Berry the hatchet, p.10
Berry the Hatchet, page 10
“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.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
Nancy shrugged.
“Besides,” Monica blurted out, “the police found that the weapon used to kill Preston was an athame—”
“What on earth is that?” Nancy sat up straighter at the table and glared at Monica.
“It’s a sort of dagger that Wiccans use in their ceremonies. The police think it came from Tempest’s shop.”
“Isn’t that the woman Gina has become friends with? Two peas in a pod, if you ask me.” Nancy lifted her chin.
“Yes. But I don’t believe for a minute that Tempest had anything to do with the murder.”
Nancy snorted. “Of course not. It’s obvious what happened. Gina took advantage of her friendship with Tempest to steal that . . . that . . . thing—whatever you said it’s called. And then she used it to kill Preston.”
Monica couldn’t believe that her mother really thought Gina might have been involved in Preston’s death. They’d seemed to be getting along quite well—perhaps it had been the bottle of shared wine that had lubricated things and not any real desire to bury the hatchet and let go of the past.
Monica was relieved when her mother announced that she was going out. Nancy insisted that she would take care of dinner so that Monica could put her feet up and rest. Monica had given her directions to Fresh Gourmet just outside of town, where she trusted her mother would find the ingredients she needed for the tarragon chicken in white wine sauce she planned to make.
Monica heard the churn of gravel as Nancy’s car backed out of the driveway, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She sat for a moment with her cooling mug of tea and savored the silence broken only by the soft breathing of Mittens, who had jumped onto one of the chairs and fallen asleep curled into a tight ball, her long tail wrapped protectively around her.
Monica’s own head was nodding when there was a peremptory knock on the back door, and Jeff stuck his head into the kitchen.
Monica jumped up and banged her knee against the kitchen table. She winced and put a hand over the sore spot.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I was falling asleep, I’m afraid.”
“You’ve been working hard, sis,” Jeff said as he kicked off his mud-caked work boots and tossed them onto the old rug Monica kept by the back door. “I hope you know how much I appreciate your help.”
Monica smiled at her younger brother. Despite having different mothers, there was a strong resemblance between them—they had the same curly auburn hair, similar noses and the height they’d both gotten from their father.
“You’re working awfully hard yourself.” Monica regarded the lines of weariness on Jeff’s face that made him look older than his twenty-five years. “Today’s Sunday. Do you ever take a day off?”
Jeff laughed. “There’s no such thing when you’re a farmer.” He ran a hand over his face. “But I don’t mind. I’m determined to make Sassamanash Farm a success.”
Jeff pulled open the refrigerator door. He looked over his shoulder at his sister and grinned. “Is it too early for a beer?”
“Not at all. Did you know that early American settlers drank beer instead of water? Water was often polluted and unsafe for drinking.”
“Must not have been too bad back then.” Jeff grinned, and Monica playfully cuffed his ear.
He popped the top off his bottle and sat down opposite Monica. Mittens stood up, stretched and jumped into his lap. He put his beer down on the table and stroked the kitten’s glossy fur.
“Did you finish your sanding?” Monica drank the bit of tea left in her mug. It had gone cold, and she made a face.
“Just about. There’s one spot on that bog closest to the road—do you know which one I mean?”
Monica nodded.
“The sun hits the far end of it when it’s at its peak and despite the cold temperatures, there are places where it’s still too slushy to chance using the spreaders.” Jeff sighed. “We’re going to have to do it by hand.” He took a pull on his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Fortunately you only have to sand every three years or so.”
Jeff’s cell phone went off, playing the sonorous notes of Beethoven’s Fifth. Jeff grinned at Monica and shrugged. “Gina,” he said as he put the phone to his ear. “I thought that piece suited her.”
Gina seemed to do most of the talking in the conversation, with Jeff mumbling the occasional yes or no or not yet. Several minutes later he punched off the call and scowled at Monica.
“What’s the matter?”
“She got me to agree to having dinner with her tonight.” He sighed and slumped down in his chair. “I was looking forward to a hot shower, another beer, take-out pizza and television. Now I have to get dressed for the Cranberry Cove Inn.” He ran a finger around the collar of his open-necked shirt.
“How is Gina doing? Do you think she’s okay? It’s hard for me to tell.”
Jeff wiped a streak of condensation off the beer bottle with his thumb. “It’s ridiculous.” Jeff half turned away. “Promise you won’t get upset.”
Monica was taken aback. “I’ll try.”
“Gina is convinced that Nancy killed Preston. Her logic,” he gave a strained laugh, “is that Nancy is getting back at Gina for stealing Dad away by taking Preston from Gina.”
“By killing him? Seriously?”
Jeff took another swallow of beer and rolled the liquid around in his mouth. “Like I said—ridiculous.”
“What’s funny—or maybe I should say ironic—is that Nancy thinks Gina killed Preston.”
Jeff choked on his beer. “Gina? Why on earth would she kill Preston? She was falling in love with him.”
