Berry the Hatchet (22 page)

Greg ran his hands through his hair. “Jacy had to know Crowley was supposed to ride in the sleigh with Miss
Winter Walk at the start of the festivities. She knew exactly where to find him—and also that practically everyone else in town would be lining Beach Hollow Road.”

“She must have paid Candy to lure Ryan away from the horse and sleigh long enough for her to murder Crowley. And she murdered Candy to keep her from talking, poor thing. I doubt she would have put two and two together anyway. Who knows what Jacy told Candy? She must have had quite a surprise when she and Ryan discovered the horse and sleigh gone.”

“I suppose we should go to the police?” Greg suggested. “Or do you think they're on the same path?”

Monica cupped her chin with her hands. “I don't know.” She twisted around to look at Greg. “The problem is we don't have any proof. This is all conjecture.”

“You'd think someone would have seen Jacy on the village green. Surely not every single inhabitant of Cranberry Cove was on Beach Hollow Road.”

Greg's words caused something to click in Monica's brain. “Tempest!” she blurted out. “She was going to perform her Imbolc ceremony on the green. She said she'd set everything up for it—candles, bells, noisemakers and who knows what all.”

“Does Jacy know that?”

“I don't know, why?”

“Because if she does, Tempest could be in danger.”

Monica left Greg's apartment with conflicting feelings—contentedness from having spent such an enjoyable evening combined with a niggling worry about Tempest and her safety. Would Jacy remember that Tempest had been on the village green attempting to hold her springtime ritual? Or was Monica worrying for no reason?

As Monica walked toward her car, she passed Twilight and noticed that the lights were on above the shop. Tempest was obviously still up. Should Monica try to warn her to beware of Jacy? Would Tempest believe her or think she was overreacting?

Monica hesitated for several minutes, standing on the sidewalk and staring at the lit window above Twilight. Through the crack in the curtains, she saw a shadow thrown up against the far wall. Two shadows. Did Tempest have company? Monica had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to disturb Tempest, but on
the other hand, she didn't want to spend the rest of her life wishing she had done something.

The cold was beginning to penetrate her jacket, and her fingers were numb inside their gloves. She might be risking making a fool of herself, but it wouldn't be the first time. She pressed the bell alongside the door that led to Tempest's apartment.

Monica stamped her feet and clapped her freezing hands together as she waited. And waited. Maybe Tempest hadn't heard the bell? Monica had heard it peal inside the building so she knew it was working. She pressed it again and stood back so she could see the lit window up above.

One of the shadows on the far wall froze at the sound of the doorbell. Monica waited, expecting Tempest to throw the door open at any minute, but the door remained firmly closed.

Monica didn't like this one bit. Something was going on. She was fairly certain Tempest wasn't seeing anyone, so it wasn't as if she and a man were holed up in the apartment together, oblivious to distractions.

Monica paced up and down in front of the building for several minutes before retrieving her cell phone from her purse. She pulled off her right glove and quickly pressed the buttons for Tempest's telephone number. She stood for several minutes with the phone crammed against her ear until Tempest's voicemail came on. Monica hesitated but then clicked off the call. What point was there in leaving a message? If Tempest was in trouble, it would do no good. And if she wasn't, the message would sound terribly foolish in the morning.

Monica was about to stow her cell back in her bag
when it rang, startling her to the point where she almost dropped it.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly, recognizing Tempest's number on the screen. “Is everything okay? I rang your bell but—”

Monica's words were greeted by a deep, throaty laugh that didn't sound at all like Tempest's.

“Well, well, well. I knew you were clever the minute I met you. But Mama always said there was such a thing as being too clever for your own good.”

The voice that oozed over the telephone line was southern in origin and dripping with sweetness like honey dribbling from a spoon.

“Jacy!” Monica exclaimed. “What are you doing? Where's Tempest? I want to speak to her immediately.”

Jacy laughed again—the same throaty laugh with which she'd greeted Monica.

“Then why don't you come up?”

