Berry the Hatchet (13 page)

“You don't happen to still have the paper, do you?”

“I doubt it. As a matter of fact, I think I picked it up at the diner and read it while I was eating breakfast.” Jeff tilted his chair back on two legs, and Monica held her breath as she always did, fearing he would tip right over. “But don't you have a subscription?”

“Yes, but I've already recycled last week's papers.”

Jeff let his chair fall back into place. “Mine wasn't picked up this week, although I don't know why. Why don't you check?”

Monica felt a tiny jolt of optimism. She grabbed her coat from the coatrack, slipped it on and went out the back door.

Both the garbage can and the recycling can were kept beside the cottage, screened from the street by a small wooden enclosure that was supposed to keep the animals out but didn't. Raccoons weren't put off by a simple latched door, and more than once Monica had gone out to find the cans overturned.

The wind had picked up, and Monica shivered as it sent cold, stealthy fingers creeping down her back. She quickly pulled her jacket closed and buttoned it securely.

Monica lifted the lid on the recycling can. Jeff was right—it hadn't been picked up as it normally would have been. Monica vaguely remembered receiving a postcard in the mail that they were going to an every other week system, but she'd paid little attention at the time—her can was usually only half full anyway by the time they came around to pick up. She had no idea that the change in schedule would turn out to be a blessing.

Monica had to dig through a layer of cans and plastic containers to unearth a stack of newspapers that she'd tied neatly with string before depositing them in the recycling receptacle. She pulled them out and headed back toward the cottage.

Monica shivered as she shed her jacket and let the warmth of the kitchen envelop her.

“Looks like you struck gold,” Jeff said when he saw the papers.

“Let's just hope that's not the one issue I used to wrap up the potato peelings or onion skins,” Monica said as she teased the knot out of the twine.

A faint smell of decay rose from the newspapers as Monica went through them, fingers mentally crossed that she would find the one she wanted.

“It was on the front page?” She turned to Jeff.

“Yes, I'm pretty sure. Bottom half of the paper if that helps.”

“It does.” Monica flipped the papers over and went through them again.

She almost missed the story—the headline was about the Winter Walk, but the reporter mentioned the expected opening of the Pepper Pot and along with a photograph of the front of the restaurant was a small picture of Roger Tripp. A small spot—moisture, grease?—made a blotch on the left side of Tripp's face, and Monica hoped that it wouldn't make him too hard to identify.

“Here.” She put the paper in front of Jeff, and pointed at the article.

He stared at the photo. “He doesn't look familiar to me, but I spend most of my time out here on the farm.” He pushed the paper back toward Monica. “Hopefully someone in town will be more of a help.”

Monica drove back into town. The sun was lower in the sky now, and she had to put her visor down to shield her eyes from the glare. She crested the hill that was between Cranberry Cove and the farm and was tempted to stop for a moment to enjoy the view. No one was behind her so she put on the brake and paused briefly. Lake Michigan was spread out below her. Its crystal water sparkled in the light in the far distance, but closer to shore, the water was frozen into sculptural ice forms, dripping from the jetty and clinging to the sides of the lighthouse.

She could see people moving about on the frozen lake although their parkas and scarves were mere dots of color from this distance. The newspaper had warned the public against trusting the ice, but there were always those who didn't listen. Just the other day a young man had had to be rescued when a patch of ice gave way, plunging him into the frigid waters. Monica shivered just thinking about it.

She took her foot off the brake and continued into town. The view never failed to amaze her, and she didn't think she'd ever become jaded enough to where it didn't cause her to catch her breath in wonder.

She pulled into Cranberry Cove proper and parked her Focus at the end of Beach Hollow Road, in front of the hardware store. The hardware store had been there through several generations and still had wooden floors that creaked when you walked over them. The new owners had brought in an old-fashioned popcorn machine so that the store always smelled of popped corn and melted butter.

Monica pushed open the door and went inside. There was a line at the checkout so she pretended to study a display while she waited. She had the picture of Roger Tripp that she'd cut from the newspaper tucked into her purse.

Finally the woman behind the counter had waited on all the customers in line. She began to flip through a seed catalog and looked up when Monica approached her. She gave a practiced smile but then raised an eyebrow quizzically when she realized Monica didn't have any purchases to be rung up.

“Can I help you?” she said with a puzzled note to her voice.

“I hope so.” Monica smiled and reached into her purse for the folded newspaper clipping. She opened it up and pushed it across the counter. “Do you recognize this man?”

