by Peg Cochran
“So he doesn’t smoke cigarettes?”
Mitzi made a face as she led them into the kitchen. “No, and he keeps going on at me to quit. I’ve tried everything from hypnosis to aversion therapy but nothing sticks for long, I’m afraid.” She paused with her hand on the refrigerator door. “Can I get you something to drink? Some acai juice? Or kombucha?” She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “I have some freshly squeezed carrot juice as well.”
“Nothing for me. Thank you.”
“Coconut water?” Mitzi said, turning around and raising her eyebrows.
“Really, I’m fine.”
She shut the door again and perched on one of the bar stools in front of the kitchen island. She waved toward the kitchen table. “Have a seat.”
Monica pulled out a chair and sat down.
“You said Nelson needed to become more Zen. He has a temper then?”
Mitzi laughed. “You saw how he reacted the last time you were here. I’d say he has a temper. Every little thing gets under his skin. You wouldn’t want to go on a car ride with him. He faults everyone on the road—they’re going too slow, too fast, they’re tailgating him, whatever.” Mitzi picked up a pack of cigarettes from the granite countertop and shook one out.
She opened a drawer in the island, scrambled around in it and pulled out a lighter. She flicked the lighter and there was a slight crackling sound as the cigarette caught. She puffed on it until the tip glowed red then blew out a long stream of smoke that curled in the air before disappearing.
“I know you told me that Nelson had a fight with Laszlo over the fence Laszlo put up.”
Mitzi stuck out her tongue and removed a shred of tobacco from the tip with her fingers.
“That’s right. He was convinced Laszlo did it to spite him. Of course, Laszlo’s attitude didn’t help.” Mitzi pulled an ashtray closer toward her and tapped the end of her cigarette on it. “There was no need for him to get so aggressive about it.”
Monica knew she had to tread lightly. “The last time I was here, you seemed to think it was possible that Nelson might have had something to do with Laszlo’s murder. Or were you just kidding?” she added hastily.
Mitzi gave a throaty laugh. “I don’t know, to be honest with you. Maybe I meant it—maybe I didn’t.” She shrugged. “Nelson has a temper, sure. But would he murder someone? Maybe in the heat of the moment. It’s hard to tell.” She spun the lighter around and around on the counter. “I wish I knew,” she said in a somber voice. She looked at Monica.
Monica leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped in her lap. “Can you think back to the day Laszlo was killed? Maybe Nelson has an alibi.”
“You sound like one of those cop shows, talking about alibis and the like.” She picked up the lighter and began rubbing it between her fingers. “So you mean like whether Nelson was with anyone when the murder was committed?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Monica smiled encouragingly and leaned forward, her arms on her knees.
“I know they found the body on Sunday. Our neighbor Philippa came knocking on our door to tell us.” Mitzi rolled her eyes. “Nothing happens in this neighborhood that Philippa doesn’t know about before anyone else. That woman is something, I’ll tell you.” She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray and a long snake of ash dropped into it. “Was Laszlo killed on the Sunday as well?”
“According to the autopsy report, yes. Sometime early Sunday morning.”
Mitzi nodded and closed her eyes, as if she was thinking. She tapped a finger against her chin.
“Oh,” she said suddenly. “How could I forget? The police were here that morning.”
“Here?” Monica sat up abruptly. “The police were actually here at your house?”
“Yes.” Mitzi rolled her eyes again. “This is so typical of Nelson. He got into an argument with our neighbor on the other side.” She pointed toward the right. “The Pooles. An older couple. I guess you’d say they were set in their ways. Anyway, they have a tree that’s quite close to the property line. I don’t remember what kind it is—something I’d never heard of, but then I’m no gardener.” She laughed briefly. “Some of their branches were hanging over onto our property and that annoyed Nelson.”
“What did he do?” Monica leaned back against the chair.
“He asked them to cut the branches that were bothering him.”
“Did they?”
Mitzi shook her head. “No, they refused. I don’t know why. Maybe they just couldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t like they could do it themselves. She walks with a cane and he’s terribly frail-looking. They’d have had to call someone to do it, and maybe that was simply too much for them. Who knows?”
“How did the police get involved?”
Mitzi held up a hand. “I’m getting to that. Nelson was so mad that they wouldn’t do what he asked that he decided to get back at them. Pretty childish, if you ask me, but there was no stopping him once he’d made up his mind.”
Monica wondered what was coming.
“That Saturday night—the night before Laszlo was killed—he went over to the Pooles’ house. They always left their car in the driveway, never put it away. I saw them open the garage door once and it was filled with junk. Like one of those shows on television about people who hoard stuff. No wonder their car was always out.” Mitzi stubbed out her cigarette and immediately reached for the pack and shook out another one.
“Nelson took a bar of soap from the linen closet and went next door. He actually soaped their car windows. It was a mean and childish thing to do, but hardly criminal, so you can imagine how surprised we were when the police showed up on our doorstep the next morning. I guess the Pooles were about to leave for church when they discovered what Nelson had done.”
“And Nelson was here when the police arrived?”
“Sure. It was early. He wasn’t even dressed yet. He was still in his favorite silk bathrobe and slippers.”
