Berry the Hatchet (5 page)

Monica turned to look at the VanVelsen sisters, who were still standing on the sidewalk where she'd left them. Gerda's face was white, and Hennie's was pinched with concern.

“Is everything okay?” Monica asked when she reached the pair.

“Gerda is having one of her attacks,” Hennie said. “She gets palpitations.”

“Should we go inside? Do you need to sit down?”

Gerda shook her head. “I'm sure they will pass in a minute,” she said, although Monica didn't think she looked well at all.

“It's the shock, of course.” Hennie put her arm around her sister's shoulders, and Gerda swayed slightly.

“Do you think we should call for an ambulance?” A note of alarm crept into Monica's voice, in spite of her determination to stay calm.

“Oh, no, dear,” Gerda said, some color coming back to her face. “I don't want to miss anything. I think they're passing now. Yes, I'm feeling almost myself again.”

Monica had to hide a smile. Even a potential heart attack wasn't going to keep the VanVelsens from the scene of all this action.

“This is certainly more excitement than even Preston bargained for.” Greg came up behind Monica.

She looked at him quizzically. “Did you close up for the night?”

Greg shook his head. “That teenager I hired as part-time help finally showed up. I thought I'd make sure you're okay.”

Monica smiled as they stood surveying the scene. The tourists who had come to town for the festivities and shopping were scattering as quickly as they could, their excited chatter filling the air.

“The tourists are certainly going to have a story to tell when they get home,” Greg said.

The two policemen were busy stringing black-and-yellow crime scene tape around the sleigh. A young man in jeans, work boots and a heavy jacket had come and led the poor, frightened horse off.

“Oh, no,” Greg said, pointing toward the end of Beach Hollow Road.

“What is it?” Monica craned her neck to see.

A young woman wearing a fake fur coat and a rhinestone tiara balanced precariously on top of her head came running down the street. Her blond hair was curled and piled high in a hairdo that would rival Medusa's, and her cheeks were rough and red from the cold.

“What happened?” she asked of no one in particular.

“I think Miss Winter Walk has arrived,” Greg said dryly. “She's a little late to the party, I'm afraid.”

Monica watched as Stevens immediately grabbed Candy by the arm. Candy's face looked as if it was about to crumble, and Stevens pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to her.

“You must be frozen.” Greg put an arm around Monica's shoulder. “I don't think anyone is going to be doing much shopping. How about coming back to Book 'Em, and I'll make us a cup of tea?”

Monica realized she
was
frozen—she'd just been too engrossed in watching the drama unfold to notice it. She followed Greg as he made a path for them through the crowd to the sidewalk.

A blast of warm air shot out when Greg opened the door to Book 'Em. Monica closed her eyes in pleasure. The heat felt luxurious after standing in the cold for so long.

Book 'Em was its usual jumble of books tumbling off the shelves and piled willy-nilly in every nook and cranny. The store specialized in mysteries, and Monica had found Greg to be quite an authority on the topic.

She took off her gloves and rubbed her numb hands together while Greg filled mugs with water and put them in the microwave.

A minute later, the microwave pinged and Greg removed the two mugs, plopped in tea bags and handed one to Monica. “If I remember correctly, you take your tea neat.”

“That's right.” Monica felt absurdly pleased that he'd remembered. She held the cup of tea close. The warm mug in her hands felt heavenly.

“I wonder what poor Preston Crowley did to get himself
killed like that?” Greg turned to Monica. “I only met him a few times, but I found him inoffensive enough.” Greg added another spoonful of sugar to his tea and stirred it. “I know he was very generous with his money—he wrote a check to any charity that knocked on his door, and I've heard that he paid for the addition to the library and the repair to the roof out of his own pocket. The library committee wanted to name the new wing after him, but he preferred to remain anonymous.” Greg gave a small smile. “As anonymous as anyone can be in a small town.”

Monica pulled out the old desk chair that was shoved under a small table in the corner of Book 'Em's back room and collapsed into it. She felt as if she'd been on her feet for decades. She put her mug of tea down on the table, which wobbled slightly.

“I only met him very briefly, at a spaghetti supper fundraiser for Charlie Decker's mother, and we barely spoke.” Monica took a sip of her tea and winced as the hot liquid scalded her tongue. “My stepmother is . . . was . . . dating Preston.”

Greg raised his dark eyebrows. “I'm sorry. I'm sure this is going to be difficult for her.”

