by Peg Cochran
Monica followed her into the house. Andrea pulled off her gardening gloves and tossed them on the foyer table.
“I have some fresh iced tea in the refrigerator. Would you care for some?”
Andrea retrieved a pitcher from the refrigerator and poured them each a glass.
“I’d suggest we sit in the living room,” Andrea said with a rueful smile, “but I’ve been working in the garden, and I’m afraid I might have dirt on me.”
“This is fine.” Monica pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down.
“Did I tell you the police are releasing the . . . Bruce’s body?” Andrea said as she pulled out a chair. “I’m having a small memorial service for him tomorrow afternoon at St. Andrews Episcopal Church. I doubt many people will come, but I’d love it if you could be there.”
“Of course.”
Andrea fiddled with the zipper on her jacket, running it up and down. “Do you have any news for me?” She reached out and touched Monica’s hand. “I can’t go back to that jail. I just can’t.”
Monica wished she had something more concrete for Andrea.
“I have picked up some information here and there. It’s putting it all together that’s a challenge. I wondered if you could tell me anything about your husband’s late wife and also about her sister, Mattie Crawford.”
Andrea pulled back in her seat.
“Mattie! That woman is a dreadful nuisance. Bruce told me she hounded him after Gayle died. She kept insisting her sister’s death wasn’t an accident. Bruce said it was, and I believed him.” Andrea raised her chin slightly. “But Mattie couldn’t let go of it. She wanted Bruce to pay. She wanted him to pay for something he didn’t do!” Andrea’s voice rose considerably.
“You didn’t believe Mattie?”
“No! Look.” Andrea put a hand on Monica’s arm again. “Bruce could be difficult at times. Hateful even. But he wasn’t a killer. What happened to Gayle was an accident. Even the police said so.”
“Mattie must have been very close to her sister.”
“She was.” Andrea ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. “And Gayle was very protective. I know she gave Mattie money. And she tried to talk her out of marrying that fellow, the waiter at the Cranberry Cove Inn.”
“Why? What was wrong with him?”
Andrea shrugged. “I don’t know. But Bruce did say Gayle didn’t like him. Of course, the minute Gayle was gone, the two of them went to the courthouse and got married.”
“What do you think of Mattie? Have you met her?”
“She’s a loose cannon,” Andrea said, slamming her palm down on the table. “She threatened Bruce repeatedly. It was like she’d gone out of her mind or something.”
“She actually threatened Bruce?”
“Yes. More than once. She went after him one time when we were having dinner at the Cranberry Cove Inn. We didn’t realize she worked there or we wouldn’t have gone. She caused a huge scene in the lobby. I don’t understand why they didn’t fire her on the spot.” Andrea dragged her finger through a drop of iced tea that had spilled on her placemat. “As it is, we’ve never been back.”
Everything Andrea said corroborated what Patty had told her, Monica thought as she drove back to Sassamanash Farm.
It seemed Mattie had every reason to murder Laszlo.
And the temperament to actually do it.
• • •
Monica looked at her watch as she drove. She had time to run to Fresh Gourmet for ingredients for dinner. She wanted something special—perhaps a dish she and Greg could make together.
While Monica had honed her baking skills—making cranberry goodies for the farm store, and before that baking products for the small café she had owned in Chicago before moving to Cranberry Cove—she was still learning to cook. Her go-to meals were usually something on the grill in warmer months and pots of soup when the temperature dropped.
The small store parking lot was crowded, and Monica was lucky to get one of the last free spaces. She was surprised. Fresh Gourmet was on the outskirts of town, near the highway, and was usually only this crowded during tourist season. Cranberry Cove residents bought their meat from Bart’s Butcher, their vegetables from farm stands when in season, and for the rest of their needs made a trip to one of the larger supermarkets fifteen miles away.
Monica pushed her cart up and down the aisles hoping for inspiration. The cheese department had some fresh mozzarella and that gave her an idea—she and Greg could make lasagna.
She picked up a box of lasagna noodles, some freshly made marinara sauce from the refrigerator section and a package of ground beef. She already had some parmesan cheese at home and some basil in the garden that had survived the cooler nights.
She was about to check out when she realized she’d forgotten something and wheeled her cart to the wine section. Fresh Gourmet carried a large selection of wines, and Monica stood in front of the bottles for several minutes before deciding that a Chianti would be an excellent choice with their meal. Maybe she’d even light some candles, she thought as she headed back toward the checkout.
Greg’s car was in the driveway when Monica got home. She felt her spirits lift at the sight of it.
“Need some help?” Greg opened the back door and stuck his head out.
“I think I can manage,” Monica said as she retrieved her bags from the backseat.
She set the packages down on the counter and began emptying them.
“I thought we could make lasagna for dinner,” Monica said as she set the items out.
“A wonderful idea.” Greg kissed her on the cheek. He grabbed an apron from the back of the pantry door and tied it on. “I’m ready. Tell me what you need me to do.”
“You can start by grating some parmesan cheese, if you don’t mind.”
Twenty minutes later, the lasagna was ready to go in the oven.
