by Peg Cochran
Gina shook her head again. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I’ll pop a couple of aspirin while you go talk to your friends.”
Monica felt a little guilty about leaving Gina behind at the table, but if she was going to fit into the community at Cranberry Cove, she had to take every opportunity to cement friendships.
The VanVelsen sisters were in their usual pastel-colored matching outfits—pale lavender tonight. Although, for the first time since Monica had met them, their faces didn’t look exactly alike: Hennie looked much the same as usual but there were lines of fatigue on Gerda’s face that hadn’t been there before. It made her appear slightly older than her twin.
“Any news about Midnight?” Monica asked when she reached their table.
Gerda’s mouth turned down. “I’m afraid not. I think we have to prepare ourselves for the worst.” She retrieved a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed at her eyes. She turned to look at her sister. “You don’t think that someone from that Twilight shop might have taken her? For some sort of black magic?” She shuddered.
“I’ve met the owner, and she’s very nice. I don’t believe for a minute that she would do something like that.” Monica smiled gently. “Besides, I don’t think they’re practicing black magic at Twilight. Just doing yoga and reading tarot cards and the like.”
Gerda looked doubtful. “Mother would have said that those sorts of things are the work of the devil, designed to lead us astray.”
Hennie nodded her head.
Monica realized it was pointless to try to persuade them that that was not the case. Their beliefs were too ingrained and long held to be changed at this point. But she had to defend Tempest against cat-napping.
“Don’t you suppose that Midnight has simply wandered off to have an adventure?” Monica said.
Gerda shook her head and her permed curls quivered. “Midnight has never done that before. I hope that dreadful boy who likes to tease her hasn’t stolen her.” Her lower lip trembled.
“Billy Johnson?” her sister asked.
Gerda nodded. “He tied a can to her tail once. Poor little thing was nearly going crazy when I found her. I gave him a real talking-to, I can tell you that. He thought the whole thing was a joke. That boy is incorrigible. You mark my words.” She shook her finger at Monica. “He’s going to cause big trouble someday if a stop isn’t put to his mischief now.”
“You know what they say. Small children, small problems. Big children, big problems,” Hennie said sagely. “Although I really doubt he’s had anything to do with Midnight’s disappearance, I’ll have a word with his mother.” She put a hand over her sister’s. “Everything will turn out. I just have a feeling.”
Gerda nodded but didn’t look convinced.
Monica decided it would be best to change the subject. She pointed to the table where the deep fryers had been set up. The scent of hot oil and something sweet was beginning to fill the air. It reminded Monica of the smell at fairs and carnivals.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
A look passed between Hennie and Gerda. They were much too polite and well-bred to smirk, but their smiles suggested that Monica’s question had been naïve or even downright humorous.
“They’re making oliebollen for dessert, of course.”
Oliebollen? It sounded like some sort of old-fashioned game. Monica pictured hoops and girls in crinolines and boys in short pants.
“What are oliebollen?”
Again that look passed between the two sisters.
“Well, oliebollen means oil ball in English, but that certainly doesn’t sound very appetizing, does it?” Hennie laughed. “They’re a sort of doughnut. But without the hole in the middle. The early Dutch settlers brought them here to the new world.”
Gerda nodded. “And now you have your Dunkin’ Donuts and your Krispy Kremes, all because of the influence of the Dutch and their oliebollen.”
“They’re normally eaten at New Year’s and are a huge treat,” Hennie confided. “Mother certainly never made them at any other time of year, but I imagine the organizers wanted to give everyone something special tonight. You’ll like them. They’re delicious.”
Monica could hear the fat sizzling as the large woman with gray hair dropped balls of dough into the fryers. The smell was tantalizing. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the twins.
Hennie leaned toward Monica. “They’ll dust them with powdered sugar after they’ve been fried.” She rolled her eyes upward. “Heavenly.” She tapped Monica on the arm. “The trick is to be sure the oil is hot enough, or they’ll be greasy and tough.”
