Berry the Hatchet (4 page)

“Bijou,” interjected Hennie with an air of superiority. “It's French, I think.”

“I heard she's only working because her mother refused to support her anymore.” Gerda squared her
shoulders. “She didn't want to go to college, so it's time she went out into the world and earned her own keep.”

“Yes,” Hennie said, lowering her voice confidentially. “Her mother can hardly afford to take care of herself, let alone a twenty-one-year-old girl more than fit enough to hold down a job.”

Monica raised her eyebrows.

“Preston has done very well for himself,” Hennie explained, “but his sister hasn't been as lucky. She married this complete ne'er-do-well who left her high and dry with a baby to raise.”

Monica didn't think she'd ever heard anyone use the word
ne'er-do-well
in conversation before. It was one of the things she liked about the VanVelsen sisters—talking to them was like opening a window into a different era.

There was a noise at the top of the street—it started as a rumble and grew louder until it reached the spot where Monica and the VanVelsens were standing.

“The sleigh is coming,” Hennie said, peering into the distance, pressing against the barricade that had been set up to keep people out of the street until after the sleigh had arrived. She checked her watch. “It's early. It's only ten to four.”

“Anyone who's late is going to miss it.” Gerda pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. “Mayor Crowley said it was to be at four.”

The horse and sleigh came roaring down the center of Beach Hollow Road, scattering the few pedestrians who had ignored the barricades like pinballs.

“It's going awfully fast, don't you think?” Gerda turned to Monica, her face creased with concern.

As the sleigh got closer, they could see the horse's eyes were wide and staring. It looked terrified.

A murmur rose from the crowd, getting louder and louder the closer the sleigh got.

“Something's wrong,” Monica said, gripping the edge of the barricade and straining to see.

She saw a man running furiously down the street, his arms pumping. It was Bart Dykema, with his white apron flapping in the wind as he attempted to catch up with the sleigh. His face was bright red, and great clouds of air were coming from his open mouth.

“We've got to stop it,” he yelled to the crowd that was now riveted by the spectacle in front of them.

Bart put on what looked to be a last burst of energy, like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, and finally came abreast of the heaving horse. He grabbed the dangling reins and slowly the horse came to a halt, looking relieved that someone had taken charge at last.

Bart stood bent over, his hands on his knees, panting furiously. The horse tossed its head, snorted and pawed the snow-covered road.

“Where is Miss Winter Walk?” Gerda craned her neck. “She must be positively frightened half to death, poor thing.”

“I don't see her, either,” Hennie said squinting into the distance.

A small crowd had made its way around the barricade and was slowly gathering around the sleigh. There was shouting and finally a collective groan followed by a piercing scream that sent Monica pushing through the barricade and running toward the sleigh.

The shoppers crowding Cranberry Cove's sidewalks forgot what they were doing or had been about to do and surged toward the sleigh, shopping bags swinging and slapping against their thighs, mouths circled into identical startled
O'
s.

Monica managed to maneuver her way through the crowd, softly murmuring “Excuse me” as she went but occasionally employing a sharp elbow to get through a tight spot. She had no idea what she would do when she reached the sleigh, but she felt a strong need to find out what was going on.

She finally managed to get to the front of the crowd and when she saw the sight in the sleigh, her hand flew to her mouth as if of its own accord, and she stifled the gasp that rose to her lips.

Preston Crowley was the only occupant of the sleigh—Miss Winter Walk was nowhere to be seen. He was dressed
in an elegant black coat that looked like cashmere to Monica, although she was hardly an expert in the matter, cashmere being well out of her price range. He had on a skillfully knotted silk and wool scarf in a discrete paisley pattern, with touches of red, at his neck, and he sported buttery soft black leather gloves on his surprisingly small hands.

His head was tilted back against the seat of the sleigh, revealing an expanse of white, carefully shaven throat. Monica could have sworn there was a smile on his face. It was completely at odds with the knife that stuck out of his neck at a jaunty angle.

