Berry the Hatchet (15 page)

Monica parked her car, got out and opened her back door. Delicious aromas immediately swept over her—the
mingled scents of butter, herbs and wine. Her stomach growled in response.

The table was set in the kitchen—Nancy had dug out Monica's white tablecloth and the set of linen napkins she'd gotten from a friend who didn't want them. Gina was busy arranging a bouquet of carnations in a vase while Nancy peered at something in the oven. Monica took a deep breath—the atmosphere was calm and not sparking with hostility.

Mittens was the first to greet Monica, weaving in and out between her legs and rubbing against her pants. She bent down and picked the kitten up. Mittens allowed Monica to hold her for all of thirty seconds before demanding to be put down. She gave Monica a look that clearly said
I've got some exploring to do
as she scampered into the living room.

“Everything smells so good,” Monica said.

Nancy turned from the stove. “Chicken cordon bleu, rice pilaf and roasted asparagus. And Gina's made a lovely trifle for dessert.”

Monica was surprised—she didn't realize her stepmother's culinary skills extended beyond making dinner reservations.

Gina must have noticed her reaction. “I've been watching those cooking shows on television. You can learn a lot from them.”

“You look like you're bursting to tell us something,” Nancy said as she lifted the lid and gave a stir to the pot on the stove. Steam rose up to bathe her face and curl the ends of her hair. “Why don't you pour us a glass of the nice pinot grigio I picked up at the market.” She jerked her head in the direction of the refrigerator.

Monica retrieved the wine and three glasses. The cork came out of the bottle with a quiet but satisfying pop, and Monica poured a measure into each of the glasses before handing them around.

Nancy brushed her hair back from her forehead, took the glass Monica handed her and sipped from it. “Now tell us what you've learned before you burst.” She leaned against the countertop next to the stove while Monica and Gina took seats at the table.

Monica stared into her glass of wine and took a deep breath. “I've found two people who can place Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, at the scene of the murder.”

“Who?” Nancy and Gina chorused.

They looked at each other, exchanged glances and laughed.

Monica decided to draw out the suspense and savor her brief moment in the spotlight. She took a leisurely sip of her wine and smiled to herself when she could feel Nancy's and Gina's impatience.

She put down her glass. “Okay, first it was Jacy Belair.”

“Who?” Nancy and Gina chorused again.

“She owns Bijou, the new jewelry store in town.”

“She has some lovely things in her window,” Gina said.

“You always did like your jewelry,” Nancy said.

There was silence for a moment and Monica wondered if the détente between the two women had come to an abrupt end. Gina shrugged but didn't say anything and Monica breathed a sigh of relief.

Nancy turned to the stove and lowered the gas under the pot. “You said two people saw him. Who's the other person?”

“Ryan Kuiper.”

“Who?” Nancy and Gina said in unison again.

“He's the boy who was in charge of dealing with the horse and sleigh.”

Gina ran her finger around and around the rim of her wineglass. “You know what I wonder? How did Preston's body get in the sled? If that boy was watching the horse and sleigh the entire time . . .”

“He must have wandered off,” Nancy said as she pulled the pot off the stove. She turned to Monica. “Where are your serving dishes, dear?”

Monica got up and opened a cupboard. “He swears he didn't.” She pulled out several large bowls.

Nancy looked at them. “These were your grandmother's, weren't they?”

Monica nodded.

“I didn't know you'd kept them.” Nancy looked pleased. “How did Preston get the sleigh to the village green?” Nancy spooned the rice pilaf into one of the dishes. “The horse couldn't have pulled it all the way.”

Gina jumped up, took the dish from Nancy and put it on the table. “I imagine some kind of truck? A flatbed?”

“Do you think Preston's body might have already been in the sleigh? That boy—Ryan?—might have focused all his attention on the horse and didn't notice.” Nancy began to arrange the chicken cordon bleu on a platter.

“Not notice a dead body?” Gina laughed. “How could that be?”

“You know teenaged boys. Perhaps some girl caught his eye?” Nancy put the platter on the table.

“You could be right,” Gina said. “Some girl caught his
eye and he wandered off to talk to her, leaving the horse tied to a post. That would have given someone time to put Preston's body in the sled.”

“And then it was just a matter of untying the horse and sending it off running,” Monica added as she unfurled her napkin and placed it on her lap.

•   •   •

The meal was delicious, as Monica knew it would be. Her mother was an accomplished cook. Gina's trifle was the perfect finish.

“Not bad,” Gina said as she tasted her first mouthful. “If I do say so myself. Maybe this cooking thing isn't as hard as I always thought it was.”

Nancy gave a smug smile but didn't say anything.

“And now I'm stuffed,” Gina said, putting down her spoon and pushing back her chair. She glanced at the dirty dishes on the counter. “Now if the kitchen would only clean itself.”

Monica was loading the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. “I wonder who that is?” She dried her hands on a towel.

“Jeff?” Nancy said.

“No, he would come around to the back door, and he usually doesn't bother to ring the bell or knock. Just pops in.”

Mittens followed Monica out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the living room to the front door. She seemed as curious as Monica was to know who had rung the bell. Despite her height, the small diamond paned windows set in the door were too high up for Monica to be able to see who was there. In Chicago she would never have opened
her door without checking the peephole first, but this was Cranberry Cove.

Mittens mewled and wound in and out between Monica's legs as she pulled open the door. . . .

And gasped in surprise when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.

“Dad! What are you doing . . . I didn't expect . . . why are you here?” Monica couldn't stop the words as they tumbled out in surprise.

“Don't I get a hug?” John Albertson held out his arms. He was zipped into a black leather jacket that was a far cry from the cashmere jackets he used to wear when he and her mother were together.

Monica gave him a quick embrace. Her mind was whirling with questions—why was her father here, what did he want and what would happen when he found Nancy and Gina in the same room?

“I hope you're not going to leave me on the doorstep.”

“No, of course not. Please come in.”

John dwarfed Monica's small living room with his presence. He was tall and slender and his hair, which had been the same color as Monica's, was now a very distinguished looking dark gray.

He pulled off his leather gloves as he looked around. Mittens rubbed against his leg, and he bent down and picked the kitten up.

“And who is this?”

“Mittens,” Monica said, still distracted by her father's sudden presence.

“She?” He looked at Monica, who nodded. “Is adorable.”

Mittens actually let John hold her for several seconds before squirming out of his grasp and jumping to the floor.

“I hope I'm not interrupting something. It smells wonderful in here—were you having dinner?”

“Just finished actually,” Monica said, wondering when he was going to reveal the reason behind his unexpected visit.

He cleared his throat. He actually looked nervous—something Monica had never seen before.

“I'm looking for Gina. I heard she'd moved here, but no one seems to know where she's living—I've been sending her checks to a post office box.” He looked down at his feet.

Monica had barely opened her mouth when both Nancy and Gina walked into the living room.

“I heard a male voice—” Nancy began but stopped abruptly when she saw her ex-husband.

Gina was right behind her, and she, too, stopped in her tracks at the sight of John Albertson standing in Monica's living room.

“Gina,” John said, after nodding in Nancy's direction, “I need to speak to you.”

“Well, go ahead then.” Gina lifted her chin.

“Not here. Can we go somewhere and I'll buy you a drink?”

Gina laughed. “Cranberry Cove is all tucked in tight for the night, John. They roll up the sidewalks early around here. And I have to get to bed myself. I've got a shop to run now.”

John ran his hands through his wavy gray hair. “Just for a minute then.”

“You can say whatever you have to say right here.”

“Please,” John said, and for a moment Monica felt sorry for him. “Can we go somewhere private?” He looked around the room as if something would suggest itself. He cast a pleading glance at Monica and Nancy, but they both ignored it.

“Can we go out to my car then?”

Gina looked at Nancy and Monica as if she hoped they would tell her what to do.

“Please?” John said again. “It's . . . it's important.” He looked down at his shoes.

“Fine,” Gina said finally. “But only for a moment. Like I told you, I go to bed early now.”

Gina retrieved her coat from the back of the chair where she'd tossed it earlier, shrugged it on and followed John out the front door. Monica and Nancy turned and looked at each other. Nancy raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. Monica silently followed her mother out to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” Monica asked, opening the pantry door and getting out a canister of coffee.

