Dead and Berried

by Peg Cochran

  Monica finished the last batch of muffins and gave the kitchen a cursory cleaning. She’d come back later and do a more thorough job. Excitement about the Flag Day celebration had been in the air in Cranberry Cove for several weeks, and Monica had finally caught the bug herself. She couldn’t wait to shed her worries and get down to the lake to see all the boats in the harbor and sample the delicious foods Hennie had told her about.

  Having finished in the kitchen, Monica headed back to her cottage to change. Mittens was exceptionally playful, and Monica spent several minutes wielding the laser pointer, much to the kitten’s delight.

  “Sorry, but game’s over,” Monica said, replacing the pointer in the kitchen drawer. “I have to get ready.”

  Monica headed up to her bedroom, Mittens either on her heels or dashing ahead through her legs.

  Monica peeled off her jeans and T-shirt and lifted the lid of the bulging laundry basket. If she didn’t do some laundry, the only thing she’d have to wear tomorrow would be her good slacks and silk blouse.

  Monica changed into a light blue cotton sundress with a halter neck, fitted waist and full skirt. Her white sandals would complete the outfit. Monica enjoyed dressing up on occasion, but there were few occasions in Cranberry Cove that called for it.

  She tipped the laundry basket over and quickly sorted the dirty clothes into lights and darks. She carried the bundle of dark clothes—consisting mainly of pairs of jeans in various degrees of shabbiness—down to the first floor.

  Before tossing them in the washing machine off the kitchen, she checked the pockets for tissues. She was notorious for forgetting to do that, and more often than not, her clothes came out of the dryer with bits of lint clinging all over them.

  She stuck her hand into the front pocket of the final pair of jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. She was about to toss it in the trash basket when she changed her mind. She took it over to the counter and smoothed it out.

  It was a withdrawal slip from the bank. For a moment she couldn’t remember why she had it in her pocket—she hadn’t withdrawn any money recently—then she remembered having found it in the ditch along with the beekeeper’s hat and veil.

  She nearly crumpled it up again before she changed her mind. She thought about Mrs. Wenk and her insistence that she hadn’t taken any money out of her bank account. Maybe Lori had gone to the bank for her and this withdrawal slip had fallen out of her pocket while she was at the farm?

  If that was the case, it might reassure Mrs. Wenk. She’d been quite fixated on the idea that someone had stolen her money.

  Monica was grabbing her purse from the chair where she’d left it when the doorbell rang.

  Who could it be? She wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe Detective Stevens had stopped by with some news? Although from past experience, Monica knew Stevens was more likely to be there to ask questions than give answers.

  Mittens bounded onto the back of an armchair and watched as Monica opened the front door. Charlie Decker was standing on the doorstep. For a moment Monica was at a loss for words.

  “Come in,” she said finally.

  Charlie was wearing cutoffs, a T-shirt with Primrose Cottage across the front and she had her ponytail pulled through the back of her pink baseball cap. She looked as if she’d been working in the garden—there were grass stains on her shorts and a smear of mud on the sleeve of her T-shirt.

  “I had to come and see you,” Charlie said, “after what Mauricio told me.”

  So Mauricio had told Charlie that Monica had been around, asking questions. Monica tried to hide her embarrassment.

  “I was only trying to—” she stammered before Charlie interrupted.

  “I suppose you heard that old story from someone—the VanVelsen sisters? Bart? Old Mrs. Macgillicutty at the drugstore?” Charlie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Some people refuse to let sleeping dogs lie—especially where I’m concerned.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  Charlie waved a hand. “No need to apologize. You’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last to dig up old dirt.”

  “Won’t you sit down? Would you like some iced tea or a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. And I’d better not sit down.” She gestured to the dried mud on the back of her shorts. “I didn’t want to take the time to change. I came as soon as Mauricio told me.” She gave a small smile. “Although I did have to worm it out of him. He didn’t want to upset me, he said.” Charlie fiddled with a loose thread on her cutoffs. “But I could tell something was wrong.”

  Monica nodded.

  “He told me he said he was with me at the time of Lori Wenk’s murder. He said we were painting. That’s not true.”

  Even though Monica had suspected that Mauricio had lied to cover up for Charlie, she was still taken aback.

  “It’s true Mauricio was painting, but I had an appointment. I didn’t want to tell him where I was going because I was afraid it would worry him.” Charlie scraped a bit of mud off her shorts with her fingernail.

  “Where did you go?” Monica finally asked when Charlie didn’t say anything.

  Charlie looked up. “You know my mother died of cancer?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  Charlie dashed a hand across her eyes. “I was having symptoms. Just like the ones my mother had had right before the doctor diagnosed her with cancer. I freaked out. I called my doctor, and he gave me the earliest appointment he could. Still, there were quite a few sleepless nights.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Monica leaned against the back of the armchair and stroked Mittens’s silky fur. The kitten closed her eyes and purred loudly.

  “The good news is it’s not cancer but common, garden-variety gastroenteritis. Still, I didn’t want to tell Mauricio. I didn’t even want to put the thought in his mind that I could get cancer. There would be no end to his worrying.”