By now, shopkeepers were coming out of their stores, standing in the chill wind in their shirtsleeves, their arms wrapped around themselves for warmth. Monica saw the VanVelsen twins standing on the edge of the crowd, the round circles of rouge on their cheeks standing out against the white of their faces.

“Someone call nine-one-one!” Monica heard the clerk from Danielle's boutique call out.

Bart Dykema had finally caught his breath. He straightened up and dug around in the pocket of his jeans. “I've got my cell.”

The tourists gathered around the sleigh continued to stare in wide-eyed fascination, as if this were a play and the whole thing had been planned for their entertainment. They murmured among themselves, stamping their feet against the cold, but didn't make a move to take shelter in any of the stores.

“Is he alive?” Greg came out of Book 'Em to stand by Monica.

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

Someone called out, “Should we take that knife out of his neck?”

“Better not,” Greg said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He'd managed to grab his jacket but had obviously left his gloves and hat behind. “I'd leave everything exactly the way it is.”

Moments later they heard sirens in the distance, their wail becoming louder with every passing second. A police car pulled up to the barricade at the end of Beach Hollow Road and two officers jumped out. They were bundled against the cold, with their hats pulled down low on their foreheads, but Monica thought she recognized them. Eventually everyone became familiar in Cranberry Cove.

Greg was standing behind Monica. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” Monica said and meant it. She wasn't the delicate flower, fainting type, although she sometimes wondered if she would have gotten more attention from men if she had been. But you can't change who you are, and she really didn't want to anyway.

“I'd better get back to the store,” Greg murmured. “In case someone wants to read about a murder mystery rather than take part in the one happening right under their nose. Even though that seems highly unlikely.”

Monica spun around toward him. “You think it's murder?” Her breath caught in her throat.

Greg gave a wry smile. “I don't think Preston fell on that knife by accident.”

Monica gave a short, humorless laugh. “True.” She shook her head. “But another murder in Cranberry Cove? It's hard to believe.”

Greg sighed. “I know. But greed and jealousy and all those other turbulent emotions exist in idyllic small towns as well as big cities.”

“I guess you can't call them idyllic then?” Monica said with a question in her voice.

“I don't know about that,” Greg responded. “I think any place that suits you, personally, is idyllic.”

Monica thought about that. Greg was right. Cranberry Cove suited her down to the ground. And Greg was definitely a part of that.

“I'll catch up with you later,” Greg said, giving Monica's shoulders a final squeeze.

Monica went back to watching the police, who were now approaching the sled with Preston's body. They carried themselves with an air of self-importance as they pushed their way through the crowd.

“Step back, folks. Nothing to see here.”

Nothing to see?
There was obviously plenty to see. The tourists had gotten their money's worth and then some. The admonitions of the two officers fell on deaf ears and did little to dissuade the crowd, which pressed even closer to the sled holding Preston's inert body.

Bart Dykema hung on to the horse's reins, whispering softly at it, keeping the animal steady. He wasn't wearing a coat, but he didn't seem aware of the frigid air as he soothed the rattled beast. It continued to snort and prance, pawing the ground with its enormous hooves, but it was clearly calming down after its mad dash down Beach Hollow Road.

The two policemen dispatched to the scene didn't seem to have any idea as to what to do. They stood around with their arms hanging at their sides, their jaws slack, their
heads swiveling right and left, lest any of the people in the crowd try to get closer to the scene.

The sound of a car's engine rose above the noise of the crowd, and a black sedan pulled up behind the police car. The front door opened, and a woman emerged. She was dressed warmly in a serviceable navy blue parka, woolen hat and heavy gloves. A fringe of blond hair hung just below the hem of her cap. Monica wasn't positive, but she thought it was Detective Tammy Stevens. They'd met back in September, when a body had been found floating in the bog at Sassamanash Farm. Stevens had been nine-plus months pregnant at the time. The belt tied tightly around her jacket made it obvious that the baby had duly arrived, and she was back on the job.

