by Peg Cochran
“Down the hatch now,” she said with a smile.
Monica took a sip and closed her eyes in pretend rapture. “Heavenly. Exactly what I needed.”
Arline laughed and went back to the dough she was rolling out for scones.
Monica took another sip of her coffee and turned toward Arline.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” Monica said. “I spoke with Detective Stevens yesterday,”
“Yes?” Arline spun around to face Monica.
“She told me that according to the autopsy they performed, Lori wasn’t pregnant like we thought.”
“What?” Arline jerked and knocked a shaker of powdered sugar to the floor. She bent to pick it up.
“That’s what Detective Stevens said.”
Arline straightened up. “I must have read that pregnancy test strip wrong.” She smacked herself on the forehead. “I can be a little . . . dyslexic at times, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “Maybe the test belonged to someone else? I don’t think Mrs. Wenk. . . .”
Monica’s laugh cut her off. “I doubt it!”
“I suppose it could have been a girlfriend’s. Maybe she didn’t want to take the test at home . . . in case her parents or her boyfriend . . .”
“True,” Monica said. “That’s possible.” She went back to mixing the salsa. “No harm done. I thought you might want to know.”
Chapter 15
After Monica finished up the cranberry salsa, she was tired and sweating. She felt better after a quick shower and a change out of her work clothes, which were stained with red from the cranberries, making it look as if she had been bleeding. She didn’t want to alarm anyone by appearing in downtown Cranberry Cove like that.
She had a couple of library books to return, and there was one on hold she planned to read for Greg’s monthly book club—Cover Her Face by P. D. James. It was a slight departure from their usual fare of books by the grande dames of the Golden Age, but this author was certainly no less grande.
Cranberry Cove’s library was near the Central Reformed Church, in an old house that had been repurposed to serve its new function. The mansion had been left to the town by the last son of a family of Dutch furniture makers who had died without a spouse or any heirs.
Large elm trees shaded the house library, so it was always cool inside, and today was no exception. The main room boasted a large fireplace surrounded by antique blue and white delft tiles depicting windmills, wooden shoes, ships at sail and various flora and fauna. It had been converted to gas a number of years ago when a stray spark from a live fire had nearly burned the library down.
Flames were leaping in the large open grate even though it was late June. The quiet section, filled with mismatched desks and chairs, was empty and so were most of the stalls. Even the comfortable and worn sofas and armchairs were largely unoccupied. The library had only recently begun to offer CDs and DVDs—a move that had the older residents of Cranberry Cove tsk-tsking under their breath.
Phyllis Bouma was behind the front desk, a pair of reading glasses dangling against her flat chest. She was wearing a plain white blouse and had a gray cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Why, hello there,” she said when she caught sight of Monica. “I believe your book has come in.” She swiveled her chair over to a computer and began clicking the keys.
The library might look old-fashioned, but a forward-thinking board president had seen to it that its equipment, at least, was modern. Several of the older librarians had retired as soon as the first computers were wheeled in, but Phyllis had stuck it out, taking a night course at the high school to learn the ins and outs of the new technology.
Phyllis turned toward Monica and tapped a bony finger at the computer screen. “Here’s your book, right here. It should be on the shelf there.” She pointed in back of her. “They’re alphabetized by last name.”
Monica went over to the pickup shelf to retrieve her copy of Cover Her Face. She’d finished the book she’d been reading, and was looking forward to sliding under the covers tonight with this new one.
The library had yet to convert to a system that allowed patrons to check out on their own, although they were holding book sales and other events to raise money for one. When Monica got back to the front desk, a woman was in front of her holding a stack of books, which she handed to Phyllis one by one.
Monica noticed that Phyllis’s face looked pinched with disapproval. She handed a receipt to the woman and nodded. She blew out a sigh as Monica approached the desk.
“I really don’t think we should be carrying books like that in our library.” She gestured toward the woman who was about to leave.
“What sort of book was it?”
Monica couldn’t imagine what had thrown Phyllis into such a tizzy—her cheeks were pink and her lips were set in a thin line. Phyllis read murder mysteries—what could have shocked her more than a dead body or serial killer?
“It was that filthy book everyone wants to check out. It’s highly inappropriate for Cranberry Cove.” Phyllis’s color deepened. “Fifty Shades of . . . something or other.” She tossed her head. “My neighbor, who’s old enough to know better, told me about it, and patrons have been checking it out left and right. We had to order a new copy—the original was falling apart.”
Monica had heard of the book but it hadn’t interested her. However, it wasn’t up to Phyllis to decide what the residents of Cranberry Cove should or shouldn’t read.
“I caught that Lori Wenk in the stacks one day thumbing through it. She said she was looking for the good parts. Good parts, indeed!” She shook her finger at Monica. “That girl was what we used to call a man-eater back in my day.”
“What do you mean?”
“She went after anything in a pair of pants! Even Herbert Mingledorf! He’s a sweetheart, but dreadfully naïve. I blame his mother—so incredibly protective. Lori made a play for him and the poor dear was frightened half to death. When he didn’t respond—and how could he with his mother looking over his shoulder every minute of the day?—she threatened to sue him for sexual harassment.” Phyllis hesitated briefly over the word sexual. “Can you imagine?”
