Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of gin and a straw, would you? Although I’d settle for an open bottle of wine,” Gina said as she picked her way across the gravel in her high-heeled zebra-print pumps. “I sure could use a glass.”

  “I can open one. I was about to anyway.”

  “Wonderful.” Gina followed Monica through the back door and into the kitchen.

  Monica retrieved a bottle of merlot from the cupboard along with two glasses. She opened the wine and poured them each a glass.

  Gina was seated at the kitchen table, fiddling with the fringe on her black suede jacket, smoothing it out with her fingers over and over again.

  Monica sensed she had something on her mind but assumed Gina would tell her in good time. Whatever it was, it was bound to go down better after a couple of sips of the merlot.

  Monica stuck her head in the refrigerator and poked around. She managed to find a jar of garlic-stuffed olives that had been a hostess gift the time she and Greg had invited Nora and Rick for dinner. She pried off the top, poured some olives into a bowl and placed it on the table.

  Gina reached for one, carefully holding it between two long fuchsia-painted nails then popping it into her mouth.

  “I’ve been working on the plans for Jeffie and Lauren’s wedding,” Gina said, reaching for another olive. “The shop isn’t terribly busy at the moment, which is a blessing, I suppose.”

  To everyone’s surprise Gina had decided to put down roots in Cranberry Cove after arriving to check on her son, despite the fact that she stood out like some sort of very exotic bird. She’d opened an aromatherapy shop—something most of the natives had never heard of and certainly felt no need for—and called it Making Scents. No one had expected the shop to last—let alone Gina to survive in a town with one stoplight—but they both had thrived and prospered.

  “Isn’t Lauren’s mother planning the wedding?” Monica said, slipping into the seat opposite Gina. “That’s customary, isn’t it?”

  “I’m just lending a hand,” Gina said, taking a sip of her wine. “Her poor mother has been ill—something to do with her heart—and really isn’t up for it, what with needing to rest and all. She said she was ever so grateful for my help.”

  Monica had her doubts about that, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve asked Jeffie to measure the area for the tent, but he still hasn’t done it.”

  “He’s a little tied up with the harvest at the moment. He’s been working from dawn until dusk every day.”

  Gina snorted. “This wedding isn’t going to plan itself, you know.”

  “I suppose they could always go down to the courthouse and be married by the justice of the peace.”

  Gina looked so horrified that Monica hastened to reassure her. “I’m just kidding. I’m sure the wedding is going to be lovely.”

  “We’ll have white tablecloths with pink overlays to match the flowering cranberries in the bogs. And I’ve been talking to the caterer—the most clever man. He suggested we start with a salad of baby greens with candied walnuts and dried cranberries. In keeping with the cranberry theme, of course.”

  “Of course. Very clever, indeed,” Monica said dryly.

  Gina sighed loudly and drained her wineglass. Monica reached for the bottle and refilled it.

  “I think Xavier’s cheating on me,” Gina said suddenly.

  “What?” Monica’s hand jerked and a drop of wine splattered onto the table. “Why do you think that?”

  Gina twisted the large topaz ring she always wore around and around her finger.

  “The day of your wedding we were meant to spend the night at my place. We were going to build a fire and have a cozy evening together. I’d bought some champagne and some chicken for our dinner.

  “But after your reception, Xavier wasn’t feeling well. Something about the crab canapes not agreeing with him. He said he wanted to go home and get into his own bed and rest. I was disappointed, of course, but what can you do?”

  Monica plucked an olive from the dish and popped it into her mouth. She was getting hungry.

  “I was up early the next morning so I decided to make Xavier some chicken soup, thinking that might settle his stomach and make him feel better. As soon as it was done, I filled a large thermos and headed over to his cottage. And what do you think I saw?”

  Monica shook her head. She couldn’t imagine.

  “There was another car in his driveway! He wasn’t alone.”

  “But it could have been anybody.” Monica plucked another olive from the bowl and bit into it.

  “It wasn’t anyone. It was a woman.”

  “How do you know?” Monica could picture Gina tiptoeing around the house, peering in the windows.

  “There was a flowered tote bag on the backseat of the car and a lipstick—something cheap—in that compartment thingie under the radio.”

  “They might have belonged to anyone. Someone the driver had given a ride to.”

  Gina’s face set in the stubborn look Monica knew too well.

  “No. I’m sure he’s cheating on me.” She burst into tears.

  Chapter 9

  “You look all in,” Greg said when he walked through the door later.

  “Gina was here. She’s upset because she thinks Xavier is cheating on her.”

  Greg put his arms around Monica, turned her around and began massaging her shoulders.

  “She might be right,” he said as he kneaded her left shoulder.

  “What?” Monica spun around.

  Greg made a face. “The VanVelsens were in this afternoon to pick out some new books.” He chuckled. “Sweet timid Gerda opted for one of those romance novels with the shirtless man with the six-pack abs on the cover. She turned all shades of red when she brought it up to the counter to pay for it. Hennie, as you’d imagine, chose a biography of Agatha Christie.”