Gerda had a worried look on her face. She was pleating the fabric of her skirt, running it between her thumb and forefinger. “I do hope Rieka checked the temperature of the oil before she started the frying.”
Hennie patted her sister on the arm. “I’m sure she did. Rieka has been making oliebollen for years. It’s going to be fine. You worry too much,” she admonished. She turned toward Monica. “Sometimes they put currants or raisins inside.” She sniffed. “Frankly, I prefer mine plain.”
Monica had a sudden thought. Could she make oliebollen with cranberries mixed in? Probably not. It would be impossible to keep them fresh enough. By the time she got them from her kitchen to the store, they’d most likely be a sodden mess.
Hennie leaned closer to Monica. “Has there been any word about . . . you know?”
Monica had been afraid of that—people asking questions about the investigation. She almost hadn’t come tonight because of it. Was the word around town still that Jeff was the culprit? She couldn’t bear it if it was.
She shook her head and looked down at her hands. Surely she could bring up some topic that would steer the conversation in another direction.
“Oh, look. Cora is here,” Gerda said. “I’m glad she could get away. That poor woman needs a break.”
“Who is Cora?” Monica asked feeling at sea once again.
“She’s a waitress at the Cranberry Cove Diner,” Hennie said, her tone clearly indicating she was incredulous that Monica didn’t already know that.
“She used to own a beauty parlor in town,” Gerda confided. “She was one of the few hairdressers around who still knew how to do a marcel wave.”
“Why did she close her salon?” Monica thought it was far preferable to run a hairdressing salon than being run off your feet all day at the Cranberry Cove Diner.
“It was such a shame.” Gerda shook her head and her silver curls quivered again.
“Yes,” Hennie agreed. “All because of greed.” She looked at Monica. “How much money does one man need? Money is the root of all evil, they say.”
“I don’t understand—”
“It was all Sam Culbert’s fault,” Hennie said in a tone that suggested that that was that.
“He used to be such a nice boy,” Gerda said. “He delivered our paper.” She turned to her sister. “Do you remember, Hennie?”
Hennie nodded. “Yes. And he was quite the star on the Cranberry Cove High School football team, if I remember correctly. Don’t know why he turned out the way he did.”
Monica was busy trying to make a connection between Cora’s beauty parlor and Sam Culbert.
“And she wasn’t the only one.” Hennie took a sip of her water. “There was the fishmonger George—what was his name?”
Gerda wrinkled her brow. “Kuipers, wasn’t it? I wonder what happened to him?”
“He moved away, I think.”
“I know Cora even went to Sam Culbert and begged him to reconsider.”
“But what did Sam Culbert do—” Monica started to ask.
“He raised the rent,” Hennie said in a tone that suggested everyone ought to know that. “He owns half the buildings on Beach Hollow Road. He put poor Cora’s beauty salon out of business. The fishmonger, too.
Don’t know what happened to George, but Cora made the best of things by taking a job at the Cranberry Cove Diner.”
“She didn’t want to leave Cranberry Cove. Her mother is still alive, and Cora looks in on her every day,” Gerda explained.
“She resented Sam Culbert something fierce.”
Hennie nodded. “That’s for sure. I don’t imagine she’s going to waste any tears over Sam’s death.”
But did Cora resent Sam Culbert enough to kill him? Monica wondered as she made her way back to where Gina was sitting. A gentleman was relaxing in the chair Monica had recently vacated. He was handsome with thick, wavy gray hair and a sharply chiseled profile. He was wearing a sport coat with suede patches on the elbows and a pair of expensive-looking leather driving shoes.
“Excuse me,” he said, jumping to his feet as Monica approached. “I’m afraid I’ve taken your place.” He turned to Gina. “It was lovely talking to you. I am sure we’ll see each other again.”
“Who was that?” Monica asked after he had left. She plopped into the chair. Gina was looking considerably brighter, she noticed.
