by Peg Cochran
“Can you manage the hoe with one arm?”
“I’ve figured out a way to do it. It isn’t pretty, and I’m not very fast, but it works.
“Why not let one of the crew do it?”
Jeff’s face dissolved into a stubborn mask. “When I got out of the hospital, I decided that if I could figure out how to do something with one arm, I was going to do it. I don’t like being dependent on someone else.”
He sat on the ground beside the ditch and unwrapped the turkey sandwich Monica had made him. He took a bigger bite than Monica thought humanly possible.
“These berries are Early Blacks.” Jeff gestured toward the bog with his sandwich. “The vines aren’t as thick or as heavy as the Stevens berries, for instance,” he mumbled around the food in his mouth. “They’re a lot easier to trim.”
Jeff popped the top on the can of cola and took a long swig. He put it down and wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. He finished the rest of his sandwich and reached for one of the cookies.
He bit off half of it in one bite. “Delicious. Are these new?”
Monica nodded. “Yes. An experiment.”
Jeff grinned. “These are definitely going to be a hit.”
He downed the rest of the cookies, drained the can of pop and picked up his hoe again. He looked behind him. “The team’s going to catch up with me if I don’t get moving.” He grinned at Monica. “Thanks for the grub. I appreciate it.”
Monica gathered the empty plastic wrap and pop can, put them in her basket and headed back toward the path. She was halfway there when she heard Jeff shout.
Had he hurt himself? Monica began to retrace her steps, running back the way she had come through the grass that had been flattened by her earlier footsteps.
“What’s the matter?” Monica asked breathlessly when she reached Jeff.
Jeff was standing beside the ditch, staring into it, leaning slightly on the hoe he held in his good hand.
“What is it?”
Monica peered into the ditch and saw a gnarled ball of weeds, cranberry vines and other debris.
“What’s the matter?” she asked again.
Jeff poked at the collection of debris with the hoe, tearing the ball apart into its separate components.
“I was raking up what I thought were the usual weeds and dead vines when my hoe caught on something. It’s not unusual for it to catch on a vine so I tried to pull it free. When I did, I found this.”
He continued to untangle the tumble of weeds and vines, revealing the veil from a beekeepers hat.
Jeff looked out across the bogs. “What do you want to bet the rest of the hat is out here somewhere?”
“But the police searched very carefully.”
Jeff snorted. “There’s acres and acres of hiding places here. And this veil was tangled up in the vines—I wouldn’t have noticed it myself if my hoe hadn’t caught on it and gotten stuck.”
“What’s that?” Monica pointed to a scrap of yellow paper that had been tangled up in the snarl of weeds and vines.
Jeff crouched beside the ditch and, stretching out his good arm, managed to retrieve the slip of colored paper. He handed it to Monica.
She unfolded it carefully. “Looks like a withdrawal slip from the bank. There’s an account number on it but no name.”
“Probably one of my guys pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and this came along with it.” He gestured toward the paper in Monica’s hand and sighed. “He should have picked it up but obviously couldn’t be bothered.”
Monica shoved the slip into the pocket of her jeans. She would throw it in the trash when she got back to the cottage.
“I suppose we should call Detective Stevens,” she said, pointing at the beekeeper’s veil. “This could be important.”
Jeff looked toward the field where they had stacked the pallets of bees. “We know someone stole the protective gear from Lori’s car and then had to get rid of it.”
“But why ditch part of the outfit in one place and part of it in another? They must have stolen the gear from Lori’s car so she wouldn’t have access to it. But they needed the hat to at least protect their face—the most vulnerable part when it comes to bee stings—so they saved that. But ultimately they had to get rid of it as well.” Monica looked around. “You’re right, the rest of the hat must be here somewhere.”
Jeff laughed. “Good luck finding it. It’s a miracle the veil didn’t get bundled up with the rest of this mess in the ditch.” He jerked a head toward a crew member coming up behind him. “Skip would have pulled this tangled jumble out with his pitchfork and then Joe and Pete would have carried it away to be gotten rid of. And no one would be the wiser.”
As they expected, Stevens advised them not to move anything when they called her on Monica’s cell phone. Fifteen minutes later she pulled up with a squeal of brakes.
“Well, well, well,” she said when Jeff showed her the beekeeper’s veil hidden amidst the weeds and vines in the ditch. “Whoever our killer is must have taken off across the fields and dropped this in the ditch, thinking it wouldn’t be found.”
“It almost wasn’t,” Jeff said.
“The veil obviously came loose from the hat which must be here somewhere.”
Stevens pulled out her cell phone and barked some orders into it. It wasn’t long before several cars pulled up and a team of police was methodically crawling through the ditch looking for the rest of the hat and anything else the killer might have dropped.
“It would be great if they cleaned out the ditch while they were at it,” Jeff quipped.
Stevens shot him a dirty look and Jeff shrugged.
• • •
Monica was hanging laundry on her clothesline—she loved the smell of sheets dried in the sun and fresh air—when she noticed Rick’s truck go past. He pulled up to the edge of the field, parked and jumped out.
