Chapter 20

 

As much as Monica wanted to sit down and put her feet up after her morning errands, she knew she was probably needed at the farm kitchen. She couldn’t keep heaping the responsibility on Janice, Kit and her mother.

She still hadn’t eaten breakfast and she was starving but there wasn’t time for anything elaborate. She grabbed some homemade cranberry granola and filled a bowl. She ate it standing at the counter in her jacket, then rinsed her dish and put it in the dishwasher.

When Hercule saw that she wasn’t going to share her food, he returned to the heating vent, where he’d taken Mittens’s place. Monica checked both their food and water bowls and then headed out the door.

“You look very healthy this morning,” Nancy said when Monica arrived at the farm kitchen. “Your cheeks are all pink from the cold and your eyes are glowing. Pregnancy seems to agree with you.” Nancy rolled her eyes. “Not like me. I was the color of pea soup the whole first trimester. I could barely keep water down.”

Janice, who had been kneading some dough, looked over at Nancy and Monica. She clapped her hands together in excitement.

“So, you’re having a boy!”

Both Monica and Nancy froze. “What on earth makes you think that?” Nancy said.

“It’s too early to tell.” Monica patted her stomach. “It will be a few more weeks before they can be certain, the doctor said. Although Greg and I haven’t decided yet if we want to find out in advance or wait until the birth.”

“Mark my words,” Janice said. “It’s a boy for sure. Girls steal their mother’s beauty. If the mother grows more attractive, on the other hand, she’s definitely carrying a boy.”

“That’s nonsense.” Nancy planted her hands palms down on the counter. “It’s another myth.”

Janice gave a knowing smile. “You’ll see I’m right soon enough. Just you wait.”

“You do have a fifty-fifty chance of being right,” Nancy said. Monica saw the muscle in her jaw clenching. “It won’t mean the myth is anything more than just that—a myth.”

Janice wagged a finger at them. “It will be a boy. I’m sure of it.”

Monica decided it was time to end the conversation. Janice was looking smug and Nancy was fuming and a red flush had crept up her neck. Kit was in the corner quietly going about his business. Monica suspected he was pretending not to hear them.

“How are you coming with the cookies?” Monica asked Janice, eager to change the subject. “Nora said they ran out yesterday and asked if we could make an extra dozen or two.”

A hair was clinging to Janice’s forehead. She wiped a hand across her brow to dislodge it. “I think we can manage it.” She looked at Kit, who nodded briefly.

Monica got to work mixing up some batter and was taking the first batch of cookies out of the oven when the door opened.

“It smells delicious in here.” Lauren stood on the doorstep and sniffed. “Am I interrupting? I can come back. I just wanted to say hello and to show you something.”

“Not at all,” Monica said. She put a hand to her back. “I could use a break.” She motioned to Lauren. “Come in.”

“Good. I’m excited to show you some of the pictures I just took.”

Monica sat down at the table and Lauren joined her. She pulled off her knit cap and the static made her blond hair stand away from her head. She smoothed it down and reached into her pocket.

“I’ve just taken some pictures of Jeff hard at work maintaining the equipment—particularly the egg beater. People always seem to be fascinated by that.” Lauren smiled and the dimple in her cheek popped out. “Besides, who doesn’t like looking at pictures of a handsome young man in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.”

“Are these going on our Instagram account?” Monica asked. She couldn’t believe how many new things she’d learned about in such a short time—Instagram, TikTok—what was next?

Lauren pulled out her phone and handed it to Monica. