Berry the Hatchet (18 page)

“And she's going?”

“I told her she'd better. I don't want her settling for life here in Cranberry Cove always wondering
what if
.”

“What if she gets the job and decides to move to Chicago?”

Jeff grimaced and looked down at his feet. “I'll have to accept it. Better that than always worrying that she felt she'd settled when she could have had something . . . something bigger in life.”

The oven timer pinged and Monica jumped up to check on her loaf of bread. She pulled it from the oven—it was golden brown on the outside and dotted with cranberries and raisins. The smell was ambrosial.

“Hey, sis,” Jeff said, giving her a cheeky grin. “Do you need someone to sample that for you?”

“Let it cool for a few minutes,” Monica said, turning the loaf out onto a wire rack.

“Maybe you can bring me a piece later.” He looked at his watch. “I've got to get going.” He gave Monica a sheepish grin. “But I do have a huge favor to ask if you don't mind.”

“Of course. What is it?”

Jeff dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of metal that Monica assumed was some sort of bolt.

“One of the water reels broke down—fortunately we were almost done with the harvest when it happened. Keith is helping me repair it, and he says we need five more of these.” He twirled the bolt in front of Monica. “They ought to have them at the hardware store. I'd go myself but,” he glanced down at his work clothes, “I'm not fit for human consumption at the moment. I don't think even Gus would let me into the diner like this and that place is hardly white tie and tails.”

Monica glanced at Jeff's worn and grimy overalls and the grease and dirt that created a line under his fingernails.

“I think I have to agree with you. I'd be glad to run into town and pick them up for you. If I show the clerk that . . . thing,” she pointed at the piece of metal in the palm of Jeff's hand, “will he be able to tell me where to find them?”

“Sure.” Jeff tossed the bolt to Monica. “I really appreciate it, sis.”

•   •   •

Monica finished cleaning up the kitchen, played with Mittens until the kitten became bored with laser tag and went off in search of a sunbeam, then left a note for her mother that she was going out.

The Focus didn't want to start at first, and Monica could feel sweat breaking out around her collar. She didn't have the money for a new car at the moment—she didn't even have enough money for a garage bill more expensive than an oil change. Fortunately the car started on the fourth try, and Monica was soon headed toward downtown Cranberry Cove.

She found a space right in front of Bart's Butcher shop, which was sandwiched between the hardware store and Book 'Em. Monica headed toward the hardware store, jingling the bolt Jeff had given her in her pocket as if it was a worry stone, the tip of her index finger tracing the round hole in the center. Bart waved to her as she went past his window, where a tempting crown roast of pork held pride of place.

An older man waited on Monica in the hardware store. He wore a heavy-duty apron with pockets along the front that held a ruler and a tape measure. With brusque efficiency he herded her down the store's middle aisle, finally stopping in front of a large plastic box that housed at least a dozen drawers. Peering over the tops of his glasses, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn together, he selected the five bolts Jeff had sent Monica into town to get.

He slipped them into a small brown paper bag and, with a stubby yellow pencil desperately in need of sharpening, wrote out a sales check and handed both to
Monica. Monica thanked him and headed toward the front of the store.

“Hey, Ralph,” the woman behind the checkout counter yelled, and the salesman who had waited on Monica spun around, an expectant look on his face. “Can you bring this lady a pack of finishing nails?” She indicated a woman who had a number of purchases spread out on the counter by the register.

The clerk loped off and Monica got in line. Fortunately the woman at the register wasn't the same one who'd been there the day Monica had gone in asking about Roger Tripp. She was older and carried an air of authority about her that suggested to Monica she might be one of the owners.

The two women chatted while they waited for Ralph to come back with the packet of finishing nails the woman wanted.

Monica found herself thinking about Jeff and Lauren—would Jeff be able to handle it if Lauren decided to take that job in Chicago? She'd made such a difference in Jeff in such a short time—when Jeff had returned from Afghanistan his eyes were perpetually shadowed, his shoulders slumped and his attitude bitter. Lauren had brought the humor out in him again and had given him a more positive outlook on life. Monica hoped that wouldn't all drain away if she left.

A few words of the women's conversation drifted toward Monica and caught her attention—specifically a name: Preston Crowley. That made Monica stand up and take notice. She leaned in and began to listen more carefully.

“I heard he took up with several women at once,” the customer said in a tone that left no doubt as to her disapproval. She was wearing baggy, high-waisted jeans and
had her graying hair cut short—the kind of cut that women always talked about as being a
wash and go
style
.

“I know I've seen him with that gal who runs that smelly place next door—the one with all those oils.”

“Making Scents?” the cashier asked.

“That's the one.” The customer nodded, her chin nearly disappearing into the folds of her neck. “And I heard talk of there being someone from out of town as well.”

“And just between you and me,” the woman behind the register lowered her voice and Monica quickly pretended to be interested in the screen of her cell phone, “I've seen him going in and out of that new jewelry shop—whatever the heck it's called.”

“Bijou,” the customer said. “Maybe he was buying something?”

The clerk raised her eyebrows suggestively. “I don't think so. Bob took me to the Cranberry Cove Inn last month—it was our fiftieth, and believe you me, I never thought we'd make it that long what with some of the things he's done—and there was Preston Crowley, entertaining that woman who owns the jewelry store. She sure looked fancy—made me wish I'd bought a new dress for the occasion. But what on earth would I do with it after?”

“Really? I heard she comes from down south somewhere—Mississippi or Alabama or one of them places. She sure sounds like it.”

“Yeah. Reminds me of Dolly Parton. I always did like her records.”

By now Ralph had returned with the packet of finishing nails he'd been sent for, and the customer paid for her purchases and left.

Monica rather absentmindedly plunked down a couple
of bills for the bolts and left with the bag tucked securely into her jacket pocket. If what the clerk had said was true, Crowley was even more of a ladies' man than they'd originally imagined.

•   •   •

Monica was headed toward her car when the door to Book 'Em opened and Greg walked out. He was coatless and his shoulders were hunched against the cold. He stopped when he saw Monica.

“I'm going for a late breakfast at the diner. Do you have time to join me?”

“I've already eaten, but I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee.”

Monica followed as Greg hurried toward the diner, shivering, and pulled open the door.

Monica was shocked to see that Gus was not at his usual post behind the grill, orchestrating the cooking of half a dozen items at once. In his place was a young man in a short-sleeved black T-shirt with tattoos on both prominent biceps.

“I wonder where Gus is,” Greg said as they slipped into an unoccupied booth. “He's here tending to the grill every time I've come in, no matter what or when. I hope nothing's happened to him.”

The waitress slapped a couple of plastic menus down on their table and was about to turn away when Greg stopped her.

“Where's Gus? Is he okay?”

The woman shrugged. “So far as I know. Billy's filling in for him this morning. Someone said Gus is getting married, but I don't believe it.”

Before Greg or Monica could ask any more questions she was off, another half dozen menus tucked under her arm and a steaming coffeepot in her hand.

“Married! Well if that doesn't beat all,” Greg said as he pushed his menu to the side. “I guess I've never known much of anything about Gus. He was just . . . Gus. Always here, always frying potatoes and flipping burgers. I never thought about whether he was married or had a family.”

In a way, Monica had been as anonymous as that in Chicago—the lady behind the counter serving her customers daily with coffee and fresh baked goods, not knowing anything about them and them not knowing anything about her. Everybody in Cranberry Cove might be aware of your business—if not right away then soon enough—and she was discovering she rather liked it. The customers that came into the farm shop spent time talking to whoever was behind the counter, sharing news, giving their opinions and spreading a little gossip.

Monica fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “I found out something interesting about Preston Crowley today.” She paused for a moment. “Although maybe you already know.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “What's that?”

“It seems that he and Jacy Belair, the woman who owns Bijou, were something of an item.”

Greg nodded and smiled at the waitress as she held the pot of coffee over his cup.

“Jacy and Preston?”

Monica nodded and signaled to the waitress to pour her some coffee as well. She waited until the woman turned away and headed toward the booth behind them, then leaned across the table.

