Berry the Hatchet (7 page)

Downtown was crowded when Monica got there. Preston Crowley's Winter Walk might not have gone off as he'd planned, but his death had still lured plenty of people
to the small town. They'd obviously come out of some form of morbid curiosity, and the sidewalks along the cordoned off Beach Hollow Road were teeming, as was the street itself.

People darted in and out of the various shops, emerging with shopping bags swinging from their hands. She noticed several people poke their heads into the Cranberry Cove Diner—where it was fairly obvious that the locals hung out—but the tourists had retreated as quickly as a turtle pulling its head in when it sensed danger. The locals kept to themselves and certainly weren't going to swap theories about the murder with perfect strangers who'd come from miles and miles away just to gawk.

Book 'Em was filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee when Monica arrived. Greg had opened up a small gateleg table and set out hot water for tea, a thermos of coffee and a pot of hot chocolate.

He had pulled every chair he could find into a circle in the middle of the store—folding chairs, slipcovered armchairs that had seen better days and a couple of desk chairs. The VanVelsen sisters were already seated in two of the more comfortable chairs. Every once in a while they left Gumdrops in the hands of the granddaughter of one of their cousins who lived nearby, although Gerda always fretted the entire time they were away from the store.

Grace Singleton was there, too. Monica hadn't been sure she would come. She'd been Preston Crowley's secretary for years and was very devoted to him. She was thin and angular and her clothes—a nearly ankle-length skirt and white cotton turtleneck—had no more shape on her than they would have suspended from a hanger. Her gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway
down her back. Her eyes were red-rimmed, Monica noticed, and her hands were trembling slightly in her lap.

Greg came out of the back room. “That looks delicious,” he said, taking the cranberry coffee cake Monica had brought as her contribution.

There was already a glass bowl filled with VanMelle fruit toffees from the VanVelsens and a batch of oatmeal cookies from Grace. Greg cleared a space and set down Monica's coffee cake.

Monica helped herself to a cup of hot chocolate and chose one of the folding chairs—not the most comfortable, but she preferred to leave the better chairs for the older women in the group.

They heard voices approaching, and the door opened and two more women came in. One was Eleanor Mason, a retired schoolteacher who always made Monica think of Miss Marple. Today she had on a quilted sweatshirt with a snowman applique on the front. With her was Phyllis Bouma, the local librarian. She was almost as much of an authority on mysteries as Greg.

The two women poured themselves coffee and slid two pieces of Monica's coffee cake onto the paper plates Greg had put out. Eleanor sank into one of the armchairs with a loud
ouf
, and Phyllis sat next to her on a worn leather office chair.

Phyllis brandished her copy of
Dangerous to Know
. “It's hard to believe there's been another murder in our midst,” she said. “Just like out of a book.”

Grace gave a loud sniff. “Except we know the victim. Or at least I do.” She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. She tucked it back into her cuff and fingered the thin gold chain around her neck. She gave
another loud sniff. “Preston gave me this for my twentieth anniversary with him.”

“It's lovely,” everyone chorused dutifully.

“He bought it in that new shop here in town—Bijou. Preston always did believe in patronizing the local stores.”

“It must be odd for that Jacy Belair woman who runs Bijou to be on the other side of the fence now—or should I say
counter
.” Phyllis drummed her fingers on the book in her lap.

“What do you mean?” Grace looked at her quizzically.

“She used to be one of the rich summer tourists buying fancy clothes in Danielle's, and now she's behind the counter at a jewelry store.”

“She owns the store, doesn't she?” Eleanor asked. “At least that's what I heard.”

“As far as I know.” Phyllis raised an eyebrow. “Still, it's a bit of a comedown having to work for a living, don't you think?”

“But if she was one of the rich summer tourists, as you put it . . .” Monica said.

Phyllis snorted. “Easy come, easy go, as they say. I heard that husband of hers left her quite well off but she got caught up in some sort of scheme and lost it all. She even had to sell her house down south or wherever it was they came from.”

Eleanor glanced at Grace, who was dabbing her eyes again.

“I'm sorry, dear,” she said. “All this must be very upsetting for you.”

Grace nodded. “I just hope they find out who did it.”

“We should investigate ourselves,” Phyllis declared.

“Yes. Just like in the books—like Miss Silver or Jessica Fletcher,” Eleanor chimed in.

“Do you really think . . .” Gerda started.