“So there was no chance he could have snuck out of the house earlier? While you were still asleep?”
Mitzi blew out a plume of smoke. “Nah. I’m an early riser. I was up before he was. I like to practice yoga while the sun rises.”
Mitzi jumped off her stool. “I really did wonder if Nelson had had anything to do with Laszlo’s death, but now I see that it wasn’t possible. Thanks for putting my mind at rest.”
Monica was glad that Mitzi was relieved, but she didn’t exactly feel the same way herself. She was now down one suspect. Mitzi might have been lying about Nelson’s whereabouts on Sunday morning, but Monica didn’t think so.
And if Mitzi wasn’t lying, that meant Nelson couldn’t possibly have killed Laszlo. She would now have to tackle her next suspect and hope for better luck.
• • •
“Your order’s come in,” Kit said when Monica arrived back at the farm store.
He stood surrounded by large bags of flour and sugar and cartons filled with packages of butter. Crates of fresh and dried cranberries had already been stacked in the corner earlier in the week by a member of Jeff’s crew.
Monica went into her office and retrieved her clipboard and the copy of her order form. She went around and checked items off as she and Kit put them away.
“I was up early this morning,” Kit said as he hefted a bag of flour into the storage closet. “So I took a walk through downtown and along the beach. If I’ve learned one thing while living here in Cranberry Cove, it’s that small towns all have a lot more in common than not. I come from a place in Louisiana that isn’t even big enough to be a dot on the map. We always joked that gossiping was the town sport, more popular than football or soccer or baseball.”
“You can certainly say the same of Cranberry Cove,” Monica said, making a checkmark on her list.
“The two charming ladies who run the candy store, Gumdrops, were at the shop early. One of them was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the building while the other one was cleaning the window. I stopped to say hello, an
d by the time I left they were in possession of my name and address, my entire life story and no doubt my social security number as well.”
“And you probably didn’t even realize what they were doing,” Monica said, laughing. “The same thing happened to me.”
“No wonder news spreads so fast around here.” Kit gestured toward a carton. “Should I put the butter in the refrigerator?”
“Just a minute,” Monica said.
She had an idea. She pulled an old-fashioned scale out from under the counter and set it up.
“I want to weigh the butter. I can’t believe I made mistakes on our order two weeks in a row.”
One by one, Monica weighed the packages of butter, scratching the numbers out on a slip of paper. She put the final lot of butter on the scale, wrote down the weight and tallied up her figures.
“We’re short,” she said, turning to Kit.
“Darling, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve always known I was on the short side.”
Monica laughed. “No, I mean they didn’t send the right amount of butter.” She picked up her clipboard and ran her finger down the columns. She tapped the piece of paper with the end of her pencil. “They sent five pounds less than I ordered.” Monica slammed the clipboard down on the counter. “I knew it.” She punched the air with her fist. “See? It wasn’t wedding jitters or forgetfulness on my part. We’re being cheated!”
Kit tried to hide a smile. “Is it possible they made a mistake?”
“I suppose so,” Monica grumbled. “That means they made a mistake three times in a row.”
“Maybe they have someone new working for them.”
“Yeah. Someone who can’t count.”
Kit leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “So what are you going to do?”
Monica felt her anger drain away. “I’ll call them and let them know we’re short.”
“You’re not going to accuse them of cheating you?”
“Not this time. But if it happens again . . .”
• • •
Monica barely had time to gulp down a sandwich, wash her face, comb her hair and change into an outfit appropriate for church. Even though she rushed, the usher was waiting to close the heavy front door of St. Andrews just as she arrived.
She slipped into the nearest pew and looked around. She spotted Philippa Wentworth sitting toward the front. A man in a dark suit with thin, light brown hair sat next to her. Sitting on the other side of the church was the man Monica had talked to at the yacht club. She thought his name was Ted. He was sitting with a broad-shouldered fellow with white-blond hair and a sunburned, peeling nose.
Monica was surprised to see the VanVelsen sisters sitting in the center of the front row. They didn’t know Laszlo and they didn’t know Andrea either. She couldn’t imagine what they were doing at Laszlo’s memorial service, unless it was collecting gossip to share with the townspeople afterward.
A few more people were scattered here and there. Monica assumed they were friends or relatives of Laszlo’s.
A hush fell over the church and Andrea was led into the front pew by a somber-looking man in a well-fitting navy suit and black tie. Monica remembered that she had a brother—he’d visited Andrea at school once. He was a good deal older than Andrea and had arrived in a red sports car that had had all the girls oohing and aahing and begging to be taken for a ride.
Andrea sat down and smoothed the skirt of the black suit she was wearing. Her brother leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head.
The organ emitted several tentative notes and the congregants stilled and turned expectantly toward the rear of the church, where a burnished maple casket was waiting to be wheeled down the aisle.
The ceremony was short and the eulogy shorter still and very generic since Laszlo had never darkened the doors of St. Andrews and was unknown to the rector.
Finally, the organ swelled to its full magnificence and the congregation began singing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” The organist, who Monica recognized as Helen Vos, the secretary of the Cranberry Cove Board of Health, appeared to be attempting to drown out the pitiful voices of the few people gathered to mourn Bruce Laszlo’s passing.
