Berry the hatchet, p.15
Berry the Hatchet, page 15
“Have you learned anything new about Crowley’s murder?” Hennie asked as she slid Monica’s purchase into a white paper bag with Gumdrops on the front in candy-colored letters.
Monica handed her a bill and took the package in exchange.
“I do have a lead. I’ve been showing a picture of Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, around town. He had good reason to dislike Crowley, and Jacy Belair, who owns Bijou, claims to have seen him running furiously right before the sleigh with Crowley’s body came flying down the street.”
“Well!” Hennie exclaimed, and Gerda nodded her head in agreement.
Hennie leaned across the counter. “It sounds like you’re making progress. What do the police think—have you heard?”
Monica scowled. “I passed the information on to Detective Stevens, but I don’t think she was terribly impressed with my detective skills.”
“But surely she’ll check it out?”
“I hope so.”
Hennie shook her head. “That Belair woman seems a bit flighty to me. I understand she’s from down South somewhere. I don’t know how good of a witness she’d make.”
Gerda frowned at her sister. “Don’t forget that our dear mother’s second cousin once removed on her father’s side was from Charleston.”
Hennie snorted. “I don’t know that that exactly makes us Southerners. The connection is terribly remote.”
“That’s true.” Gerda fiddled with the strand of pearls around her neck.
“Still, the police might take the information more seriously if it can be corroborated by someone else,” Monica said. “That’s why I thought I would talk to the boy who was responsible for looking after the horse and sleigh. Perhaps he also saw Tripp in the area that afternoon.”
Gerda and Hennie looked at each other.
“That’s Penny Kuiper’s oldest boy—Ryan,” Hennie said. “He gets his red hair from his great-grandmother.”
Gerda nodded. “Penny’s grandmother—Ryan’s great-grandmother—was in our class at Cranberry Cove High. Viola was good at languages, as I recall.” Gerda laughed. “I’m afraid I have a tin ear myself.”
“Me, too. Although we did learn Dutch from our parents,” Hennie said. “Viola’s daughter was a bit of a disappointment. Married twice, then ran off a third time with a Fuller Brush salesman.” Hennie shook her head. “Penny grew up with her father—he was the second husband, mind you. She didn’t have any children with the first husband. If I recall, that marriage lasted less than a year.”
Monica wondered how she could bring the subject back to the present generation and Ryan Kuiper.
Hennie clapped her hands together. “But I don’t suppose you’re interested in all that. When you get to be our age, memories are all you have.” She smiled at Monica.
“Do you happen to know where I can find Ryan Kuiper?”
“He used to work at the drugstore here in town—after school and on weekends. Rode his bike into town every day—the Kuipers live way out near Old Bridge Road. I suppose he still works there?” Hennie looked at Gerda, and she nodded.
“He was there just the other day when I went in to pick up my prescription. Dr. Vredevoodg gave me something for my acid stomach.”
Monica glanced at her watch. “What time does the drugstore close?”
“Not until nine o’clock, dear. You’ve plenty of time.”
• • •
Once outside Gumdrops, Monica hesitated. It was getting late, and she had no idea what time her mother had planned dinner for. Of course, the drugstore was on her way to the car—surely she ought to see if she could speak to Ryan now? It wouldn’t take that long to show him the newspaper clipping and see if he recognized Roger Tripp.
The Cranberry Cove Drugstore was ready for St. Valentine’s Day with red, white and pink hearts liberally sprinkled throughout. The row of Christmas cards that had been going for half price had been replaced with a selection of Valentine’s Day cards and a smattering of St. Patrick’s Day cards. The owners of the Cranberry Cove Drugstore believed in looking ahead.
The store was quiet, with one customer waiting at the prescription desk and a father and his two children at the soda counter digging into hot chocolate topped with a swirling mound of whipped cream. Monica went up and down the empty aisles until she came to a young man with a shock of red hair stocking the shelves in the grocery aisle. Along with the usual drugstore fare, the store stocked canned goods like soup and tuna, cleaning products and frozen dinners, ice cream and pizza.
Monica approached him quietly, pretending to study the array of room deodorizers on the shelf in front of her. She glanced at Ryan out of the corner of her eye. He was tall and gangly, with a mop of hair that fell over his forehead and a crop of angry-looking acne on his chin.
He was putting out the last packages of toilet paper from the carton on the dolly next to him when Monica turned to him.
“Are you Ryan Kuiper by any chance?”
He looked startled, and for a minute, Monica thought he would deny it. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times before he answered.
“Yeah.” It was more of a grunt than an actual word.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question? I’m Monica Albertson, by the way.”
He looked around as if he was scoping out an avenue of escape.
Monica held out her hand, and he stared at it for a moment before switching the roll of toilet paper he was holding to the other hand and shaking hers.
His hand was clammy. Monica got the impression that he was scared. But of what?
“You were in charge of the horse and sleigh the afternoon of the opening of the Winter Walk, is that right?” Monica made it sound more like a statement than a question.
“Yes. Jingle Bells.”
