Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

  “The victim’s name was in the paper, Bruce Laszlo. I’m afraid it didn’t ring a bell with me,” Kit said, turning back to his bowl of batter. “But then I haven’t been in Cranberry Cove all that long, as the natives keep reminding me.”

  Kit hailed from Louisiana, and unless he lost his Southern accent was unlikely to be taken for a longtime resident any time soon.

  “I suppose we’ll know more when tomorrow’s paper comes out,” Monica said, measuring out flour and sugar.

  “Did you know this Laszlo character?” Kit asked. He opened the oven door and a blast of heat roared out.

  “Not really. He’s married to an acquaintance of mine from college, someone I hadn’t seen since then until we ran into each other earlier in the summer.”

  “I wonder if there’s a serial killer on the loose?” Kit shivered theatrically.

  “I doubt it. I’m sure this was personal. I don’t think the residents of Cranberry Cove are in any danger of being murdered in their beds.”

  “Maybe it was a drug deal gone wrong?”

  “Who knows? We won’t know anything for sure until the police decide to release some more information.”

  Monica finished measuring out the flour and sugar and went to the refrigerator to get the butter she needed. She was surprised when all she found was a pound of butter. She liked to keep the fridge organized in a certain way, so it was unlikely that the butter had ended up somewhere else—on a different shelf or in back of something—but she searched from top to bottom just in case.

  Finally, she had to admit defeat and closed the door.

  “Do you remember when I last ordered supplies?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Kit, her hand still on the door to the refrigerator.

  “Let me think. It was the Wednesday before your wedding. You always place your order on a Wednesday and they deliver on Thursday.”

  “I thought I ordered enough butter, but it seems we’re short.”

  Monica had created a small office in the back of their new commercial kitchen where she did paperwork and kept all her files. She headed there now, opened the filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. She rifled through the papers until she found the one she wanted.

  Kit leaned in through the open door. “Did you find the order slip?”

  Monica nodded, not taking her eyes from the sheet in her hand. She pointed at it.

  “I’ve got the order right here. And I did order butter like I thought.” She bit her lip. “We must have gone through it all. I should have ordered more.” She looked up at Kit.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sweetie. You were also planning a wedding, remember? It’s amazing you were able to think at all.”

  That was true, Monica thought. But it wasn’t usual for her to make a mistake like that. She was always so careful.

  But he was probably right. She would put it down to pre-wedding jitters and distractions.

  • • •

  By noon, Monica was starving and decided to head back to her cottage for lunch. She had a container of leftover erwtensoep—Dutch pea soup—in the refrigerator. The VanVelsen sisters had given her their family recipe to try.

  Mittens was by the back door when Monica opened it. She bumped against Monica’s legs and meowed loudly, as if to voice her complaint at having been left alone for the morning. Monica picked her up and cuddled her, and soon Mittens was purring loudly in contentment.

  Monica was turning the burner on under the pot of soup when she heard a car churning up the gravel in her driveway. Had Greg been able to come home for lunch? Monica smiled at the thought and went to the window to peer out. But instead of seeing Greg’s trusty old Volvo station wagon, she saw a brand-new Lexus sitting in front of her cottage.

  As Monica watched, the driver’s-side door opened and Andrea stepped out. She was tall with an athletic build and moved with the grace of an athlete. Monica was surprised to see that she was wearing a short blue-and-white-checked golf skirt and a navy sweater over a white golf shirt. She had assumed Andrea would be too busy making arrangements for Laszlo’s funeral to have the time, or the inclination, to do anything else.

  The breeze ruffled Andrea’s cap of smooth dark hair as she walked toward Monica’s back door.

  Monica pulled open the door. “Andrea. This is a surprise.”

  “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Come on in,” Monica said, holding the door wider. “I’m heating up some pea soup. Would you like some?”

  “I don’t want to be a bother—”

  “It’s no bother at all,” Monica said briskly. “Why don’t you sit down?” She motioned toward one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Monica said as she turned to check on the soup.

  “Thank you,” Andrea said in a muffled voice.

  Monica grabbed two bowls from the cupboard, filled them with soup and placed them on the table. She slid into the seat opposite Andrea. She noticed that Andrea’s face was strained and there were dark circles under her eyes. She put a hand over Andrea’s.

  “Is there anything I can do to help? With the arrangements or . . .”

  Andrea shook her head. “Bruce’s secretary is taking care of all that. Of course, the police haven’t released the . . . the body yet.”

  “This must be so difficult for you.”

  Andrea hadn’t touched her soup, Monica noticed, while she was nearly half finished with hers. She wished there was something she could do to help her friend, but she knew from experience that grief took its own time, and it might be months before Andrea even approached feeling somewhat normal again.

  Andrea fiddled with her spoon, stirring her soup around and around in the bowl but still not eating any.

  “It’s been awful,” Andrea finally blurted out.

  “I can’t even begin to imagine—”

  Andrea shook her head. “Bruce being murdered was bad enough, but then . . .”