“Why not?” Nancy dropped into a chair at the table and rested her head in her hands.

Monica measured coffee and water into the machine
and turned it on. Within minutes hot coffee was gurgling and splashing into the pot.

“What on earth is he doing here?” Nancy finally said when Monica handed her a steaming cup.

“I can't imagine.” Monica sat opposite her mother and blew on her coffee before taking a sip.

It was probably only ten minutes but it seemed longer before they heard the front door slam, and Gina walked back into the kitchen. Her face was flushed, although whether from the cold or strong emotions wasn't obvious. She looked utterly flustered.

Nancy fidgeted with her coffee cup, nearly knocking it over before blurting out, “Well, what did John want?”

Gina paced back and forth. Nancy and Monica tried to follow her movements but only succeeded in looking as if they were at a tennis match.

Gina finally stopped pacing and stood in front of them. “Get this. That bimbo who stole John away from me has dumped him—moved out and run off with a tattooed guitar player. She left John high and dry—ran up his credit cards and then scampered.”

Nancy looked confused. “But what does this have to do with you?”

Gina laughed. “He wants me back. He wants me to go home to Chicago with him.”

“What did you say?” Monica felt as if she was watching some made-for-television movie.

“I couldn't believe it! The nerve!” Gina slammed her fist into the open palm of her other hand. “He dumps me and now he expects me to forget all the . . . the hurt and anguish and take him back? Because he doesn't want to be
alone
?”

Gina took off her coat and threw it across a chair. She turned to face Nancy and Monica. “I've discovered I like being alone. This is the first time in my life I've been independent and on my own. My shop is starting to do well, I have my own home where I can do what I want. Why should I give all that up?”

“I'm glad you said that,” Nancy said, pushing back her chair and standing up. She went over to Gina and put an arm around her. “Because if you agreed to take that scoundrel back after what he's done, I'd never speak to you again.”

•   •   •

Monica spent the early morning hours in the kitchen baking and cooking—cranberry scones, cranberry coffee cake and a fresh batch of cranberry salsa. By the time she'd filled two baskets with the delicious goodies, the kitchen was redolent with the scents of vanilla and sugar.

Nancy was still asleep when Monica slipped on her jacket. Mittens meowed loudly at her, rubbed against her legs, then stalked off to stretch out in a sunbeam by the kitchen window, where she proceeded to groom herself thoroughly.

Monica headed out the door and down the path to the farm store. The sun was out, the wind had died down and it was quite mild for January, the temperature having risen to almost forty degrees. Monica stopped briefly to loosen her scarf and stuff her knitted hat into her pocket.

Monica heard a shout coming from behind her. She turned and waved to Jeff, who was driving the sander across the ice-covered bog, laying down a layer of sand. The trees ringing the bog, which had been flaming with
color in the autumn, were bare now, stretching their naked branches toward the deep blue sky. Monica took a moment to savor the scene before continuing on toward the white-shingled building that housed the store.

Nora was already there, her cranberry-printed apron tied around her plump waist. She was busy cleaning the pastry case when Monica walked in.

“Howdy.” Nora flapped her sponge in Monica's direction. “You've been baking—I can smell it already.”

“Lots of things,” Monica said as she began to empty her baskets. “Scones, cake and some more salsa.”

She stacked the salsa containers on top of each other, opened the cooler with her elbow and began to arrange them on the shelves.

“You're early today,” she said over her shoulder to Nora.

“Rick drove the kids to school this morning, which saved me a good half hour.”

Monica had barely finished arranging the scones on a decorative platter when their first customer walked in. Monica recognized her as the wife of the farmer down the road. They'd met at one of the church potlucks, but Monica hadn't seen her for a while.

“Morning,” the woman said as she approached the counter. Her jacket hung open and she was wearing a sweatshirt with hearts and flowers appliqued on it underneath.

Monica returned the greeting. “What can I get you?”

“I'll take a couple of your scones, please. I've got a friend coming over this afternoon. It'll be some company since Dieter is off at one of his farmers' conferences.”

