Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  “I’m afraid it isn’t.” Monica held out both hands. “I’m not asking you to reveal anything, but surely it’s okay if Mrs. Wenk doesn’t mind. I only want to help.”

  The woman continued to fuss with the buttons on her blouse, her mouth working.

  “I don’t know. We have rules, you know.”

  “I realize that,” Monica said with as much patience as she could muster.

  The woman lowered her hands, and they hovered over her computer keyboard for a few seconds before she began clicking the keys. She frowned at the screen and looked at Mrs. Wenk.

  “You withdrew all the money from your account last week.” She tapped the monitor with a bony finger. She looked at Monica. “I suspect she’s forgotten.”

  Mrs. Wenk twisted her plain gold wedding band around and around on her finger. “I didn’t take the money out. I didn’t come to the bank last week. I would remember.”

  “Would you, dear?” the teller asked.

  Monica felt her neck stiffen. The teller had no need to be so snarky to the poor woman just because she was a little befuddled.

  “If you didn’t take it out yourself,” the clerk said, her pointed nose still in the air, “then you must have given someone else permission to do it for you.” She clicked off the screen on her computer and folded her hands on the counter as if to say that was that. “Because the money isn’t there, and that’s all I can tell you.”

  • • •

  Monica felt a thrill of anticipation as she waited for Greg to pick her up. She was looking forward to a good dinner and Greg’s warm and interesting companionship.

  She’d taken extra care with her hair—fumbling with the new blow dryer she’d purchased at the drugstore—and had spent more time than usual in her closet choosing an outfit.

  Finally she was standing in the living room in her coat, looking out the window, waiting for Greg to pull up.

  Right on the dot of six forty-five, she heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway. Monica smiled. She appreciated when people were on time.

  Monica gave Mittens a final scratch under the chin, checked her hair in the mirror in the foyer and headed out. Greg immediately ran around to the passenger side of the car to open the door.

  “You look lovely tonight,” Greg said as he put the car in drive.

  Monica felt a blush color her face and was glad Greg’s eyes were on the road.

  The drive into town was quick, and they managed to secure a parking spot a few doors away from the Pepper Pot. Greg took Monica’s arm as they strolled down the sidewalk. A light breeze blew in off the lake and Monica caught a whiff of the spicy scent of the geraniums in the planters hanging from the light posts.

  Enticing smells wafted from the restaurant as soon as Greg pulled open the door to the Pepper Pot. Monica recognized notes of garlic, onions and herbs, and her mouth watered.

  Greg looked around the crowded room. “Good thing I made a reservation.”

  “I think summer tourist season is almost in full swing.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “If you’ll come this way, please.” A hostess in a long, gauzy white skirt and tangerine top breezed up to the podium and grabbed two large, leather-bound menus.

  They followed her through the wood-paneled room, skirting occupied tables, dessert carts and bussing stations overflowing with dishes headed for the kitchen.

  “Here you are.” She pulled a chair out for Monica and handed them the menus.

  Before opening hers, Monica looked around. A planter with a silk flower arrangement sat on the grate of the stone fireplace that reached to the wooden beamed ceiling. Most of the tables were occupied, lit by small lamps that lent a rosy glow to the room.

  A waiter appeared at their table. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, please,” Monica said.

  Greg ordered a Scotch and soda, and the waitress headed off to fill their order.

  Unlike the Cranberry Cove Inn, where the waitstaff wore formalwear, the servers at the Pepper Pot wore black shirts and pants and tan canvas bib aprons with Bon Appetit written on them in red script. Monica knew the owner had wanted to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere that would complement the menu, which consisted of elegant takes on hearty fare like chicken pot pies with a puff pastry crust, meatloaf with a balsamic glaze and macaroni and cheese embellished with chunks of lobster.

  The waitress appeared with their drinks and set them down on the table.

  “Here’s to a bright future,” Greg said, taking a drink of his Scotch.

  Monica took a sip of her wine and breathed in the delicious smells. She felt her shoulders slowly relax.

  “This is just what the doctor ordered,” Monica said.

  Greg looked up from his menu, his eyebrows drawn. “This murder is getting you down, isn’t it?”

  Monica ran her finger around and around the rim of her glass. “It is casting a shadow over things.”

  “What are your thoughts so far?”

  “My thoughts are in a jumble, to tell you the truth. I was convinced the culprit was Lori’s boyfriend, but he has an alibi. Of sorts. I suppose he could have convinced the bartender at Flynn’s to lie for him. But then why wouldn’t he tell the police where he was?” She paused and took a sip of her wine. “That leaves Nora, who works in the farm store, or her husband Rick. They both seem like nice people.”

  “Nice people sometimes do surprising things when cornered. And it sounds like Rick, at least, was cornered by the victim.”

  Monica didn’t want to believe that. She fiddled with the edge of her cocktail napkin. “Then there’s Charlie Decker. Mauricio gives her an alibi, but he would, wouldn’t he?”

  Greg nodded. “Tit for tat, I guess.”

  Monica was about to open her menu when she heard someone calling her.

  “Yoo-hoo, Monica!”

