by Peg Cochran
There were a few drops of rain on her windshield as she turned onto Beach Hollow Road. One of the VanVelsen sisters—Monica couldn’t tell them apart without their name tags—was out in front of Gumdrops sweeping up the dried autumn leaves that had collected in the corners of the shop’s doorway.
A red pickup truck backed out of a space in front of the Cranberry Cove Diner, and Monica quickly pulled in. The smell of bacon frying hit her as soon as she opened the car door. She felt her stomach grumble. Breakfast had been at six thirty a.m., and it was now almost noon. Maybe today she would have a chance to treat herself to a bowl of the diner’s famous chili.
The cook, Gus, was behind the grill flipping burgers and frying eggs with casual ease while keeping his eye on a pile of hash browns and some French fries spitting and sizzling in the fryer behind him. He had wavy dark hair, strong forearms and a broad chest and shoulders. He gave Monica a barely perceptible nod. Monica was pleased to note that since she was now living in Cranberry Cove full time, she warranted some personal acknowledgment of her presence from Gus. But the VanVelsen sisters had warned her that it would be years, if ever, before she got the smile that Gus reserved for locals. According to them, he had a complicated hierarchy of greetings ranging from none at all for the summer tourists right up to coming out from behind the counter to shake someone’s hand and slap them on the back. Apparently, there were only one or two people in all of Cranberry Cove who merited that level of enthusiasm. The irony that Gus himself was a transplant was no doubt lost on him.
A counter with stools ran in front of the grill. Two men sat at one end nursing cups of coffee with newspapers spread open in front of them. The red leather booths on the other side of the room were already filled with customers eating lunch. A waitress with short, gray-streaked hair was leaning on the counter waiting for her order. Cora? She had a pencil behind one ear and a weary expression on her face. Gus slid a dish in her direction, and when she didn’t immediately pick it up, he stabbed a stubby finger toward it and scowled at her.
All heads had turned in Monica’s direction when she walked in. She was still a stranger as far as the people of Cranberry Cove were concerned, especially those whose families had been living there for generations. Suddenly Monica heard someone call her name. She glanced toward the booths to see Greg Harper sitting in one of them. He had a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and the newspaper propped open on the table. He motioned to Monica.
“Good afternoon,” he said, then glanced quickly at his watch. “Well, it will be shortly. The noon whistle will be going off in five minutes.” He pointed to the seat opposite him. “Please join me,” he said as Monica hesitated.
Monica slid into the other seat as Greg folded up his newspaper and tucked it beside him.
“I was sorry to miss you at the spaghetti supper the other night.”
Greg made a face. “What a nightmare! I was getting ready to leave the store when one of my bookshelves collapsed. Guess I shouldn’t try to stuff so much on them. The manufacturer claimed they were heavy duty, but obviously they’re not.” He gave a rueful smile. “It took me until almost midnight to repair the shelves and reorganize the books.”
Monica thought back to her visit to Book ’Em. Organized wasn’t a word she would use in conjunction with the haphazard array of stock in the store.
“But enough about my sad tales of woe. How did you like the Agatha Christie? Have you finished it yet?”
Monica laughed. “One of the benefits of country living is that the lack of nightlife leaves plenty of time for reading.”
“Do you miss Chicago?” Greg put a hand toward his fork and then paused.
“Please don’t stop eating on my account.” Monica leaned back as a waitress, not the one Monica had noticed earlier, slid a glass of water and a napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware in front of her.
“To answer your question,” she said when the waitress left after dropping a menu on the table, “sometimes. I enjoyed city life—the museums, concerts, art galleries and things like that—but the country does have its compensations.”
“I hear you,” Greg said, forking up the last bite of his eggs. “I moved here from Minneapolis myself, and while it’s not as large as Chicago, it’s still a long way from Cranberry Cove.”
“What brought you here?” Monica took a sip of the ice water the waitress had left. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she added hurriedly.
Greg grimaced. “I was a victim of the dot-com bust. A friend and I had the mistaken notion that we could take on Amazon. We started an online bookstore, but neither of us had any experience in fulfillment.”
“What’s that?”
“In a nutshell, getting the product to the buyer in a somewhat timely fashion. I’m afraid we failed spectacularly.”
“But why Cranberry Cove? There must have been a lot more opportunities in Minneapolis.”
Greg ducked his head briefly. “Frankly, I was embarrassed, so I crept away with my tail between my legs. I couldn’t keep up with the friends I’d made in the city—successful lawyers, bankers and other professionals. I came here to lick my wounds. The bookstore was for sale, and I used what little money I had left to buy it. And you know what?”
Monica shook her head.
“I like dealing with real books a lot more than virtual ones. It’s a lot more satisfying to interact one-on-one with a customer. Plus I get to talk about my favorite subject all day long—authors and their books.” He pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows on the table. “Speaking of which, you didn’t say. How did you like the Christie?”
“I liked it very much. I’ve been meaning to stop by to pick up something new.”
