But people like that kind of thing. When you can’t decide between Mexican, American and Italian, everyone can have exactly what they want.”
Monica felt her spirits sink. The thought of a restaurant like that luring patrons away from the Pepper Pot, the Cranberry Cove Inn and even the Cranberry Cove Diner made her feel sad. Cranberry Cove, which she had come to love, would change, and not for the better.
“And the desserts!” Gina threw her hands in the air. “Of course I never eat them myself.” She patted her stomach. “Have to watch my figure. But this particular restaurant specializes in ice cream creations—sundaes, baked Alaska, frozen hot chocolate. That alone is going to draw people. Especially people with children.” Gina’s expression turned grim.
“Still . . .” She perked up. “I did have a great time. Mickey and I really hit it off. He certainly doesn’t look like my type.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he made me laugh and the time flew by.”
“Where did he take you for dinner?”
Gina looked at Monica with an incredulous expression on her face.
“The Pepper Pot, of course. We had a secluded table that he reserves for important guests and the chef made a special dish just for us.”
She smiled at Monica, a coy grin that lifted one corner of her mouth. “And the best part? He said he’s going to call me.”
Monica was quite surprised that Gina had taken to Mickey Welch the way she had. He wasn’t her usual type—her usual type being men who wore custom-made suits, drove fancy cars and had high-paying jobs.
Monica was happy for her though. Who knew if this one date would blossom into a full-fledged romance, but the possibility was there if Gina was able to recognize the fact that money wasn’t everything.
Perhaps she had matured since she’d lured Monica’s father away from her mother. It had been like one of those old thirties or forties movies, a young girl working behind the perfume counter in an upscale department store seduces successful man there to buy a gift for his wife.
Monica was nearly to her car when a thought occurred to her, and it was so startling that she nearly tripped.
Mickey Welch had silver hair, not as artfully cut as John Kuiper’s, but the same color. What if Mickey was the man Sean had seen hanging the noose outside Monica’s cottage? And what if it had been Mickey who had painted the message on the processing shed at the farm?
Had Monica been looking at everything all wrong from the very beginning? Perhaps the three incidences—the noose, the graffiti and the threatening note—weren’t related to Marta’s death at all.
Was she looking for two suspects, not one?
• • •
Kit had outdone himself by the time Monica got back to the farm store. Lined up on the counter were cranberry scones, cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies, and coffee cakes studded with cranberries and topped with streusel.
Monica felt slightly superfluous looking at the array of products Kit had managed to produce while she was gone. All that remained was to shuttle it all down to the farm store.
Nora looked very pale when Monica arrived with the cart of goodies. She was leaning on the counter with a hand on her forehead.
“Are you okay?” Monica said.
Nora gave the ghost of a smile. “Feeling a bit green around the gills, that’s all. It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. Things should improve next month when I’m out of the first trimester.”
Monica offered to man the store so Nora could go home, but Nora assured her that she would be fine.
Monica was feeling at loose ends—no one seemed to need her and she was almost beginning to feel sorry for herself—when she had an idea. The rope used in the noose that had been hung from her tree had to have come from somewhere. Of course, it was possible the person had had it in the trunk of their car or in their garage for ages, but it was also just possible that they bought it right before hanging it that night. And it was also possible that they might have purchased the rope in Cranberry Cove.
Monica knew that the hardware store carried rope and so did the marine supply store down by the harbor. With any luck, one of them sold that rope and perhaps they would even remember who bought it.
Once again Monica headed out. Her first stop was the marine supply shop across the inlet from Flynn’s and the food pantry, a stone’s throw from the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club.
The outside of the shop had dark blue metal siding and a large anchor hung over the front door. The inside of the shop smelled like motor oil combined with the faint brackish scent of the nearby lake.
As usual, the owner was behind the counter ringing up the lone customer’s purchases. He was a big man with a ready laugh and a handlebar mustache and was often tapped to play Santa Claus in the annual Cranberry Cove Christmas parade.
“What can I do for you, young lady?” he said when Monica approached the counter.
“I have a question,” Monica said a little hesitantly, being careful to choose her words carefully.
“And I have the answers.
” He guffawed loudly then frowned. “At least I hope so.”
“I was wondering if anyone has been in here recently, within the last week and a half or so, buying a length of heavy-duty rope.”