“I have no idea. Personally I think they both need their heads examined.”
“You can say that again.” Jeff tilted his chair back on two legs.
“Instead of knocking heads, they need to put them together and help figure out who did murder Preston before Stevens zeroes in on one of them as the killer.” Monica frowned.
They were both quiet, listening to the tick of the kitchen clock as the hands moved forward. Jeff opened his mouth and then shut it.
“Out with it,” Monica said when he did it a second time.
Jeff looked down at his hands.
“Come on. Tell big sister what’s wrong.”
Jeff let his chair fall back into place. “It’s something Gina said.”
Monica tried not to roll her eyes.
“You know Lauren is graduating from college this spring, right?”
“Yes.”
“Gina thinks that Lauren isn’t going to be content to stay in Cranberry Cove once she graduates. She’s been commuting back and forth to Davenport University for her classes and once she has her degree in business, what kind of a job is she going to find here?”
Monica wasn’t sure what to say. “If she’s commuting now, what’s going to stop her from continuing to commute once she has a job? Lots of people do it.”
“It’s not just that.” Jeff chipped away at the label on the beer bottle with his thumbnail, shredding it into long, thin strips of paper. “She hasn’t had a chance to see much of the world yet. Would it be fair of me to try to keep her here in Cranberry Cove just because that’s what I want?”
“Lots of people are born here, grow up here and then stay here. And are perfectly happy.”
“But Lauren’s smart. She deserves a chance at a career, at experiences, at . . . I don’t know . . . life.”
“What about you?” Monica leaned forward in her chair. “Are you going to be content in Cranberry Cove forever? Here on Sassamanash Farm?”
“Me?” Jeff pointed at himself. “I’ve seen enough of the world to know it can be a horrible place. Even with Preston’s murder, and Sam Culbert’s before that, Cranberry Cove is freaking idyllic compared to the things I’ve seen.”
Chapter 12
That afternoon was the end of the Winter Walk. Shops were staying open until seven o’clock—even those that never opened on Sundays, like Bart’s Butcher Shop and the hardware store. The Cranberry Cove Diner had expanded its hours, too—it normally only served lunch on Sundays but had put up a crudely lettered sign indicating that it would be open for dinner as well. Monica found that amusing, since the diner was hardly known for throwing its doors open to tourists, and they would be the ones strolling Beach Hollow Road tonight.
Tempest was alone in the store when Monica passed Twilight, and on impulse she pushed open the door and went in. The strain of recent events was showing on Tempest’s face—the lines between her nose and mouth and across her forehead were deepening and there were bluish shadows under her eyes.
Monica put her baskets down by the door and went up to the counter.
“Something smells delicious,” Tempest said, attempting a quick smile.
Monica jerked her head in the direction of the baskets. “Cranberry banana bread with streusel topping, scones and cranberry coffee cake.”
“It smells heavenly, although I have to confess I’ve lost my appetite lately.”
“Are the police still bothering you?”
“Detective Stevens has been around a number of times asking the same questions but in different ways. I suspect she’s trying to trip me up in a lie or something. Like they do on those police shows on television.” Tempest fiddled with the corded silk ties that hung from her patchwork jacket. “I don’t have an alibi and can’t prove I didn’t kill Preston.”
She picked a piece of paper up off the counter and began pleating it as if she was doing Origami. “And of course they found my prints on the weapon since I’d handled the athame when I put it in the case—I had to go down to the police station and have my fingerprints taken.” Tempest shivered. “Never in my life did I think . . .” She shook her head. “Afterward I scrubbed and scrubbed to get the ink off—the black blobs were like . . . like some sort of stigmata. Unfortunately that rules out the possibility that the killer purchased the athame somewhere else and brought it to Cranberry Cove.”
“So it had to be someone local?”
“Tourists were coming into the shop even before the Walk officially started. And I didn’t notice whether or not the athame was missing. I was being run off my feet as it was. Unfortunately I can’t afford to hire any help. If I need to leave the shop for any reason I lock the door and hang a closed sign out front.” Tempest tossed the piece of paper she’d been playing with back onto the counter, where it began to unfold like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. “Of course my fingerprints being on the weapon only adds to the case against me.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything. You’d have had to handle it at some point—getting it out of the box, placing it on the counter . . .”
“I probably touched it half a dozen times in all innocence, but try to convince Stevens of that. They’re making a big deal out of Preston’s petition to stop my Imbolc ceremony, thinking that gave me a motive for murder.”
Monica shook her head. “I can’t believe that.”
Tempest’s shoulders stiffened. “There are a lot of narrow-minded people here who don’t like me, or at least don’t like what they think I stand for. I wouldn’t put it past them to be making more of that petition than there was. I had nothing against Preston before that, and even then . . . certainly it infuriated me, but I would hardly kill a man over something like that.”
Tempest had her hand in her pocket and was fiddling with some object. She pulled it out and Monica saw that it was a large, ornate cut crystal button in the shape of a flower ringed by dark red stones. Tempest put it on the counter.
