Berry the Hatchet (12 page)

Monica couldn't control the smile that came to her lips. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

“Good,” Nancy said, spearing a lettuce leaf with her fork. “It's about time.”

“That's what Gina said.”

Nancy stiffened at the sound of Gina's name. “Don't make the same mistake I did.”

Monica braced herself for another tirade about Gina. She'd been listening to them for years.

“Take Greg the way he is. Don't try to change him.”

Nancy put down her fork and looked at Monica. Monica was surprised to see there were tears in her eyes.

“I tried to change your father, and that wasn't right. When he began making good money, I fussed at him to buy better clothes, move us to a bigger house, drive a more expensive car. That wasn't John. He loved his job—the money was merely a pleasant by-product.”

Monica stared at her mother. This was the first she was hearing about this. Her mother rarely ever admitted to making a mistake.

“Then Gina came along. She thought he was fine the way he was. She didn't turn her nose up at some of the things he enjoyed as not being sophisticated enough. It didn't take much to lure him away.” Nancy took a sip of wine. “Not that I approve of stealing another woman's husband.” She shook her finger at Monica. “And John certainly had some responsibility in the whole thing. Gina wasn't . . . the first.” Nancy took a large gulp of wine.

“What?”

“There were other women, and there had been for quite some time.”

Monica's mind was whirling, trying to adjust to these new facts about her father. “Then maybe it wasn't you who drove him away after all.”

“You're probably right.” Nancy put down her fork and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “But I don't think I made it pleasant enough for him to want to stay.”

It was almost two o'clock by the time Monica and Nancy finished lunch and left the Cranberry Cove Inn. Monica was still reeling from what her mother had confided to her. What had prompted her to tell Monica those things now?

Her mother backed the Sonata out of the parking space and turned onto Beach Hollow Road. They passed Book 'Em, and Monica couldn't help but think of Greg. She certainly didn't want to change him. She liked him exactly the way he was.

A delivery truck was parked outside Danielle's boutique, and there wasn't enough room to get around it. Nancy drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as they waited.

She gestured toward Danielle's. “I might have to pop in there for some more clothes if that Detective Stevens doesn't let me leave town soon.”

“I'm sure the police must be nearing a solution. It's been
several days.” Monica hoped they had found some clues that pointed to the real culprit and that they weren't still wasting their time trying to pin the murder on Tempest.

The truck still hadn't moved but as Nancy's hand hovered over the horn, the red taillights went out, and the truck began to move forward.

Nancy glanced in her rearview mirror. “Isn't that Gina behind us?”

Monica turned around and looked out the back window. “It looks like her car.”

“I don't imagine there are too many Mercedes in Cranberry Cove.”

They came to the four-way stop at the intersection of Beach Hollow and Elm. Nancy braked and then proceeded through the intersection.

The squealing of brakes took Monica by surprise as her mother slammed her foot down hard on the pedal. The car coming the other way through the intersection braked as well but it wasn't enough to keep the two cars from bumping fenders. Monica and Nancy sat in silence for a moment. Monica was sure the astonished beating of her heart was audible in the suddenly quiet car.

“What on earth—” Nancy looked over at Monica. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. A little shaken maybe.”

“Me too.”

Monica could see her mother's hands trembling on the steering wheel.

The driver of the car that had tapped them was getting out of his vehicle—an SUV desperately in need of a wash. He was overweight and balding, and his fleshy face was bright red. He bent down to look at the damage to his car,
and when he straightened up, Monica could tell he was cursing. He shook his fist at the Sonata, and Monica sank down in her seat.

“I'd better get out and talk to him,” Nancy said. She opened her purse, took out her wallet and retrieved her driver's license. “If you open the glove compartment, you'll find my registration and insurance card.”

“Maybe we'd better wait for the police,” Monica said as she looked through the glove box where Nancy had stored an extra pair of gloves, a packet of tissues and a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

“I'm sure we can sort this out. There can't be much damage and there's no doubt that he hit me.”

Monica sighed and opened her car door. She wasn't letting Nancy go out there alone.

The other driver immediately approached them, his fist raised, his face still mottled red. He began yelling as he got closer.