“It may not be wise. It may be . . . dangerous,” Hennie added, “to get mixed up in murder.”

“Nonsense,” Phyllis said briskly. “But we do need some clues.”

Greg, Monica noticed, was listening to the conversation with an amused look on his face.

“What kind of clues?” Grace lifted her head, and for a moment her face became almost animated.

“I don't know,” Phyllis said in exasperation. “Maybe like who hated him or who stands to benefit—things like that.”

“He had a huge argument with someone the day he died,” Grace said with the air of someone presenting a gift. “It was right before he left the office to go to the Winter Walk. They were shouting so loudly I could hear them clear out to my desk, even though the door was shut.”

The rest of the women leaned forward eagerly in their seats.

“Who was he arguing with?” Eleanor asked.

“I don't exactly know,” Grace admitted, her bony shoulders sagging.

“Gerda and I know almost everyone in Cranberry Cove, right, Gerda?” Hennie turned to her sister. “Perhaps if you describe the person, we can figure out who it was.”

“I don't know. . . .” Grace slid her feet in and out of the clogs she was wearing.

“Well, was it a male or female?” Hennie asked impatiently.

“It was a woman,” Grace answered.

“And?” Hennie raised her eyebrows.

“Nicely dressed.”

By now even Eleanor was beginning to get impatient. “If this person had an argument with Preston that was so loud you heard it out at your desk, it's probably significant. You must try to remember. What color hair did she have? What kind of clothes?”

Grace squeezed her eyes shut as if that would jog her memory. “She was wearing a jacket—the kind that buttons over like this.” She demonstrated with her hands.

“Double-breasted. Go on,” Eleanor said. “Color?”

“Dark. Navy or maybe black, I'm not sure.”

“Was she wearing anything else besides a jacket?” Eleanor asked and everyone laughed.

“Pants. Gray pants and suede shoes,” Grace said triumphantly. “I remember thinking the shoes looked very comfortable—almost like those slippers they sell that look like moccasins but are lined in fur.” Grace closed her eyes again. “Her hair was blond,” she finished and looked around almost as if expecting applause.

Monica had felt herself grow cold as Grace's description continued, and by the end she was positive. It was her mother who had had the argument with Preston right before he died.

Could she be the one who had killed him?

Monica was so distracted by the thought of her mother as a potential suspect in a murder case that she couldn't focus on the book discussion that swirled around her. Several times someone had to repeat her name to get her attention, and she caught the brief look of concern that crossed Greg's face at one point.

Finally the meeting came to an end, and everyone got ready to leave—donning coats, pulling on hats and winding scarves around their necks. Discussion about the book had been lively and continued even as the members of the book club prepared to depart. Monica was about to leave when Greg put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Have a minute?” he asked with a smile.

Monica hesitated. “Sure,” she said at last.

Greg plopped down into one of the armchairs, which sent up a puff of dust while emitting a loud groan. Monica
took the seat opposite him—a rickety wooden folding chair. She unbuttoned her coat and took off her gloves.

Greg was silent as he fiddled with his reading glasses, twirling them around and around by the earpiece. Finally he spoke.

“I'm worried about you.”

“Me?” Monica said, pointing at herself.

“Yes. Is something wrong? You're normally an active part of our book discussion, but today you seemed . . . you seemed as if you were somewhere else.” Greg smiled. “Your mind that is.”

Monica laughed, but it didn't sound right, even to her ears. “I guess I was a little preoccupied.” She hesitated for a moment. Should she tell Greg? Why not—he'd proven himself to be her friend. “The woman Grace described as having been in Preston's office arguing with him sounded a lot like my mother. Actually I'm quite sure it
was
my mother.”

“Your mother?” Greg looked confused. “But isn't she in—”

“She came to Cranberry Cove for a visit. Although not to see me—to see Preston Crowley. Apparently she met him when he was in Chicago on business, and they began dating. She thought she would surprise him.”

“But why would that make you think she had anything to do with Preston's murder?”

Monica fiddled with the gloves in her lap—turning them over and over and over. “I'm not the one who thinks she murdered him—Detective Stevens does.”

Greg looked even more perplexed. “But why? What reason could she have for jumping to that conclusion? From what you've told me, your mother is a perfectly normal
suburban housewife, not a psychopath—hardly the sort to go around killing people.”