“The police found a diamond solitaire ring in Preston's pocket and a receipt from Bijou.” She laughed. “Both my mother and Gina are convinced it was for them.” Monica reached for a packet of sugar and stirred it into her coffee. “But maybe it was actually for Jacy?”

Greg frowned as he stirred his coffee. “But it would hardly be a surprise then, would it?” He was quiet for a moment. “But maybe it wasn't meant to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the ring wasn't for Jacy. Or maybe Crowley changed his mind.” Greg put an index finger on his menu and spun it around and around. “I remember seeing Crowley the day before the Winter Walk opening. I was putting some salt down on the sidewalk outside Book 'Em. He was standing at the counter inside Bijou with Jacy on the other side. Obviously I couldn't hear anything they were saying, but I could see them well enough and Crowley was making heated gestures—at one point I even saw him pounding the counter.”

By now the waitress had reappeared at their table with her order pad in hand.

Greg handed back their menus, and the waitress stuck them under her arm. “I'll have the farmer's breakfast,” he said. “Eggs over easy, and can I have whole wheat toast with that?”

The waitress grunted, made a note on her pad and headed toward the grill.

Greg waited until she was several feet away before continuing. “I couldn't see Jacy's reaction, but all of a sudden, Crowley stormed out of the shop, slamming the door so hard I could hear it bang all the way across the street.

“He was obviously furious about something.” Greg tore
open a packet of sugar and added it to his coffee. “He crossed the street—not even looking, but fortunately no cars were coming. I was standing near the curb spreading the salt, and he slammed right into me. Then he glared at me like it was my fault.”

“Lover's quarrel?” Monica blew on her coffee. Steam was still rising from the thick, white mug.

“If they were an item like you said, that seems likely, doesn't it?”

“Either they had an argument and she told him to keep the ring or she found out about the other women—”

“With the same result. The ring ended up back in his pocket.”

It was snowing lightly when Monica and Greg left the diner. They hesitated on the sidewalk outside for a moment before Greg leaned forward and gave Monica a brief kiss.

She felt a warm glow as she walked toward her car. It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed before, she reminded herself. But this felt
right
somehow. She whistled as she started up the Focus—which obligingly turned over on the first try—and backed out of her space.

It occurred to her that her mother had cooked her some very nice meals and perhaps she ought to reciprocate. She put on her blinker and headed to the gourmet store that was in the strip mall on the highway to buy some provisions.

Women choked the aisles of Fresh Gourmet when Monica got there. She eyed their carts with awe and a bit of envy. They all obviously knew more about cooking than she did. She knew her way around an oven and could whip up a baked good as easily as some people opened
a can, but she'd not done much cooking beyond throwing a steak under the broiler and fixing a salad.

When she'd lived in Chicago, she and Ted had usually grabbed takeout—sushi, Thai food or something equally exotic. After baking for her café, the last thing Monica had wanted to do was to spend more time standing in the kitchen.

The fish counter had some lovely ruby-red, wild-caught salmon fillets. Monica asked for half a pound, and tossed the paper-wrapped bundle into her cart. She would make a dill sauce to go with it.

She found fresh dill in the produce section and added that to her cart. There were some lovely fingerling potatoes that ought to go well with the fish, and she selected an appropriate amount of those along with two handfuls of fresh green beans. All they would need would be a pat or two of butter.

As Monica cruised down the dairy aisle, a cloth-bedecked table caught her eye. She wheeled her cart closer. Small containers held an assortment of jams and jellies and there was a basket filled with crackers as well. Monica put a dab of lime curd on a cracker and popped it into her mouth. Suddenly, she stopped mid-chew.

Why not do the same thing at the farm store? There was an unused round table in the processing room that she could cover with one of the cranberry-printed cloths. She could set out samples of her cranberry salsa, along with her homemade jams and jellies.

She spun around and headed toward the cracker aisle, where she flung several boxes of water biscuits into her cart. She'd eventually have to find a cheaper option—
some way to buy in bulk—but for the moment these would do.