Finally, the casket was wheeled back down the aisle, closely followed by Andrea and her brother. Andrea stopped and stood at the back of the church, by the baptismal font, greeting the assembled mourners as they exited the church.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Andrea said when it was Monica’s turn. She grasped Monica’s hands in hers. “We’re having a small gathering in the parish house. I hope you can come.”
“Certainly,” Monica said.
The man in back of her cleared his throat and Monica hastily moved on.
The parish hall was an all-purpose room with a pass-through that opened into the church kitchen. Folding chairs were stacked neatly against the walls and a folding table had been set up with urns of coffee and tea, pitchers of lemonade and platters of homemade cookies.
Monica was getting a cup of coffee when the VanVelsen sisters walked up to her.
“That was a rather sad excuse for a memorial,” Hennie said, giving a loud sniff.
She and Gerda were wearing matching black dresses that Monica suspected had been in their closets for several decades, brought out for funerals and other somber occasions. They each had a cameo broach pinned to the exact same spot on the front.
“I imagine Andrea must be planning a more elaborate funeral closer to home,” Monica said.
She held her coffee cup between her two hands—it had been chilly in the church and the warmth felt good.
Hennie gave another loud sniff. “You know, I’ve remembered where I’d seen this Mr. Laszlo before.”
“I thought you didn’t know him,” Monica said.
“I didn’t. But he looked familiar. I thought maybe I’d seen him somewhere at one point—in the shop or walking down the sidewalk.” She laughed. “It came to me in the middle of the night, if you can imagine that.”
“Where had you seen him before?” Monica blew on her coffee, which was still steaming.
“It was at the Cranberry Cove Inn. We don’t often dine out,” she said and indicated her twin, “but Gerda and I had decided to treat ourselves to dinner for our birthday.”
“We had the prime rib,” Gerda said with a smile. “They do it very well there. We even had chocolate cake for dessert.”
Hennie gave her a quelling look and Gerda quickly looked down at the glass of lemonade in her hand.
“It was his voice that I recognized,” Hennie said, fingering the cameo pinned to her dress. “Loud and boorish—just like at your wedding.”
“He was arguing with someone,” Gerda said, nodding. “When Hennie mentioned his voice, I remembered it, too.”
“Did you see who he was arguing with?” Monica reached for a cookie from the platter next to the coffee urn.
“It was one of the waiters. At least he was dressed like a waiter.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
Hennie narrowed her eyes as if that would help her remember.
“He had dark hair and eyes. Sort of swarthy-looking, like Gus from the diner.”
Gerda tapped Hennie on the arm. “Don’t forget his tattoo. Remember?”
“Yes. His sleeve moved up and we could see there was a tattoo on his forearm. I thought it might possibly be a snake. I found it repulsive.” Hennie shuddered.
That was interesting, Monica thought. That had to be Eddie Wood the VanVelsens were describing. Monica remembered seeing that tattoo on his arm. So Laszlo was arguing with him. Did it have anything to do with Eddie’s wife, Mattie? she wondered.
Monica noticed Andrea standing off by herself. She looked weary and slightly forlorn. Monica walked over and put a hand on Andrea’s arm.
“How are you holding up?”
Andrea gave a crooked smile. “So-so. This”—she waved a hand around the room—“is more
draining than I expected it to be.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Andrea turned to Monica and smiled. “You’ve already done a lot just by being here.”
Monica was about to suggest that she fetch Andrea another cup of coffee when she noticed a man walking purposefully toward them. He’d been sitting next to Ted, the fellow from the yacht club, in church. Monica supposed he must be one of Laszlo’s friends.
He bore down on them like a steam engine run amuck. Monica instinctively took a step backward. His face was red and it didn’t take much imagination to picture steam coming out of his ears. He didn’t stop until he was toe-to-toe with Andrea.
“I don’t know you, Mrs. Laszlo,” he said, exhaling loudly. “But I knew your husband. I’m sorry for your loss, but I can’t say I’m sorry to see that bastard go.”
Andrea’s face had gone very white, and Monica put her hand on Andrea’s arm protectively.
Andrea pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes and straightened her spine.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” she said in icy tones, managing to look down her nose at the man despite his being taller by several inches.
“Alton Bates,” the fellow said, giving a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Your husband cheated me and my teammates out of a trophy in the Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago race last summer.”
“I’m afraid that has nothing to do with me. If you’re unhappy with the results I suggest you take it up with the race committee.”
And Andrea turned on her heel and walked briskly toward the exit, leaving Bates with his mouth half open and a surprised expression on his face.
Chapter 12
Monica didn’t want to leave Andrea—she was quite upset after her run-in with Alton Bates—but her brother suddenly appeared at her elbow and offered to take her home. The coffee had run out, the cookie platter was nearly empty, and people were drifting toward the exit.
Monica sighed with relief when she closed the door to her ancient Taurus and pulled out of the driveway of St. Andrews. She felt a need to talk to someone—that scene with Bates had upset her more than she’d realized.