“Pardon?”
“The horse. Her name is Jingle Bells. She lives on the farm down the road. I used to ride her when I was a kid. That was why Mr. Crowley asked me.”
“To watch out for her?”
“Yeah.” He stuck his finger in the roll of toilet paper and spun it around and around.
“Where did you stay with the horse while you waited for Miss Winter Walk?”
“Near the village green. They brought the sled over on a truck on account of there wasn’t any snow yet. Jingle Bells came in her trailer, like she normally would.”
“Were you with Jingle Bells the whole time?”
Ryan picked at the bit of acne on his chin. “The police already asked me that,” he said, his eyes sliding away from Monica’s.
“So you never left Jingle Bells and went off somewhere to . . . to meet someone or do something?”
“Why should I?” Ryan replied in a voice that would have sounded challenging if it hadn’t cracked halfway through the sentence.
“I don’t know,” Monica said. She stuck a hand in her purse and pulled out the now rather worn clipping from the newspaper. She unfolded it and held it in front of Ryan. “Do you recognize this man?”
He brushed the hair away from his eyes and stared at the picture. “I don’t know his name.”
“That’s okay. I’m wondering if he looks familiar and if you might have seen him around the horse or sleigh.”
“Maybe.” Ryan picked at his chin again. “I might have.” He shook his head and his bangs flopped up and down. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.”
He looked at Monica, but again his eyes didn’t meet hers. It wasn’t exactly the corroboration she was looking for.
“One more thing.” Monica smiled at Ryan reassuringly.
“Okay.”
“You never left the horse or the sleigh, right?”
He nodded and twirled the roll of toilet paper around his finger again.
“But if you didn’t leave the horse at any time for any reason, how did Mayor Crowley’s body get in the sleigh? You would have to have seen something.”
A panicky look crossed Ryan’s face, and he turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Boss wants me,” he said before taking off at a trot.
Funny, Monica thought, she hadn’t heard anyone calling him.
• • •
Monica headed toward home, hoping that she wasn’t going to be late for dinner. Even so, it had been worth it. Like Jacy, Ryan thought he’d seen Tripp around the murder scene. And even though he swore to the contrary, Ryan was obviously lying about never having left the horse and sleigh alone.
Monica was surprised to see Gina’s car when she pulled into the driveway. Had the traffic accident caused Nancy and Gina to bury the hatchet for real this time?
Monica parked her car, got out and opened her back door. Delicious aromas immediately swept over her—the mingled scents of butter, herbs and wine. Her stomach growled in response.
The table was set in the kitchen—Nancy had dug out Monica’s white tablecloth and the set of linen napkins she’d gotten from a friend who didn’t want them. Gina was busy arranging a bouquet of carnations in a vase while Nancy peered at something in the oven. Monica took a deep breath—the atmosphere was calm and not sparking with hostility.
Mittens was the first to greet Monica, weaving in and out between her legs and rubbing against her pants. She bent down and picked the kitten up. Mittens allowed Monica to hold her for all of thirty seconds before demanding to be put down. She gave Monica a look that clearly said I’ve got some exploring to do as she scampered into the living room.
“Everything smells so good,” Monica said.
Nancy turned from the stove. “Chicken cordon bleu, rice pilaf and roasted asparagus. And Gina’s made a lovely trifle for dessert.”
Monica was surprised—she didn’t realize her stepmother’s culinary skills extended beyond making dinner reservations.
Gina must have noticed her reaction. “I’ve been watching those cooking shows on television. You can learn a lot from them.”
“You look like you’re bursting to tell us something,” Nancy said as she lifted the lid and gave a stir to the pot on the stove. Steam rose up to bathe her face and curl the ends of her hair. “Why don’t you pour us a glass of the nice pinot grigio I picked up at the market.” She jerked her head in the direction of the refrigerator.
Monica retrieved the wine and three glasses. The cork came out of the bottle with a quiet but satisfying pop, and Monica poured a measure into each of the glasses before handing them around.
Nancy brushed her hair back from her forehead, took the glass Monica handed her and sipped from it. “Now tell us what you’ve learned before you burst.” She leaned against the countertop next to the stove while Monica and Gina took seats at the table.
Monica stared into her glass of wine and took a deep breath. “I’ve found two people who can place Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, at the scene of the murder.”
“Who?” Nancy and Gina chorused.
They looked at each other, exchanged glances and laughed.
Monica decided to draw out the suspense and savor her brief moment in the spotlight. She took a leisurely sip of her wine and smiled to herself when she could feel Nancy’s and Gina’s impatience.
She put down her glass. “Okay, first it was Jacy Belair.”
“Who?” Nancy and Gina chorused again.
“She owns Bijou, the new jewelry store in town.”
“She has some lovely things in her window,” Gina said.
“You always did like your jewelry,” Nancy said.
There was silence for a moment and Monica wondered if the détente between the two women had come to an abrupt end. Gina shrugged but didn’t say anything and Monica breathed a sigh of relief.