“That’s Preston Crowley. He’s the owner of the Cranberry Cove Inn. He just stopped by to drop off a check for Debbie’s fund.”
“I guess Sam Culbert didn’t own everything in town then.” Monica looked over her shoulder at Gina’s companion, who was making his way toward the exit. “He looks very nice.”
“He is. He said he would take me sailing one of these days. He has a boat docked here in the marina.” Gina smiled. “Things are looking up in Cranberry Cove, that’s for sure.”
Monica was about to ask Gina if she wanted to try some of the oliebollen—the smell had been tempting Monica long enough—when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned around. It was Lauren—the girl Jeff had been dating. Her face was drawn and she looked as if she might cry at any moment.
“Is Jeff here with you?” she asked. “I’d hoped to see him tonight.”
“I’m afraid he was too tired to come with us. He just wanted to put his feet up in front of the television and eat one of those dreadful microwave dinners he subsists on.”
Lauren gave a fleeting smile. She glanced at Gina then back at Monica. “Could I talk to you for a moment, please?”
“Sure.” Monica started to get up from her chair.
“Don’t mind me,” Gina said. “I think a trip to the ladies’ room to freshen up is in order. I’m sure I’ve bitten off most of my lipstick by now.”
Lauren watched her go then slid into Gina’s vacant seat.
“It’s about Jeff.”
Monica could see the tears forming in Lauren’s eyes. They hung on the edge of her lower lids, threatening to spill at any moment, like water over a dam.
Monica made a noncommittal noise. She cringed at the thought of getting involved in other people’s business, especially when it involved romance. Her girlfriends used to talk for hours about the men they were dating—how often they called, what they said when they did call, what did it mean if they asked you out on Friday night but not Saturday. Monica had had no patience for any of it. She had been more than happy to retreat from the dating scene when she became engaged to Ted.
Lauren glanced around the room and then leaned closer to Monica. Her blond hair fell across her face, partially obscuring her expression.
“Do you have any idea what’s up with Jeff?” Her lower lip began to quiver, and she bit it. “Is he seeing someone else?”
Monica saw Lauren’s hands clench and her knuckles turn white.
“I’m so sorry,” Monica said, feeling as if she needed to apologize for Jeff. She was silent for a moment debating how much to tell Lauren. She felt Lauren deserved the truth, but was it her place to reveal it?
Monica stared at her hands for a moment and then made up her mind. “No, there isn’t anyone else.” She looked up to see Lauren’s face brighten. “The problem is with Jeff.” Monica licked her lips to wet them. “He . . . he doesn’t feel worthy of you. Because of his arm and the fact that the farm is skating on such thin financial ice.”
Lauren’s face brightened even more—like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “Why would he . . . I don’t care . . . that’s ridiculous,” she sputtered. “I mean I don’t care about his arm. It doesn’t make any difference to me and never has. And as for the farm . . .” She shrugged her shoulders. “If things don’t work out, Jeff can always sell and move on to something else.”
Monica had a sudden pang at the thought of Jeff selling the farm. It meant so much to him. And it was beginning to mean a lot to her, too.
“Will you talk to him?” Lauren stared into Monica’s eyes. “Please?”
“I think it’s a little more . . . complicated than that.” How much should she say to Lauren? “I think,” and again she hesitated, “I think that what Jeff really needs is some counseling. To come to grips with his injury and all the terrible things he must have seen when he was in Afghanistan. There’s no shame in it—many returning veterans are doing the same.” She looked up. Lauren was watching her intently. “As for the farm . . . I think it is going to be a success. Jeff needs to gain a little confidence that he can do it.”
“What do you think I should do?” While they were talking, Lauren had shredded Gina’s discarded napkin. She brushed the pieces together into a pile.
“Wait. I know that isn’t the easiest thing to do and probably not what you want to hear. But I plan to talk to Jeff about seeing a therapist as soon as the time is right.”