Monica nearly recoiled at the vehemence of Phyllis’s speech.
“Who is Herbert Mingledorf? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”
Phyllis looked momentarily stunned. “He’s our program director. A dear boy and terribly nice, but, as I said, terribly naïve, too. He actually went to the trouble of consulting an attorney.”
“Do you know which attorney it was?”
Phyllis looked at Monica as if Monica had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Dieter Oostendorp, who else?”
Monica realized, not for the first time, that she was not a native of Cranberry Cove and never would be no matter how many times Gus smiled at her at the Cranberry Cove Diner. The real natives had so much inside knowledge; it would take her a lifetime to catch up.
“Dieter . . . ?”
“Oostendorp,” Phyllis repeated somewhat testily. “A fine Dutch name. And a fine lawyer, too.”
“You don’t happen to know his phone number, do you?”
Phyllis gave a tinkling laugh and turned toward her computer. She punched some keys and turned back to Monica with not only Dieter’s telephone number, but his address and email address as well. She wrote them down and handed the slip of paper to Monica. “Computers are wonderful, aren’t they? I know I balked at first, but now I don’t know what I’d do without them.” She patted her monitor affectionately and then looked at Monica suspiciously. “Not in any trouble, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Monica reassured her, waving the slip of paper in her hand. “It’s for a friend.”
• • •
Nora was serving a customer when Monica arrived at the farm store. Monica waited for the woman to leave, arranging and rearranging a stack of napkins embroi
dered with cranberries. Finally the door clicked closed behind their customer, and Monica and Nora were alone.
“Did you get the list of phone numbers from Rick’s cell?” Monica asked as soon as she heard a car start up in the parking lot.
“Yes.” Nora blushed. “I felt bad going behind Rick’s back like that. Once I thought he was waking up—he had dozed off in his chair in front of an episode of NCIS—and I was so startled I nearly dropped the phone. Imagine! That would have been hard to explain. But it was only Dexter, our ringtail cat.” She laughed. “That cat is so big he sometimes sounds like a person walking.”
Monica held her breath while Nora fished around in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Monica.
“These are the calls he made the day before the murder, the day of and the day after.” She frowned. “Do you think I should have written down more of them? A lot of the numbers were repeats, and some days the only calls were to our home phone or my cell.”
Monica dug around in her purse and pulled out the slip of paper Phyllis had given her at the library. She was operating on a hunch, and her fingers were crossed that she was right.
She put the two pieces of paper side by side on the counter and went through the numbers, running her finger down them one by one. She nearly shouted when one of the calls made from Rick’s cell phone matched the telephone number for Dieter Oostendorp, the lawyer Phyllis had told her about.
“Look.” Monica jabbed the piece of paper with her finger. “This is the telephone number for an attorney in town.”
“What would Rick want with an attorney?” Nora’s face had gone so white that the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose looked as if they had been drawn on with a marker.
“Let me explain.”
She told Nora about poor Herbert Mingledorf at the library and Lori’s allegations of sexual harassment, which had forced Herbert to consult an attorney.
The more Monica talked, the more Nora’s lips tightened. She finally let her breath out in a furious exhale. “The nerve of that woman!” A confused look shadowed her face. “But how does this help Rick?”
“It’s a long shot, I agree. But if Rick contacted that lawyer and made an appointment to see him—would he want the police to know that?”
“I don’t . . . oh, you mean they would learn about Lori’s suit and that would give him a motive for murder.”
“Yes. If Rick told them about a meeting with the lawyer—assuming he had one—they’d want to know why, and it would all come out.”
“But why didn’t he tell me that? I wouldn’t have said anything. . . .” Nora’s voice trailed off and she gave an abrupt laugh. “You’re right. I would never have been able to lie to the police. I’m no good at it.”
Monica put a hand on Nora’s arm. “Neither am I.” She thought back to the time Jeff had refused to tell her where he was for fear she wouldn’t be able to keep the knowledge from the police.
“Now we know he contacted that lawyer.” Nora stuffed the slip of paper with the phone numbers on it back into her pocket. “But how do we find out if he made an appointment?”
Monica picked at the cuticle on her left thumb. “I’m not sure. . . .” She realized she hadn’t thought that far ahead—she’d only been focused on finding out if Rick had been in contact with Dieter Oostendorp.
“Can you ask Rick? Now that you know this much, perhaps he’ll tell you the truth.”
Nora shook her head, her curls bobbing back and forth. “Then he would know I’d been . . . spying on him.” She shook her head again. “I don’t suppose we can call the attorney’s office and ask?”
The same thought had crossed Monica’s mind. But would they give out information like that? Wouldn’t it be privileged?
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in trying.”
Nora pulled her cell phone from her pocket and held it out to Monica. “Here, can you do it, please? I know I can’t. I’ll mess things up.”
Monica felt her palms get damp as she took the phone from Nora. It took her two tries to enter the telephone number correctly. Finally she was connected with the receptionist at the law firm.
