Monica slept a bit later than usual Sunday morning but Greg was up early and off to the bookstore. With the opening of the café coming closer every day, there was no time to waste.
Normally one or the other of them made a special breakfast on Sundays—waffles or pancakes topped with cranberry preserves or scrambled or fried eggs with cranberry scones on the side. Monica yawned as she contemplated her choices. She didn’t have the energy to make something just for herself so she settled for popping slices of cranberry bread in the toaster oven and lavishly spreading them with butter.
She carried her toast and cup of decaf coffee to the kitchen table, where Greg had left the Sunday paper. Monica was idly thumbing through it when the phone rang.
“Are you busy?” It was Greg.
“Just finishing my breakfast.” Monica cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she picked at the last of the crumbs on her plate.
“We’ve hit a snag. We need a special sort of molly bolt according to the carpenter. I’ve called around and there’s a place outside of town that has what I need,” Greg said. “I hate to ask, but would you mind picking it up for me? I can’t leave the store at the moment. Wilma is out with a bad case of strep throat so I’m all alone.”
“Of course,” Monica said. “I’ll head out as soon as I give Hercule a walk.”
“Thanks.” Monica heard Greg sigh with relief as he ended the call.
She glanced out the kitchen window. Frost glistened in the pale winter sunshine and the bare branches of the trees whipped back and forth. It was time to get out her heavy winter parka.
Hercule didn’t mind the cold in the least, although it nipped at Monica’s nose and cheeks. As soon as he was finished with his business, she convinced him to go back inside, where she gave him a treat. She checked Hercule’s and Mittens’s water bowls, and a few minutes later she was on her way.
She shivered as she glanced at Lake Michigan from the rise by the abandoned Shell station. How could water that looked so enticing in the middle of summer look so cold and uninviting now?
Monica followed the directions Greg had given her. The big box store was several miles out of town near the highway that headed north toward Grand Rapids.
The parking lot was busy when Monica pulled in. People streamed out the sliding doors pushing carts loaded with lumber, plumbing supplies and cans of paint. She felt a bit intimidated by the enormity of the store, but a kind clerk helped her find the exact bolt Greg needed and she was on her way back to Cranberry Cove faster than she had anticipated.
Her route took her past the street where Kayla lived and, on an impulse, she turned down it. Maybe the house would speak to her or something, not that she really believed in that sort of thing. That was more up Tempest’s alley.
The front lawns of the homes on the block were raked clean of fallen leaves and many of the doors were festooned with clusters of Indian corn or grapevine wreaths dotted with colorful gourds. Monica had a shock when she pulled up in front of Kayla’s house. Dried leaves were scattered on the grass and the sun shining on the windows revealed smudges and fingerprints. It looked as if the landscapers hadn’t made a visit in quite a while and as if the windows hadn’t been washed recently either.
Monica was about to drive away when the front door opened and Kayla’s maid, Joan, walked out. She was carrying a large suitcase. Her coat was open and she was wearing black slacks and a red sweater. Was she going somewhere on her week off? Monica wondered.
Monica waved as she quickly got out of the car. Joan didn’t appear to remember her at first but then gave a timid smile.
“It’s Joan, isn’t it?” Monica said. The wind whipped her hair across her face and she brushed it out of her eyes.
“Yes.” Joan’s tone was wary and she eyed Monica suspiciously.
Monica gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you going on vacation?”
Joan’s lips tightened and she shook her head. “I’m leaving. But I don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“Oh,” Monica said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Joan bit her lower lip. Monica suspected she was struggling with her feelings, but in the end the urge to vent won out. “I’ve been with this family for many years and I never expected this.” Her mouth clamped shut into a thin line.
“What’s happened?”
“There’s no money. The check Miss Moore gave me on Friday bounced.” Her lips tightened further. “And not for the first time, either. But she’s always made good on it before. But this time . . .” She shrugged.