  “But what does that have to do with Gina and Xavier?”

  “You know how the ladies love to gossip. They couldn’t wait to tell me they saw Xavier drive by with a woman in his car.”

  “Did they say what she looked like?”

  “No. Apparently they only got a glimpse of her. But their impression was that she was rather young. Younger than Gina at any rate.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. He might have been giving someone a lift. Perhaps he’s hired a secretary to help him with research for his book.”

  “All possible, certainly.”

  Greg retrieved a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some wine from the bottle on the kitchen table.

  “Do you think I should tell Gina?” Monica said as she retrieved the steak from the refrigerator and unwrapped it.

  “I don’t know. Probably not. It will only upset her, and, as you said, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Monica put the steak on a platter and sprinkled on a rub Bart had recommended.

  “Want me to light the fire?”

  Monica refilled her wineglass, pulled on her fleece and followed Greg out to the patio. The sun was setting, turning the sky beautiful shades of pink and purple. There was a chill in the air, and when Greg got the fire going in the barbecue, they both huddled over it watching the coals catch, glow red and finally become covered with gray ash.

  “Time to throw on the steak, I’d say,” Greg said, taking the platter from Monica.

  He picked the steak up with a pair of tongs and placed it on the grill. The meat sizzled and fragrant smoke rose in the air. Monica felt her stomach rumble.

  When the steak was well seared and cooked through, Greg took it into the kitchen and sliced it while Monica tossed the salad.

  “Has there been any news about Bruce Laszlo’s murder?” Greg said as he picked up his fork.

  “Nothing new in the paper.” Monica hesitated. “But I had lunch with Andrea today, and she told me that Bruce had been involved with someone before he met her and that the woman didn’t take the breakup lightly.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows.
“Another suspect then?”

  “It looks like it. She works at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, and when I talked to her, it was obvious she was still very angry with Laszlo.”

  “You talked to her?” Greg paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Shouldn’t you leave that sort of thing to Detective Stevens?”

  Monica looked down at her plate. “I assume Andrea will tell Stevens about the woman, and she’ll ask her own questions.”

  “Maybe you should tell the detective,” Greg said. “It’s something she needs to know, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  Greg stopped in the midst of cutting a piece of steak. “I know you’ve been quite successful at playing detective—”

  “I’m not.” Monica looked Greg in the eye. “I promise.”

  “Okay,” Greg said. But the look on his face made it quite plain that he didn’t believe her.

  • • •

  Monica thought about her conversation with Greg as she rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Greg had gone back to Book ’Em to shelve the carton of new books that had come in earlier that day. He’d been too busy during the store’s business hours to do it.

  Had she lied to Greg when she promised she would leave the detective work on Laszlo’s murder to Stevens? She had good intentions—did that count? She couldn’t help it if she was drawn to the puzzle. It couldn’t hurt to keep her ears open for any new information she might come across.

  Monica was pushing the button to start the dishwasher when the telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Monica, it’s Andrea.”

  Andrea was breathless—as if she’d been running.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No.” The word came out with a sob.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Monica could hear Andrea crying quietly in the background.

  “Andrea, what’s wrong?”

  “I . . . I’ve been arrested,” Andrea finally said. “The police have arrested me. I’m at the station. I don’t know what to do. I’m so embarrassed. What will people think?”

  Monica thought that was the least of Andrea’s worries at the moment.

  “Do you have a lawyer?” Monica clenched the telephone receiver.

  “Yes. I’ve contacted her. She’s arranging bail as quickly as she can.”

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said, thinking of her promise to Greg. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do. You’ve contacted your lawyer. I’m sure she’s doing everything she can.”

  “I’m afraid that the police will stop investigating. I mean, they obviously think I did it.”

  Monica hadn’t thought of that.

  “You said you would help me.”

  Monica was torn. She’d promised Greg but she couldn’t bear to think of Andrea being accused of something she didn’t do.

  “I don’t know how I can help.” Monica paced the kitchen while she talked.

  “Everyone says you solved those other murders.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Monica finally said against her better judgment.

  Her marriage was less than a week old and here she was, already keeping secrets from Greg. She hoped their relationship wasn’t doomed.

  • • •

  “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Greg said the next day as they ate breakfast. “Is everything okay?”

  Greg had the front section of the paper propped against his juice glass while Monica was scouring the local section for any news about the investigation into Laszlo’s murder. She was terrified she’d come across a mug shot of Andrea and a bold headline about her arrest.

  “Andrea’s been arrested.”

  Greg lowered his newspaper. “I don’t believe it.”

  “She was taken into custody yesterday. I imagine her lawyer has gotten her out on bail by now.”

  “What evidence do the police have?”

  “None, as far as I know. If there is something, Andrea hasn’t told me.”

  “You’ve already discovered two people who had a motive for killing Laszlo. The police can’t be far behind. Surely they’ll find the real culprit soon.”