“Hello,” Monica called as she headed over toward where Rick was standing. When she got closer, she noticed his face had lines on it that Monica didn’t think had been there before. This murder was taking its toll on both Rick and Nora.
“Are you looking for Jeff?”
Rick leaned against the dusty side of his truck. “No, Detective Stevens asked me to come by.”
Monica heard rustling and turned around to see Stevens making her way across the field to where they were standing. She had a plastic bag in her hand. Monica couldn’t see what was in it, but she suspected they had found the beekeeper’s hat.
Perspiration beaded Stevens’s forehead and she fanned herself with her free hand.
“It’s hot out there in the sun.”
“We could go inside,” Monica offered. “I have a pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator.”
“That’s very tempting, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time,” Stevens said, brandishing the plastic evidence bag. “We’ve found the rest of the hat.” She turned to Rick, whose eyebrows had gone up, nearly disappearing under the fringe of hair flopping down on his forehead.
“The rest of the hat?”
“The veil was in one place and the hat in another, although not all that far away.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I imagine the veil must have come loose for some reason.”
“Lori said she couldn’t stand the traditional beekeeper’s hat like the one I wear. The veil comes down to my chest and is kept in place with elastic straps that go around the shoulders. She said the getup made her feel claustrophobic.”
“Is the veil attached?” Stevens asked.
“On my hat, yes. But Lori ordered something online that came in two pieces—a hat with a wide brim and a veil that went over it. Frankly, I wouldn’t feel adequately protected in something like that, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Besides, she’d rarely ever been stung so—” Rick stopped abruptly.
; “Exactly,” Stevens said. She stared at Rick until Rick finally looked away. “Have you remembered where you were at the time of the murder?” she asked after a long pause.
Rick’s face shut down—even his eyes took on a blank look. “No. I don’t remember. I wasn’t anywhere.” He waved his hands in the air, his voice taking on a desperate tone.
Monica wasn’t sure what she should do. Should she tell Stevens about Rick’s visit with the lawyer? The decision was made for her when Stevens turned to leave and Rick got back in his truck.
Monica decided she would urge Nora to talk to Rick, and to tell Stevens herself if he refused. It was their story after all, not Monica’s.
Chapter 17
Arline was giving the farm kitchen a final cleaning when Monica arrived, slightly breathless. She knew Arline would be waiting for her. She opened the door to the smell of disinfectant in the air and all the stainless steel appliances gleaming brightly.
“I’m sorry you had to do that all by yourself,” Monica said, noting the martyred look on Arline’s face. “I got held up, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. I’m glad to be of help.” Arline wrung her sponge out in the sink. “I saw the police were here again. I hope they didn’t find another dead body.” Arline gave a bark of laughter.
“Nothing like that, thank goodness. They found Lori’s beekeeping hat.”
“Imagine that,” Arline said as she pulled off a length of paper toweling and dried her hands. “That was lucky. It couldn’t have been easy with Sassamanash Farm being so big.”
Monica explained about Jeff and his crew cleaning the ditches. “I suppose they were lucky, as you said. It could have been easily missed.”
“I wonder if the hat will tell the police anything?” Arline took a sample-sized bottle of hand cream from her purse and squeezed a dab onto her palm.
“I don’t know,” Monica admitted. “Maybe there will be some trace of DNA? From a stray hair or something?”
“I always thought that only happened on those television shows,” Arline said, returning the tube of hand cream to her purse. “I still wonder if it wasn’t that Dale Wheeler who did it. Dale felt cornered by Lori and her insistence that he marry her. And you know how savagely a cornered animal will fight.”
“You’ve met him,” Monica said. “Did you get the impression he might be dangerous? He certainly scared me.”
Arline ran a hand through her short dark hair. “There was something unsettling about him, although I can’t put my finger on exactly what it was. Maybe it was because he had a drinking problem.”
“What?” Monica whirled around. “How do you know? Did Lori tell you that?”
For a brief moment Monica wondered if Arline wasn’t fabricating things to make them sound more dramatic than they really were.
“He had one of those Breathalyzer thingies in his car. I saw it when he picked Lori up one time. You know—you have to blow into it and the car won’t start if it senses you’ve been drinking.”
“Why would someone have one of those—”
Arline laughed. “Well you can be pretty sure no one would willingly install one of those Breathalyzers themselves.”
Arline brushed at a spot on her T-shirt. Monica feared it was juice from a cranberry and not likely to come out in the wash.
“Usually people have to install them as part of a deal with the courts when they’ve been hit with a DUI.”
“Oh,” Monica said. That did make it sound as if Dale had a drinking problem. Had he been drinking when he killed Lori?
• • •
Monica couldn’t wait to get back to her cottage and her computer. Once she did, Mittens seemed determined to thwart her efforts—strolling across Monica’s keyboard, her tail swishing back and forth under Monica’s nose.