  Charlie stuck a hand in her pocket. “I know you talk to that policewoman a lot, and I didn’t want her to hear that old story about me and Lori and jump to the wrong conclusion. Because I do have an alibi.” She pulled a creased and folded piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Monica. “Open it.”

  Monica unfolded the sheet. Kenneth P. Johnson, MD PC was written at the top. Charlie’s name was entered on the line where it said Patient, along with the date and time of her appointment, both of which proved Charlie couldn’t have been at Sassamanash Farm when Lori was killed.

  Monica folded the paper and handed it back to Charlie.

  “I didn’t really think you could have had anything to do with the murder.”

  “No problem,” Charlie said briskly as she pocketed the sheet from her doctor’s office. “That old story about me and Lori made me a strong suspect, although I don’t believe in carrying a grudge. What’s that saying? ‘Holding on to anger is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.’” Charlie gave a halfhearted smile. “Anyway, it looks like you’re about to go out, so I won’t keep you.”

  “I’m headed to the Flag Day celebration. Are you going?”

  “No time. We’re booked full at the Cottage and I have to turn some rooms this afternoon.”

  • • •

  Monica’s conversation with Charlie hadn’t taken that long. It was still fairly early—the Flag Day celebration was scheduled to run until ten o’clock that night, when it would finally be getting dark enough for fireworks over the lake. Monica had plenty of time to pay a quick visit to Mrs. Wenk on her way into town.

  The washer was still going in the small laundry room off the kitchen. She decided not to wait for the load to be done—she could toss the clothes in the dryer later that night when she got home.

  Mrs. Wenk’s car wasn’t in the driveway when Monica arrived, and Monica wondered if she had gone to the harbor for the celebration. She didn’t feel particularly sanguine
as she got out of the car and went up the path to ring the doorbell.

  She was surprised when Mrs. Wenk almost immediately flung open the door. Her blue eyes were much clearer than the last time Monica had seen her, and her hair was neatly combed.

  “Hello, dear,” she said as she led the way into the living room. “How kind of you to stop by.”

  “I was afraid you might not be home—I didn’t see your car in the driveway. I thought perhaps you’d gone to the Flag Day celebration.”

  “I don’t enjoy crowds anymore. I find them . . . confusing.” She shook her head. “That young lady who is renting a room from me—Arline—asked to borrow my car. I really didn’t want her to, but she got me all turned around, and in the end I said yes.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “At least I think I did.” She frowned. “It worries me when I can’t remember things.”

  “Do you remember the last time we met, at the bank, and you told me about the money missing from your account?”

  “If you say so, I suppose I must have.” She gestured toward the bills that were still scattered across the coffee table, their envelopes marked Urgent and Past Due. “I still need to pay all those bills.”

  Monica pulled the withdrawal slip from her purse. “I found this slip at the farm where I live. I wondered if it might belong to you. Maybe it fell out of Lori’s pocket?”

  Mrs. Wenk frowned at the piece of yellow paper in Monica’s hand. “I don’t know, dear.”

  “Can we check the bank account number on here against your checking account number?”

  Mrs. Wenk’s face brightened. “Good idea. I never was any good at remembering numbers.”

  She got up, went into another room and returned with a slim, blue leather-bound checkbook. “The number should be on here, isn’t that right?” She handed the book to Monica.

  Monica took it, flipped the pages past the register and opened it to the first check. She put the checkbook down on the coffee table and put the withdrawal slip next to it. Mrs. Wenk watched Monica, her expression drawn into a frown that furrowed the skin between her eyebrows and drew them together.

  “Do they match?” she asked before Monica had even finished.

  Monica bit her lip. “One second. I want to make sure.”

  She compared the numbers a second time and they matched perfectly.

  “Yes,” she said twisting around to look up at Mrs. Wenk, who was leaning over Monica’s shoulder. “They’re the same account.”

  “So that means someone did take money out of my account,” Mrs. Wenk said triumphantly, her face flushing. “I knew it.” She shook her index finger at Monica. “People say I’m crazy and that I’m losing my mind, but it’s not true. I am a bit forgetful at times, but I hope I still have my wits about me.”

  “I imagine you must have withdrawn the money yourself and then forgotten about it,” Monica said, closing the checkbook and pushing it toward Mrs. Wenk.

  Mrs. Wenk picked up the withdrawal slip and stared at it, her mouth moving.

  She lowered it and looked at Monica.

  “What would I be doing with this amount of cash?” She waved the slip in the air. “When I have all these bills to pay?” She swept a hand toward the stack of envelopes on the table then peered more closely at the withdrawal slip. She slapped it down on the table. “That isn’t my handwriting,” she said, pointing to it.

  “Could it have been Lori who withdrew the money for you? And then she lost the slip while she was out at our farm?”

  Mrs. Wenk knitted her gnarled fingers together and a worried look came over her face.

  “I don’t know,” she finally admitted after a long pause. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  Monica left Mrs. Wenk’s house more puzzled than ever. She had hoped to set the poor woman’s mind at rest regarding the money that had disappeared from her account, but it seemed as if she had done anything but.