“I can't. Not . . . not right now,” Monica stuttered.

Jacy's voice hardened, the sweetness and the laughter completely gone. “I'm going to come down and let you in. I expect you to cooperate or something very bad will happen to your friend.”

Monica's hands suddenly got even colder. She turned to look over her shoulder toward Book 'Em, where she could see the warm glow of the light in Greg's apartment above. She tried willing him to look out the window but his curtains remained firmly closed.

Monica briefly contemplated bolting to her car, locking herself in and calling for help, but just then the door to the building was flung open and she was facing the business end of a small gun pointed steadily toward her chest.

Too late now. Monica looked longingly toward her Focus, which was parked only a few feet away.

“Upstairs.” Jacy jerked the gun toward the stairwell.

Monica started up the steps acutely conscious of the gun pointed at her back. Her legs were shaking and she was almost to the top when she lost her footing and stumbled briefly. The thought crossed her mind that she could fall backward, taking both her and Jacy down the long, dark staircase, but then she was mounting the top step and it was too late.

The apartment was similar to Greg's—a galley kitchen and a living/dining area. The ceiling was draped with fabric, with a chandelier dripping with crystals in the center. A coat tree that looked like real tree branches stood next to the sofa. Hanging from it was the long black cloak Tempest often wore around town, which scandalized the local population who favored simple outerwear like parkas or car coats. Tempest herself was in a royal blue caftan and was sitting on the plump purple velvet couch. The light in the room was shadowy, but even so, Monica could see the frightened expression on her face. Jacy motioned for Monica to join Tempest on the sofa.

Monica's knees almost gave out as she took her seat. Tempest shot her a sidelong glance before turning her attention back to Jacy . . . and Jacy's gun, which was leveled at them with a remarkably steady hand.

“Jacy, if you let us go, nothing will happen. We won't say anything,” Monica said, in as soothing a tone as she could muster with her voice quivering so badly. “We can all forget this ever happened.”

Jacy threw her head back and laughed, her chandelier earrings catching the light as they swung to and fro.

“You must think I'm dumber than a box of rocks.” She pointed a finger at Monica. “I looked up that character you and that bookseller were talking about at the Pepper Pot.”

“What character—”

“Hercule Poirot. The librarian over at the Cranberry Cove Library was more than happy to tell me about him. I already suspected you'd been snooping around—especially when you asked about Candy—but that clinched it.”

“Did you put—”

“The voodoo doll in your apron?” Jacy laughed again—the sound had a hysterical edge to it. “We believe in voodoo down South. I had to send clear to New Orleans for that doll.” She jabbed a finger in Monica's direction again. “Those spells can be mighty powerful.” She smiled and waved her gun at Monica and Tempest. “This is awful powerful, too.”

Monica shrank back against the sofa cushions. She strained to hear any noises coming from outside, praying that Greg had sensed something was wrong and had called the police, but so far the night was quiet and still—no sirens in the distance or shouting voices, just darkness and silence.

“You won't get away with this,” Monica said, feeling as if she were reading from a bad television script.

“I've already gotten away with more than you can imagine.”

“Beau? Your late husband . . .”

“He was starting to eye other women—younger women. All of a sudden I wasn't young enough for him anymore. And of course there was the pre-nup. I wasn't about to give up everything I'd worked so hard for.”

“And Crowley?”

“It was his fault for having that diamond appraised. I
told him I'd give him his money back, but that wasn't good enough. He insisted he was going to the police. He didn't want the reputation of his precious Cranberry Cove ruined by someone selling fake gems, he said.”

Monica shifted in her seat, and Jacy waved the gun at her. “Don't get any ideas. This is loaded and I know how to use it.”

“What are you going to gain by shooting me and Tempest?”

“What do I have to lose?”

Monica tried to ignore the gun pointed at her. “Was Tripp blackmailing you?”

“Yes.”

“So that's why you tried to frame him for Crowley's murder.”

Jacy shrugged. “That was a nice touch, don't you think?”