“I thought she’d inherited the family fortune. Plus, there’s her salary as a lawyer. What has she spent it all on?”
Joan leaned closer to Monica and lowered her voice. “Gambling, that’s what I think.” She sniffed. “That new fellow who has been coming around is a bad influence. Always playing those poker games on his phone.”
“Did Miss Moore gamble as well?”
“I don’t know.” Joan pointed a finger at Monica. “But I know she loaned him money.”
“It must have been a lot.” Monica turned her collar up as the wind whistled past them.
“It had to have been. Miss Moore’s parents left her quite well off. And now?”
“Do you know who he is?” Monica said, although she knew the answer already.
Joan wrinkled her brow. “I think his name is Tyler something-or-other.” She shrugged. “None of them last very long. Besides, it’s not my concern anymore.” She picked up her suitcase. “I’m off to my sister’s in Indiana.” She sighed deeply. “It’s probably time for me to retire anyway. My back’s been bothering me for years and I deserve a rest.” She sniffed and tilted her head in the direction of the house. “Unlike some of them, I’ve been careful with my money. I have a nice little nest egg put away. I was only staying because I’d been with the family so long.” She sighed. “I’ve known Miss Moore since she was a child.”
“I wish you well,” Monica said.
Joan snorted but didn’t respond.
Monica said goodbye and got back into her car. It sounded as if Tyler was in deep when it came to gambling. But if so, why was he attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings?
• • •
Monica pulled into her driveway and parked her car. She walked up the path that led to the back door, past the garden that had bloomed all summer but was now shriveled and colorless. She couldn’t wait for spring when the perennials would sprout and she could begin to plant some colorful annuals.
She received an ecstatic greeting from Hercule and a slightly cooler welcome from Mittens when she stepped inside. She didn’t stay long—just long enough to top up Mittens’s water bowl and take Hercule on a quick walk.
She said goodbye to the animals, closed the door and began to walk back down the path. She was nearing the farm kitchen when she heard a rumble in the distance. A large white truck, streaked with mud and with Harvest Fruit painted in red on the side, was approaching the building, where crates of cranberries were stacked, ready to be shipped. That was odd, Monica thought. They didn’t usually pick up on Sundays. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember it ever happening before. She’d have to ask Jeff about it later.
When she opened the door to the farm kitchen, cranberries were popping in a large pot on the stove, giving off the scent of berries, oranges and warming spices. It smelled like Christmas to Monica. Too bad Glow Lights didn’t make a scent like that. They could call it A Cranberry Christmas. Monica giggled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Janice looked up from the pot she was stirring.
Monica waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. Just a silly thought that popped into my head.”
Monica got busy measuring sugar into the mixer. She was going to make a batch of cranberry orange white chocolate chunk cookies. They were popular with their customers, who said they enjoyed them as a special treat after Sunday dinner.
Janice continued to stir the bubbling cranberry sauce, her face red from the rising steam. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her narrow forehead.
“Where’s Kit today?” She looked up from the pot briefly, her spoon momentarily still.
“He’s helping Greg set things up at the new café in Book ’Em. The opening isn’t far off now.”
“Hmmph,” Janice sniffed. “Are you sure he’s going to be able to handle it?”
“Kit?” Monica stopped the mixer and turned to face Janice. “Yes, of course. Why?”
But Janice didn’t answer. She simply shrugged.
Was Janice angling for Kit’s job? Monica wondered. She blew out a breath. Hopefully Janice wasn’t going to be more trouble than she was worth. It had taken months to find her, and Monica couldn’t handle the work alone. It would be difficult enough on Monday when Janice had her first day off.
Lauren opened the door and a gust of cold air swept through the kitchen. Her eyes were glowing and she was smiling widely. She held up her cell phone as she walked toward Monica.
“We’ve gotten thousands of hits,” she said, nearly tripping over the words in her excitement.
Monica frowned. “What on earth are hits? Is that something good?”
“Yes.” Lauren was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “On TikTok.”
