Berried at Sea

by Peg Cochran

  Greg pulled out another kitchen chair and sat down. “How was your day?” he said to Monica and Gina.

  “Weren’t you going to go to the marina today?” Gina said.

  Greg looked startled. “The marina? Not your usual stomping grounds, I wouldn’t think.”

  Monica felt herself flushing. She turned her back to the table and began mashing the simmering apples in the pot. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.

  “I was asking around to see if anyone noticed anything unusual the morning Laszlo was killed. If there’d been a fight or an argument . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at Greg. “I read that the police believe Laszlo was killed at the marina before his body was put in that boat and set adrift.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

  “What did you find out?” Gina said, leaning forward in her chair.

  “There was an argument that morning. The fellow who manned the fuel pump heard it. Unfortunately, what he heard was two men arguing.”

  “Why is that unfortunate?” Greg asked.

  Monica turned around and leaned back against the counter. “I was convinced that Mattie Crawford was responsible for Laszlo’s death. I’ve already ruled out Nelson Holt and Alton Bates.”

  “Maybe the argument had nothing to do with Laszlo,” Greg said.

  “True,” Monica said. “But I was hoping for some sort of clue that would further implicate Mattie.”

  “I wish we knew if she has any kind of alibi,” Gina said, jiggling her foot, her high-heeled pump dangling off her toes.

  “I can’t exactly go up to her and ask her.”

  “She works at the inn.” Greg got up and began helping Monica set the table. “You might be able to find out whether or not she was working that morning.” He set three forks out. “It might give her an alibi of sorts.”

  • • •

  Monica was washing the last pan and Greg was wiping down the kitchen table when he stopped and looked out the window.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” he said, parting the curtains. “Why don’t we go for a walk along the lake when we’re done?”

  “I’d like that.” Monica put the pan in the dish drainer and pulled off her rubber gloves.

  They finished tidying up the kitchen, turned on the dishwasher and went out to Greg’s car.

  Within a few minutes they were driving along Beach Hollow Road. The shops were closed, their lights out and welcome mats brought inside. The old-fashioned gas lamps, now outfitted with electricity, were on, and twinkling white lights outlined the window of Twilight, illuminating a display of new-age items.

  They found a parking space on the street down from the Cranberry Cove Inn. Greg locked the car and they made their way to the sandy path that led over the dunes, around the storm fence and to the beach.

  The moon was strong and bright and the outline of the lighthouse was visible in the distance.

  Greg put his arm around Monica. “It’s hard to believe that a week ago we found Laszlo’s body right there.” Greg pointed to a spot on the water.

  Monica shivered and Greg tightened his arm around her.

  “And the police don’t seem to be any further along in solving the murder,” Monica said. “As far as I know Andrea is still under arrest, so who knows if they are even looking for anyone else?”

  “The police might know more than we think.”

  “True.”

  They stopped to look out over the lake at the pinpricks of light from the boats sailing on the horizon. Monica dug her toes into the sand and raised her face to the breeze. Her hair blew back off her face and she could almost feel it curling in the humidity.

  They continued walking along the beach until the lights of the Cranberry Cove Inn slowly dimmed and nearly disappeared.

  “Are you getting cold?” Greg looked at Monica.

  “A bit. Why don’t we head back.”

  The sound of the waves lapping against the shore was soothing, and by the time they reached the inn, Monica was feeling considerably more relaxed.

  “Would you care for a nightcap?” Greg asked, squeezing her hand.

  “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  The lights of the inn’s lobby seemed extra bright when they walked in and Monica stood blinking for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. Logs hissed and popped in the stone fireplace, throwing off waves of delicious warmth. Monica hadn’t realized quite how chilled she’d become on their walk back along the beach.

  Greg led her into the Nook, a small wood-paneled bar with stools along the counter and a handful of round tables and chairs.

  They took a seat at the one unoccupied table and the waiter took their order—a brandy for Greg and a Baileys for Monica.

  Two men sat at opposite ends of the bar with a couple seated close together in the middle. Monica watched them as they sipped their drinks, their heads close together, the man reaching out to occasionally touch the woman’s arm. Monica smiled and looked over at Greg. She knew how it felt to be in love.

  The waiter set their drinks on the table, and when they assured him there was nothing else they needed, he departed.

  Monica’s eyes were drawn back to the couple sitting at the bar. There was something familiar about them—or at least about the woman. Especially the woman’s posture—erect but at the same time fluid and not at all rigid. The lighting was dim and she had her back to Monica, so Monica couldn’t really see her all that well. She supposed the woman reminded her of someone, she just couldn’t put her finger on who at the moment. It would probably come to her later when she wasn’t thinking about it.

  The woman turned suddenly to look at the man, a small smile playing around her lips, her profile now visible.

  Monica stared at her in shock. It was Andrea.

  “What’s wrong?” Greg asked, sensing her alarm.

  Monica leaned close to him over the table and whispered, “That’s Andrea Laszlo. And she’s looking terribly cozy with another man awfully soon after her husband’s death.”

  Greg turned to look at the couple at the bar. He raised an eyebrow.