Monica wished she could have shown him the rope but the police had taken it away.
He scratched his belly absentmindedly as he thought.
“Rope, you say? People don’t seem to have much call for rope in the wintertime. Now if it was summer that would be a different story. Lots of customers come in looking for rope to moor their boats in the harbor.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember selling any recently. Now last October, that’s a different story. I sold some to Mr. Boscombe—he’s a summer visitor—but I don’t hold that against him.” He gave another loud guffaw. “He’s a nice enough fellow, doesn’t look down on us residents the way some of them do. I can’t remember exactly why he wanted the rope, but it was for that boat of his, she’s a beauty.”
“Thank you,” Monica said.
“My pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Tell that brother of yours I said hello, would you?”
Monica promised she would and left the shop. That had been a dead end, she thought. She hoped she’d have better luck at the hardware store.
The hardware store had been on Beach Hollow Road in Cranberry Cove even before any of the trendier shops had opened and still had the original wooden floors that creaked with age when you walked across them.
Bill Oliver, who had been clerking at the hardware store for years, was arranging a display of hammers at the front of the shop. He was stick thin with tan, roughened skin and an Adam’s apple that stuck out and bobbed up and down when he talked.
“Bill,” Monica said, and he spun around.
“Well, hello there. How are things at the farm? Good, I hope.”
“Fine,” Monica said, wondering if Bill was the only person in Cranberry Cove who hadn’t heard about Jeff possibly selling.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Monica said.
“Shoot.” Bill put down the pricing gun he was holding and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you and Greg doing some renovating on that cottage of yours?”
“No, nothing like that,” Monica said. “I was wondering if anyone has come in recently, within the last week or two, let’s say, to buy some heavy-duty rope.”
“I have to say, that’s not any of the questions I was expecting.” Bill laughed. “I don’t suppose you want to share your reason for asking this.”
“Not right now, no. I’m sorry.”
He let out a breath of air. “Let me see. We did have a gentleman come in recently. I didn’t wait on him but I saw him heading toward the counter with a length of rope over his arm.” He shrugged. “There might be others, but then I’m off on Mondays so if someone came in then I wouldn’t know about it.”
Monica felt a stirring of excitement. “The gentleman you saw, can you tell me what he looked like?”
“I’m not real good at describing things,” Bill said with an apologetic smile. “And I didn’t pay all that much attention to him. I did notice that he had real silver hair though, thick, too.” Bill ran a hand over his own thinning brown hair. “And he was dressed like one of them executives—suit and tie, starched shirt, the works. You don’t see too many like that around here. Even the fancy summer visitors dig out their shorts and T-shirts when they’re here. After all, they come to Cranberry Cove to relax.”
Monica didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until just then when it all came out in a rush.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling herself break into a smile.
Monica felt a huge sense of relief as she left the hardware store. It couldn’t have been Mickey Welch who had bought the rope. It had to have been John Kuiper. Bill had described him to a tee.
Chapter 18
Monica looked at her watch. It was almost time for her book group. Greg ran several groups at Book ’Em and they were quite popular. Monica had joined the one focused on reading classic detective novels from the Golden Age, books by Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham and Patricia Wentworth.
She hurried down the sidewalk. The sun was on its way down and the cold wind coming off the lake felt as if it was going straight through her jacket. She reached the front door to Book ’Em and ducked inside gratefully, basking momentarily in the warmth that enveloped her.
Greg was in the process of grabbing the mismatched armchairs scattered around the shop and pulling them into a circle in an open spot near the back of the store.
“Need some help?” Monica said, giving Greg a kiss on the cheek.
“I think I’ve collected all the chairs,” Greg said, running his hands through his thatch of dark hair. “But if you wouldn’t mind putting on the coffee?”
“No problem.”
Monica measured coffee into the machine, added water and flicked it on. Soon coffee was gurgling into the carafe, filling the air with its heavenly scent. Monica laughed to herself—she’d always thought coffee smelled better brewing than it actually tasted.
She walked back into the main part of the bookstore just as Phyllis Bouma was coming through the front door, yanking off her knit beret and unwinding her scarf. She was carrying a plastic-wrapped plate of cookies.
She gave Monica a rather strange look that made Monica feel quite uncomfortable.