“Shall I pour us some wine?” Greg asked.
“Excellent idea.”
“I like how you always appreciate my suggestions,” Greg said, coming up behind Monica and putting his arms around her waist. He began nuzzling her ear.
“Hey, I thought you were going to pour the wine,” Monica said in a joking tone.
Greg laughed. “Sorry. I guess I got distracted.”
He opened one of the drawers and retrieved the corkscrew. The cork came out of the bottle with a slight pop. Greg poured them each a glass and handed one to Monica.
“Cheers,” he said.
They clinked glasses. Greg set his down on the counter. A look Monica couldn’t quite identify crossed his face and then he laughed.
“Phyllis, Cranberry Cove’s trusty librarian, was in today. She wanted to ask me about starting up the next session of our book club.”
“Oh?” Monica took a sip of her wine. “Did she have a book suggestion? You have to admit, she’s always rather opinionated about what we should read.”
Greg laughed. “I can’t argue with you there.” He looked down, and when he looked up again he had a rather sheepish expression on his face. “You won’t believe it but . . .”
“But what?” Monica said, touching Greg on the arm. “Come on. Tell me. Out with it.”
“Well, she wanted to know, believe it or not, whether a baby would be on the way any time soon.”
“What?” Monica set her glass down sharply. “You mean us?” She pointed from herself to Greg. “But that isn’t any of her—”
Greg held up a hand. “I know. And believe me, I changed the subject pretty quickly.”
“I should hope so. I know everyone in small towns is interested in everyone else’s business, but that is really above and beyond.” Monica began pacing the kitchen. “I mean, we haven’t even discussed—”
Greg grabbed Monica’s hand. “I know, I know.” He put his arms around her. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured against her ear.
“I’m not upset,” Monica said, feeling herself deflate like a punctured balloon. “It�
��s only that sometimes I feel as if we’re living in a fishbowl.”
“I think we are.” Greg made a silly fish face, and Monica laughed.
The timer on the stove began to ding.
“The lasagna,” Monica said, grabbing the oven mitts and putting them on.
She pulled the baking dish out of the oven. The top was bubbling nicely and the cheese was melted. Fragrant steam filled the air.
“That looks delicious,” Greg said.
She served them each a piece while Greg refilled their wineglasses.
Monica sat down and picked up her fork. She was relieved when Greg didn’t pursue the conversation about starting a family. She knew they would have to discuss it eventually, but she wasn’t ready yet. She thought she wanted children someday, and she knew Greg did, but she wanted them to have at least a year to themselves before taking on the responsibilities of parenthood.
They were finishing their meal when her cell phone rang. Monica made a face and went to answer it.
“Let’s hope it’s a wrong number,” she said before picking up.
Monica was surprised to hear Andrea’s voice answer her hello.
“What’s wrong?” Greg whispered, watching Monica’s expression as she talked.
“That was Andrea Laszlo,” Monica said when she hung up. “She’s terribly upset.”
Monica picked up their empty plates and carried them to the counter. She was surprised to find her hands shaking slightly.
“What’s wrong?” Greg frowned. “Whatever it is, it seems to have upset you.”
Monica held a finger under the running tap to see if the water was warm.
“It has.” She shut off the water, turned around and leaned against the counter. “I believed Andrea when she said she didn’t kill her husband. I thought Stevens had made a terrible mistake in arresting her.” Monica looked down at her hands. “Now I’m not so sure.”
“What’s happened to change your mind?”
Monica sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “It seems that Andrea was planning to divorce Laszlo. Apparently, she’d even been to see a divorce lawyer.”
“Lots of people visit divorce lawyers,” Greg said calmly. “And they don’t change their mind and decide to murder their spouse instead.”
“When you put it that way . . .” Monica kneaded the palm of her left hand with her right thumb. “Unfortunately, Stevens appears to be viewing this as further evidence that Andrea killed her husband.”
“It seems to me she’s jumping to conclusions.” Greg poured some more wine into Monica’s glass and handed it to her.
“You and I know that, but Stevens . . .”
“It’s not hard evidence. It’s not like they have a witness who saw Andrea stab her husband. It speaks to a possible motive, that’s all.”
“Andrea is terribly distraught.” Monica took a sip of her wine. “She said she feels as if the noose is slowly tightening around her neck.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to be in her situation, that’s for sure. But I think we have to believe that the truth will come out in the end.”
Monica ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “This is going to sound terrible, but . . .”
“Go on,” Greg said and smiled. “I’m sure it’s not terrible at all.”
“It’s only that for a minute there I was beginning to doubt Andrea myself. She wasn’t happy with Laszlo. And frankly, I think he was a bit of a bully.”
“Yes, and she took the logical step of visiting a divorce lawyer to weigh options.”
“I wish there was something I could do.”
Greg put his hands on Monica’s shoulders. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. Leave it to the authorities. Let them handle it.”
But Monica couldn’t forget how distressed Andrea had sounded on the phone. It haunted her as she and Greg snuggled on the sofa reading their respective books.
She thought about the people she’d identified so far who had a motive to kill Laszlo as she turned the pages in her book without really seeing the words.