More difficult than Greg could even imagine, Monica thought, if Gina found out about Nancy.

•   •   •

Monica thought she had better check on Gina. Gina hadn't been dating Preston all that long, but she'd obviously be upset by what had happened.
Who wouldn't be
, Monica thought. Death was always a shock, and murder . . . She shuddered.

Monica finished her tea, said good-bye to Greg and,
with her scarf tucked securely into the neck of her coat, made her way down the street to Making Scents. The crowd along Beach Hollow Road was thinning. Some tourists, undaunted by what had happened, were going in and out of the brightly lit shops. The twinkling lights, colorful bows and decorations seemed almost bizarre in light of what had happened.

Monica wondered if she ought to go back to her stall. She was about to turn around when she decided against it. She wanted to make sure Gina was okay—she was worried about her.

Monica passed Bart's Butcher shop, where she could see Bart through the window, tidying up and getting ready to close for the night. As she walked by, the tiny white lights affixed to the front of the shop went out. Moments later, the light inside the store was extinguished as well. She could just make out the shadowy figure of Bart shrugging into his coat and pulling his hat down over his ears.

Making Scents was still ablaze with lights. Gina had persuaded the young man who worked at the hardware store after school and on weekends to string them up for her. Monica pushed open the door to the shop and froze.

Gina was behind the counter, and Monica's mother was standing in front of it. Her coat was open, and she'd taken off her gloves, so it looked as if she'd been there awhile.

Monica's first instinct was to shut the door, turn tail and flee, but she stifled the urge.

“Why didn't you tell me Gina had settled in Cranberry Cove?” Nancy said in the tone of voice you would use with a child who was trying to hide the fact that they had just broken your heirloom vase.

“It . . . it never came up.” Monica unzipped her jacket.
She was suddenly feeling very warm, although whether it was from the heat in the small shop or from being put on the spot, she didn't know.

“We've been having a lovely conversation, haven't we, Gina? Catching up.”

Monica looked at Gina but she didn't seem particularly perturbed—her face was smooth and placid. Of course that could be because of the Botox and not because Gina had superhuman control over her emotions.

The last time the two women had encountered each other—at Monica's college graduation—their hostility toward one another had been buried under a frosty coating of politeness. Nancy had refused to talk directly to Gina and had raised a fit at her ex-husband's suggestion that Gina be included in some of the family photographs.

And now they were chatting like two polite acquaintances. The only things missing were the tea and cookies. Monica felt the way she used to when she played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, when they spun you around in a circle, leaving you dizzy and confused about which way to go. She supposed that having been dumped by the same man, each for a considerably younger model, had given them something in common.

Since neither Gina nor Nancy appeared to be upset, Monica suspected they didn't know about Preston.

“Something is going on out there,” Gina said, pointing toward the window that looked out onto Beach Hollow Road.

“Yes.” Nancy fingered the silk scarf at her neck. “There was a great deal of commotion and people running.” She laughed. “It reminded me of those photographs in the newspaper of the running of the bulls in Pamplona.”

“I imagine it's Tempest and her spring rite, or whatever she's calling it.” Gina wiped at a smudged fingerprint on the glass countertop with the edge of her top. “She probably thought limiting it to the village green wouldn't provide enough shock value. She seems determined to shake up the citizens of Cranberry Cove.”

“No, it wasn't Tempest,” Monica said wishing that was all it had been. How was she going to break the news to them?

“Something was going on, that's for sure.” Nancy looked at her watch. “I imagine the whole thing will be over soon. I have an appointment tonight, and I don't look forward to braving that crowd.”

“I didn't know you knew anyone in Cranberry Cove. Other than Monica, of course.” Gina was rearranging some spray bottles of lavender essential oil on the counter.

Monica caught a whiff of their delicious scent. Lavender was supposed to be soothing and restful. Had the herb lulled both Gina and Nancy into this eerie state of calm?

Nancy gave a coy smile. “Actually I do,” she said preening like a peacock. “We met in Chicago when he was in the city on business, and we just . . . hit it off, I guess you could say.”

“That's quite the coincidence that he happens to live in Cranberry Cove.”

“I know,” Nancy said, her voice sounding throaty. “But coincidences do happen. Lucky ones, too.”

“Cranberry Cove is a small town.” Gina stopped fiddling with the glass bottles and gave an
It's just us girls
sort of smile. “We probably know him. What's his name?”