  Monica looked up from her bowl. “But then?”

  Andrea continued to stir her soup, her movements becoming faster and jerkier.

  “What is it?” Monica said.

  “It’s so awful,” Andrea said with a sob. She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to think of me.” Andrea looked down at her lap. “The police came by this morning—a Detective Stevens—and asked me a bunch of questions. It almost seemed as if . . . as if she suspected me of killing Bruce.” She looked up at Monica, tears shining in her eyes.

  “Of course she doesn’t think you murdered Bruce,” Monica hastened to reassure Andrea. “The police have to question everyone involved with the victim—their spouse, their friends and family. Believe me, it’s strictly routine. There’s no need to be alarmed.”

  “Really? Is that true?”

  Monica nodded her head.

  Andrea let out a big sigh. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know I am,” Monica said.

  “Detective Stevens told me that you and Greg found Bruce’s boat adrift and that you saw his body.” She shuddered.

  “Yes,” Monica said quietly, suddenly picturing the horrible scene anew.

  “I didn’t even know Bruce had gone out,” Andrea said. “That morning, I mean.” She began methodically shredding her paper napkin. “I’ve heard from people that you’ve become quite good at solving crimes.” She looked up at Monica.

  Monica was taken aback. “I don’t know about that.”

  “But you’ll help me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know—”

  “Thank you,” Andrea said, smiling for the first time.

  “Why don’t you tell me about yesterday morning, then,” Monica said.

  Andrea took a deep breath. “I woke up around nine o’clock, which was a little late for me, but I didn’t have to be anywhere so . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “
Bruce was already up. Or at least he wasn’t in bed any longer. I listened but didn’t hear the shower going. In fact, I didn’t hear anything at all. When Bruce is in his office I can sometimes hear him on the phone, but it was quiet.

  “I washed my face and got dressed,” Andrea continued. “I had my hot yoga class that morning.” She picked up her spoon and began to stir her soup again. “The kitchen was empty when I got downstairs. And the coffee machine wasn’t on. Bruce has . . . had one of those fancy coffee bar contraptions where you can make regular coffee but also espresso and cappuccino. I made myself a cup of tea—I don’t care for coffee—and went down the hall to Bruce’s office, but it was empty. He wasn’t anywhere in the house. I looked all over, even outside on the patio, where he sometimes likes to sit when the weather’s fine.”

  “Were you worried?”

  “Not really. I mean, it wasn’t unusual for Bruce to be up earlier than me. I assumed he had an appointment or an errand to run. But here’s the strangest thing,” Andrea said. “The door to the deck was open. I didn’t notice it at first, but there was a bit of a breeze, and it knocked over a small vase of flowers I had on the kitchen counter, some late roses from the garden.”

  “Could Bruce have gone out that way and left the door open?”

  Andrea twirled the saltshaker around and around. “It’s possible. That’s what Detective Stevens thought at first.”

  “At first?”

  Andrea nodded. “Until I discovered that Bruce’s trophy was missing. The one he got when he won the Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago sailboat race.”

  “It was stolen?”

  “It looks like it. Someone came in the back door—we don’t always lock it—and took the trophy.” Andrea abandoned the saltshaker and put her hands in her lap. “Detective Stevens didn’t seem to think there was any connection between the two—Bruce’s death and the stolen trophy. Which makes sense because if someone had broken in and Bruce had surprised them, they would have killed him there on the spot, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Definitely. It doesn’t make any sense otherwise.”

  “That’s what I thought. I almost didn’t mention it to Detective Stevens in light of . . . of everything else.”

  “Did Bruce have any enemies that you know of?”

  “I suppose so. He invested money for people. I’m sure there must have been some who blamed him when their stocks went down or their investments didn’t pan out the way they’d expected.”

  “But was there anyone in particular? Anyone not associated with Bruce’s business?”

  Andrea frowned and started to shake her head, then stopped. “Wait. I’ve just thought of someone. I don’t know how I could have forgotten him.”

  “Who?”

  “Nelson Holt. He’s our neighbor here in Cranberry Cove, another summer resident. I heard him and Bruce arguing one day.”

  “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Maybe she ought to talk to this Nelson Holt, Monica thought as she washed and dried their soup bowls.

  But what could two neighbors have been arguing about that was serious enough to lead to murder?

  Chapter 5

  Once again, Monica said goodbye to Mittens and headed back to the farm kitchen. They’d just received a large order from Fresh Gourmet for their cranberry salsa. She would have her work cut out for her getting it all done in time.

  Monica was pleased when she managed to get all the containers of salsa ready by later that afternoon. She’d even made a few extra to take down to the farm store since Nora had warned her that they were almost out.

  Monica retrieved her straw baskets from the shelf, filled them, checked to be sure the stove and oven were off, and headed out the door. The farm store was on the other side of the processing building—a wooden shingled structure with a small parking lot out front for customers.