Monica gave Mittens a kiss and put her down on the floor. Seconds later, Mittens was on the table again, batting at Monica’s Q key. Monica was about to put her down again when Mittens became bored of the game and dashed off to chase a tumbleweed of cat fur being blown across the floor by a breeze coming in the window.
Monica went to her favorite search engine and put in Dale Wheeler’s name. Some of the results weren’t relevant—like the obituary for a Dale Wheeler in West Virginia who died twenty-three years ago. She scrolled through the entries, wondering if she was wasting her time, when she came to a link to a newspaper story.
The story was brief and contained few details, but there was enough information for Monica to glean that her Dale Wheeler had been arrested for drunk driving. He looked younger in the grainy picture that accompanied the article, but it was definitely the Dale Wheeler who worked at Peck’s Garage and who had been dating Lori Wenk.
Monica went back to the search engine and put in Dale’s name again, only this time she added the date of his DUI. A new list of results popped up when she hit enter. At the top of the list was a link to another news story. Monica clicked on it and was taken to a story from the local paper. This report was about Dale’s trial and subsequent sentencing. Apparently a man had died in the crash that Dale had caused. His attorney was obviously very adept because Dale got away with several years’ probation and was restricted from using or being around alcohol for the duration of his sentence. It was also stipulated that a Breathalyzer be installed in his car.
Had Dale been out drinking when Lori was killed and that was why he couldn’t give the police an alibi? Monica remembered something the receptionist at the garage had said—about Dale being a regular down at Flynn’s. Of course it would do nothing to help Nora or Rick if Dale turned out to be innocent.
Monica bit her lip. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She had nothing against Dale but she could picture him as a murderer far more easily than either of the Taylors.
Maybe the bartender would remember if Dale had been at the bar when Lori was killed.
Monica did not relish the thought of another trip to Flynn’s bar. She’d been there once before—in the interests of chasing down a clue—and the experience hadn’t been particularly pleasant. Flynn’s was located by the harbor, down a dark, seedy alley. She certainly wasn’t going to go there alone. The thought made her shiver. Maybe Gina would be up for an adventure—she usually was.
Gina was closing up Making Scents when Monica called her. She was more than thrilled to join Monica on a trip to Flynn’s as soon as she’d gone up to her apartment and changed.
Monica suspected that Gina’s attire was fine the way it was, given that the male patrons of the bar were usually in jeans with flannel shirts in the winter and stained T-shirts with risqué sayings on them in the summer. But Gina never missed an opportunity to dress up if there was even the remotest possibility of meeting a man. Monica didn’t think she’d find any likely candidates at Flynn’s, but as Gina always said, you never know.
Back at her house, Monica gave a quick glance in the mirror and was pleased to see that her new smooth hairdo still looked good. She ran a brush through it, washed her face and hands, dabbed on some lip balm and was ready.
A well-tuned roar—far different from the dissonant sounds Monica’s Focus made as it chugged along—announced Gina’s arrival half an hour later as she flew down Monica’s driveway and brought her Mercedes to a halt inches from the garage door.
“Oh,” was all Monica could say when she opened the front door.
Gina’s expensively highlighted blond hair was in a casual updo that was almost more down than up, giving the impression she had just rolled out of bed. Thick applications of eyeliner and mascara made her eyes look heavy and sleepy. To continue the illusion, her sundress was more negligee than dress, with a wispy handkerchief hem that ended a good few inches above her knees.
If Gina was dressing like this for Flynn’s, where she already knew she wasn’t going to meet any eligible men, Monica couldn’t help but wonder how she dressed when she was reall
y on the prowl.
Scenery sped by at an alarming rate as Gina shot down the hill toward the town of Cranberry Cove. She negotiated the turn onto the bridge by the harbor on two wheels, causing Monica to hold on for dear life. As much as she was dreading the visit to Flynn’s, Monica was relieved when they pulled up outside its windowless front door.
“Is this a parking space?” Monica glanced at the lines painted on the street, her eyebrows raised in concern.
“Probably not, but it will do,” Gina said. “I don’t want to walk too far. The night air is getting damp, and it will ruin my hairdo.”
Monica put a hand to her own hair.
Gina must have noticed the gesture. “Your hair looks great, by the way. You ought to wear it that way more often.”
Sure, Monica thought. But first she’d have to get on a first name basis with a blow dryer. Not to mention set her alarm clock earlier so she would have time to wrestle with the thing.
Gina pulled open the door to Flynn’s and paused at the entrance. Monica couldn’t tell whether she was assessing the situation or waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Flynn’s hadn’t changed since the last time Monica had been there. It certainly hadn’t changed for the better. It smelled of spilled beer and industrial disinfectant—an unsavory combination.
It was fairly crowded. The men must have escaped from home as soon as the empty dinner dishes were whisked off the table. Most of them chose the stools lining the bar but a few sat at tables by themselves, tilting their chairs back along with their glasses. Two men were throwing darts at a board pockmarked with holes.
The bartender flicked his eyes over Gina and Monica then went back to polishing the glass in his hand with a dingy looking rag.