Berry the Hatchet (9 page)

“I imagine the owner must have been very upset?”

“Oh, he was. He definitely was. There was quite a scene.”

Two patches of color brightened Edith's cheeks. Monica imagined it must have been the highlight of what were
usually rather boring days occupied with filling out forms and photocopying documents.

“I've heard that our mayor, Preston Crowley, was not in favor of the restaurant?”

Edith's posture stiffened. “May he rest in peace.” She bowed her head briefly and then looked up at Monica. “The mayor had his reasons, I'm sure.”

“Of course,” Monica said soothingly. “But I've heard rumors. . . .”

Edith sniffed. “People will always talk, even when they don't have anything useful to say.”

“So you don't think it's true that Mayor Crowley somehow had a hand in delaying the necessary permit?”

“Who said that?” Edith bristled.

Monica shrugged. “Just rumors going around. . . .”

“Mayor Crowley would never stoop to something so low.” Edith quivered with indignation. “Those are lies. Just lies.”

Her entire face was now flushed with color. Monica suspected that Edith may have developed a crush on the mayor.

“Do you have any idea who owns the Pepper Pot?” Monica thought it best to change the subject, however slightly.

“His name is Roger Tripp.”

“Is he from out of town?”

Edith plucked at the torn lace on the cuff of her peignoir. “I know I've been seeing him in town here and there for a couple of years now, but I'm sure he's not
from
here, if you know what I mean.”

“Did he work in town somewhere?”

Monica knew that while the shops along Beach Hollow
Road offered employment to some, most Cranberry Cove residents commuted to jobs in bigger towns.

Edith brushed her hand back and forth across the worn velvet of the sofa's arm. She pursed her lips and the wrinkles around them folded in on themselves as if pulled by a drawstring. “I don't know. I remember seeing him in town but he might have been doing his shopping. Maybe Rieka will know?”

Monica smiled. “Good idea.” She picked up her purse and put it in her lap. “Will Rieka be at work on Monday do you think?”

“I imagine so. We have the same hours—Monday to Thursday from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon. There's enough to keep us busy, but the job doesn't require a full eight hours. Besides, both Rieka and I are getting on in years, you know. We can't work as hard as you young people.” She smiled at Monica.

Monica stood up and began to put on her jacket.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea? I've already had my dinner—only a bowl of pea soup, but I don't eat much these days. I have a lovely coffee cake if you'd care for some.”

Monica looked out the window where the shadows had deepened and the sky was darkening. She could see the longing and loneliness in Edith's eyes, but she wanted to get to Bart's before he closed.

“That's very kind, but I'm afraid I have to be going.”

“But you've only just gotten here.”

Monica was beginning to see what the VanVelsen sisters had meant about it being hard to get away from Edith. “Perhaps I can come another time?”

Edith's face brightened. “That would be lovely.” She struggled to her feet.

“Please don't get up,” Monica said as she pulled on her gloves.

“I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I'll just walk you to the door.”

After a few more minutes of conversation standing by the open door, Monica was finally able to get away.

Bart was about to close up when Monica pushed open his door.

He looked up and smiled. “Monica. Nice to see you. What can I get you? I'm almost cleaned out, but I do have some lamb chops and a porterhouse left.”

“I'll take the lamb chops then.” Monica decided.

Bart pulled a piece of butcher paper from the roll. “I didn't expect my business to increase because of Preston Crowley's Winter Walk, but I'm pleased to say it has. The day-trippers wanted something to take back home for dinner. My homemade sausage has been selling especially well.”

“All the stores have been doing well.” Monica pulled her wallet from her purse. “And I gather the Cranberry Cove Inn has been booked full—the dining room as well.”

“Too bad that new place hadn't been able to open on time. It's time someone gave Crowley a little competition.” Bart slipped a paper-wrapped bundle tied with string into a white bag. “Something went wrong with the permit, I gather.” Bart handed Monica the parcel. “The owner is a guy named Roger Tripp. I don't know him well, but he seemed nice enough. Shame it didn't work out for him.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Roger?” Bart wrinkled his brow. “Not born here, that's for sure. But I think he's been around for a couple of years. He used to work at the Cranberry Cove Inn as a bartender, then obviously decided to go out on his own.”

“That's interesting.”

“Yeah. I hope he makes a go of it.”

Monica thanked Bart and left. As she passed Book 'Em, Greg was in the process of putting some new books in the window. He held up a hand, signaling for Monica to wait. A second later, the door to the shop opened and Greg popped his head out.

“How did your day go?”