“Stevens discovered the fact that my mother and my stepmother Gina were both dating Preston—unbeknownst to each other, of course. But she's convinced that one of them actually already knew she was being two-timed.” Monica stopped for a second and took a deep breath before going on. “The theory is she then got angry—angry enough to stick a knife in Preston's neck.”

Greg jumped up and began pacing the small open space in the center of the bookstore. He had his hands behind his back and his head down.

“Does Stevens have any evidence? Anything that puts either your mother or stepmother on the scene?”

Monica shook her head. “Not that I know of . . . but the police don't always reveal all the information in their possession.”

“And neither your mother nor your stepmother has a convenient alibi, I presume?”

Monica shook her head. “Sadly, no. My mother claims to have been driving around, and Gina says she was in her shop but had no customers.”

Greg stopped in mid-stride. “Then it's up to us to find out what really happened.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Monica felt the ghost of a smile hover around her lips. “Like Hercule Poirot?”

Greg straightened his shoulders. “I prefer to think of myself as more of an Inspector Lynley type—not very tall but certainly dark and handsome.”

Monica laughed. “Fine. Who shall I be then?”

“You're way too young and pretty to be Miss Marple
or Miss Silver.” Greg tilted his head to one side, considering Monica. She could feel the blood rising to her face under his scrutiny. She forced a laugh to cover her discomfort.

“Who do you think?” Greg asked.

“I . . . I don't know,” Monica admitted.

If Greg's objective was to take her mind off her mother and the murder, it was working admirably.

“Maybe Stephanie Plum? Sort of bumbling and comical,” Monica suggested.

“No, you're much too classy to be Stephanie Plum.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! Gemma James from Deborah Crombie's books. You've got the same tumble of auburn curls, the same tenacity, honesty and goodness.”

Now Monica was blushing in earnest. Of course Greg was just joking, but she was enjoying it nonetheless.

Monica left Book 'Em in a good mood, which vaporized into thin air the moment she got home and saw her mother's car sitting in the driveway. It was fine for her and Greg to joke about investigating, but the reality was that they had nothing at their disposal and the police had everything at theirs.

Monica scooped up Mittens and held her tight as soon as she walked in the back door. The sweet little tabby always soothed her, no matter what her mood. Mittens rubbed against Monica's face as if saying
I understand
.

Nancy was sitting in a chair in the living room, staring at nothing. She didn't move when Monica walked in.

“Is everything okay?” Monica put Mittens down on the floor and sat on the edge of the sofa.

Nancy lifted her shoulders and let them slump. “Nothing has gone right.” She wound a handkerchief between
her fingers. “I only wanted to surprise Preston—and look what's happened!”

Monica cleared her throat. Now was as good a time as any to ask her mother about the argument Grace had overheard—assuming she could find the words. Every sentence she composed in her head sounded accusatory.

She cleared her throat again. “Preston Crowley's secretary is in my book group. She said she overheard someone arguing with Preston right before the Winter Walk. She didn't know the woman's name but the description fit you.” The words came out sounding stilted—rehearsed.

Nancy whirled around to face her. “You can't believe that I—”

“Of course not,” Monica said briskly. She let the silence draw out for several minutes. “What were you arguing about?” she finally asked.

“Nothing, really.”

“It must have been something if Grace heard you all the way out at her desk, through the closed door.”

“The woman probably had her ear to the door,” Nancy said, clenching her fists. “And I wasn't the one shouting.” Nancy looked affronted. “I told Preston to keep his voice down, but he wouldn't listen.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “It was unseemly the way he was carrying on.”

“Yes, but what was it about?” Monica persisted. “When this gets out, the police are going to want to know.”

Nancy sat up straighter in her chair. “I should hope you're not going to tell them!”

“Of course not. But if they question Grace about that afternoon, she's bound to mention it.”

“But the police won't know I was the woman he was
arguing with, will they?” Nancy ended the sentence on a plaintive note, her voice sounding almost girlish.

“I don't think it would take them long to figure it out. Stevens is a detective, after all.”

“Preston was so
rude
.”

“About what?” Mittens jumped up on the sofa, and Monica stroked the cat's soft fur. The kitten purred loudly.

“I just wanted to surprise him. I thought he'd be pleased. But he . . . wasn't. He was furious. I don't understand why.”

“I think it's obvious. He didn't want you to find out about Gina. While you stayed in Chicago, and she stayed here in Cranberry Cove, the chances of you finding out about each other were slim.”