“What kind of driver are you?”

Nancy bristled. “Excuse me? I could say the same about you. You hit me, after all.”

“I did not hit you.” The man shook his fist at Nancy.

She held her ground. “You most certainly did!”

By now Monica had taken her phone out and called the police. She could already hear the siren in the distance—they obviously hadn't been too far away.

The driver took another step toward Nancy, and grabbed her by the lapels of her jacket. Nancy's face went white as she put up her hands to try to defend herself.

Gina, who was still behind them in her Mercedes, jumped out of her car and approached the pair.

“You let go of her this instant!”

Startled, the fellow released his grip and took a step backward. Gina got between him and Nancy.

“You hit her, do you understand me? You hit my friend.” Gina emphasized each word with a poke of her index finger to the man's chest.

The man made a noise like a growl and went to grab Gina. But before he could, Nancy sprang into action, putting her hands against the man's chest and giving him a sound shove.

By now a patrol car had pulled up. The officer jumped out of his vehicle and quickly approached the trio.

“Steady on,” he said, pushing his hat back to reveal a red crease across his forehead. He pulled a pad and pencil from his back pocket. “Want to tell me what happened?”

They all began talking at once, and he held up a hand for them to stop. He turned toward Monica who was standing slightly apart.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Yes. We approached the four-way stop and my mother,” she indicated Nancy, “stopped the car. Since we were the only car stopped at the intersection, we proceeded to go through. We could see another car—the SUV—was coming toward the stop on the other street, but knowing it was a four-way stop, we obviously had the right of way. But he sailed on through without stopping and hit us.”

The policemen took down all their pertinent information and then slowly walked around both cars, squatting down to look at the damage. “Hardly more than a scratch,” he said, pulling his hat back down. “And judging by the skid marks you both tried to stop.”

He turned to the driver of the other car. “I'm afraid
I'm going to have to issue you a summons. License and registration, please?” He held out his hand.

“Can we go now, officer?” Nancy interrupted.

“In a minute. I'll need to see your papers, too.”

The officer took the documents from both drivers and headed back to the patrol car while Nancy and the other driver stood fuming at each other.

Finally the officer returned, handed Nancy's license and registration back to her and said they could go.

Nancy turned to leave but stopped briefly to put her arm around Gina.

“Thanks for sticking up for me. That means a lot.”

If Monica didn't know better, she would have sworn there were tears in Nancy's eyes.

Gina dashed a hand at her own eyes. “No problem. I owe you one.”

•   •   •

Jeff's pickup was in the driveway when Monica and her mother pulled in. Nancy had met Jeff before, but they hadn't seen each other recently. Nancy could be very critical—Monica hoped they would get along.

“Hope you don't mind. I let myself in,” Jeff said as Monica pushed open the kitchen door.

Mittens immediately sprang out of nowhere and began to wind in and out between Monica's legs. Monica bent down and scratched her chin. Mittens arched her back and swished her tail in the air.

“Is something wrong?” Monica asked as she hung her jacket on the coatrack.

“No. Everything's fine.”

Nancy tapped Monica on the shoulder. “If you don't mind, dear, I'm going to go upstairs and lie down for a bit. That whole event this afternoon has worn me out, I'm afraid.”

“What happened?” Jeff asked as he settled into one of the kitchen chairs, his long legs stretched out under the table.

Monica told him about the car accident and how Gina had come to Nancy's defense.

“My mother's a real spitfire,” he said, grabbing a soft drink out of the refrigerator. “I'd have liked to have seen that.”

Monica sat down at the table opposite Jeff. “I'm sure the other driver is still wondering what hit him—no pun intended. Gina really gave him what for.”

Jeff took a long pull on his pop then set the can down on the table and reached into his back pocket.

“I went by the Bijou today and bought that necklace I'd noticed in the window.” He placed a midnight blue velvet box in front of him and lifted the lid. Nestled in a bed of white satin was a small gold heart on a delicate chain. “Do you think Lauren will like it?”

Monica smiled. “It's beautiful. I'm sure she'll love it.”

“I just hope I'm doing the right thing.” Jeff sighed. “I don't want her to feel . . . obligated.”