“What?” Monica said in disbelief. “Because of that video you made of me showing off our products?”
Lauren nodded. “The very same.”
“But why . . . how?”
“You’re not going to believe it.” Lauren pulled off her mittens and unbuttoned her coat. “This fellow made a TikTok video of himself on his longboard drinking from a bottle of cranberry juice. It went viral. And since our video also came up when anyone searched for cranberries, we began to get hits as well.”
Janice made a disapproving noise and banged the lid on the pot she’d been stirring. Lauren turned to look at her, her eyebrows raised, but Monica shook her head and mouthed Just ignore her.
Lauren pulled out a chair, sat down and stretched out her legs. “And get this. Lots and lots of people are recreating the video and it’s caused a run on cranberry juice. Apparently entire shelves are empty in any number of grocery stores.” She tapped a few keys on her phone and handed it to Monica.
On the screen was a news article with the headline Unusually High Demand for Cranberry Juice Forces Companies to Increase Production and Hire Staff. According to the first line of the article, cranberry farmers harvested more than a hundred billion cranberries in just six weeks.
Monica shook her head and handed the phone back to Lauren. Perhaps that was why the truck from Harvest Fruit was doing a pickup on a Sunday.
Before Lauren buttoned her coat, donned her mittens and headed back out the door, Lauren made Monica promise she would record some more TikTok videos and Monica reluctantly agreed.
She found it hard to believe that something like a video on TikTok could spark a run on cranberries, but it obviously proved the power of social media. She sighed. She’d made Lauren a promise and she’d have to honor her commitment. She’d protested that she hated the way she looked and sounded on tape but Lauren had assured her that everyone felt that way. But if it helped the farm, she was willing to do it.
• • •
Janice had gone home and Monica was cleaning up when there was another knock on the door.
“Come in,” she yelled as she swept up flour that had drifted onto the flour.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Nancy said, shrugging off her coat and hanging it over a chair.
“You look upset.” Monica leaned her broom in the corner and pulled out a chair for herself. She sank into it gratefully.
Nancy frowned but then quickly smoothed out her expression, as if she was afraid the movement might create new wrinkles.
“It’s this candle business,” Nancy said. “It’s not going the way I’d expected. Or at least not the way Diane—she’s my manager—said it would.”
“What’s not going the way you’d hoped?” Monica kicked off her right shoe and began to rub the arch of her foot. “You sold a lot of candles yesterday, didn’t you? I even bought one myself.”
Nancy’s lip curled. “And I appreciate that but I didn’t sell as many as I would have liked. But that’s not all. Diane just called me and said I have to buy samples of the new merchandise that’s going to debut in December for the holiday season.”
Monica stopped rubbing her foot and raised her eyebrows. “But why do you have to buy it? Don’t they just give it to you?”
Nancy shook her head. “No, they make us pay for the samples. I need them to show customers the new holiday line at my next party.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “And the merchandise isn’t cheap, either. All the sales I made yesterday won’t even cover the cost.”
“What are you going to do?”
Nancy straightened up. “I’m going to tell Glow Lights they can keep their candles. I’m done.” She brushed her hands together.
Monica felt a wave of guilt. “I might be able to pay you for helping out in the kitchen.” She hadn’t asked for her mother’s help, but she’d certainly welcomed it. But the budget was tight and she wasn’t sure she could swing it.
Nancy reached out and patted Monica’s hand. “That’s okay, dear. I don’t really need the cash. It was just something to do. I thought it might bring me a little mad money.” She grimaced. “It turns out that the people making the money are the ones at the top. People like Diane who have dozens of women working for them and earning them commissions.”
“A pyramid scheme?” Monica slipped her foot back into her shoe.
“I suppose you could call it that. Although I’m sure it’s perfectly legitimate.” Nancy picked up her handbag. “Well, I gave it a try and I have to admit it was rather fun hosting that party. It’s been too long since I’ve done anything like that. I was afraid I might be losing my touch.”