Nancy sagged in her chair again. “True. And here I thought we had the start to a good relationship. We enjoyed many of the same things, always had plenty to talk about. . . .” She balled up the handkerchief in her hand. “And now I find out he was dating another woman. And not just any woman—Gina!”

Monica felt a pang of sympathy. All these events certainly had to have been hard on her mother. She got up, went to Nancy and put her arms around her shoulders.

“I'm sure everything is going to be fine. Detective Stevens is smart—she'll find out who did it soon enough.”

“I just want to go home.” Nancy sniffed.

“Maybe that would be best.” Monica patted her arm. “You'll feel better surrounded by your own things—”

“But I can't,” Nancy wailed.

“Why not?”

“The police won't let me. That Detective Stevens called and made it quite clear that I wasn't to leave Cranberry Cove until she said I could.”

•   •   •

Monica was surprised when she looked at the clock—it was already past lunchtime, and she hadn't had a chance to go to the grocery store. What could she feed her mother and herself? She studied the contents of her pantry and fridge. Maybe some potato soup—it would use up the last of her spuds along with the two slices of bacon and the piece of cheddar cheese in the refrigerator. She might not be Dutch, but living in Cranberry Cove, she had picked up some of their thrifty ways.

She was giving the soup a final stir when she heard a car pull into the driveway and around to the back of the cottage, so it was no surprise when the back door flew open.

“What smells so good?” Gina said, wiping her feet on the mat.

“Potato soup. There's plenty if you'd like some.”

Monica wasn't sure how well Nancy and Gina would get along sitting across the table from each other, especially without any wine being involved, but she wasn't going to ask Gina to leave. They would have to be civil to each other, even if it killed them.

“Oh,” Nancy said when she walked into the kitchen and saw Gina. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“Yes.” Gina slid into the place Monica had set for her.

Monica ladled out bowls of soup and then took her place at the table.

“I wonder what Preston was thinking,” Nancy blurted out. “Dating both of us at the same time.”

“Maybe that he could have his cake and eat it, too?” Gina patted her lips with her napkin.

“He didn't seem like the sort,” Nancy said, then laughed. “Of course neither did my ex-husband.”

Gina shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes on her bowl.

“I didn't know that much about Preston really—only superficial things.” Nancy put down her soup spoon. “I knew he liked opera but preferred
La Boheme
to
Figaro
. He didn't care for fish—especially salmon. He bought his clothes at Brooks Brothers, and he had a sister.” She stared into the distance. “It doesn't add up to much in the end, does it?” She sighed. “And it certainly doesn't seem like any of that would have gotten him killed.”

“I know his first wife left him,” Gina said, stirring her soup around and around in the bowl. “She took off with another man. He never got over it.”

Nancy gave Gina a piercing look. “That sounds terribly familiar.”

“Are you insinuating—” Gina got halfway out of her chair.

“I'm not insinuating anything.” Nancy lifted her chin. “The facts are the facts. You lured my husband away like that man lured away Preston's wife.”

“If you had treated him like a man and not a child—always after him to pick up his things, complaining when he came home late even though he was working hard to support his family—he might have stayed.”

This time Nancy half rose from her chair. “If some floozy hadn't come along and sunk her claws into him, he never would have left.”

The two women stared at each other, nostrils flaring, faces turning red. Monica knew she had to do something.

“Enough!” she said, startling not only Nancy and Gina
but herself as well. “If we're going to solve this case we have to work together.” She pointed at the two women.

“Well!” Nancy said, although Monica noticed she looked somewhat chastened.

“You're right.” Gina pushed back her chair. “Squabbling isn't going to get us anywhere.” She picked up her purse and slipped into her coat. “And on that note, I'll be going. The gal that's minding the store has to leave soon to go pick up her kids.”

Nancy didn't say anything but watched as Gina went out the back door, slamming it slightly harder than necessary.

As soon as they heard Gina's car start up, Nancy turned to Monica.

“How can you tolerate that woman? After what she did to us. . . .”

“Believe it or not, I like Gina,” Monica said, lifting her chin defensively. “She's been a good mother to Jeff, and she's been kind to me. It's time to move on.”

Nancy looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water at her. She fiddled with her napkin, then sighed dramatically. “I suppose you're right. It is time to move on. We've both been hurt by the same man—that should make us allies, not enemies.”