by Peg Cochran
• • •
A handful of people strolled the sidewalks of downtown Cranberry Cove, where the flowers in the baskets hanging from the light posts were beginning to fade. They would be taken down soon and then replaced with wreaths tied with large red bows the day after Thanksgiving.
The door to the diner was propped open to catch the breeze. The owner, a taciturn Greek named Gus Amentas, only turned on the air-conditioning in the depths of summer, preferring to use the large fans stationed at the front and back of the restaurant to cool things.
The scent of bacon frying and hamburgers grilling drifted in through Monica’s open car window, and she realized she was hungry. Maybe she would treat herself to some of the diner’s much-loved chili—a dish that wasn’t on the menu and consequently separated the tourists from the residents who were in the know.
Monica pulled into the parking lot of the inn and made her way around to the service entrance in the back. A large black panel truck with VanderWal’s Produce written on the side in white lettering was pulled up to the door. A thin middle-aged man with a sparse mustache was unloading a crate of produce from the back of the truck.
He disappeared through the service door as Monica pulled into the space next to him. She retrieved her box with the containers of cranberry salsa from the backseat and carried it to the service entrance.
A corridor carpeted in rubber matting and lit with a bulb hanging from the ceiling led to the swinging door to the kitchen. Monica rested the carton on her hip as she pushed the door open with her shoulder.
The rush of hot air from the kitchen ruffled the tendrils of hair around her face and she could feel it turning her cheeks red.
One of the sous-chefs abandoned his work station where he was slicing onions and rushed toward Monica.
“Can I help you with that?” he asked in his lightly accented English. He peered into the box. “Cranberry salsa?”
“Yes. It needs to go into the refrigerator.”
He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I’ll take care of it, ma’am, don’t worry.”
When had she morphed from a miss to a ma’am? Monica wondered. Was it the dozen strands of gray hair that now wove through the rest of her auburn curls, or the gold wedding band gracing the ring finger of her left hand that had occasioned it?
The fellow nodded and carried the carton of salsa over to the large stainless steel refrigerators that lined the far wall.
The swinging door to the restaurant opened and for a moment Monica could hear the rise and fall of quiet chatter and the tinkling of glass and silverware from the dining room. A waiter walked in, his empty tray tucked under his arm.
Monica recognized him as Eddie Wood, the fellow who had arrived on the beach with the Cranberry Cove Inn van to pull Laszlo’s motorboat out of the water. He glanced at Monica but then his eyes slid away from hers as he brushed past her and disappeared into the corridor leading to the service entrance. Monica supposed he was headed outside for a break and a smoke.
The fellow who had taken Monica’s salsa returned with the empty box. He signed a receipt attached to the clipboard he’d brought back with him and handed it to Monica.
She thanked him and turned to leave.
She was in the narrow corridor leading to the back exit when she heard someone talking. She thought she heard the name Laszlo mentioned. The voices appeared to be coming from behind the partially open door of a small storage room off to the left. Monica stopped and listened.
“I don’t see why you had to have anything to do with Laszlo,” a woman said in rather petulant tones.
Who was talking about Bruce Laszlo? Monica wondered. She walked past the storage room, making as little noise as possible. She caught a quick glimpse of Eddie Wood and a woman wearing the pale pink uniform of a Cranberry Cove Inn chambermaid. She had long dark hair in a rather messy ponytail, an angry-looking raised scar on her cheek and a very sour expression.
Monica turned her head and walked past them briskly hoping they wouldn’t realize she’d been listening in.
What connection did Eddie Wood have to Bruce Laszlo and who was that young woman he was talking with so furtively?
Chapter 10
Monica couldn’t stop thinking about what that girl had said to Eddie. I don’t see why you had to have anything to do with Bruce Laszlo. What did she mean by that? And what did Eddie Wood have to do with Laszlo?
Monica had her hand on her car door handle when she made a decision. She had to know who that woman was. Perhaps Patty, the inn’s receptionist, would know.
Monica didn’t know Patty well—they’d exchanged pleasantries while Monica and Greg were staying at the inn. But she had seemed eager for conversation at the time and perhaps she would know who that woman was.
Rather than go back through the service entrance and the kitchen, Monica decided to go around to the front of the inn. She didn’t want to run into Eddie again.
She took the path that led from the back of the inn and the beach to the entrance of the inn. It was bordered by a boxwood hedge, and the flagstones were well worn and dusted with sand.
The lobby was quiet and nearly empty except for a man in a tweed jacket reading a newspaper in the armchair closest to the fireplace.
Patty was behind the counter, bent over some papers, only the top of her head showing, but there was no mistaking her carrot red hair. She looked up as Monica walked toward her.
“Hi. Can I help you with something?”
Monica leaned on the reception counter and smiled. “Just saying hello.”
“Oh.” Patty smiled back. “I hope you and your husband had a good stay here.”
Monica started at the mention of the word husband. It was going to take her time to get used to hearing it.
Patty leaned over the desk. “I heard you were the ones who found the body of that man—Laszlo—adrift in his boat.” Her voice was low.
