by Peg Cochran
Monica was surprised that Greg hadn’t mentioned his aunt before. She realized there were still things she didn’t know about him.
“The good news,” Greg said over his shoulder, “is that people with dementia are usually better in the morning and afternoon. So your Mildred Visser might be able to explain what she meant about the incident with the girls in that photograph if you go see her earlier in the day.”
• • •
Monica was up by four a.m. She dressed in the dark and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. It was bitterly cold—a layer of frost caked the edges of the windows—and she dreaded the thought of going outside. But after a quick bowl of instant oatmeal, she put on her boots, jacket, hat, scarf and gloves and braced herself as she pulled open the back door.
The icy air seemed to make its way through her layers of clothing to her bare skin and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and hunching her shoulders against the wind.
She walked as fast as possible—there were still icy spots on the path to be beware of—and headed to the farm kitchen.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally pulled open the door and stepped inside. Kit had turned the heat down for the night, and even though the room was chilly, it felt warm in comparison to the outdoors. Monica shed her outer clothing and got down to work.
She tried to work quietly so as not to wake Kit, whom she assumed was still asleep in the storage room.
She was finishing up a batch of cranberry muffins with streusel topping when she felt a cold draft and looked up to see the door opening.
Kit came into the room in his usual good humor, his face ruddy from the cold.
“Oh,” Monica said. “I thought you were asleep in the storage room.” She gestured over her shoulder. “I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake you.”
“Good news,” Kit said as he yanked off his boots and exchanged them for a pair of clogs he kept by the door. “Sean and I moved into our new apartment. We were up half the night arranging furniture and hanging pictures. It’s smaller than we’re used to, but it’s quite cozy and I think we’re going to like it.”
“How wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
“As soon as we’re settled, we’d like to have you and Greg over for dinner. Although he doesn’t look like it, Sean is a good cook and makes a mean chicken Kiev. And not to blow my own horn”—Kit bowed his head—“but people have been known to say my chocolate volcano cakes are awesome.” He raised an eyebrow. “Their word, not mine.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if we could add cranberries to them and sell them in the shop?”
“It’s something to think about.”
Monica sprinkled the streusel topping on the last cranberry muffin and put them in the oven.
“I’ve made a good start on what we need for today.” She gestured toward the items lined up on the counter. “So I hope you don’t mind if I run an errand. We need some more cranberry banana bread if you wouldn’t mind working on that.”
Kit gave a brief salute. “Your wish is my command.” He smiled as Monica pulled on her jacket. “Stay warm out there.”
• • •
Monica had decided she would make another visit to Mildred Visser. Hopefully Greg was right and she would find her more coherent in the morning. She didn’t want to go empty-handed so she stopped in at Gumdrops to buy some candy to take.
“Hello, dear,” Gerda said in her tremulous voice when Monica arrived at the pastel pink candy shop on Beach Hollow Road. “What can we do for you today?”
“I need to take a gift of some candy to someone. What do you suggest?”
The beaded curtain to the back room rustled and Hennie walked out. She bustled over to Gerda.
“What are you looking for?”
Gerda gave her an exasperated look. “I’m managing just fine, thank you. Monica needs to take some candy to a friend and I’m helping her make a selection.” Gerda gave Monica a big smile. “Do you think she would like some hopje?”
“Hopje?”
“It’s a candy made with caramel, cream, butter and coffee.” She reached into the case. “Let me give you a sample.”
Monica unwrapped the piece of candy Gerda handed her and popped it into her mouth.
“Mmmm,” she said around the sticky candy. “I think these might be too hard for her to eat but they are delicious.”
Gerda frowned and then her face brightened. “Everyone likes licorice. Some of that, perhaps?”
“I think the King soft mints would be more appropriate, don’t you?” Hennie looked at Monica.
“Perhaps some of each?”
“Excellent,” Gerda declared with a side glance at her twin sister.
“You know who was in earlier?” Hennie said as she watched Gerda package up the candy. “Joyce Murphy. What an odd coincidence since you were showing me that photograph and asking me about her and Marta just yesterday.”
“She likes the Wilhelmina peppermints,” Gerda said.
Hennie shot her a look that clearly said that that was a completely irrelevant point.
“Anyway,” Hennie said with a sharp exhalation of breath, “poor Joyce is blaming herself for Marta’s death.”
Monica’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would she blame herself?”
Hennie leaned her elbows on the counter. “It seems poor Marta had recently developed a tremor in her hands.”
“It’s called an essential tremor,” Gerda interjected as she finished tying a ribbon on the package she had put together for Monica. “Our dear uncle Heinrik had it.”
“Yes,” Hennie said rather tersely. “He did.” She sighed again. “The tremor made it difficult for Marta to organize her pills herself. I imagine it would have been nearly impossible for her to get them in those little compartments if she couldn’t keep her hands steady.”
“It was very kind of Joyce to help her,” Gerda said.