Monica felt herself tensing from head to toe. Maybe if she created a distraction she could stop this conversation
in its tracks. But what to do? Douse them both in calming lavender essential oil? Sweep all the glass bottles off the counter? Set off the smoke alarm? Panic was making her think like a crazy person.

“You probably
do
know him.” Nancy gave that coy smile again. “I'm sure everyone does.”

“Don't keep us in suspense.” Gina leaned her arms on the counter, her eyes on Nancy.

Nooooo
, Monica was screaming inside her head,
don't say it.
For a moment she was afraid she might have actually spoken out loud.

“If you must know,” Nancy said, giving a slight giggle, “it's Preston Crowley, mayor of Cranberry Cove and owner of the Cranberry Cove Inn.”

Gina became so still that for a moment she reminded Monica of an ice sculpture. Gina's only movement was a slight trembling of her hands that slowly increased until they jerked wildly, scattering the glass bottles of essential oils all over the display counter.

“Preston Crowley?” Gina said, the words coming out in a croak.

Nancy looked half amused and half annoyed by Gina's reaction. “Yes. Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gina said in a quiet voice with a menacing edge that made the hairs on the back of Monica's neck stand on edge.

Oh no, here it comes.
Monica was tempted to duck for cover.

“Is something the matter?” Nancy bristled and arched an eyebrow.

Gina began righting the toppled bottles. “You could say
that,” she said. She looked up at Nancy. “I've been seeing Preston Crowley as well.”

“Preston?” Nancy looked confused. “Do you mean seeing as in . . . ?”

Gina nodded curtly.

Nancy's face went white and her lips tightened. She gave a mirthless laugh. “I don't suppose there could be two Preston Crowleys . . . cousins or something?”

“No.”

“The dog!” Nancy spat out.

“I'm afraid none of that really matters now,” Monica said.

“What do you mean?” Nancy turned toward her daughter.

“Preston's dead.”

“What?” Gina and Nancy said at the same time.

Monica hurried down Beach Hollow Road toward Gumdrops and her abandoned farm stall. By the time she'd left Gina's shop, Gina had retrieved a bottle of wine from the refrigerator in her back room, and she and Nancy were drowning their sorrows in large glasses of sauvignon blanc.

Monica found people still milling idly along the sidewalks, as if they didn't know what to do with themselves. Some of the shops, like Bart's, had already closed up. Others, like Danielle's and the Purple Grape, were still doing business as if nothing had happened. Monica glanced across the street—the lights were even on at Bijou. The shop had taken over the space vacated by a camera store that had been made obsolete now that everyone took pictures with their smartphones and looked at them on their computers.

The sleigh was still in the center of the road, with two policemen standing guard, although Preston's body had
mercifully been removed. The yellow-and-black police tape snapped in the brisk wind.

Monica found everything at the farm stand to be in order. She'd pack up the unsold baked goods and take them to the farm store tomorrow morning. The Winter Walk—with all the shops open until eight o'clock in the evening for the event—was meant to run for another four nights. Monica had no idea whether they would have to cancel the rest of the event or not, but she supposed Jeff could always come and collect their stall in the morning if need be.

Monica didn't relish the idea of being back there in the morning. A sense of sadness enveloped her—the peace, comfort and security she'd found in Cranberry Cove had been shaken by the day's events. She was more than happy to buckle herself into her little Ford Focus and leave Beach Hollow Road behind her.

Monica crested the hill outside of town. Sassamanash Farm was a shadow in the distance, with a few pinpricks of light here and there. She could make out the white smudge that was her cottage and another that was the farm store and cranberry processing building. From this vantage point during the day, you would be able to see the farm quite clearly. And if it was autumn, the ground would be blanketed with a red carpet of ripe cranberries. Right now, with the fruit harvested, there was nothing to see but a dark shadow. Monica sailed down the other side of the hill toward home.

As she pulled into the driveway of her cottage, she realized she hadn't yet taken down the Christmas wreath that hung from her front door, the greenery now lightly dusted with snow. She supposed leaving it up for a few more days wouldn't hurt.

Mittens was at the back door to greet her, and Monica scooped the kitten up and cuddled her close. She purred loudly and butted her head against Monica's chin as Monica carried her out to the kitchen.

Later, as Monica was heating up a pot of leftover vegetable soup, there was a knock on her back door. Before Monica could answer, it opened and her half brother Jeff walked in, bringing a rush of cold air with him.