“And you stole the murder weapon from my shop.” Tempest sounded indignant.

Jacy started pacing in front of the sofa. “Everyone in town thinks you're nuts, so I figured they'd be more than happy to have a murder pinned on you.”

“There are some things I won't stand for,” Tempest said, two bright spots of color appearing on her otherwise pale face. “And being called a
nut
is one of them.”

Tempest started to push herself up from the sofa. Monica looked at Jacy and was horrified to see that she was leveling her gun at Tempest, her finger already on the trigger.

Monica looked around frantically. The coat tree next to the sofa was within arm's reach. She yanked Tempest's black cloak off the hook and tossed it at Jacy, where it settled over her head obscuring her vision. Jacy batted at
the material frantically, only succeeding in tightening the cape around her further.

Seizing the moment of opportunity, Tempest lunged at Jacy, managing to knock her to the ground. Monica hoped the fall had knocked the gun from Jacy's hand.

Monica threw herself on top of Jacy, banging her shin against the coffee table as she went down. The sharp pain brought tears to her eyes and momentarily blurred her vision. Jacy was fighting ferociously against the fabric swirled around her.

The gun went off so suddenly and the noise was so deafening that it took Monica several seconds to react.

The bullet missed and shredded the back of Tempest's velvet sofa, burying itself somewhere in the wall behind it. Monica, Tempest and Jacy all screamed, although Jacy's scream was muffled by the fabric still swathed around her. Jacy continued to struggle, and Monica tried to strengthen her grip on the figure writhing in her grasp.

“Can you hold her while I telephone the police?” Tempest asked.

“I don't know,” Monica said. She was already drenched in sweat, although whether it was from the exertion or fear, she didn't know.

Just then they heard the sound of a siren in the distance, growing louder with every passing second.

“Looks like someone's already called the police,” Monica said. “They must have heard the gunshot.”

Jacy renewed her struggle and managed to throw Tempest off of her. Monica was losing her grip as well.

Suddenly, the door to Tempest's apartment flew open and ricocheted against the wall.

“Greg!” Monica said in mingled tones of surprise and relief.

Greg immediately assessed the situation and joined them on the floor, where he easily pinned Jacy to the ground. Within a few moments, he'd also managed to secure the gun.

“I was already on my way over here,” he said panting slightly. “I had a bad feeling about things. When I heard the shot, I rang nine-one-one immediately. The police should be here any minute.”

At that moment, the sirens reached a crescendo and trailed off into silence. Colored lights from the flashers swirled across the wall of Tempest's apartment. They heard shouts and the thud of footsteps on the stairs and then two burly policemen burst into the room.

“Who fired the shot?” one of them demanded, pushing his hat back on his head. A deep red crease ran across his forehead where the brim had been.

Tempest and Monica motioned toward Jacy, who had managed to free her arms from the confines of Tempest's cloak and pull it off her head. One of the policemen kept his eye on Tempest and Monica while the other one grabbed Jacy.

“Are you the fellow who called us?” the one holding Jacy, who continued to struggle, asked Greg.

“Yes. I heard the gunshot and became alarmed. As a matter of fact, here's the gun.” He handed it over with a look of relief on his face.

The policeman was handcuffing Jacy when Stevens arrived.

“I'm afraid you'll have to stick around. I'm going to need to ask you some questions,” she said to Monica.

“Let's go into the kitchen,” Tempest said, walking unsteadily ahead of them in her long, regal caftan.

Greg put his arms around Monica and she leaned her head against his shoulder. His strong arms felt incredibly good, especially since it was the one and only time in her life she thought she might actually faint.

•   •   •

Monica was never so glad to get back to her cottage. The lights were on, glowing warmly in the dark, welcoming her home. The long driveway was nearly full—Nancy's car was there and so was Gina's Mercedes. Monica pulled in behind them, Greg following her lead. He'd insisted on seeing her home, and she was glad of the offer.

“What happened?” Nancy said as soon as Monica walked in the door. “You look terrible—as if you've been in a fight.”