“Looks like we have our own mystery right here in Cranberry Cove. Has there been any more news about Sam Culbert’s murder? There wasn’t much of anything in the paper.”
“Nothing new that I know of, I’m afraid.”
Greg glanced at his watch again. “Sorry. I’d better shove off. I’ve got this young girl working for me part time, and she expects to go to lunch on the dot of noon, even if the store is full of people and there’s a line at the register. Good help is hard to find.”
Monica thought of Darlene. “That’s for sure.”
“Let’s get together one of these days. I’ll give you a call.” Greg tapped her on the shoulder as he walked past and headed to the cash register.
Greg was paying his bill when the gray-haired waitress stopped by Monica’s table to take her order. Monica glanced at the name tag pinned to her uniform. Cora was written on it in fading letters.
Monica ordered a bowl of chili and an iced tea then opened her mouth to say something to Cora, but she had already turned around and was scurrying to the counter to place the order.
Monica looked out the window while she waited. She saw Bart Dykma hurry past, looking more like himself in his butcher’s apron than he had in his somber black suit at Culbert’s funeral. From this angle she could see the empty storefront next to the hardware store Gina was renting for her aromatherapy shop. She was going to have to depend on business from the tourists because Monica couldn’t see the locals going for it. They were down-to-earth folk with old-fashioned values. Many of the shops, like Danielle’s Boutique and Twilight, were open only on weekends during the winter, their only business being the tourists who came to see the Christmas decorations.
Monica didn’t have long to wait for her order. Cora was back almost immediately with a steaming bowl of chili and a frosted glass of iced tea. She placed them in front of Monica. Monica spoke quickly, before Cora could turn around.
“I want to ask you about Sam Culbert.”
Cora looked startled and glanced over her shoulder at Gus, who was plating a hamburger and fries.
“What about him?” Cora’s mouth set in a bitter line. “He was a miserable wretch, pure and simple. What else can I tel
l you?”
Cora looked over her shoulder again. Gus had the plate ready and was looking for Cora.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. Gus doesn’t like it if we spend too much time talking to the customers, especially not when we’re busy.”
Monica looked around. The booths were full and all but one of the stools at the counter was occupied.
“I’d like to talk to you. Can we meet after you’re finished working?”
Cora sighed and pulled her order pad from the pocket of her apron. She wrote briefly, tore the sheet off and handed it to Monica. “Here’s my address. I get off at five. Come by any time after. I don’t have plans for the evening. By the time I get home from here, I’m too tired to go anywhere.”
Gus cleared his throat and Cora scurried off. Monica put the paper in her purse and started in on her chili.
The locals were right—it was some of the best chili she’d ever had.
Monica finished eating, fished some bills out of her purse and took the check to the counter. Several people were waiting in line for takeout orders, and Gus was really hustling behind the grill flipping burgers, toasting buns and checking on the French fries.
Monica was about to leave when she spotted Darlene in the takeout line.
“I thought you were supposed to be at the shop this afternoon.” Monica glanced at her watch.
Darlene shrugged. “I’ve got to eat, don’t I? Jeff said it was okay.”
Jeff was way too easy on his employees, Monica decided as she walked back to her car. She would have to speak to him about it.
• • •
Monica spent the afternoon struggling with the farm’s accounts. Now she understood the expression robbing Peter to pay Paul. If they were going to meet the payroll for the week, she was going to have to put off sending the check for the electric bill until after it was due. Monica pushed away from the kitchen table where she’d set up her laptop and took a mug from the cupboard. She filled the kettle with water and while it was heating, got out a tea bag. As she was closing the cupboard door, she noticed the bottle of Scotch. It was certainly tempting to take Gina’s advice and spike her tea. Looking at the bleak numbers on the computer screen had given her a headache.
Monica gave herself a mental shake. Things were going to turn around. As soon as this crop was in and sold, the picture would be a lot rosier. And she kept meaning to talk to Jeff again about getting an auditor to go over the books. If they could prove Culbert had been embezzling funds, then perhaps they could sue his estate for what they were owed.
Monica was still bent over her computer when her back door opened. It was just Jeff, but she made a mental note to be more careful about locking up in the future.
Apparently her stress was obvious, because Jeff put his hands on Monica’s shoulders and began to rub them. “You’re all knotted up.”
Monica opened her mouth to say something about the farm’s financial situation but then closed it again. Jeff already knew things were bad. Why worry him more? But she did want to talk about Culbert.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. Jeff was rubbing his hands together as if they were cold.
“Sure.” Jeff pulled out a kitchen chair, turned it around and straddled it.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Monica said while she had her back to her brother. “We really need to get someone to go over the farm’s books. If I’m right, and Culbert was embezzling money—and I’m pretty sure he was—we need to report it.”
“What good is that going to do now?”
“We might sue his estate for the return of the money. Besides, it’s theft and whether he’s alive or not doesn’t change things.”
“I suppose.”
Monica slid a mug of tea across the table toward Jeff. He cupped it in his hands.
“Is the farm really doing that badly?”