“Very well. I sold everything I had. I'm headed back to the stall to pick up my empty baskets.”

“That's great. Preston Crowley might have been a bit of a pain at times, but he had a good idea when it came to this Winter Walk.”

Monica nodded. “Everyone has been doing well—even the butcher.”

“Listen.” Greg opened the door a bit wider. “If I can snag a reservation, would you like to go to brunch tomorrow at the Cranberry Cove Inn? If we go early enough perhaps the tourists won't have arrived yet to take up all the tables. Since it's Sunday, most of the shops aren't opening before noon anyway.”

“I'd love to. But why don't I meet you there? Afterward I can head straight to our farm stall.”

“Okay—say nine o'clock?”

“Perfect. See you then.” Monica waved and continued down the street.

•   •   •

By the time Monica got back to her cottage, the light had faded and night had set in. Snow had started falling on her way home—fat, lazy flakes swirling down from above. She peered up at the clouds that were moving swiftly
across the sky. It was most likely lake-effect snow, created when cold winds blew across the warmer waters of Lake Michigan.

Monica hoped it wouldn't last. Bad weather would keep visitors from Cranberry Cove. They already had had just the right amount of snow—a light sprinkling that had turned downtown Cranberry Cove into a picture postcard.

Monica opened the back door. The kitchen was dark, and she flicked on the light switch with her elbow. Mittens came running in from the living room to rub against Monica's legs and purr loudly. She put her packages and the empty baskets on the table and picked up Mittens's dish. The kitten seemed put out by the fact that Monica was five minutes late in preparing her dinner—she sat in the corner, with her back to Monica, grooming her paws with great precision.

Monica opened a can of food, emptied it into a bowl and put it down on the floor. Mittens scampered toward it, her irritation obviously forgotten.

Monica went down the hall to the living room. The room was in darkness, and she reached for the nearest lamp. Her mother's car was parked outside—perhaps she was upstairs resting?

Monica was startled when the light flicked on and she saw her mother sitting in the armchair by the fireplace.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” Monica took a seat on the sofa opposite her mother.

Nancy gave a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“What about?” Monica asked, although she could guess.

“Preston. The murder. My life.”

“Your life?”

Nancy nodded. “Yes. I thought Preston and I were headed toward something—at least a permanent relationship, if not
marriage.” Nancy played with the fringe on Monica's throw pillow. “I'm not getting any younger, to use a trite phrase. I've been alone since your father left.”

Monica started to open her mouth, but Nancy waved a hand to silence her.

“Oh, there have been dates here and there. But until Preston came along, there wasn't anyone I could see myself staying with for any length of time.” She gave a smile that faded almost as quickly as it came. “Maybe I'm still a little in love with your father.”

“After what he—”

“Don't wait too long to let someone into your life. I know Ted's death has made you leery of getting involved again.”

Monica was surprised to realize it had been several weeks since she'd thought about her late fiancé.

And then she remembered her date with Greg for brunch, and she smiled.

“What's that smile for? Is there something you're not telling me? Is there someone?”

Monica wasn't ready to talk about it. “There could be. I just need to give it some time.”

The snow stopped sometime during the night after leaving about three inches on the ground—nothing that would stop a true Michigander, Monica thought. It took at least two feet of the white stuff plus whiteout conditions to do that.

She woke up early so she could do some baking and still have time to wash her hair and take a stab at doing something with it. Her curls usually had a mind of their own, and today was no exception. Monica concentrated on applying some mascara and lipstick—things she rarely ever bothered with.

She had a bottle of perfume in the bathroom vanity that Ted had given her, but when she opened it, she realized it was too old and had gone bad. She'd have to be content with smelling like soap. She doubted Greg would mind.

She did take more care than usual selecting her clothes, though. Her normal attire generally consisted of jeans and a sweatshirt or old sweater. The ones she'd worn last night were now discarded in a pile, as she'd been up late baking and had gotten up while it was still dark to do some more. The whole cottage was infused with the smell of butter, sugar and cranberries.

Finally, Monica stood in front of the mirror on her dresser. It didn't afford her a full view, but there wasn't anything she could do about that. She kept meaning to pick up a full-length one at the hardware store to attach to the back of her bedroom door, but it kept slipping down her list of priorities.

Monica heard her mother stirring as she left her room, and she had just entered the hallway when the guest bedroom door opened. Nancy's face was shiny with night cream, but her hair was combed, and she was wearing white pajamas piped in navy blue with a matching robe and navy terrycloth slippers.

She looked Monica up and down and smiled. “Something special must be happening today.”