  The scent of baked goods wafted toward Monica when she opened the door and the bell overhead jingled jauntily as she walked inside. Nora was behind the counter arranging a pyramid of jars of cranberry compote next to the cash register.

  Monica noticed that a few more strands of gray were woven through Nora’s dark hair and that the fine lines around her eyes were more visible.

  “Oh, hello, there,” Nora said as she balanced the last jar of compote atop her pyramid. “What have you brought me? We’re almost out of muffins, scones, bread and . . . well, almost everything really. Good thing I put aside the half dozen scones I wanted earlier this morning.”

  Nora leaned her elbows on the counter. “My mother-in-law is coming for a visit.” She rolled her eyes and Monica laughed. “She spent a month in England recently and has become quite fond of afternoon tea. She thinks she’s the queen now. Your delicious cranberry scones will be the perfect accompaniment.”

  “Good thing it’s almost closing time. It’s too late to do any more baking,” Monica said, glancing at the clock on the wall in back of her. “I have brought you some salsa though.” She put her basket on the counter. “And Kit and I will be cranking up the oven early tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks.” Nora gathered a handful of containers and began stocking them in the refrigerated glass case next to the counter.

  “How are the kids?” Monica took the last cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookie from the case. She broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

  Nora turned around to face Monica, her hands on her hips. “Right now I’m ready to sell Kevin to the highest bidder.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  Monica knew that Nora’s kids were basically good boys but that they had a penchant for getting into scrapes.

  Nora sighed loudly and blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “He was in the yard practicing his pitching, and even though I told him to be careful, did he listen? Of course not. He broke our neighbor’s window. Old Mr. VanVliet is cranky enough as it is. He’s always complaining—the children are making too much noise, why is Rick mowing the lawn on a Sunday—you know the sort of thing. At least now he has something he can really sink his teeth into.”

  Monica thought about what Nora had said about her neighbor as she walked back toward her cottage. Andrea had mentioned a disagreement between her husband and their neighbor. Maybe she should talk to the Laszlos’ neighbor and find out what their disagreement had been about. It might have been over something relatively minor—much like cranky old Mr. VanVliet’s broken window.

  Then again, it might have been something serious enough to lead to murder.

  • • •

  As soon as Monica got back to her cottage, she phoned Andrea to get her address and clarify exactly where Nelson Holt lived. She had no idea what she was going to say to Holt when she got there—she hoped he was like most people who, when asked a direct question, tended to answer whether or not it was any business of the questioner. Certainly she had no official standing to be investigating Laszlo’s death, and she would have stayed completely out of it if it hadn’t been for Andrea asking for her help.

  The Laszlos’ house was large and spacious with a perfectly manicured front lawn, but the Holts’ house was even bigger, with a vaulted arch over the front door and elaborate flower beds surrounding the house and lining the driveway.

  It was with some trepidation that Monica knocked on the Holts’ door. She half expected to have them slam it in her face, and she actually winced when someone finally answered her knock.

  “What can I do for you?” the woman answering the door said. “I hope you’re not selling anything.”

  She was in her forties with dyed reddish blond hair past her shoulders and was wearing yoga pants and a hot pink tank top along with diamond stud earrings the size of headlights. She smelled of perfume and stale booze and had a cigarette dangling from the fingers of her left hand.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Holt. I’m a friend of his neighbor, Andrea Laszlo.” Monica jerked her head in the direction of the house next door. />
  The woman turned her head and yelled, “Nelson.” She motioned to Monica. “You might as well come in.”

  A man’s voice came from the other room. “Is it really necessary, darling? I’m in the midst of something terribly important.”

  The woman rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes. “Someone is here to see you.”

  “Who is it? Can’t it wait?”

  A man came out of the other room. He carried himself with an air that made it clear he was used to getting his own way. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, clean and pressed khakis and an open-necked shirt. His dark, thinning hair was brushed back from his high forehead, and the lines on his face suggested that his scowl was very nearly permanent.

  Monica was sorely tempted to turn tail and run, but she held her ground.

  The woman turned to Monica and held out her hand. “I’m Mitzi, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

  “Monica Albertson.”

  Mitzi led them into a wood-paneled room that appeared to be her husband’s study. It was book-lined with a large partner’s desk covered in papers. Holt collapsed into a quilted black leather chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Monica took a seat on the matching chesterfield sofa and Mitzi perched on the arm.

  Holt uncrossed his arms, shot his cuffs and glared at Monica. “I hope you’re not selling anything.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Monica hastened to reassure him. “I’m a friend of the Laszlos next door.”

  “Shame about Bruce,” Mitzi said, leaning forward to put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table.

  Holt shot her an indignant look. “A shame?” he sputtered, his face beginning to turn red.

  Mitzi shrugged and ignored her husband.

  “You and Laszlo didn’t get along?” Monica said.

  “Hardly. Do you have any idea what that man did?”

  Monica shook her head.

  “He put a fence up around that ghastly house of his and he put it over my property line!”