  “Assuming they keep looking.” Monica poked at her dish of cereal. Her appetite had deserted her.

  “And assuming there isn’t something your friend hasn’t told you.”

  That’s what she was afraid of, Monica realized as she put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher. What if Andrea hadn’t been completely truthful with her?

  • • •

  It was a beautiful day out and that lifted Monica’s spirits somewhat. She passed the bog, where Jeff and his crew were hard at work, standing thigh-deep in the water raking ripe cranberries toward the vacuum machine that would suck them out of the water and into a container that would then be trucked to the processing area.

  Monica remembered helping Jeff with the harvest when she first arrived at Sassamanash Farm. The waders that the workers wore were cumbersome and difficult to move in and she’d found it hard to maintain her balance on the uneven ground of the bog. She’d proven to be far more useful to Jeff doing the bookkeeping and handling the production of baked goods for the farm’s store.

  Jeff looked up as Monica went by. He smiled and waved and Monica waved back. She’d always had a soft spot for her half brother. When Monica’s father deserted Gina, it had strengthened their bond and brought them even closer together.

  Jeff had returned from Afghanistan with an injury to his arm that had made him bitter, but meeting Lauren had made him smile and laugh again. Monica couldn’t wait for their wedding in the spring.

  Monica was greeted with a rush of warm, yeasty-smelling air when she opened the door to the farm kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Kit called from the counter where he was rolling out dough. “I’ve got some lovely muffins and scones for you all ready to go.”

  “You’re a wonder,” Monica said, smiling. “What time did you get here? Last night?”

  Kit laughed. “I’m an early riser.” He gestured toward the baked goods lined up on the counter. “Do you want to take those down to the store now?”

  “Good idea. Our early-bird customers will be arriving soon.”

  Monica grabbed one of her baskets from the closet, lined it with a clean red-and-white-checked cloth and began to load it up with the pastries Kit had baked.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes to help,” she said as she went out the door.

  Kit, intent on cutting out scones from his newly rolled dough, nodded his head in her direction.

  The farm store was empty of customers when Monica got there.

  “Those look and smell heavenly,” Nora said, taking the basket from Monica. “And just in time for our morning customers.”

  Nora took some empty platters out of the case—Monica had unearthed them at various estate sales and thrift shops and no two were alike—and began to arrange the muffins and scones on them.

  A car door slammed and a moment later the door to the shop opened and Detective Stevens walked in.

  Monica didn’t know which of them looked more startled to see the other.

  “Good morning,” Stevens said. “I’ve promised to bring a half dozen of your delicious muffins to the departmental meeting this morning.”

  She held a foam coffee cup in her hand. A half-moon of pink lipstick was smeared on the lid.

  “Coming right up.” Nora retrieved a white bakery bag from under the counter and shook it open.

  “Has there been any news about the Laszlo case? I didn’t see today’s paper yet.” What Monica really wanted to ask was why Stevens had arrested Andrea.

  Stevens shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. “Nothing notable. The autopsy confirmed that Laszlo wasn’t a smoker so that cigarette we found wasn’t his.”

  “So it could have been dropped by the killer?”

  “Maybe. But who knows how long it will take for us to get the DNA tests back from the stat
e.” Stevens dug in her purse for her wallet. “And someone else might have dropped the cigarette. Does the wife smoke, do you know?”

  “Andrea? I’ve never seen her smoking.”

  “Laszlo might have taken someone out on the boat for a ride at some point during the summer, and it’s their cigarette and nothing to do with the case at all.”

  Stevens sighed.

  “You look tired,” Monica said.

  Stevens gave a smile that was more grimace than grin. “The baby’s teething.” She took a sip of her coffee.

  “Try rubbing a little whiskey on his gums,” Nora said, smoothing out the front of her skirt. “It’s an old-fashioned remedy, but it worked for my boys.”

  “I’m ready to try anything,” Stevens said, giving a real smile this time.

  Monica thought about Victoria Cortez and her not-so-veiled threat and was about to open her mouth to tell Stevens about it—Greg was right, the detective needed to know—when Stevens’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, grabbed her bag of muffins from the counter and started toward the door.

  “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.

  Monica stared at the door closing in back of the detective.

  She’d tried, hadn’t she? Surely that counted?

  • • •

  Monica spent the rest of the morning in the farm kitchen with Kit, making an order of her cranberry salsa for the Cranberry Cove Inn. Kit was working on the cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies that had become such a huge hit with their customers. He got the last sheet of cookies in the oven, pulled off his gloves and ran his hand through his short, bristly hair, coating it with flour and making it look as if he’d bleached the ends blond.

  Monica snapped the lid on the last container of salsa.

  “I’m going to run these up to the inn if you don’t need me. They want them by tonight. It looks like you’ve got everything under control.”

  “You go on, sweetie. I’ve got this covered.”

  “Great.”

  Monica wasn’t sure how she felt about being called sweetie, but Kit was such a find that she decided it didn’t matter.