  Monica swiveled around in her seat to see Gina making her way toward them through the crowded tables. She was wearing what could only be described as a bandage dress with stiletto-heeled sandals. She had Xavier Cabot by the hand and was dragging him along behind her. Xavier was wearing a black polo shirt with a sport coat over it and had a look of bemusement on his face.

  “This is wonderful,” Gina said when she reached their table. “We don’t have a reservation, and they said it’s going to be an hour wait.” She feigned a pout. “You know how I hate to wait. But now we can sit with you.”

  “There’s not much room. . . .” Monica began but Gina had already signaled to the waitress who was bearing down on them, a concerned look on her face.

  “Can you bring us two more chairs? We’d like to join our friends.”

  The waitress bit her lip, opened her mouth and then closed it again. She obviously recognized that there was no point in arguing with Gina.

  “Monica, you know Xavier,” Gina said when they were finally all crowded around the small table. “And Greg?” Gina put her hand over Xavier’s.

  “Yes, we’ve certainly met.” Xavier raked a hand through his thick gray hair. “He’s helped me track down some volumes that have been invaluable in my research.”

  Gina put her arm around Xavier’s waist and drew him toward her. “Xavier is so intellectual, don’t you think?” She cupped a hand under his chin and smiled at him.

  Monica took a deep breath and exhaled quietly. She’d been looking forward to dinner with Greg—just the two of them. She glanced in his direction to see how he was taking the intrusion. He didn’t look as if he minded, but Monica knew his innate good manners would prevent him from showing any signs of irritation.

  Gina flagged down the waitress as she flew past their table. She turned to Xavier when the waitress came to a halt by their side. “What would you like to drink?”

  Xavier turned an appreciative gla
nce on the waitress whose Pepper Pot apron couldn’t disguise her ample curves. “What single malts do you have?”

  “We have Macallan.”

  Xavier stroked his beard. “I’ll have that.”

  “Water or soda?”

  “Neat, please.”

  The waitress made a note on her pad and turned to Gina, her eyebrows raised.

  “A glass of champagne, please. Veuve Clicquot, if you have it.”

  “We only sell that by the bottle.”

  Gina waved a hand in the air. “Fine. Bring the whole bottle then.” She turned in her chair. “And four glasses,” she called to the retreating waitress. She swiveled back toward the table. “Isn’t this cozy?” She linked her arm through Xavier’s.

  Monica hoped her smile didn’t look too forced.

  “Tell us about your book,” Greg said to Xavier. “Which shipwreck are you researching at the moment?”

  “Several, actually.” Xavier put his hands behind his head and tilted his chair back slightly. “Six boats went down in the Armistice Day Blizzard of 1940. Three of these have already been well documented—the SS Anna C. Minch, the SS William B. Davock and the SS Novadoc. Two smaller ships were also lost between Little Sable Point and Pentwater.”

  The waitress reappeared with Xavier’s drink, a silver bucket of ice with a champagne bottle sticking out of the top and four champagne flutes. She deftly uncorked the champagne, which gave a satisfying pop, and poured Gina a glass. She glanced at Monica, who was nearly finished with her chardonnay. Monica nodded and the waitress poured her a glass of the bubbly. She held the bottle out toward Greg, but he was still nursing his scotch and soda.

  “I’ve read about the Armistice Blizzard of 1940,” Greg said when the waitress moved away. “The temperatures were unseasonably warm—into the sixties that afternoon. But then they dropped precipitously.”

  “The perfect atmospheric conditions for a big storm,” Xavier said, taking a sip of his whiskey and leaning back in his chair. “The blizzard that ravaged the Midwest. Two ships lost all hands but some of the crew from the SS Novadoc were rescued by an intrepid fisherman named Clyde Cross.” Xavier chuckled. “Some called him a hero and others called him crazy. No matter. He saved quite a number of lives that night.”

  “Do we want to order?” Gina said. She’d been perusing her menu while Xavier was talking.

  They quickly decided what they wanted, Monica settling on the chicken potpie, although it had been tough to choose between that and the beef stew.

  “You mentioned a sixth ship,” Greg said when the waitress had finished taking their order.

  Xavier leaned toward Greg. “It was a smaller ship and much less is known about it. It was called the SS Pegasus. She was carrying a load of hardwood lumber to Chicago. I’ve unearthed a couple of interesting facts.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows. Xavier took a deep breath as he launched into the story.

  “It seems that one of the sailors on board, Patrick Boudreaux, had had a run-in with another member of the crew, a young man by the name of Jacob Spindler. Some notes about their set-to were found in a journal one of the sailors had been keeping but which he’d left behind on this particular voyage—thus it survived. A fellow at the Michigan Shipwreck Research Association has been most helpful.”

  Xavier paused and took a sip of his Scotch. Gina leaned over and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

  “It was about a woman, of course. Most of these things are.”

  Monica started to protest, but Xavier continued on.

  “It’s conjectured that Patrick, who had been seen near the telegraph machine on board the Pegasus, intercepted a telegram warning the captain of the raging blizzard. Again, this is all conjecture, but it is thought that instead of delivering the correct message, Patrick told the captain that it was safe to embark—the storm was letting up—consequently sending the ship directly into the eye of the storm.”