“But why would Joyce blame herself for Marta’s death? Is she afraid she might have messed up the pills somehow?”
“No.” Hennie shook her head. “I guess she wasn’t able to get over to Marta’s when her pill caddy ran out and needed refilling. She’d already purchased a ticket to a church bus trip to Shipshewana in Indiana.”
“That’s where the Amish live,” Gerda interjected.
Hennie sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
“Apparently Marta filled the pill caddy herself and Joyce is afraid she might have made a mistake and accidentally put in too many of those pills. What are they called?”
“Beta blockers,” Gerda said. She looked quite proud of herself. “Marta was on atenolol. It slows your heartbeat, she told us.”
“Yes,” Hennie said, her lips in a thin line. “I imagine taking too many would leave you feeling very faint.”
Monica imagined Marta would have been feeling very faint if she’d taken too many of those pills. And that would have made it a lot easier to smother her.
“Joyce is beside herself, the poor dear,” Gerda said. “I can only imagine how she must be feeling.”
• • •
Monica was passing Twilight on her way to her car when she had a sudden memory of that man handing her the threatening note. She shivered. The experience had been very unsettling. He had looked familiar at the time but so far she had been unable to place him.
She had taken a few more steps when the answer hit her. The man who had handed her the note was the same fellow Dorothy at the food pantry had said had been pestering Marta.
She remembered his name now. Dorothy had called him Don.
She doubted that Don had had anything to do with the note itself. More likely he had been paid to hand it to Monica.
And if that was the case, maybe he could tell Monica who the person was who had offered him money to be the delivery boy.
Monica thought she knew where to find Don. Dorothy had said he was a regular at Flynn’s, and even if he wasn’t there now, he’d be bound to show up eventually.
She
wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of visiting Flynn’s again—the floor was always sticky with spilled beer and the walls were imbued with old cigarette smoke—but she was determined to find out whether or not John Kuiper had been the author of that note.
She beeped her car open and got behind the wheel. It didn’t take long to get down to the harbor. The water churning under the bridge over the inlet looked dark and forbidding and thick ice had formed along the shore.
Monica found a parking space and walked up the hill to Flynn’s. She paused with her hand on the door handle but then finally pulled it open and went inside.
It was dark and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The bartender, who had a stained towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers, was pouring a beer for a man wearing an ill-fitting business suit. He barely glanced at Monica as she walked in.
She scanned the room, which was virtually empty, and spotted Don sitting at a table near the rear exit sign, which glowed red in the shadowy light. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, an empty glass on the table in front of him.
Monica walked over to him and cleared her throat. “What are you drinking?” she asked, pointing to the glass.
Don’s eyes flew open and he gave a broad smile.
“Looks like the young lady wants to buy me a drink. I don’t mind if I do. A whiskey, make it a double.” He winked at her.
Monica tried not to visibly cringe. She plunked Don’s empty glass on the bar and motioned for the bartender.
Monica thought he might have been surprised to see a woman in the bar but his expression suggested he was past being surprised by anything. He raised his eyebrows.
“A whiskey, please. A double.” Monica took a couple of bills out of her wallet and put them down on the bar.
The bartender placed a glass with a good measure of amber liquid in it in front of Monica and palmed the bills she’d put out.
“Change?” he said, raising his eyebrows again.
“Keep it.”
Monica carried the drink over to Don and put it in front of him. He’d closed his eyes again but opened them when he heard the clink of the glass on the table.
“Thanks,” he said.
His words were slurred and Monica was afraid he was going to fall asleep on her.
She sat down opposite him, careful not to touch the table, which looked as if it could use a good wipe, preferably with a disinfectant.
“You’re the person who bumped into me and handed me that note the other day when I was walking down Beach Hollow Road.”
Monica had decided not to frame it as a question but rather to put it to him as a statement.
A guarded look came over Don’s face. “So what if I did? No law against it, is there? I didn’t mean no harm.”
“All I want to know is who wrote the note and who asked you to deliver it?”
“I needed the money. You can’t blame me for that.” Don took a big gulp of his drink. “I don’t want no trouble,” he grumbled.
Monica made soothing noises. “You’re right, there’s nothing illegal about delivering a note. I’m not going to tell anyone. I only want to know who sent the note in the first place.”
“I don’t know his name,” Don said, more to his glass than to Monica.
“What did he look like?”
“What does anybody look like,” Don said, suddenly becoming philosophical.
Monica stifled a sigh of impatience. “Was he old or young? Tall or short? What color hair did he have? Can you tell me that at least?”
“He was well dressed. Probably middle-aged. Expensive coat, it looked real soft.”
So far he hadn’t said anything that didn’t make it sound as if John Kuiper had hired him to deliver that note.
“Hair?” Monica said again.
“Gray. More like silver.”
That sealed it. It was John Kuiper who was threatening her and Jeff.