“How did it go? Did we sell out?” he asked as he struggled to take off his coat.

His left arm had been injured during his time in Afghanistan, leaving it paralyzed. He was slowly coming to terms with the disability and had learned to work around it. Monica itched to help him with his coat, but she knew he wanted to do it himself.

“Didn't you hear?” Monica asked as Jeff slumped into one of her kitchen chairs, his long legs nearly sticking out from under the other side of the table.

“Hear what?” Jeff scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Preston Crowley is dead. Murdered.”

Jeff stopped with his hand halfway to the handle of Monica's refrigerator. He'd been tilting the chair on its two hind legs but now dropped it back to the floor with a
thunk
.

“You're joking, right?” He started to smile, but the attempt faded when he saw the expression on Monica's face. “You're not kidding, are you? You're as white as a sheet. Tell me about it.”

Monica gestured toward the pot simmering on the stove. “You want some soup first?”

“Sure. I haven't had a chance to eat yet—not that I was exactly looking forward to that frozen potpie I have waiting for me back at my apartment.”

“You need to learn to cook a few things for yourself.”

Jeff gave her a cheeky grin. “Why? I can always stop by here and get my big sis to feed me.”

Monica shook her head but ladled out two steaming bowls of soup and placed them on the table. She rummaged in the pantry and brought out a sleeve of salted crackers.

“Can you grab the butter dish from the fridge?”

“Sure.” Jeff swiveled around and, using his good arm, retrieved the butter along with a can of the beer Monica kept on hand for him.

Jeff ate half his soup and a dozen crackers before finally looking up. “So tell me what happened.” He swiped his napkin across his chin, which was covered in a day's stubble.

Monica explained about the sleigh arriving with Preston's body.

“There was a knife sticking out of his neck?” Jeff asked in disbelief.

Monica swallowed the bite of cracker she was chewing. “Yes. And it was odd looking. Not that I know all that much about knives.”

Jeff shuddered. “That's crazy. First Sam Culbert and now . . .” He looked down at his nearly empty soup bowl. “I feel bad about bringing you out here. If there's any danger . . .”

Monica smiled reassuringly. “I'm sure there isn't any danger. This murder is undoubtedly personal. Although what grief someone would have with Preston, I can't imagine.”

“You never know.”

Jeff leaned back in his chair. Monica noticed the dusky shadows underneath his closed eyes.

“You look tired,” she said as she got up to clear the table.

Jeff's eyes flew open. He rubbed his hand across his face again, then smiled. “I am tired. Farming is hard work.” He shook his head. “I didn't realize how hard.”

Monica turned to face him with the two soup bowls in her hands. “But the cranberries are all harvested.”

Jeff laughed. “Cranberry growing is a four-season business. We're getting ready to sand the bogs.”

Monica put the dishes in the sink. “Sand?” she said over her shoulder.

The chair squeaked as Jeff changed position. “Sanding stimulates the development of new roots and helps to keep weeds and insects down.” Jeff yawned. “Stop by the bog tomorrow and I'll show you. We're starting over by the pump station.” He yawned again. “As a matter of fact, Lauren is organizing a couple of tours. She thought some of the tourists who are in town for the Winter Walk might be interested in seeing the operation.”

“She's a smart girl.” Monica liked Jeff's girlfriend very much.

“I know.” Jeff grinned. “And speaking of Lauren, I want to get her something special for Valentine's Day. I thought I'd go to that new jewelry store in town and pick something out, but what?”

“Frankly, you can't go wrong with jewelry so I'm sure anything you choose will be fine.”

“They had a necklace in the window that I liked—a heart on a thin gold chain. Too corny?”

Monica hid her smile by bending over the dishwasher to put in their dirty soup bowls. “Not at all. I think that would be perfect.”

“I went inside the store to get the price and got to
talking with the woman behind the counter—Jacy. She said she's the owner. Asked me all about cranberry farming and how it's done. I told her about how we've flooded the bogs and now that ice has formed, we'll lay down sand. She seemed quite fascinated by it.”

“It sounds like she was flirting with you.” Monica leaned against the counter.

The tips of Jeff's ears suddenly turned red, but then his expression became grim—his mouth set in a hard, thin line. “Maybe. But she doesn't know about this.” He motioned to his injured arm.

Monica was about to reassure him, but then realized that he would have to get to that point by himself—she couldn't do it for him.