  “It certainly doesn’t look like a business meeting, if you ask me.”

  “What should we do?”

  Greg laughed. “Enjoy our drinks and then get out of here and go back to our lovely little cottage.”

  • • •

  Monica didn’t sleep well that night. She kept waking up and thinking about seeing Andrea in the bar seeming so cozy with that strange man. Did that mean that Andrea was a murderer who had killed her husband in order to be with someone else? Monica didn’t know. She didn’t think so—she thought she knew Andrea better than that. But that was the Andrea she knew a long time ago in college. The Andrea who loved Hawaiian pizza and cried at romantic movies and tutored underprivileged children. This was a new Andrea—one Monica realized she didn’t know very well at all.

  Before Monica knew it, the sun was rising and dawn was breaking on Sunday morning. Book ’Em was open on Sundays during tourist season, which extended through the summer until mid-October, when the leaves stopped changing color and the weather turned bitter. Greg usually checked in with the staff on Sunday mornings to make sure things were going smoothly, and then, if everything was in order, took the afternoons off.

  While he was gone, Monica decided she’d take Greg’s suggestion and head over to the Cranberry Cove Inn. Hopefully she would find out if Mattie had been working the Sunday Laszlo was killed and whether anyone could give her an alibi for the time of death. According to the medical examiner’s report, Laszlo hadn’t been dead for much more than an hour when Monica and Greg had found his body.

  Monica cleaned up the dishes—she’d made Greg pancakes—filled Mittens’s bowl again and finally got into her car to head into town.

  Her car started making a strange noise as she crested the hill overlooking Beach Hollow Road. Monica held her breath. She couldn’t afford to replace her ancient Taurus at the moment. She and Greg wer
e saving every penny in order to build a house.

  Greg had had the foresight to buy a piece of property when he first moved to Cranberry Cove, at a time when prices were much more reasonable and wealthy people weren’t yet buying up lots to build their large summer homes. He’d hoped to build on the land eventually but had found living over the shop to be so comfortable and convenient that he’d put the idea on the back burner.

  Monica noticed the sidewalks were crowded as she drove through town. It was a beautiful day—a brief spell warm enough for shorts and a light sweater. A few brave souls were on the beach and boats were out bobbing on the waves.

  The inn offered an elaborate brunch buffet as well as their regular menu on Sundays and their parking lot was full. Monica drove around to the service entrance. They weren’t likely to be getting deliveries on a Sunday, so no one should mind if she left her car there.

  Eddie Wood was standing outside the service entrance door, a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. He moved aside as Monica approached.

  She caught a snippet of his conversation—something about a shipment—and stopped just inside the door, where he couldn’t see her, to listen.

  She stood as still as possible in order to hear what he was saying.

  “The boat with the shipment will be in position in an hour, I promise.” There was a pause. “No, that guy’s out of the picture. Permanently.” He laughed. “There’s a dock about one hundred yards south of the lighthouse. It’s old and rickety but it will do. It’s shallow there but you should be okay if you use the skiff. You might have to make two trips. I’ll meet you there.”

  He ended the call and Monica scurried down the corridor to the kitchen. She didn’t think Eddie had seen her. She hoped not.

  She wondered what sort of shipment he was anticipating. And who was the guy who was permanently out of the picture? His voice had been low, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to hear, and she didn’t think he was waiting for an order of meat or vegetables for the inn. Besides, all of that was trucked in, not brought over by boat.

  The kitchen was bustling with pots sending clouds of steam into the air, and the swinging door to the restaurant opening and closing so fast it was practically a blur as waiters grabbed orders from the counter and scurried back out to deliver them to their waiting customers.

  Monica slipped past the pastry station, where a chef was briskly organizing miniature strawberry and blueberry tarts on a tray to be taken out to the buffet. Monica’s mouth watered at the sight of them.

  No one noticed her as she made her way through the swinging door and into the restaurant—they were too busy focusing on the work at hand.

  The restaurant was as busy as the kitchen. Every table was filled and people were lined up at the buffet, where a sumptuous brunch had been set out, including a carving station with roast beef and ham and a station where a chef in a white apron and tall toque was making omelets to order.

  Monica made her way through the restaurant and out to the lobby. Several people were lined up near the reception desks, suitcases at their sides. Monica glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner—it was eleven o’clock and checkout time.

  The receptionist behind the counter wasn’t anyone Monica recognized. She’d hoped Patty would be working today but someone else had obviously drawn the Sunday morning shift.

  The elevator door opened and a chambermaid pushing a trolley filled with dirty laundry stepped out. It was Mattie Crawford. Before Monica could approach her, she disappeared down the corridor and through a door.

  Monica took a seat in the lobby and pretended to be studying the screen on her phone. She debated what to do. Should she try to talk to Mattie directly or hope that the receptionist would be as chatty as Patty had been and as disinclined to ask questions.

  She still hadn’t made up her mind when Mattie walked into the lobby. She straightened the magazines on the coffee table in front of the sofa and plumped the sofa cushions. Monica wanted to talk to her but was at a loss as to how to start the conversation in a way that wouldn’t put Mattie on the defensive.