The woman ran a hand through her hair, which was blond with dark roots. She pointed a finger, with a knuckle that was red and rough and a nail that was bitten to the quick, at the caption under the picture. “It says right here his name is Roger Tripp.” She looked up at Monica with a confused expression on her face.

Monica suppressed a sigh. “Yes, you're absolutely right. What I'm wondering is if you've ever seen him around town. Particularly the first night of the Winter Walk.”

The clerk shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. But there were so many people about that night.” She pushed the clipping across the counter toward Monica. “Sorry.”

Monica smiled. She was disappointed, but she hadn't really thought it would be that easy.

“Can I help you with anything else?” The woman looked pointedly at the empty counter in front of her.

Monica grabbed a pack of gum from a display by the register and handed it to the woman. She looked at it for a moment without moving then rang it up and handed it to Monica.

“Bag?” she said belatedly.

“No, I'll put it in my purse.”

Monica slunk out of the shop feeling slightly defeated but ready to continue her search for someone, anyone, who might be able to put Roger Tripp in the area of the murder the afternoon Crowley was killed.

She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, thinking, but the icy wind soon sent her walking. She peered into the window of the butcher shop, where she could see Bart preparing a roast behind the counter. Several people were waiting, and Monica didn't want to disturb him, nor did she want to wait till everyone left.

She passed Book 'Em, and Greg must have seen her through the window because he came out of the shop and called after her, motioning excitedly.

Monica turned back and smiled.

“Do you have a minute?” Greg brushed back the hair that the wind had blown across his forehead.

“Sure.” Monica smiled again. The sight of Greg always seemed to make her smile.

“I want to show you something,” Greg said as he held the door open for Monica. “It's a real treasure. I'm not sure I'll be able to part with it, but I know a collector in Detroit who would definitely be interested if I want to sell.”

Now Monica's curiosity was truly piqued.

Greg went behind the counter, pulled a book off the shelf and reverently placed it on the glass countertop.

He ran his hand over the dust jacket as if he was caressing it. “Dorothy Sayers's
Gaudy Night.
Signed first edition.”

Monica could only guess how special the book was. “Where did you find it?”

“Believe it or not, at a garage sale. Someone obviously didn't know what it was worth. I told them it was very valuable, and that they should consult a dealer about it, but they weren't interested in going to all that bother. I gave them several times their asking price for it to ease my conscience.” He grinned. “They seemed more than satisfied with that.”

Greg leaned his elbows on the counter. “So where are you off to this afternoon? Have time for a cup of coffee?”

Monica sighed. “I'd love to, but I'm on a mission I'm afraid.”

“Uh-oh, you on a mission. Now that's scary.” Greg laughed.

“I'm canvassing all the shops to see if anyone can put Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, at the scene of Crowley's murder. It's a long shot, I know.” Suddenly Monica realized just what a long shot it was, and her spirits plummeted.

“Oh, I don't know,” Greg said. “People around here are quite observant—especially when it comes to an unfamiliar face. And I gather Tripp wasn't all that well known around town even though he's been here for a couple of years.”

“I'm off to Twilight next. I don't quite have the nerve to approach the diner.”

“I grew up here and Gus scares even me,” Greg said, referring to the short-order cook who gave the evil eye to any stranger who dared to darken the diner's door. “It sounds like you have your work cut out for you. I won't keep you then.” Greg carefully slid the Sayers book back onto the shelf behind him.

He came out from behind the counter and walked Monica to the door. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he merely squeezed her arm and wished her luck.

The air felt extra frigid after the warmth of the bookstore. Greg always kept the heat blaring in Book 'Em so his customers were motivated to take off their coats and spend time browsing or reading in the comfy armchairs that dotted the shop.

The enticing smells from the diner reminded Monica that her mother had offered to cook dinner again that night. Nancy was an excellent cook, and Monica was looking forward to another delicious meal.

A bell tinkled when she pushed open the door to Twilight. Tempest was behind the counter with her back facing Monica. Monica was shocked when she turned around. More of her black hair seemed to have become consumed by the white streak at her temple almost overnight, and her face had lines that hadn't been there before.

“Oh, Monica,” she said when she turned around. The words came out sounding like a sob.

“Is everything okay?” Monica asked in concern.

“Okay? Of course not. The police still suspect me of murder, and it's all I can think about.” She gestured toward the tarot cards spread out on the counter. “Even the cards think I did it.” She tried to smile, but her lips trembled and turned down at the corners.