“Lauren seems like a smart girl. I imagine she knows her own mind, and if she decides that life with you in Cranberry Cove is what she wants, I'm sure she won't regret it.”

“I hope not.” Jeff ran a hand over his face. “I'd like to ask her to marry me and settle it once and for all, but that wouldn't be fair to her. I don't want to rush her into
something without giving her time to think. She needs to finish her classes and get through graduation first.”

“A lot of girls graduate with engagement rings on their fingers.”

Jeff screwed up his face. “I'm planning on building us a house. Nothing too grand or anything, but something we can add on to as time goes by and we need more space.”

Monica thought she noticed a blush coloring his face, and she fought the urge to smile.

“There's a spot that'd be perfect—on a small rise with a view of the cranberry bogs. I'd build one of those big wraparound porches,” Jeff gestured with his hands, “where we could sit on summer nights and watch the sun go down.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“Anyway, you think this necklace will do?”

“Certainly.”

Jeff let out a whistle. “Boy, that Jacy Belair sure made a big play for me while I was in the shop. She was wearing a low-cut top, and she kept leaning over so that . . . well, you know what I mean.”

Jeff's face colored again. He'd been to hell and back fighting in Afghanistan but the sight of a woman's cleavage could still make him blush. Monica found it terribly touching. She could still remember her excitement when she learned he'd been born—excitement she had tried to hide from her mother, who didn't want to know anything about it. An image of Jeff as a young boy flashed across her mind—with dirt on his face and a cowlick that refused to be tamed. And then it seemed as if all of a sudden he was an endearing but awkward teenage boy—tall with long skinny limbs he didn't seem to know what to do with.

And now Jeff was a young man. The time had gone
by so quickly, like one of those flip-books where you fan the pages and the image changes in front of your eyes.

“Has there been any more news about Crowley's murder?” Jeff put the can of pop to his lips and tilted it back.

Monica shook her head. “I have no idea what leads the police are following, but I'm following one of my own.”

Jeff sputtered and coughed. “You?”

“Yes,” Monica said a little defensively.

“Listen sis, last time you stuck your nose into a murder investigation, you almost got yourself killed.”

“I'm not sticking my nose into anything,” Monica said even though she knew that wasn't true. “I've merely had a couple of ideas about the case.”

“Which are?”

“You know that new restaurant that's slated to open in town—the Pepper Pot?”

“Sure. I plan to take Lauren there as soon as it opens.”

“Apparently Mayor Crowley had a hand in delaying the permit that would have allowed it to open in time for the Winter Walk.”

“Seriously?” Jeff crushed the pop can in his good hand. “He must have been trying to eliminate the competition.”

“Exactly.”

“I imagine the owner was furious.”

“He certainly was, and on more than one account. Apparently he used to work for Crowley at the Cranberry Cove Inn. Crowley accused him of stealing and fired him.”

“Who is this guy?”

“His name is Roger Tripp. I tracked him down this morning. He claims he hadn't stolen from Crowley, and it was just a rumor that Crowley started.”

“I can't say I knew Crowley, but from what I've heard of him, that doesn't sound like something he'd stoop to.” Jeff scowled. “Anyway, what's your plan, Dick Tracy?”

Monica laughed. “More like Miss Marple, I'm afraid. I'd like to know if anyone saw Tripp around during the Winter Walk—especially near where the horse and sleigh were waiting for Miss Winter Walk.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“The only problem is, I don't have a picture of Tripp.” Monica laughed. “I suppose I could sneak up on him and snap one with my phone.”

Jeff frowned. “If he is the murderer, that could put you in a lot of danger.”

“I'd be discreet,” Monica protested.

“Nope, you're not doing it,” Jeff said. “I won't let you. If nothing else, I'll do it myself.”

Monica marveled at how the tables had turned—now Jeff was looking out for her.

Suddenly Jeff snapped his fingers. “I think the paper ran an article about the Pepper Pot, and there was a picture of Tripp. It was black and white, but it ought to be enough for someone to recognize him.”

“How long ago was that?”

Jeff shrugged. “Couple weeks ago maybe? I do remember it was on the front page.”