Monica matched her tones. “Yes. It was quite a shock.”
Patty’s eyes got bigger. “I can imagine. We were shocked when the police showed up. Nothing like that has ever happened here before.”
“Did you know him?”
Patty fiddled with the stack of papers on the counter, ruffling the edges repeatedly.
“Not really. He used to come here for dinner quite a bit, but then after what happened he stopped coming.”
“After what happened?”
Patty leaned even farther over the counter. “There was quite a scene. Guests on the first floor were even coming out of their rooms.” She pulled a strand of hair over her shoulder and began winding it around her finger. “Mattie was really lucky she didn’t lose her job. The boss, Mr. Hastings”—she jerked her head toward the offices behind her—“put it down to the fact that Mattie was in mourning, she’d just lost her sister.”
“Who is Mattie?”
“Mattie Crawford. She’s one of the chambermaids.”
“I saw a chambermaid talking to one of the waiters. She had dark hair and a scar on her cheek.” Monica touched her own cheek.
Patty nodded. “That’s Mattie. She said she got that scar when someone attacked her with a knife during a fight. No one knows whether to believe her or not, but knowing Mattie, it’s possible.”
“What did she fight with Laszlo about? Do you know?”
“It was Mattie’s sister Gayle who died. She was married to Laszlo.” Patty shrugged. “I guess she blamed Mr. Laszlo for her sister’s death. He said it was an accident, but Mattie didn’t believe him.”
“What do you think?”
“Do you mean do I think it was an accident?”
Monica nodded.
“I don’t know. I suppose so. I mean, Mr. Laszlo seemed like a nice person. The waiters said he was a good tipper.” Patty twirled another strand of hair around her finger. “Still, Mattie shouldn’t have made a scene like that—yelling and trying to hit Mr. Laszlo. She could have lost her job.”
Monica was about to thank Patty
and leave when she thought of something.
“Do you happen to know if Mattie smokes?”
Patty looked confused. “I . . . I don’t know. Why?”
“No reason,” Monica said. “Just curious.”
• • •
Monica was thinking hard as she walked out to her car. Mattie Crawford obviously hated Laszlo and clearly blamed him for her sister’s death. She made a far more plausible murder suspect than anyone else so far. Certainly more plausible than poor Andrea. Monica made a mental note to see if Andrea had ever met Mattie and if she knew anything more about her.
It wasn’t far from the inn to the shops on Beach Hollow Road, and Monica decided to leave her car in the inn’s parking lot and walk.
The air was brisk but the sunlight, which sparkled off the waters of the lake, lent a pleasant warmth to the day. Two seagulls circled overhead, swooping down to pick up a crust of bread that someone had dropped on the sidewalk. They fought over it briefly, then one tore it from the other’s grasp and flew away squawking in triumph.
Monica passed the hardware store and then came upon Book ’Em. She was about to stop in when she peered through the window and saw that Greg was deep in conversation with a customer. The man was wearing a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows and had a long, serious face. Monica decided she would stop by after she’d picked up her chili from the diner. She could take some to Greg, too, for his lunch.
The mixture of aromas coming from the open door of the diner was intoxicating and her stomach rumbled again. She was about to go in when she heard someone call her name.
Tempest was standing outside Twilight, which was next door. She waved and motioned to Monica, the bat-winged sleeves of her rust-colored top flapping around her arms.
“How is married life?” Tempest said when Monica reached her.
“So far, so good.” Monica couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.
She followed Tempest into the shop, which was stuffed with all sorts of new-age paraphernalia—crystals, tarot cards, candles and amulets were jumbled in cases and spilling off the shelves.
“I’m so happy for you and Greg.” Tempest fingered the crystal hanging from a black silk cord around her neck. “We all thought you belonged together.”
Monica felt a slight prick of irritation. It seemed as if the entire town had been watching their relationship from afar. It felt like a bit of an invasion of privacy, but then she reminded herself that that was what small-town life was all about—looking out for each other.
“I hope you and Greg are going to get away for a proper honeymoon,” Tempest said. “I’m afraid your stay at the inn was spoiled. How terrible you had to be the ones to find Laszlo’s body.”
“Did you know him?” Monica couldn’t imagine that Laszlo was the sort to frequent Tempest’s shop.
“Not him, no. I knew his wife though. The first wife—not your friend Andrea.”
“What was she like?” Monica leaned against the counter.
Tempest’s face went through a range of expressions.
“Fragile? Vulnerable? Those are the first two words that come to mind. She was pleasant and certainly didn’t throw her money or influence around the way her husband apparently did.”
“So she was interested in new-age practices?”
“Not really. I would put it down to desperation more than interest or belief.” Tempest fiddled with a carnelian rune stone that was sitting out on the counter, rubbing it between her fingers as if it was a worry stone.
“Why was she desperate?”
“She suffered from balance problems. Her doctor put it down to Ménière’s disease.” Tempest twirled a finger near her ear. “Something to do with the inner ear. I don’t pretend to understand it.”
“Were you able to help her?”