  Lori must have been the one to withdraw the money from the bank. But what had she done with it? Had she used the money for herself?

  The thought made Monica feel slightly sick. How could someone take advantage of their own mother like that—especially a parent afflicted with memory problems like Mrs. Wenk?

  Monica was standing in the driveway, her hand on the door of the Focus, when she heard someone come up in back of her.

  “Everything okay with Mrs. Wenk?”

  The woman was middle-aged and wearing shorts that were a bit too short for someone her age. She had straight, slightly greasy dark hair, parted in the middle and held back with bobby pins on either side of her face.

  She pointed behind her. “I’m Harriet Wenk’s neighbor. I check in on her from time to time.” She snorted. “I was always told it was wrong to speak ill of the dead, but that daughter of hers was good for less than nothing. She was more interested in men than in taking care of her mother.”

  A loud blast of rock music came from the open window next door.

  The woman swiveled around, cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, “Turn that down this instant, Dom!” She shook her head. “Kids,” she said as if that explained everything.

  They heard the window slam shut and the music became muted.

  Monica smiled. “Mrs. Wenk seems okay. But I do wonder if she should be alone.”

  “There’s that boarder that lives with her. But she’s out most of the day.”

  “Arline?”

  “You know her?” The woman bent down and scratched at a nasty looking bug bite on her ankle.

  “She happens to work for me. Out at Sassamanash Farm.”

  “That the place that sells cranberries?”

  “Yes.”

  “She seemed to care more for Mrs. Wenk than her own daughter did.” She fiddled with the bobby pin in her hair. “Maybe that’s what the two of them argued about the other day.”

  “The two of them?”

  “Yeah. Lori and Arline. Their kitchen window was open and I was out on my patio having a cigarette.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I could hear them yelling but I couldn’t make out the words. Something to do with money, I think.” She gave a bark of laughter. “But then isn’t that always the case?”

  Chapter 23

  Monica’s thoughts continued to go around and around as she drove away from Mrs. Wenk’s house. She couldn’t figure out what or if any of this had anything to do with the murder. The fact that Lori had dropped the withdrawal slip at the farm was probably completely unrelated. But she felt sorry for Mrs. Wenk and she certainly would like to get to the bottom of the mystery of the missing money.

  Monica was headed toward the harbor but she couldn’t get Mrs. Wenk’s crestfallen face out of her mind. It wouldn’t take her more than a few minutes to stop in at the bank. Maybe one of the tellers or even the bank manager would be willing to tell her whether or not someone else had privileges on Mrs. Wenk’s account. If that was the case, then Lori most likely had access to her mother’s money and had taken it for reasons of her own. And there wouldn’t be much Monica could do about it.

  Monica pulled into the driveway of a small, well-kept bungalow, reversed, and headed back toward town and the Cranberry Cove Bank. Three cars were in the bank parking lot. Monica pulled in next to a silver Equinox and turned off the engine.

  Saturday mornings were often busy at the bank, it being the only time people with full-time jobs could get there. Monica was relieved to see only two people waiting for the lone teller and one person sitting in the manager’s office.

  The line moved quickly, and soon it was Monica’s turn. She was grateful that the teller was a different one from the last time she’d been to the bank. This one was very young—probably only just out of high school—with blond hair in a ponytail that swung with every movement of her head.

  Monica showed her the withdrawal
slip. “Can you tell me if someone other than Mrs. Wenk has privileges on this account?”

  The girl frowned at the slip then slowly entered the account numbers into her computer. She looked up. “Mrs. Wenk?”

  Monica was tempted to say yes, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. “No, I’m a friend of hers.”

  The girl frowned. “I don’t know. . . .”

  “You don’t have to give me any names. I only want to know if someone besides Mrs. Wenk is allowed to take money out of that account.”

  The teller looked doubtful.

  Monica thought that maybe if she explained things, the teller would relent.

  “Mrs. Wenk has memory problems. Money is missing from her account, and she doesn’t remember withdrawing it. It’s possible she made the withdrawal herself and then forgot about it and perhaps hid the money somewhere in her house. But if someone else has their name on the account, then they might have been the one to withdraw the money.”

  The teller looked confused. Her eyes darted from Monica’s face to her computer monitor and back again.

  “I suppose it’s okay. There is another name on this account. It’s—”

  “Patty!” one of the older tellers said sharply.

  She strode toward Patty’s station and stood next to the girl. She gave Monica a stern look.

  “I’m afraid that is privileged information that we are not at liberty to give out.”

  Just as Monica had suspected. She apologized for any inconvenience and headed toward the exit. She could feel the older teller’s eyes on her until the door had eased shut behind her.

  So someone else could withdraw money from Mrs. Wenk’s account, she thought as she started the Focus. That someone was most probably Lori. And with Lori dead, Mrs. Wenk shouldn’t find any more money missing. Monica would encourage her to call her mortgage company, explain the situation and ask for a grace period to pay back the amount of money overdue. Hopefully they would be willing to work something out.