  She glanced at the occasional table next to her. On top of it was a small vase with a bouquet of gold and rust-colored flowers in it. Monica hesitated and then swept it off the table with her hand. The vase clattered to the floor and the water spilled out and trickled toward the edge of the Oriental carpet.

  Mattie spun around when she heard the noise.

  “I’m so sorry.” Monica jumped to her feet. “That was so clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry,” she said again.

  Mattie frowned, her dark brows drawn over her dark eyes.

  “I’ll get a cloth,” she said and whirled on her heel.

  Monica pretended to fuss over the mess until Mattie came back with a thick, absorbent towel. She bent over and began to mop up the water.

  “I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” Monica said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mattie said, continuing to blot up the water with the cloth.

  “I’m sure it’s bad enough having to work on the weekends . . .” Monica let the sentence trail off, waiting to see if Mattie took the bait.

  “I don’t mind. I’m used to it now and the tips are better on the weekend.”

  “So you work every Sunday?”

  Mattie gave Monica a sharp look. “Yes.” She began picking up the flowers.

  “Were you here last weekend? I gather there was quite a bit of excitement.”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “Were you here when they found the . . . body? I heard the police were all over the place.”

  Mattie stood up and faced Monica, her hands on her hips. “I’m here from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon unless the girl working the next shift doesn’t show up, and then I work until eleven at night, okay?” She glared at Monica.

  Monica gave a wan smile.

  Now she knew Mattie had been working at the inn the morning Laszlo died, Monica thought as she headed back through the kitchen. It wasn’t an airtight alibi, but it certainly made Mattie a less likely suspect. Undoubtedly someone would have noticed if she’d gone missing for an hour or two.

  Monica passed the small closet in the corridor leading to the exit and again she heard voices coming from behind the partially closed door.

  One was definitely Mattie’s. Who had she been so quick to run off to talk to? Monica wondered. As she passed the open crack in the door, she caught a glimpse of a man—a man who she was pretty certain was Eddie Wood.

  It was perfectly reasonable that Mattie should be talking to her husband, Monica thought as she opened her car door. But was it merely a coincidence that she’d been in such a hurry to catch up with him right after her conversation with Monica? Was she telling him that Monica had been asking her questions?

  Monica couldn’t imagine that Eddie had had anything to do with Laszlo’s death. What did he have to gain by it? Being heard arguing once didn’t make them mortal enemies. Besides, she didn’t see a connection between them—Laszlo was a wealthy summer visitor and Eddie was a local who waited tables at the inn for a living.

  Monica had turned the key in the ignition when she remembered Eddie’s telephone conversation and his remark about the shipment. She tried to imagine what sort of shipment it could be—most likely something illegal or he wouldn’t have sounded so secretive about it. All Monica could think of was drugs or alcohol. Drugs would be awfully risky, and she knew nothing about smuggling alcohol or whether there was much profit in it. She remembered Jeff’s crewmember telling her how cigarettes were cheaper in Indiana because the taxes were lower. Maybe it was the same with alcohol?

  Eddie had mentioned someone on the phone—someone who was permanently out of the picture. Laszlo was definitely permanently out of the picture. Could there be some connection between him and Eddie Wood after all?

  Chapter 17

  By the time Monica pulled out of the parking lot of the Cranberry Cove Inn, she was deter
mined to find out exactly what shipment Eddie was planning to meet down by the lighthouse. She figured it ought to be easy enough to find a place to hide while Eddie met the sailor and his boat and they unloaded the mysterious cargo.

  Whether any of this had anything to do with Laszlo’s death, Monica didn’t have a clue. But she had run out of other ideas and hoped that this might lead to something new.

  She thought it would be safer if she didn’t go alone. If there was trouble someone would hopefully be able to run for help. Not that she was anticipating trouble—she planned to stay well hidden and merely observe. But it was good to be prepared. There was something ever so slightly sinister about Eddie that made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle a warning.

  She could ask Greg to go with her, but she knew he would try to talk her out of it. Her other thought was Gina. Gina was always up for an adventure and wouldn’t try to stop Monica.

  Monica pulled off to the side of the road and got her cell phone out of her purse. Gina answered on the third ring and Monica told her about her plan. Gina agreed to join her as soon as her nail polish dried.

  Monica hoped that wouldn’t take too long. She didn’t want to miss Eddie and the shipment when it came in. She’d told Gina to meet her a few hundred yards south of the lighthouse. They’d leave their cars on the road and find someplace to hide where they could see the beach.

  The sun was coming through her windshield and Monica lowered her visor and buzzed down her window the rest of the way, relishing what might be one of the last few days of good weather.

  The shoulder of the road near the lighthouse had been extended slightly to make room for three or four cars to park. Monica pulled in and cut the engine.

  The lake was fairly placid with only a ripple of a wave forming as the water neared the shore. The beach was deserted. Monica got out and walked toward the water’s edge. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the horizon. A small skiff was headed toward shore, its motor the faintest buzz in the distance.