“I told her about the tours Lauren is organizing, and she said she'd like to go on one.” Jeff's entire face was now suffused with red. “She even said she'd give me a discount on the necklace.”

•   •   •

As Monica finished cleaning up the kitchen, she thought about what Jeff had told her about Jacy, and she smiled. She certainly didn't want anything to come between Jeff and Lauren, but it was good for Jeff to have another woman flirt with him. It would boost his confidence. And despite his protests, she gathered he'd rather enjoyed the exchange.

Monica checked Mittens's water bowl then peeled aside the curtain to look out. There was no sign of her mother's car.

She was beginning to worry when she finally heard a car pull up outside. Mittens scampered ahead of her as she ran to the front door and yanked it open. Gina's Mercedes
was parked in the driveway, slightly askew as always. Jeff always said his mother didn't park her car—she abandoned it. Gina was standing by the passenger side door and appeared to be helping someone out. Monica peered into the darkness.

She blinked her eyes in disbelief. It was her mother!

Nancy was clearly quite tipsy, and leaned heavily on Gina's arm as they approached Monica's door. At one point she stumbled, and Monica started toward her, but Gina caught her and pulled her upright.

“Hello, darling,” Nancy said when they finally reached the entrance to Monica's cottage.

“Mother! What have you been doing?”

“Just enjoying a nice glass of wine with Gina, dear. An excellent sauvi . . . sauvi . . . white wine.” She hiccoughed and smiled brightly at Monica.

“What . . . what happened?” Monica asked Gina as they got her mother settled in an armchair in the living room.

“I guess you'd call it drowning our sorrows. I had one glass of wine—your mother finished the bottle.” Gina jerked her head toward Nancy. “She's not used to drinking, is she?”

“Not really. I don't know.”

Monica realized she didn't actually know her mother all that well. Nancy was always so buttoned up—so guarded—that it was hard to tell what she was feeling or thinking.

“I guess she's taking Preston's death rather hard,” Monica said.

Monica glanced at Gina. How was Gina taking it? Her expression didn't give anything away.

“I think it's his duplicity that's really bothering her. She thought she was the only woman in his life,” Gina said rather dryly. “She hadn't been going out with him all that long, and frankly, neither had I. We both might have ended up disliking him in the end. But finding out that he was a lying, cheating dog is rather hard to take.” Gina laughed. “And now that he's dead there's no chance to tell him what we think of him.”

Monica could understand that—they'd been robbed of the chance for closure.

Nancy, meanwhile, had slipped down in the armchair, her head dropped back, her mouth slightly open. She was fast asleep and didn't even notice that Mittens had curled up in her lap.

“Maybe I should help you get her up to bed,” Gina said. “Or we can transfer her to the sofa if you think that's better.”

Monica thought of the steep stairs leading to the second floor. “I think the sofa would be easier.”

“Or maybe we should leave her? She
is
sleeping.”

They both looked at Nancy, whose head had lolled to one side.

“I'll cover her with the throw.”

Monica was reaching for the blanket when the doorbell rang. Monica and Gina jumped, and Nancy's eyes flew open.

“Who could it be at this time of night?” Monica glanced at her watch.

“I suppose we'll find out when you open the door,” Gina said rather dryly.

“Right.”

Neither Monica nor Gina expected to find Detective Stevens standing on Monica's doorstep.

“I'm sorry it's so late,” she said as she stepped into the foyer. “I understand your mother is staying with you? Nancy Albertson?”

Monica wondered how Stevens knew that. The village tom-toms must have been beating overtime. This was a record, even for Cranberry Cove.

“You remember my stepmother, Gina Albertson,” Monica said as she led Stevens into the living room.

“Wonderful,” Stevens said, pointing at Gina. “I want to talk to you, too. Kill two birds as they say.” She laughed. “Probably not the best saying to quote under the circumstances.”

Stevens turned to Nancy, who was now awake, although her eyelids had drooped to half-mast and she looked as if she was having trouble focusing. Monica couldn't imagine what had gotten into her mother.

Mittens had jumped down from Nancy's chair and was amusing herself by making her way along the back edge of the sofa, as if she was practicing tightrope walking.

“Mrs. Albertson? Mrs. Nancy Albertson?” Stevens said.

Nancy nodded, then winced and put a hand to her head.

“Won't you sit down?” Monica gestured toward the sofa.