“Who did you want to speak to?” the woman asked.
“Dieter Oostendorp, please.”
There was a rustling sound and the woman came back on the line. “I’m sorry. I’m filling in today for Mr. Oostendorp’s secretary. The agency sent me. Can I ask what this is in reference to, please?” Her voice became more businesslike all of a sudden.
“I . . . I’m checking to see if someone had an appointment with Mr. Oostendorp.” Monica gave the woman the day and date. “His name is Rick Taylor.”
Nora tugged on Monica’s sleeve. “Richard. He might have used his formal name.”
“Richard Taylor, I mean,” Monica said to the woman.
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you that.” A sigh came over the line. “Like I told you, the agency sent me, and they stuck me at this desk with a phone and a computer and no instructions.”
Monica heard rustling again and held her breath.
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving you that information. I have the appointment book right here. This guy is pretty old-fashioned. Most of the people I’ve temped for use a calendar on their computer.”
Monica waited some more, trying to curb her impatience.
“Okay, here it is. Yes. He had an appointment with a Richard Taylor, just like you thought.”
Monica felt herself break out into a smile. She put a hand over the phone and whispered to Nora, “That’s it!” She turned back to the phone. “Thanks for your help.”
She could barely keep herself from jumping up and down. She gave Nora an impulsive hug.
“Obviously your husband was meeting with that attorney.”
“And if he was meeting with this lawyer, it proves he couldn’t have killed Lori.” Relief flooded Nora’s face, but it swiftly clouded over again. “There’s one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I still don’t have an alibi. And I had as good a reason for killing Lori as Rick did.”
Chapter 16
Monica was in the kitchen, fixing herself a late lunch, when Gina pulled into the driveway with her traditional flourish that included spraying gravel into the herb garden that Monica would have to pick out later.
“Yoo-hoo,” Gina called as she opened Monica’s back door.
“I’m making myself a turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Would you like one?” Monica asked as Gina settled into a kitchen chair with Mittens purring in her lap.
Gina was wearing a low-cut sundress and high-heeled strappy sandals. Somehow she managed to maintain her expensive highlights and French manicure despite the fact that the places that could provide such services were nonexistent in Cranberry Cove.
“No, thanks. I stopped by to see how Jeffie is doing. He’s been working awful hard lately, and I can’t help but think of that time he came down with mono after studying so many hours for his SATs.” Mittens lifted her chin, and Gina scratched underneath it. “He wasn’t home so I imagine he is out on the bogs somewhere. That boy doesn’t know when to take a break.”
“Running Sassamanash Farm is a full-time job.” Monica carried her sandwich over to the table. “But I know what you mean—I wish Jeff could afford to hire some more help.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “Not that he would. He likes doing everything himself.”
“He’s something of a control freak,” Gina agreed. “Like his father.” Her foot, which was already jiggling, began to move even faster. “I’m having dinner tomorrow night with Xavier Cabot, that new writer in town.”
“Oh.”
“I’m meeting him at the Pepper Pot. They do a great lemon drop martini there. Although I don’t imagine that would be up Xavier’s alley.
I’m sure he’d go for something more manly, like Macallan straight up.”
Gina dumped Mittens from her lap and stood up. “I’d better be off. Keep an eye on Jeffie for me, would you?”
Monica saw Gina out and then sat down to finish her turkey sandwich—no mean feat with Mittens attempting to swipe it out of her hand even when she was down to the last bit of crust.
She thought about what Gina had said. Jeff was working very hard. Monica suspected he was still out on the bogs and hadn’t stopped for lunch or anything to drink. She had some roast turkey breast left and some cold pop in the fridge—she’d make him a sandwich and take him a cold drink.
Monica packed a sandwich, a can of cola and a couple of her cranberry chocolate chip cookies in a basket. Mittens followed her outside, where she immediately became engrossed in chasing a fly. Monica glanced into her herb bed and stooped down to fish out a few pieces of gravel and toss them back onto the driveway.
The skies were a clear blue but the birds were twittering in the trees—did that mean a storm was brewing, Monica wondered? She saw Jeff in the distance as she rounded the bend near the pump house where she left the path to cut across the field. The grass was rough and prickly against her bare ankles and a couple of times she had to swat some bees away.
“You look hungry and thirsty,” she said as she approached Jeff. He was standing in one of the ditches that would be running with water come the fall harvest.
His eyes lit up when he saw the contents of Monica’s basket. He put down his hoe, yanked off his work gloves with his teeth, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his forehead.
“You sure are a sight for sore eyes.”
“I thought you might need a little something to eat and drink.” Monica pointed at the hoe Jeff had let drop to the ground. “What are you doing now?”
“Cleaning up the ditches so they’ll be free-flowing when we need them.” He motioned to the ditch. “Sometimes the vines start growing across the edge of the ditch and those need to be cut back.” He pointed to a man in a sweat-stained white T-shirt a couple of dozen yards ahead of him. “Lance did the trimming, and I’m following up with the hoe to gather the debris together.” He pointed in back of him. “The rest of the crew will use pitchforks to scoop up the debris and put it alongside the ditch where it can be collected.”