Her air of authority parted the crowd like the Red Sea, and she came to stand in front of the sleigh and Preston Crowley's body. She spent several long, silent minutes surveying the scene before looking around her at the crowd, which had retreated to a respectful distance. She spotted Monica, and a brief look of relief passed over her face.

“Detective Stevens,” Monica said when Stevens approached.

“It's Monica, isn't it? Sassamanash Farm?”

“Yes.” Monica nodded. She tipped her head toward Stevens's stomach.

“A boy,” Stevens said, reflexively rubbing her now-flat abdomen.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Stevens looked back at the body. “Do you have any idea what happened?” She turned toward Monica again.

“I don't know much, I'm afraid.” Monica gestured around at the crowd. “Miss Winter Walk was supposed to arrive in the sleigh around four o'clock. At about ten or maybe five minutes to four, the sled came roaring down the street with Bart Dykema in pursuit.”

“Is he the fellow holding on to the horse's reins?”

Monica nodded.

“He's going to freeze out here in his shirtsleeves.” She turned to the two patrolmen who were hovering behind her. “One of you go grab that horse so that poor man can go inside and get warm.”

The younger one nodded briskly and headed in Bart's direction. He took hold of the reins and Bart dipped his head in gratitude as he hurried away toward the warmth of his butcher shop.

Stevens turned back to Monica.

Monica shrugged. “That's all I know. The sleigh was supposed to come down Beach Hollow Road at four o'clock, and everyone was startled when it was early. Preston is something of a fanatic about punctuality.”

“Our mayor?”

“Yes. From what I understand, the Winter Walk was his idea.”

“Was he meant to be riding along with this Miss Winter Weather?”

“Winter Walk,” Monica corrected. “Yes. They planned on making a grand entrance together.” Monica looked around. “I have no idea where she is.”

“Who is she?”

“I don't know her, but according to the VanVelsen sisters . . .” When Stevens looked blank, Monica added, “They own Gumdrops, the shop behind us.” She jerked a
shoulder toward the pastel pink front of the candy store. “Anyway, Preston's niece Candy was chosen as Miss Winter Walk.”

Stevens snorted and rolled her eyes. “Completely unbiased, of course.”

Monica had had the same thought. It was unlikely that Candy would have been chosen if she hadn't been Preston's niece. Had anyone else even been considered? But that was always the way.

Monica remembered when she was in fourth grade—every year one lucky girl was chosen to play Mary in the Christmas tableau. Monica had been a donkey, a sheep, and a goat, but never Mary or even one of the angels. But she never gave up hope. One day she told her mother that she was positive that that year she would be chosen to play the part of Mary. Her mother had laughed and said that the girl whose father gave the most money to the school would be chosen as Mary and that definitely wasn't going to be Monica.

Stevens pulled a camera from the pocket of her navy parka and began snapping pictures of the scene from various angles.

“Excuse me.” A woman slithered through the crowd and confronted Stevens.

Monica recognized her as Jacy Belair, the owner of Bijou. The jewelry store was relatively new in town, and wealthy tourists shopped there when they were bored of sunning themselves by the lake. She looked to be in her thirties, with frosted blond hair teased high in front, and a bright coral pashmina shawl thrown around her shoulders.

Stevens lowered her camera and spun around. “Yes?” she said, her tone as frosty as the air blowing off the lake.

“We've put a lot of effort into the Winter Walk,” the woman said, sweeping an arm toward the crowd, the pile of bracelets on her wrist tinkling melodically. “Can we get this . . . this obstruction out of the way as soon as possible?”

Stevens's face hardened and her eyes narrowed. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is a murder scene.”

“Murder!” The woman gasped.

The word spread through the crowd like wildfire until a chant went up—
Murder! Murder! Murder!