“I recommended dioptase—a beautiful emerald green crystal that is excellent at promoting balance. I suggested she carry it in her pocket on the side opposite of the ear most afflicted to keep the body and mind in alignment.”
Monica ran her fingertips over a goddess figurine sitting on the counter.
“That’s interesting that Gayle Laszlo suffered from balance problems.”
Tempest arched a dark brow. “It’s more common than you’d think, actually.”
“But in light of how she died . . .”
Tempest leaned forward and her amulet swung against the counter. “How did she die? She only came to the shop that once. She seemed desperate. I never knew whether I’d been able to help her or not.”
“She was out on the water with her husband. They owned a fairly sizeable yacht and had gone for a cruise. Apparently she fell overboard and drowned.”
Tempest put a hand to her mouth. “But that’s awful. I’m surprised she would even agree to go on a boat given her balance issues. It’s hard enough keeping your footing out on the lake as it is.” Tempest shivered. “I never did care for the water myself.”
“Gayle’s sister blames Laszlo for her death.”
“I suppose he should have known that it wouldn’t be prudent to take someone with balance problems out on a boat. But surely Gayle would have told him that she wasn’t comfortable.”
“I gather she did, but he persuaded her.”
“The poor thing.”
Tempest was clutching the rune stone in her palm, and when she opened her hand, Monica could see the impression the stone had left in her flesh.
“But Gayle’s sister seems to think it wasn’t an accident.”
Tempest looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”
“I got the impression that her sister thinks it was murder.”
• • •
Monica was feeling extremely guilty about leaving Kit working all alone in the kitchen. She and Greg had had lunch together—bowls of chili from the diner.
Monica had been thrilled when Gus had greeted her with a curt hello and a nod of the head when she entered the diner. When she’d first arrived in Cranberry Cove, he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence—standard operating procedure for him when it came to tourists and summer residents. He must have eventually noticed she wasn’t going anywhere and began to give her a nearly imperceptible nod. Finally, things progressed, and he uttered a grunt when she walked through the door.
To get a clearly uttered hello and a nod meant that she had truly arrived and was now considered a real Cranberry Cove resident—a status Monica had wondered if she’d ever reach.
Monica was whistling when she walked into the farm kitchen.
“Oh, sweetie, I’ve been wondering when you’d be back.”
Kit was staring into one of the cupboards, a puzzled look on his face.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing cataclysmic, darling, don’t worry. It’s only that we’re out of flour.”
“Out of flour?” Monica said, feeling silly for echoing what Kit had so plainly said.
“Yes. Sad but true.” Kit stuck his lower lip out in a pout. “Good thing today is order day for supplies. I’ve done a quick inventory.” He gestured toward a clipboard on the counter. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
Monica felt dizzy and reached for the counter. How could she have miscalculated again? Last week it was the butter and this week yet another mistake. Was something wrong with her?
“Darling, don’t look so stricken. We’ll get a delivery tomorrow.”
“It’s not like me to make a mistake like that—two times in a row.”
“We all make mistakes. No need to beat yourself up over it. We’ll order more flour and that will be that.”
• • •
Monica completed her order form for the upcoming week, attached it to her email and hit Send. She sighed and stretched her arms overhead. She still couldn’t imagine how she had miscalculated the quantities for last week, but there was no denying they were out of flour. Could she still blame it on wedding jitters? Or had that excuse run its cou
rse?
She turned off her computer, checked to be sure the oven and the stove were off, turned out the lights and locked the door in back of her.
Mittens was waiting at the back door when Monica got to her cottage. She bent down and picked up the kitten, who purred contentedly and rubbed her head against Monica’s chin. After a few minutes she squirmed out of Monica’s grasp and scampered away.
Monica got the vacuum out of the closet and dragged it into the living room. She plugged it in, turned it on and began sweeping the rug. She thought over Laszlo’s murder as she pushed the machine back and forth over the carpet.
So far, she’d encountered quite a few people who might have wanted Laszlo dead: Nelson Holt, Laszlo’s neighbor; also Alton Bates, his fellow sailing enthusiast. And two women—Victoria Cortez, whom he’d summarily dumped, and Mattie Crawford, who blamed him for her sister’s death. And the police had arrested Andrea, after all, although the judge had readily agreed to grant bail. Monica hoped that was a good sign.
She wondered how Andrea was holding up. Perhaps she ought to pay her another visit. It would give her an opportunity to ask her if she knew anything about Mattie.
• • •
Andrea was outside deadheading some flowers when Monica got to the Laszlos’ house. She looked as if she’d been for a run—she was wearing capri leggings and a tank top with a fluorescent green zip-up jacket over it.
“Monica,” she said, putting down her shears and walking toward the driveway.
“I came to see how you are.”
Monica shut her car door and followed Andrea up the path toward the house.
“I had to get outside,” Andrea said, gesturing toward the flower bed where she’d been working. “Being cooped up at the police station . . .” She shivered.
“It must have been terrible.”
“Detective Stevens was kind enough. They brought me water and something to eat. But that interview room was so small and there was no window.”
Andrea stifled a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly afraid I’ll have to go back there.”