The expression hell hath no fury like a woman scorned popped into her mind. Laszlo had certainly collected his share of vengeful females. In addition to Mattie and Victoria Cortez, she now knew she had to consider Andrea. She wasn’t happy with Laszlo to the point where she’d actually visited a divorce attorney. As Greg had said, though, that didn’t necessarily make her a murderer. But what if there’d been a prenuptial agreement in place and money was at stake?
Monica shook her head.
“Are you okay?” Greg looked up from his book.
“I’m fine.”
But Monica didn’t feel fine. She was worried about Andrea—she’d sounded distressed enough to do something foolish.
And she was worried about the thought that niggled at the back of her mind: what if she was wrong and Andrea actually was guilty of killing her husband?
Chapter 11
Monica woke to the scent of coffee brewing. She took a quick shower, dressed and hurried downstairs.
“There you are,” Greg said, smiling and handing her a cup of coffee.
“I overslept.” Monica didn’t know why, but she always felt guilty when she slept in.
“I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed so tired.”
Monica took a sip of her coffee. “I had trouble falling asleep.”
“You’re not still worried about your friend, are you?”
Monica turned and opened the cupboard door to hide her face. “No. I think it was that cup of coffee I had late yesterday afternoon. I guess I should cut back.” She put a container on the counter. “I have some homemade granola if you like. Complete with dried cranberries from Sassamanash Farm.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Monica took two bowls from the cupboard, poured out the granola and added a splash of milk. She set the bowls on the table.
“I’m expecting a delivery of C. J. Delaney’s latest thriller. It just came out and it’s already climbing the bestseller lists. I’m hoping to convince her to come back to Cranberry Cove for a book signing.” Greg unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap.
“Come back . . . ?”
“Her family summered here every year when she was a child and teen. So not quite a native but the natives know who she is. And so does anyone who’s a fan of mysteries.”
“I haven’t read her yet.”
“I’ll bring home a copy for you tonight. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Monica finished her granola, put her dish in the dishwasher and kissed Greg on the cheek.
“I’ll see you later,” she said as she hurried out the door.
• • •
“Honey, I think your mind is somewhere else this morning,” Kit said when Monica dropped an egg on the floor.
She bent to wipe it up. “I think you’re right.”
“Is everything in honeymoon land okay?”
“You mean with Greg?” A smile spread across Monica’s face. “Of course.”
It’s more than okay, Monica thought as she wiped up the last gobs of sticky egg white. She had no idea that marriage to the right person could be so fulfilling and as warm and comforting as a hot cup of tea on a cold day. She laughed to herself. That made it sound so . . . mundane . . . which it certainly wasn’t. It was more like a voyage of discovery—finding out that Greg always put pepper on his food before adding salt, that he disliked science fiction as much as he loved mysteries, that cutting up an onion always made him sneeze.
“If it’s not marriage that’s getting you down, what is?” Kit asked, his eyes wide.
“Oh, nothing, really. A little distracted, I guess.” Monica turned on the tap to wash her hands.
She soaped them up, rinsed and turned off the water.
“Would you mind if I ran a quick errand,” she said suddenly, reaching for a paper towel.
“You’re the boss,” Kit said. He smiled. “Don’t worry, I can manage.”
Monica
threw the towel in the trash. She felt bad leaving so much of the work to Kit, but he didn’t seem to mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about Laszlo’s murder and how distressed Andrea had been last night. And although she had numerous suspects for the crime, she was no closer to figuring out who the culprit was than she’d been the day they found his body.
What she needed to do, she decided, was to pursue each lead until it came to an end—the suspect either had an alibi or the evidence pointed to someone else. Or she could prove they were guilty.
She’d start with Nelson Holt. She’d done little more than talk to him, and she’d determined that he had a motive but hadn’t taken it any further than that. Hopefully she could find out if he had an alibi, and at the very least she could ask whether or not he was a smoker and if it was possible he was the one who’d dropped that cigarette in the boat.
• • •
Mitzi answered when Monica rang the Holts’ doorbell. She was wearing yoga pants again with purple, orange and red flowers on a dark blue background. She’d paired them with a T-shirt with a black-and-white photograph of a 1940s-looking woman on it with a cigarette held to her pursed lips. A saying attributed to Katherine Hepburn was underneath it: If you obey all the rules, you’ll miss all the fun. Monica couldn’t help wonder what rules Mitzi herself might have broken.
“Well, hello,” Mitzi said when she saw Monica standing on her doorstep. “Why don’t you come in.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Monica said as she stepped into the foyer.
“Not at all. I’ve just come from my yoga class.” She indicated her attire with a sweep of her hand. “I keep telling Nelson he should try it himself. He needs to be a bit more Zen, if you know what I mean.”
“Does Nelson smoke, by the way?”
Mitzi stopped short and Monica nearly bumped into her.
“Nelson? Not really. He tried to take up a pipe several years ago. He was convinced it would enhance his image—you know, the whole tweed jacket with leather patches thing he’s got going on. But he only succeeded in burning holes in his clothes and finally decided to give it up.”