For a moment Monica thought of confiding in her mother, but she wasn't quite ready to show her hand yet. Better to wait until the relationship was more established.

“Not really,” Monica said as she turned to head down the stairs. “I was tired of living in jeans and sweatshirts and thought I'd make more of an effort today.”

“You look lovely.”

“Thanks.”

Monica started down the stairs.

“I just hope whoever you're meeting appreciates it,” Nancy called down the steps.

•   •   •

Monica could tell Greg appreciated the care she'd taken with her appearance by the look in his eyes when he met her at the Cranberry Cove Inn.

The Inn was bustling. Three people waited at the reception desk, and more milled around the lobby, coffee cups in hand. The Inn did Sunday brunch in the dining room, but also set out a complimentary continental breakfast of coffee, tea, fresh fruit and pastries in the lobby.

“I've managed to snag us a table,” Greg said, as he put his hand on Monica's elbow and steered her toward the dining room, “although I can't guarantee it will be by the window.”

The maître d' bustled over with a stack of leather-bound menus in his hand. “This way, please.”

He led them to a small table for two tucked into the corner. As they passed the large picture window that was a feature of the Inn's dining room, Monica caught a glimpse of the sun glinting off the ice floes on Lake Michigan.

“Why don't you sit there?” Greg said, pointing to the chair against the wall. “You'll at least have a view of the dining room.”

Once again, Monica was struck by how thoughtful Greg was.

Greg looked around the packed room. “Preston would love this if he were here.”

“I know.” Monica closed her menu—she'd decided on eggs Benedict.

They chatted amiably until their order had been taken and the food had arrived.

“Have you heard about Tempest?” Monica asked,
unable to stay away from the subject on everyone's mind any longer.

“No. I hope nothing's happened to her.”

“Not exactly.”

Greg looked up sharply at Monica's tone.

She put down her knife and fork. “The police have discovered that the weapon found in . . . in Preston's neck was an athame.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “What on earth is that?”

“It's a dagger of some sort. It's used in Wiccan ceremonies.”

“I know Tempest has a lot of unusual things in that store of hers—I'm jumping to the conclusion that the police think the dagger came from there?”

Monica fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “It's a logical conclusion. It's certainly not something you can pick up in the hardware store or supermarket. Tempest claims it must have been stolen from her store.”

“Claims?” Greg's eyebrows shot up again. “You don't think she had anything to do with it, do you?”

Monica shook her head vigorously. “No. No, not at all. But you know Tempest—she can't remember when it went missing or even if she might have sold it to someone.”

Greg dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “If I was going to murder someone, I'd certainly steal the weapon, not buy it. It looks like someone is trying to implicate Tempest. Unless there's some reason why she—”

“No,” Monica said, cutting him off. “I don't believe for a minute that Tempest had anything to do with it. She was furious with him, of course—because of the petition to stop her ceremony on the village green, but she would never go so far as to . . . murder him.”

“I certainly can't imagine it, either.”

Greg put his napkin down on the table. “If you'll excuse me for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

Monica pushed her empty plate to the side and leaned her elbows on the table. She looked out over the dining room—it was still packed, with the only empty tables being ones that were in the process of being cleared. She heard the rattle of cutlery and clink of plates being stacked behind her. She glanced over her shoulder—two busboys were making short work of preparing the table for the next diners.

They chatted with each other while they worked, and the words flowed over Monica until she heard one of them mention the name Roger Tripp.

For a moment, Monica couldn't remember why the name sounded so familiar and then it came to her—he was the owner of the Pepper Pot, and former employee of the Cranberry Cove Inn.

Monica leaned back against her chair so she could hear better.

The two young men continued to chat, and now Monica was listening intently.

“I thought Roger's place was supposed to open for the Winter Walk,” one said.

“Yeah, I think it was. I heard he ran into some trouble getting the right permits.”

The other one snorted. “No wonder, with Preston Crowley as mayor. Tripp's probably still holding a grudge.”

“Do you think he did it? Roger, I mean.”

“What? Killed Crowley?”

There was silence for a moment. “I never thought of that. No, I meant, stealing from the Inn.”

“He wasn't stealing exactly.”

“Sure he was. He was charging customers for top-shelf booze but giving them the cheap stuff and pocketing the difference. That's why Crowley fired him.”

There was a loud clatter as plates tumbled into the bus tubs, and Monica lost some of the busboys' conversation.

“I think Crowley got his own back,” one of the young men said.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He was the mayor, wasn't he? No reason he couldn't stop the permit from going through so Roger couldn't open on time for the Winter Walk.”