“So you don’t think I should call him and—”
“No.” Monica shook her head. “I think the best thing is to give him some space and, as hard as it is, some time.”
Lauren looked both relieved and disappointed. “At least I know there isn’t another girl.” She attempted a smile. “I guess I’ll just wait, like you said.” She got up from her seat and turned to look at Monica. “Thanks. Thanks for telling me the truth.” This time she gave a real smile. “Jeff is worth waiting for.”
Chapter 12
Monica was taking a batch of cranberry bread out of the oven when there was a knock on her back door. She pulled it open and was shocked to find Gina standing there. She looked at her kitchen clock, thinking for a moment that she had lost track of time and somehow it was already past noon.
“Surprise,” Gina said as she followed Monica into the kitchen. “I know I’m not usually up this early, but if I’m going to be running a store, I’d better get used to it, so I thought I’d start practicing now. Besides, those darn birds make such a racket in the morning. And I thought the country was going to be quiet.” She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”
“Certainly.” Monica opened a cupboard, grabbed a mug and filled it from the pot sitting on the warmer.
She was surprised to observe that Gina wasn’t in her trademark short skirt but rather had on black leggings, a long, knit sweater and a pair of low-heeled booties.
“I’m meeting the architect and the contractor at my shop this morning to go over our plans,” she said, as if she’d noticed Monica’s astonished glance. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands. “I just wish this whole thing with Jeff would be settled. It’s keeping me up at night.”
Monica poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Gina at the table. She took a closer look at her stepmother. Gina looked older than she had a couple of days ago—drawn and pale with dark circles under her eyes—the kind of tired that no amount of Botox could erase.
Monica cupped her hands around her mug to warm them. The old kitchen was drafty and chilly, even with the oven going. “Jeff can’t be the only suspect. Mauricio doesn’t have an alibi, as we’ve discovered. If Charlie was at the hospital with her mother, Mauricio could have easily left the Inn and no one would have been the wiser.”
Gina’s face brigh
tened slightly.
“Sam Culbert wasn’t very well liked,” Monica continued. “The VanVelsen sisters—”
Gina looked blank.
“They’re the identical twins who were at the spaghetti supper last night.”
“Of course. I’m afraid I’m never going to keep all these names straight.”
“According to them, Culbert put the local beauty salon out of business when he raised their rent. The former owner, Cora, is now working at the Cranberry Cove Diner.”
“That sure would make me angry.” Gina drummed her fingers on the table.
“Also, according to the VanVelsens, Culbert’s wife probably isn’t too sorry to see him gone. Sounds like he was something of a bully and an abuser.” Monica took a sip of her coffee.
“Those sisters really have their ear to the ground, don’t they?” Gina pointed a finger at Monica. “If they’re right about the wife then I’m betting she did it. A woman can only stand so much before she snaps.” Her face brightened considerably.
Monica smiled. “We don’t exactly have any proof. I thought I would go by the diner later and talk to this Cora.”
“Good plan. Are you going to check to see if she has an alibi?”
“I can hardly come right out and ask her. But maybe I can get a feel for what she’s like and how much she really hated Sam Culbert.”
Monica finished her coffee and got up to put her mug in the sink.
“I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got my meeting.” Gina looked at her watch. “In . . . five minutes ago.” She stood up and took her empty cup to the counter. “Let me know what you find out.”
Monica closed the door behind Gina and began to pack her baskets full of the goodies she’d baked that morning. She certainly hoped she’d learn something from Cora because even though she didn’t want to admit it, she was as worried about Jeff as Gina was.
Monica crested the hill into town and paused for a moment. Dark clouds were moving in from the west, hovering over the lake menacingly, and an increasingly strong wind was whipping the water into white-capped waves. She wasn’t surprised—she had felt the sharp edge in the air when she went out to her car. She shivered thinking of Jeff and his crew standing thigh deep in cold water.