Monica ran a hand over her hair and looked down at herself. She hadn't realized that her clothes were still askew from her struggle with Jacy. Mittens trotted over and gave her a peremptory greeting, accompanied by several loud
meows
.

“You look like you could do with a drink,” Gina said, opening the cupboard and getting out some glasses. “Luckily I brought a bottle of wine with me.”

She was pouring the wine when the back door opened and Jeff walked in, stopping to wipe his muddy work boots on the mat by the door.

“What happened?” he said as soon as he saw Monica.

“Monica is about to tell us.” Gina handed Monica a glass. She jerked her head toward Jeff. “There's some beer in the refrigerator if you'd like.”

“I think I will.” Jeff opened the door and pulled out a bottle.

He turned around and held a hand out to Greg. “It's Greg, right? From Book 'Em.”

“Yes.” Greg returned the handshake.

“I'm Jeff—Monica's brother.”

Monica noticed her mother's lips tighten slightly. Her mother had wanted another child, but it hadn't happened, and then suddenly John Albertson was gone and about to have a son.

Jeff leaned against the wall while the women took a seat. Greg stood behind Monica with his hands on her shoulders protectively.

Monica explained about the fight with Jacy and her subsequent arrest.

“In other words,” Nancy said, twirling her wineglass by the stem, “Jacy had that girl Candy lure that young man away from the horse and sleigh so she could murder Crowley.”

“Yes,” Monica said. “Crowley was going to expose her for selling fake gems, and at the same time, Tripp was blackmailing her. She had to do something and quickly. At first she thought she could pin the crime on Tempest, who is, shall we say, slightly different . . . which makes the townspeople suspicious of her in the first place. When that didn't work, she had the idea of trying to throw blame on Tripp.”

Gina snapped her fingers. “Now I remember something. The afternoon of the first day of the Winter Walk—it was shortly before the sleigh appeared with Crowley's
body—someone came into my shop for some essential lavender oil, and they mentioned that they'd just been in Bijou and no one was there to wait on them.”

Jeff swiped at the foam of beer along his upper lip. “That day Jacy came out to watch us sand the cranberry bogs. I always thought that was kind of peculiar—”

“What do you mean?” Monica teased. “It was your charm that attracted her.”

Jeff snorted. “I think it was the opportunity to bury the offending coat in one of our sand piles. She probably didn't realize that we would be digging in them so soon.”

“She didn't strike me as being particularly bright.” Gina reached for the bottle of wine and topped off her glass. “Why not dump the coat in another town? Or burn it or something.”

“I'd have tossed it in the lake,” Greg said. He frowned. “Although I suppose it would wash up eventually.”

They amused themselves for several minutes discussing how Jacy should have gotten rid of the incriminating coat.

“How did Lauren's interview go?” Monica looked at Jeff. “Any news?”

Jeff grimaced and looked down at his hands. “The company offered her a summer internship after she graduates. It could lead to a full-time job,” he said, so quietly Monica almost didn't hear him.

“She's not taking it, is she?” Monica asked.

Jeff squared his shoulders. “Yes. I told her she had to do it. She has to get a taste of life outside Cranberry Cove otherwise how will she—how will
I
—know she's content here?”

Monica bit her lip. “What if she decides to stay in the big city?”

Jeff grimaced. “It's a chance I'll have to take. I want her to be sure.”

Nancy pushed her chair back. “It's time I started packing. I'm going home in the morning.”

“Have a safe trip,” Gina said, and Monica thought she sounded as if she meant it.

“I should be going, too. Come on, Jeffie.” Gina put her arm around his shoulders. “Let's you and me go out to dinner.”

Monica saw everyone out the door and then it was just she and Greg standing in the kitchen.

Greg picked up the bottle that was still sitting on the kitchen table along with their glasses. “Why don't we take our wine into the living room, build a nice warm fire in that fireplace of yours and get cozy on the couch?”

Monica smiled. She couldn't think of anything else she'd rather do.