“Will he be gone long?” Monica selected two scones and placed them in a white bakery bag.

“Couple of days is all. Organic farming is what he's gone to learn about.”

The woman leaned against the counter, obviously in no hurry to leave. “I heard you had a booth at the Winter Walk. How did it go? I was going to get up something to sell my homemade preserves, but I wasn't sure it would be worth the trouble.”

“We did very well. Sold everything I took. I'd say the whole event was pretty successful, and I imagine the town council will vote to continue the Walk.”

“I'm sorry I missed all the excitement. I heard about it afterward, and I said to Dieter I should have gone—we'll never have something like that happen here in town again.”

“Let's hope not.”

“The whole thing must have scared poor Candy to death. She was Miss Winter Walk—her mother goes to our church.” She shook her head. “Flighty girl—dating that Ryan Kuiper.”

“Ryan Kuiper?”

“Yes. But Della, that's Candy's mother, said they broke up a couple of weeks ago and good thing, too, with Ryan being four years younger than Candy. It's time she found a man her own age and settled down.”

Monica barely heard the rest of the woman's conversation as she rang up the purchase. So Candy—aka Miss Winter Walk—had dated Ryan Kuiper. Was that significant in any way? She was sure it was, but she couldn't quite grasp why.

•   •   •

They had a decent stream of customers all morning, which made Monica happy. The farm was still on somewhat
shaky financial ground, although the money from the fall crop had certainly helped. But Jeff was always worrying about money, and Monica hated to see him like that.

She had to make a trip into town for some things at the drugstore and maybe treat herself to lunch at the diner if there was time. She'd love a bowl of their famous chili, which wasn't even on the menu—Greg had clued her in to its existence. Ordering it proved you were a local and in the know. Although Gus, the short-order cook and diner owner, could tell if you weren't from Cranberry Cove the minute you walked in the door.

Monica had been considered an outsider when she first arrived in town, but lately Gus had taken to nodding at her, which meant she was moving up the food chain as far as he was concerned.

Monica found a space in front of Bijou, and cast a longing glance at the store's façade. Jacy was rearranging the window display and waved when she saw Monica. She raised her eyebrows, but Monica shook her head. She'd really liked that amber necklace but couldn't quite justify the cost.

She moved on to the drugstore where Rieka, the secretary from the town hall, was waiting by the prescription counter. She didn't seem to recognize Monica, which was fine with her. The fewer people who remembered her going around asking questions, the better. Back in September, asking questions had nearly ended her life, and if it wasn't for Tempest, her mother and Gina being suspects in Preston's murder, she wouldn't dream of doing it again.

Monica spent a few minutes in front of the shampoo display. They had a shampoo for every type of hair imaginable—fine hair, thick hair, hair that needed more
volume, hair that was too dry, hair that was color-treated. The array was dizzying, and in the end Monica picked up a bottle of the same shampoo she always bought.

She grabbed a tube of toothpaste from a display that was almost as vast as the shampoo selection—offering you a choice as to whether you wanted your teeth whitened, wanted to prevent the buildup of plaque or wanted to avoid gingivitis. Next, Monica made her way down the cosmetics aisle and picked up a bottle of lotion—the lack of humidity in the winter air was making her skin dry.

Finally, having collected all her purchases, Monica made her way to the checkout counter. She pulled her wallet out of her purse, and along with it came a grocery receipt from her last big shopping trip. It dropped to the floor, where it coiled like a snake. Monica sighed and swore to herself that this time she really was going to clean out her purse—it became the repository for all sorts of things she didn't know what to do with but was afraid to toss out.

She bent to pick up the fallen receipt and noticed there was another piece of paper kicked under the base of the cashier's desk. She thought she would be a good citizen and pick it up as well. She could dispose of it when she got home.

Monica shoved the receipt back into her purse and was about to do the same with the other piece of paper when she noticed it was a page torn from a calendar with something scribbled on it. Curiosity got the better of her and as she waited she unfolded the crumpled scrap. It looked as if it had been ripped off of one of those daily desk calendars—on one side the date was the day of the Winter Walk. A time had been circled with the notation
Village green/sleigh
.