Monica bent down and pretended to tie her shoe. She’d never been good at lying, and she didn’t want her face to give her away. “Things are fine. It just doesn’t seem fair for Culbert to get away with it.”
Jeff grunted. “I suppose so. Although it seems to me he already got what was coming to him.” Jeff shivered. “I wouldn’t want to go like that.”
“I’ll do some research online, check if there have been any similar cases and how they were handled, okay?”
“Sure.” Jeff picked up his mug and gulped down the remainder of his tea. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’m meeting some of the guys from the crew for a beer and burger.”
She’d already brought up one touchy subject; Monica decided she might as well go all out. “Have you ever thought about getting some counseling?” she blurted out as Jeff put on his jacket.
“Counseling?” His face was blank. “What kind of counseling? What for?”
Monica clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. “To deal with . . . some of the things you experienced in Afghanistan?”
Jeff’s face twisted into a bitter expression. “You mean like this?” He lifted his left arm with his right and then let it drop again.
“Yes,” Monica said, more firmly than she felt. “You can’t let it hold you back from . . . from doing things.”
“Like what? It seems to me I’m doing just fine. I’m keeping up with the rest of the crew when it comes to harvesting my crop.”
“You are.” Monica hastened to reassure him. “But you can’t let it hold you back from forming . . . relationships.” There. She’d said it.
“You mean like with Lauren?”
“Yes. Or any other woman for that matter.”
“Look, Sis, I’ve already told you. I’m a lousy prospect as a husband. I’m handicapped, and I’m barely getting by. All the counseling in the world isn’t going to change that.”
The slamming of Monica’s back door punctuated his statement as Jeff stomped out of the cottage.
• • •
Monica glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall. It was after five o’clock. She powered off her computer and shut her eyes. She’d been staring at numbers for so long she could still see them dancing on her closed lids. She needed to take a break.
It was almost dinnertime, but she wasn’t hungry yet. Monica pushed her chair back. She would go see Cora instead. Cora ought to be home from the diner by now.
Monica grabbed her fleece jacket from the coat tree by the front door and slipped it on. The nights were getting progressively colder, and it wouldn’t be too much longer before the landscape was blanketed in snow.
As Monica drove toward town, she noticed the leaves were quickly changing to brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. The locals were already complaining about the tourists on color tours who were taking over the town—their large tour buses belching exhaust into the fresh, clean air and clogging traffic on Beach Hollow Road. But the shops were full and the cash registers ringing, so that took the sting out of it. They’d have Cranberry Cove back for themselves soon enough.
Cora lived in a mobile home park just outside of town. Monica found it easily enough. A sign at the entrance announced it as the Park View Estates, although Monica could see nothing resembling a park—unless you counted the small playground ringed by a few trees—nor did she see anything that could even remotely be called an estate.
The place was very tidy, however, and Monica was surprised. She’d expected to see run-down trailers and lawns that were more dirt than grass, but everything was shipshape—the trailers were all in good repair with fresh paint and the miniature yards were well tended. The cars in the driveways were older but clean. Cleaner than her Focus, she thought ruefully.
It was very quiet. The playground was empty, and no one was outside sitting on their deck or doing work in the yard. Monica imagined everyone was inside having dinner or preparing it. Somewhere a dog—it sounded like a small one—began to bark shrilly,
breaking the silence.
She followed the numbers until she found Cora’s trailer. It was the second from the end of a row of similar looking mobile homes. She was about to turn into the driveway when two boys zoomed past her on their bikes, forcing Monica to brake hard.
Her hands were shaking slightly as she pulled in behind a green Taurus that she assumed was Cora’s car. Certainly that must mean that Cora was at home.
Monica mounted the three steps to the deck and approached the door, where a cheerful-looking yellow print curtain was pulled across the window. Hopefully she could get this over with quickly—her stomach was beginning to rumble. She pressed the bell and waited. After two or three minutes, Monica rang again. The trailer was a double-wide, and it couldn’t possibly take Cora that long to get to the door.
There was still no answer a minute later. On the off chance that the bell was broken, Monica decided to knock.
She had just rapped on the door when someone called to her from the neighboring trailer. A woman was standing on her deck smoking a cigarette. She was in a T-shirt and had her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. Her hair was unnaturally black, and there was a colorful tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of her top.
“Looking for Cora?” She called in a husky voice.
“Yes.”
“She ought to be home. Her car’s there,” she pointed her cigarette at the Taurus, “and I didn’t see her go out.” She took a puff on her cigarette and let the smoke out in a stream. “You’d better knock again.”
“I will.”
The woman stubbed her cigarette out in an aluminum ashtray that was propped on the deck rail. “Of course she might be in the shower and can’t hear you.”
Monica hoped that wasn’t the case. She knocked again and waited. Still nothing.
Perhaps she couldn’t hear her for some reason, but she could peek in the trailer and see if Cora was there. There was a window over the deck with the curtain pushed to the sides. For once Monica was glad of her height. She stood on tiptoe and peered in.