“Never,” Monica said, smiling.
• • •
Woodsmoke was in the air as Monica walked back to her cottage. She inhaled deeply. She loved the scent. It brought visions of cozy rooms lit by firelight with invitingly plump sofas and chairs. She shivered, feeling goose bumps forming on her arms. Fortunately, her own cozy cottage was visible in the distance and she quickened her step.
Hercule was wild with glee at seeing Monica, as if she’d been gone for days and not just a couple of hours. She snapped on his leash and took him for a quick walk. She’d thought of buying him an adorable sweater she’d seen online but it was apparent that his thick wiry coat kept him warm enough.
Mittens was waiting for them when they went back in. Monica peeled off her gloves and rubbed her hands briskly. She touched her cheeks, which were even colder than her hands.
Mittens meowed and swished back and forth between Monica’s legs. She checked the cat’s bowl, which was half empty. She retrieved the bag of cat food from the pantry and topped off the dish. Mittens gave a contented sigh and began to groom herself.
Monica was boiling water for some tea when there was a knock on the door.
“Hello!” a voice called out. “It’s me, Gina.”
“Come in,” Monica said as she pulled open the door.
“It’s freezing out there,” Gina stomped her feet and rubbed her hands together.
Monica looked at her stepmother. She was wearing a cropped moto jacket that was open at the neck, revealing a gold choker, and her hands and head were bare. No wonder she was cold, Monica thought.
“You need to dress for Michigan weather,” Monica said. “A hat, gloves, scarf, warm sweater.”
Gina groaned. “Next you’ll have me in thermal shirts and flannel-lined jeans.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl, I’m afraid.”
Gina splayed her hands on the table. “Listen, I came to ask if you’d do me a favor and come look at a house with me.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m kind of spooked after what happened with Rip but Mickey is anxious to find something. His place is beginning to feel a bit crowded. My clothes barely fit in the closet and he’s had to store his in the guest room, poor thing.”
“Sure. I’d be glad to go with you.”
Gina’s shoulders relaxed. “Great. I have an appointment in . . .” She looked at her watch. “Half an hour.”
“Time for a cup of tea then.” Monica got two mugs from the cabinet, filled them with water and put them in the microwave.
Monica leaned against the kitchen counter. “How is Mickey these days? We saw him at the restaurant the other night.”
“I’m worried about him.” Gina wrapped her hands around the mug Monica handed her. “He’s working like crazy. It’s too much. The doctor said if he didn’t slow down and take better care of himself, he was headed for a heart attack.” She put her head in her hands. “The problem is, he won’t listen.”
Monica wasn’t surprised. Mickey didn’t seem like the type to take orders from anyone—not even his doctor.
Monica glanced at the clock on the wall. “We’d better get going.”
“Let’s take my car. I’ll drive,” Gina said as she pulled on her jacket.
• • •
Monica breathed a sigh of relief when Gina pulled up in front of Cranberry Cove Realty. She swore that despite the frigid temperatures outside, she’d actually begun perspiring when Gina scooted through a light that had just turned red. Her driving had gone downhill from there and Monica’s palms were slick as she reached for the door handle.
They were headed toward the front door of Cranberry Cove Realty when Monica suddenly came to a complete stop. What if Vera Roth, the agent who’d shown her that house, was there? Would she even remember Monica? Surely, she saw lots of clients every day. Monica didn’t think there was anything about her to make her stand out. She’d been lucky once. Would her luck hold out?
Gina gave her a little poke. “What’s wrong.”
Monica opened her mouth and then closed it again. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
As luck would have it, the woman sitting behind the desk was Vera Roth, the very person Monica had hoped wouldn’t be there. She felt her face color and she ducked her head quickly.
“Can I help you?” Vera gave Monica an odd look and Monica was relieved when she didn’t say anything. “What exactly are you looking for?” She looked from Monica to Gina and back again.
“I’m looking for a house,” Gina said.