“Has Jeff made a decision yet?” she said, her mouth pinched into a thin line.
Monica squared her shoulders. “Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.”
As Phyllis took a seat, the VanVelsen twins walked in, their faces rosy from the cold.
“Hello, dear,” they chorused when they saw Monica. “Phyllis.” They nodded in her direction.
Greg bustled around pouring cups of coffee and distributing them, along with urging everyone to take one of the lemon cookies Phyllis had brought. As Monica watched him, a wave of affection swept over her. She felt it catch in her throat and bring tears to her eyes. She dashed a hand across her eyes hoping no one had noticed.
Everyone was stirring sugar into their cups of coffee and nibbling on the lemon cookies when the door opened again, sending a current of cold air flowing through the store.
“Am I late? I’m so sorry.” Andrea Morgan rushed into the room.
She was the wife of the new rector of the Episcopal church in town and was the youngest member of the book group at only thirty-one. The couple had an infant son and she’d told them that the outing to the book group was the highlight of her week. Indeed, she confessed that it was the only outing she was able to manage until Christian was a bit older.
She took a seat quickly and demurely folded her hands in her lap. Hennie VanVelsen offered to get her a cup of coffee and Gerda passed her the platter of cookies but she said no to both.
Monica had a sudden idea. She pulled the photograph of Marta Kuiper, Joyce Murphy and Mildred Visser from her purse. She handed it to Hennie VanVelsen.
“Do you know these girls?” she said. “I know you know Marta Kuiper.”
Hennie adjusted her glasses and looked at the photo. She smiled.
“Yes. That’s Marta, Joyce and Mildred Visser.” She turned to Gerda. “Look who it is.”
Gerda looked at the photograph. “We went to elementary school with Marta and Joyce. Mildred was a bit older.” She looked at Monica. “We started kindergarten with Marta and Joyce.”
“Did you stay in touch?” Monica said.
“We stayed in touch with Marta but not the others, although we still see Joyce from time to time. She likes the Droste pastilles we carry at Gumdrops and occasionally comes in to get some.”
“Someone mentioned an incident that occurred that involved Marta and Joyce,” Monica said. “Do you know anything about it? It would have been when they were older.”
Hennie frowned. “I’m afraid not. We transferred to a Christian high school while they continued on in the
public schools.”
Monica turned to Phyllis and raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t know them, I’m afraid,” she said.
Monica put the photograph back in her purse and Greg began the discussion of The Chinese Shawl by Patricia Wentworth.
Talk was lively and interesting but Monica was afraid her mind was elsewhere. Eventually she gave up all pretense of joining in and didn’t realize the hour was over until everyone began to stand up.
She jumped to her feet quickly when Hennie tapped her on the shoulder.
“You were daydreaming, dear,” she said. “Is everything all right?” Her forehead was creased with concern.
“Yes, fine.” Monica smiled reassuringly.
The ladies straggled out one by one and Monica helped Greg put the chairs back in their places.
“That went well,” Greg said as he collected the used coffee cups and plates. “Andrea Morgan is new to the group, but I think she’s going to be a great addition. She’s smart and quite sharp.”
“Yes, definitely,” Monica said, although she hadn’t paid enough attention to really have noticed Andrea’s participation.
Greg paused with dirty dishes in both hands. “Did you ever find out anything about that photograph I found?”
“Yes. I met the daughter who had arranged the sale and she put me in touch with her mother, who is in the Windhaven Terrace nursing home in Holland. She recognized herself in the photograph along with Marta Kuiper and Joyce Murphy.”
“Was she able to tell you anything useful?”
Monica sighed. “No, not really, beyond identifying the girls in the picture. She mentioned an incident, as she called it, something to do with Marta and Joyce, but before she could explain, she was whisked away for her therapy session. I went back again, but her dementia was worse and she could no longer remember what it was she was going to tell me.” Monica brushed some crumbs off the seat of a chair into her hand. “The aide said she had what they called sundowners.”
Greg nodded. “Yes, sundowners. They call it that because people with dementia often have increased symptoms in the evenings.” He began walking toward the back room, where he had a sink and refrigerator. “My aunt Clementine, my mother’s older sister, was afflicted with dementia and we used to visit her early in the day before the sundowners set in. She was terribly young when she was diagnosed.”