But had he killed Marta? Monica could easily picture him putting a pillow over his sister’s face and smothering her. He didn’t appear to have a heart—something quite ironic in a heart surgeon.
Chapter 19
Finally Monica was on her way to Windhaven Terrace. She turned off the highway and headed toward downtown Holland. Within a few minutes she was passing Hope College again and then finally pulling into the driveway of the nursing home.
An ambulance with its bay doors open was idling in front of the entrance to Windhaven Terrace. Monica said a quick prayer that they weren’t there for Mildred Visser.
She went through the front door and into the lobby. Two EMTs standing on either side of a gurney were waiting for the elevator.
The receptionist was on the telephone, and while Monica waited for her to finish her call, the elevator arrived with a loud ping and the EMTs wheeled the gurney aboard. Finally the woman hung up the telephone and turned to Monica, handing her a visitor’s badge.
Monica pinned it to her sweater and headed toward the elevator. She pushed the button and the doors opened immediately. She hoped that wasn’t going to be the end of her streak of good luck.
No one immediately answered Monica’s knock, but she heard noise inside and finally Mildred Visser came to the door. She wheeled her wheelchair backward slightly and held the door open for Monica.
“It’s lovely to see you again, dear. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name though. Please do forgive me.”
“No problem.” Monica smiled. “It’s Monica Albertson.”
“Monica. What a lovely name. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone with that name before. Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward a small armchair covered in a slipcover in a pink print and with a ruffle around the bottom.
Monica had decided to pretend as if she hadn’t already asked Mildred Visser about the photograph. It was unlikely she would remember that evening anyway.
“I wanted to talk to you about this old photograph,” Monica said, taking it from her purse and handing it to Mildred.
Mildred adjusted her glasses and peered at the photo. A smile spread across her face.
“They were so young then. And so full of hope. That’s Marta Kuiper”—she pointed at the picture—“and Joyce Murphy. Neither Marta nor Joyce ever married. They were both flower girls in my wedding. Unfortunately, I lost my Jack more than twenty years ago.” She looked up at Monica. “It was his heart. It had never been very strong. It ran in his family. His father died of a heart attack when he was only forty years old.”
“So Marta and Joyce were good friends,” Monica said.
“Yes.” Mildred frowned. She rubbed her forehead. “I seem to remember something happened, something tragic.”
Oh, please, Monica thought, try to remember.
“It was something to do with Marta and Joyce. If only I could remember. I know it threatened their friendship for quite a while, although they did eventually reconcile.”
Monica waited, trying not to feel discouraged. She heard the squeak of wheels as medicine carts were wheeled down the hall and the hum from the elevator.
Finally, Mildred’s face brightened.
“I do remember now. I just needed to give myself a moment to think. It happened so long ago, you see, although sometimes I think I remember things from back then better than I do things from yesterday.” She laughed. “The other day I misplaced my teeth and couldn’t find them anywhere. The aide found them under my pillow. Can you imagine?”
Mildred’s hands moved restlessly on the arms of her wheelchair. Her expression darkened. “Joyce had a boyfriend. His name was Matt. Matthew Meyer. He was a good-looking boy with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes.” Mildred laughed. “Well, how else would you expect a Dutchman to look!”
Monica smiled.
“Joyce was quite besotted with Matt. I think he was her first real boyfriend. She must have been around seventeen or eighteen, and he was a bit older. Not too much, maybe only a year or two.
“Marta was obviously q
uite taken with Matt as well. She got all flustered when she was around him. Now granted, Marta didn’t have a lot of experience with boys, but this went beyond that. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He used to tease her about it and that made Joyce mad.”
“Do you think Marta was really trying to steal Joyce’s boyfriend?”
Mildred tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps not in any calculated sort of way. She was too naïve for that. I don’t think she could help herself. She was attracted to him and she didn’t know enough to hide it.”
“But something happened?”
“Yes.”
Mildred turned her head and stared out the window. Monica noticed she had a lovely profile. She must have been quite beautiful at one time in a very patrician sort of way.
“Matt had a boat.” Mildred smiled. “It was barely more than a rowboat with a motor but he was quite proud of it. He spent hours working on it and he took it out on the big lake every chance he got. He was a bit wild and liked a thrill so he tended to speed across the lake no matter how high the waves were.
“One day Matt was down by the harbor preparing to take his boat out and Marta showed up. I don’t know what her intentions were, whether she had a valid reason to go down there or she had decided to follow Matt. But the result was that Matt invited her to go out on the boat with him.”
Monica raised her eyebrows. “Do you think he was interested in Marta?”
“I don’t know. I think he was flattered by her admiration. And at times he encouraged it. At the same time, I think he felt a bit sorry for her. Her life wasn’t easy. Her parents were so terribly strict and her father clutched the purse strings to the point where they sometimes had to go without basic necessities. So it wasn’t all that surprising that Matt offered to take her for a ride. He was like that, terribly kind in spite of that wild streak he had.”