Nancy turned to the stove and lowered the gas under the pot. “You said two people saw him. Who’s the other person?”
“Ryan Kuiper.”
“Who?” Nancy and Gina said in unison again.
“He’s the boy who was in charge of dealing with the horse and sleigh.”
Gina ran her finger around and around the rim of her wineglass. “You know what I wonder? How did Preston’s body get in the sled? If that boy was watching the horse and sleigh the entire time . . .”
“He must have wandered off,” Nancy said as she pulled the pot off the stove. She turned to Monica. “Where are your serving dishes, dear?”
Monica got up and opened a cupboard. “He swears he didn’t.” She pulled out several large bowls.
Nancy looked at them. “These were your grandmother’s, weren’t they?”
Monica nodded.
“I didn’t know you’d kept them.” Nancy looked pleased. “How did Preston get the sleigh to the village green?” Nancy spooned the rice pilaf into one of the dishes. “The horse couldn’t have pulled it all the way.”
Gina jumped up, took the dish from Nancy and put it on the table. “I imagine some kind of truck? A flatbed?”
“Do you think Preston’s body might have already been in the sleigh? That boy—Ryan?—might have focused all his attention on the horse and didn’t notice.” Nancy began to arrange the chicken cordon bleu on a platter.
“Not notice a dead body?” Gina laughed. “How could that be?”
“You know teenaged boys. Perhaps some girl caught his eye?” Nancy put the platter on the table.
“You could be right,” Gina said. “Some girl caught his eye and he wandered off to talk to her, leaving the horse tied to a post. That would have given someone time to put Preston’s body in the sled.”
“And then it was just a matter of untying the horse and sending it off running,” Monica added as she unfurled her napkin and placed it on her lap.
• • •
The meal was delicious, as Monica knew it would be. Her mother was an accomplished cook. Gina’s trifle was the perfect finish.
“Not bad,” Gina said as she tasted her first mouthful. “If I do say so myself. Maybe this cooking thing isn’t as hard as I always thought it was.”
Nancy gave a smug smile but didn’t say anything.
“And now I’m stuffed,” Gina said, putting down her spoon and pushing back her chair. She glanced at the dirty dishes on the counter. “Now if the kitchen would only clean itself.”
Monica was loading the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. “I wonder who that is?” She dried her hands on a towel.
“Jeff?” Nancy said.
“No, he would come around to the back door, and he usually doesn’t bother to ring the bell or knock. Just pops in.”
Mittens followed Monica out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the living room to the front door. She seemed as curious as Monica was to know who had rung the bell. Despite her height, the small diamond paned windows set in the door were too high up for Monica to be able to see who was there. In Chicago she would never have opened her door without checking the peephole first, but this was Cranberry Cove.
Mittens mewled and wound in and out between Monica’s legs as she pulled open the door. . . .
And gasped in surprise when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.
Chapter 17
“Dad! What are you doing . . . I didn’t expect . . . why are you here?” Monica couldn’t stop the words as they tumbled out in surprise.
“Don’t I get a hug?” John Albertson held out his arms. He was zipped into a black leather jacket that was a far cry from the cashmere jackets he used to wear when he and her mother were together.
Monica gave him a quick embrace. Her mind was whirling with questions—why was her father here, what did he want and what would happen when he found Nancy and Gina in the same room?
“I hope you’re not going to leave me on the doorstep.”
“No, of course not. Please come in.”
John dwarfed Monica’s small living room with his presence. He was tall and slender and his hair, which had been the same color as Monica’s, was now a very distinguished looking dark gray.
He pulled off his leather gloves as he looked around. Mittens rubbed against his leg, and he bent down and picked the kitten up.
“And who is this?”
“Mittens,” Monica said, still distracted by her father’s sudden presence.
“She?” He looked at Monica, who nodded. “Is adorable.”
Mittens actually let John hold her for several seconds before squirming out of his grasp and jumping to the floor.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something. It smells wonderful in here—were you having dinner?”
“Just finished actually,” Monica said, wondering when he was going to reveal the reason behind his unexpected visit.
He cleared his throat. He actually looked nervous—something Monica had never seen before.
“I’m looking for Gina. I heard she’d moved here, but no one seems to know where she’s living—I’ve been sending her checks to a post office box.” He looked down at his feet.
Monica had barely opened her mouth when both Nancy and Gina walked into the living room.
“I heard a male voice—” Nancy began but stopped abruptly when she saw her ex-husband.
Gina was right behind her, and she, too, stopped in her tracks at the sight of John Albertson standing in Monica’s living room.
“Gina,” John said, after nodding in Nancy’s direction, “I need to speak to you.”
“Well, go ahead then.” Gina lifted her chin.
“Not here. Can we go somewhere and I’ll buy you a drink?”
Gina laughed. “Cranberry Cove is all tucked in tight for the night, John. They roll up the sidewalks early around here. And I have to get to bed myself. I’ve got a shop to run now.”
John ran his hands through his wavy gray hair. “Just for a minute then.”
“You can say whatever you have to say right here.”