Feeling as if she'd accomplished something extraordinary, Monica loaded her purchases into her car and headed back toward Cranberry Cove. She could see Lake Michigan in the distance—a thin strip of blue capped with frothy splashes of white. From this distance it looked as if the hovering dark clouds were mere inches from the water. The roads were dusted with a sprinkling of snow, but Monica had no trouble negotiating the route back home. Nonetheless, she was glad when she pulled into her own driveway.

Mittens was waiting at the door and stalked Monica as she emptied her grocery bags and stashed her purchases. Nancy was in the living room reading, and said she was fine when Monica offered a cup of tea, insisting she could make her own.

Monica headed back out the door, swinging the plastic bag with the crackers she'd bought. She was excited to put her new idea into play.

A man and woman were leaving the store when Monica got there. They were dressed in expensive down parkas, and the woman had a silk scarf tied at her throat.

“Hey,” Nora said when Monica walked in.

“Looks like we've had some customers.” Monica tilted her head toward the door and the couple who had just left.

“Yes,” Nora said, pushing her round glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger. “They're from out of town. They were quite disappointed to discover that the Winter Walk was over. I told them to watch for it next year. Howard—he's in my husband's golf league and is
on the city council—said the town is very interested in repeating the event.”

Nora wiped a smudge off the counter with the edge of her apron.

“We've had our share of customers so far today.” Nora gestured toward the bakery case. “Your cranberry coffee cake is all gone, and there's only one scone left.”

“And I've just had the greatest idea.”

Nora looked on quizzically as Monica unloaded the boxes of crackers from her shopping bag.

“What are those for?” Nora leaned her elbows on the counter.

“I thought we'd set up a table with samples of our salsa and jams and jellies. Maybe even bites of our coffee cake and other baked goods.”

“That's a great idea! Once people get a taste, they'll be hooked.”

Monica dragged a round table that had been pushed against the wall into a more prominent position and removed the smattering of objects that had accumulated on top.

“Hand me one of those tablecloths, would you?” She pointed to the shelf behind the counter.

Nora handed her a white cloth printed with cranberries. Monica shook it out and spread it over the table.

“We need something to put the crackers in.” Monica looked around the shop. She spied a basket hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

“Here.” Nora pulled a chair out from behind the counter. “Stand on this.”

Monica perched on the chair while Nora held it steady. She could just reach the basket with her fingertips, but with
some teasing, she managed to get it off the hook. She let it drop to the floor.

While Nora put the chair away, Monica unfurled two napkins and layered them inside the basket. Then she ripped the plastic wrap off the boxes of crackers and emptied them into the basket.

She stood back to study the effect. Perfect. Now for the samples. She grabbed a container of salsa from the cooler, along with several jars of jam—cranberry orange, cranberry pepper, and cran-apple. She started to open the jars then realized she hadn't put on her apron. With her luck, she'd end up with red speckles all over her white turtleneck.

Monica grabbed her apron from the hook by the counter and slipped it on. She opened the jars and set them out around the basket.

“What do you think?” She turned to Nora.

“It's just what the shop needed.” Nora's eyes glowed. She was almost as dedicated to the Sassamanash Farm store as Monica was.

“Now for some spoons . . .” Monica put a finger to her lips while she thought. “We have a box of plastic ones somewhere.” She rummaged around behind the counter and finally found the box she was looking for.

The top of the box was a bit dusty, so Monica dashed at it with a paper towel. The dust got up her nose and made her sneeze. She reached into the pocket of her apron, where she almost always had a tissue or two.

Something poked her, and she withdrew her hand abruptly. She'd pricked her index finger on something—a small droplet of blood was forming on top as she watched.

What on earth had she stuffed in her pocket? She
certainly wouldn't have put anything sharp in it. She reached back in—more carefully this time, and managed to extract the object without poking herself again.

She held it in the palm of her hand and examined it. It was a tiny doll—rather crude—made of cloth with tiny beads representing its eyes, nose and mouth. A handful of red feathers sprouted from the top of its head. And right where its heart would be, a long straight pin was stuck deep into its chest.

“What is that?” Nora pushed up her glasses and peered at the object in Monica's hand.

“I don't know.” Monica's voice quavered. “It looks like—”

“A voodoo doll.”

Monica stifled a scream and dropped the doll on the floor.