“Yeah. But maybe Roger got the last laugh by plunging that knife into Crowley's neck.”

“You think?”

The busboys began to head toward the kitchen with their overflowing bus tubs and Monica couldn't hear the answer.

Greg came back to the table moments later and sat down opposite Monica. He gave her a peculiar smile and picked up his spoon, turning it over and over and over again.

Monica had the sense that he wanted to say something or tell her something, but what, she couldn't begin to imagine.

“Can I ask you a question?” Greg said finally.

“Sure.”

Greg continued to play with the spoon, his eyes not quite meeting Monica's. He gave a deep sigh.

“Are we officially dating?” he said. He gave a self-conscious laugh but then turned serious, his eyes searching Monica's for an answer.

Monica was startled. Of all the things she expected him to ask her, that question had never crossed her mind.

“I . . . I don't know,” Monica said. “Are we?”

“I hope so.” Greg put the spoon down and smiled at Monica.

“Yes, me too.” Monica felt her heart lift as if it had suddenly been attached to a helium balloon. She felt a grin break out across her face.

Monica put a hand out and Greg grasped it.

“Good,” Greg said and smiled again.

•   •   •

Monica didn't so much drive home as float home. The ride was a blur and when she pulled into the driveway of her little cottage, she couldn't imagine how she'd gotten there. Obviously she must have stopped at all the stop signs and red lights and made all the right turns without even realizing what she was doing.

She felt as giddy as a young girl but at the same time, she knew a lot more about relationships now that she was older and realized that they weren't always smooth sailing. There would be ups and downs, but she was confident that she and Greg could weather them together.

Monica went in through the unlocked kitchen door. She peeked into the living room, but her mother wasn't there, although her car was in the driveway. Monica supposed she must be upstairs taking a nap or reading in bed.

Monica's little car's heater didn't always work, and today was one of those days when it had refused to function. She was chilled to the bone so she retrieved the teakettle from the top of the stove and swung it under the tap to fill it with water.

While the kettle boiled, she hung her coat on the coatrack and then mopped up the drops of dingy water her snow-covered boots had deposited on the floor. Mittens, who had been sleeping in her basket, woke up, gave a huge stretch and ambled over. She thought it was a wonderful game to try to catch the paper towel as Monica swished it back and forth across the floor.

Monica was grateful when the water boiled and she was able to wrap her hands around a warm mug of tea. She'd just taken her first sip when she heard a noise on the stairs. Moments later her mother appeared in the doorway.

She was elegantly dressed in the same gray trousers she'd worn the day before, topped with a pink cashmere sweater and a colorful silk scarf tucked into the neckline.

She paused at the entrance to the room, and Monica had to suppress the uncharitable thought that she wished her mother would go back to Chicago so she'd have the cottage to herself again.

Instead she said, “Good afternoon,” with as much good grace as she could muster. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

Nancy took a seat at the table while Monica readied a mug of tea for her. She stirred in a drop of milk and handed her mother the cup.

“You look different,” Nancy said, tilting her head to one side as she regarded Monica.

The last thing Monica wanted to talk about was Greg. She made a noncommittal reply.

“So tell me,” Nancy said with enthusiasm, “how was your date?”

Monica was about to deny it had been a date when she
remembered her discussion with Greg. She could feel color flooding her face.

Nancy looked smug. “Something tells me you had a good time. When do I get to meet him?”

“Mother, please. I'm way too old to go on dates and have boyfriends. That part of my life is over.”

“It most certainly is not!” Nancy pushed her mug of tea aside and leaned her elbows on the table. “That's never over. Certainly you're not going to be going to a prom or out for milkshakes at your age, but you never outgrow the need for companionship.”

Nancy looked away, and Monica thought she wiped a tear from her eye.

“Do you miss Dad?” Monica asked gently.

“Yes. No. Sometimes.” Nancy gave a loud sniff. “I thought I'd found someone in Preston—someone who would be a friend as well as a . . . lover.”

Monica felt uncomfortable with her mother's confidences and looked down into her cup of tea.

Nancy clenched her fist and banged it on the table, making the sugar bowl jump. “It's all Gina's fault. She wasn't content with stealing John away from me, she had to take Preston, too.”

“But she had no idea that Preston was seeing both of you,” Monica said. It felt strange to be defending her stepmother for a change.

Nancy shook her finger at Monica. “I just can't believe she didn't have something to do with it.”

Monica stifled a gasp. “You don't mean . . . you can't think that Gina had anything to do with Preston's . . . murder?”

Nancy lifted her chin. “I wouldn't put it past her.”