“That I’d guessed.” Vera stood up and smoothed the skirt of her navy blue suit. “What sort of house? Large? Small?” She sounded slightly exasperated.
“I had been working with Rip Taylor—” Gina began.
“You’re the woman,” Vera exclaimed. She quickly resumed a neutral expression, as if suddenly realizing her outburst had been unprofessional. “We were all very sad to hear about Rip’s death.” She touched a hand to her heart briefly.
Gina paused respectfully before continuing. “He showed me a house on Bradford Street. I was quite keen on it, but now I’m not so sure. Given everything that’s happened, the place sort of gives me the creeps.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “But I saw there’s another house for sale down the block that looks promising. It was just listed today.”
Vera’s face lit up—no doubt at the prospect of a sale. She went behind her desk again, put on a pair of reading glasses and began tapping on her computer.
“Sunday is the worst day to list a house, you know. But sometimes it’s hard to talk a client out of it. They’re so determined to get their house on the market and refuse to wait.” She peered at Monica and Gina over the rim of her glasses. “And houses listed on Sunday often go for less than list price, so you might be in luck.” She turned back to the computer. “Ah, yes, here it is. Seventeen Bradford Street. It says it’s a lovely three-bedroom on a quiet street.”
Gina snorted and poked Monica in the side. “The street wasn’t so quiet the day Rip was murdered.”
Vera ignored her and peered at the screen. She scribbled down the address on a piece of paper and waved it at them. “Let’s go. This house sounds perfect for you.” She gave Gina a professional smile. “We can take my car.” She got up from her chair and steered them toward the door.
Monica and Gina waited while Vera buttoned her tweed coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck.
“After you,” she said as she held the door open.
She beeped open the doors to her BMW and waited while Monica and Gina got settled.
Riding with Vera was considerably less hair-raising than with Gina, and as they turned onto Bradford Street Monica realized she hadn’t once clutched at the door handle.
Vera pulled up in front of a tidy white house with black shutters and a welcoming-looking red front door with a brass knocker in the shape of a pineapple. Monica didn’t think the house looked like Gina at all. She had pictured her stepmother in something less conservative—modern with lots of glass, steel and concrete—like the house she’d had Monica’s father buy when they were first married. Perhaps Gina was settling down and her tastes were changing, although that change certainly hadn’t yet made itself evident in her wardrobe choices.
The house was as traditional on the inside as it was on the outside, a center-hall colonial that held no secrets and nothing unexpected but had plenty of space and light.
Gina seemed to like it. She was smiling as Vera led them from room to room, pointing out the obvious like the multipaned windows and the polished wood floors.
Finally, they had seen everything including the crawl space in the basement.
“Well?” Vera said, her hands clasped in front of her chest.
“I like it,” Gina said. “But my significant other needs to take a look at it as well.”
Vera’s smile tightened into a thin line. “Shall we go?” She was obviously eager to get rid of them now that an immediate sale wasn’t on the table.
They stepped outside and waited while Vera locked the house up. Monica glanced around, noticing the trees, now bare, that lined both sides of the street and the lawns all neatly raked clean of fallen leaves.
Monica noticed the front door of the house across the street opening. The house was larger than its neighbor and set well back from the sidewalk on what appeared to be at least an acre of property. A woman stepped out the door with an elaborately groomed French poodle on a leash. She looked familiar and Monica squinted, trying to make out her features.
The woman led the poodle down the driveway toward the sidewalk, and as she got closer, Monica realized why she looked familiar. It was Lacey Van Der Zee, Rip Taylor’s ex-wife.
How interesting, Monica thought, that she lived on the very street where Rip was killed. Monica would have expected her to live in a much fancier neighborhood, but she had to admit that Lacey’s house was quite lovely with its Southern colonial façade and the white columns framing its front door.
Monica couldn’t help wondering if Lacey had seen anything the day Rip was killed. And if she had, did that put her in danger as well?