She was wearing a flowing purple satin top with a jeweled neckline. She began to pleat the fabric between her fingers. “I don't know what to do.” She looked at Monica beseechingly. “Have you discovered something new?” A spark of hope lit her eyes briefly.

“Yes and no. I've learned that Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, had more than one reason to hate Crowley. Not only did Crowley manage to delay the opening of Tripp's restaurant, but he apparently accused him of stealing when Tripp worked at the Cranberry Cove Inn.”

“Do you think this Roger Tripp is the one who killed Crowley?” Tempest looked down at her blouse, which was now wrinkled where she'd been clutching it. She pulled a strand of worry beads from her pocket and began fingering them.

“I don't know. But it's the best lead we've had so far.”

“I won't keep you then.” She put a hand to her chest. “Unless you'd like something to warm you up? Tea? I've a lovely herbal brew. . . .”

“Thanks, but I'd rather get going while the shops are still open. I know it sounds lame, but keep your chin up.”

Tempest lifted her chin. “I will. And Monica,” she put a hand on Monica's arm, “I appreciate what you're doing for me.”

•   •   •

Once again Monica found herself on the sidewalk. There weren't very many people about. Two men came out of the diner carrying the scent of fried food with them. A woman left Bart's Butcher with a large white bag in her arms, and a young man with close-cropped hair was entering Book 'Em.

Monica looked around. She could try Danielle's boutique or the Purple Grape across the street, where they sold expensive wines and specialized in bottles from the Michigan vineyards on the Leelanau Peninsula.

Bijou was next to the Purple Grape. Monica made a quick decision—she would go in there next. It would be interesting to talk to the woman who seemed to have taken such a shine to Jeff.

Jacy Belair was cleaning the top of one of her glass display cases when Monica entered. Her ample curves were wrapped in a pink cashmere scoop-neck sweater that revealed the very top of her lacy push-up bra as she bent over to wipe the sides of the case.

Her manicure—pink polish that matched her sweater, with a rhinestone glued to each pinky nail—accentuated the diamond chunk in the ring on her right hand. The strand of pearls around her neck swung forward as she sprayed the other side of the display case with cleaner.

“Can I help you?” she asked Monica, lifting her head without straightening up.

“Yes. I hope so.”

Jacy put down her cleaning tools and put on her best smile. Her lipstick matched her sweater and manicure and accentuated her white teeth and the dimple in her cheek.
Monica couldn't help wondering if she changed her nail and lip color along with her outfits.

Jacy's skirt was short and tight and her shoes high-heeled with a peek-a-boo toe. She slid behind the counter. “Are you looking for a gift perhaps? Or something for yourself?”

She gave Monica a look that suggested she doubted Monica was after a piece of jewelry for herself. Monica realized the only jewelry she was currently wearing was a pair of gold stud earrings.

Monica glanced at the glittering array of gems underneath the glass countertop—diamond rings, heavy gold bracelets, necklaces of every length and style.

Jacy cocked her blond head to one side as Monica pulled the newspaper clipping from her purse. “Don't you live out at Sassamanash Farm?”

“Yes, I do.”

“The young man that runs the farm—is that your brother?”

Monica was tempted to say he was her boyfriend but then thought better of it. She wanted to get information from Jacy, not antagonize her.

“Yes. Jeff.”

“Handsome young man. Is he seeing anyone?”

Monica stared at the heavy black eyelashes ringing Jacy's eyes. “Yes, he is. A very nice young girl.” She put a slight emphasis on the word
young
. All the makeup Jacy was wearing couldn't disguise the fact that she was out of her twenties and well into her thirties.

“That's never stopped me before.” She giggled.

Monica tamped down on her dislike and plastered a smile on her face that she doubted would fool anyone.

“Now you haven't told me,” Jacy drummed her long manicured nails on the counter, “what I can help you with.” She squinted at Monica. “I have an amber necklace—an antique—that would suit your coloring perfectly.”

Before Monica could protest, Jacy had whipped out a black velvet pad and placed a strand of smooth round amber beads on it. It was choker length, and Monica found her hand going to her throat. She'd never been all that interested in jewelry but for some reason, she immediately wanted this necklace.

She touched one of the beads with her finger. “How much is it?” She asked even though she knew she couldn't afford it.

Jacy undid the clasp and handed the beads to Monica. “Why don't you try it on first?”

Monica put the beads around her neck. They felt cool against her skin. Jacy pushed a mirror toward her, and Monica looked into it. Jacy was right—the beads were the perfect color for her. She sighed, took the necklace off and handed it back to Jacy.

“Don't you like it?”