  “But wasn’t he putting his own life in danger?” Monica asked.

  “That’s the interesting part—and the reason this story has been put forward. A crew member from another ship saw Patrick standing on the dock as the ship pulled away. And records indicate that a Patrick Boudreaux lived a long and healthy life, dying in 1998 at the age of eighty-six.”

  Chapter 21

  “That was an interesting story Xavier told,” Greg said later as he and Monica were leaving the Pepper Pot. “As a matter of fact, he has a lot of interesting stories. I can’t wait to read his book.”

  “It was interesting. Also slightly frustrating,” Monica said. “I’ve been thinking about the story since Xavier related it, and something about it seems . . . important somehow, but I can’t grasp exactly what.”

  “That is frustrating,” Greg said. “Maybe if you relax, it will come to you.”

  He took Monica’s arm.

  “That wasn’t exactly the intimate dinner I’d been planning,” he said as they strolled down Beach Hollow Road.

  “I’m sorry, but you know Gina. There’s no stopping her.”

  “No need to apologize.” Greg reached for Monica’s hand. “It was an entertaining evening. And the food was excellent.” He squeezed her hand. “How about a nightcap at my place? We didn’t have much of a chance to talk.”

  “I’d like that,” Monica said.

  They continued hand in hand down the street. The night air had turned cooler and a soft breeze was blowing in off of the lake. The shops were shuttered for the night and the gas lamps created pools of light on the sidewalk.

  Greg stopped just short of Book ’Em and fished a tangle of keys from his pocket. He opened the windowless door next to the shop, and he and Monica mounted the stairs to his apartment.

  It looked to Monica as if he’d made an effort to clean up. Books were arranged in neat piles instead of being scattered helter-skelter over every available surface, and the papers that had been stacked on top of them had been whisked away somewhere.

  Monica smiled at the thought of Greg tidying up in hopes that she would come upstairs for a nightcap. She was glad she’d said yes.

  “I’ve got a lovely bottle of merlot breathing on the counter.” Greg laughed. “My, how pretentious that sounds. But the fellow at the Purple Grape said it would enhance the flavor and the bouquet of the wine. I’m going to take his word for it.” He turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll bring the bottle and some glasses out here.”

  Monica settled on his slightly lumpy but comfortable sofa and picked up a book sitting on the table in front of her. It was a Ruth Rendell she hadn’t read yet. Greg returned with the wine and some glasses on a tray as she finished reading the back cover copy.

  Greg nodded toward the book as he settled the tray on top of a stack of hardcovers. “Have you read Dark Corners yet? I highly recommend it.” He gestured toward the book again. “Take it with you, if you’d like.”

  Monica put the book down beside her on the sofa and reached for the glass Greg held out to her.

  He picked up his own glass and clinked it with Monica’s. “‘Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.’ Marcel Proust,” he added.

  Monica felt a rush of pleasure. She took a sip of her wine.

  Greg settled on the couch beside her. “Are you going to the Flag Day celebration tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’m going to try to get away for a bit. What about you?”

  Greg shook his head. “I’d better man the store. The town will be crawling with tourists and perhaps I can lure some of them into my shop. It’s a fun festival—you’ll enjoy it.”

  Monica’s free hand was in her lap, and Greg picked it up in his. He ran his fingers gently over her palm and slipped his fingers through hers.

  Later, Monica was surprised when she noticed the time. They’d finished
the bottle of wine while discussing a wide range of topics from books to music to pop culture. The conversation never lagged and was always interesting and stimulating.

  She stretched, put her empty glass down on the table and stood up. She hesitated, wondering if Greg would try to get her to stay. She knew what her answer was going to be.

  Monica looked at her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  Greg stood up with her. He put his hands on her shoulders, his gaze level with hers.

  “Do you really have to go?”

  This time Monica didn’t hesitate. She smiled. “No. You’re right. I don’t have to go. Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t,” he said, his lips hovering over hers.

  • • •

  Greg was already in the kitchen making coffee when Monica woke up the next morning.

  Despite the closeness she and Greg had achieved the evening before, she felt slightly awkward now. Greg had set the table with placemats, napkins, silverware and glasses of juice, and the scent of bacon cooking wafted on the air. It immediately made Monica think of the Cranberry Cove Diner, so accustomed had she become to associating that smell with the restaurant.

  “You’re up,” Greg said. He went to Monica and gave her a kiss.

  Suddenly everything seemed right and natural about her being there. She felt her stomach grumble. She was surprised to find herself quite hungry.

  Greg opened the oven door and more delicious cooking aromas drifted on the hot steam from the oven.

  “I’ve made a frittata,” he said, pulling out a baking dish and placing it on a hot pad in the center of his small table.

  As Monica watched, the puffy egg concoction sank slightly in the dish. The top was golden brown and studded with tomatoes, peppers and mushrooms.

  “It looks delicious,” Monica said as she pulled out a chair.

  Greg sat opposite and served up the frittata.

  Monica suddenly felt like giggling—a truly unaccustomed feeling. She glanced at Greg to see his eyes dancing with merriment, his lips curved into a smile that was just short of bursting into a laugh.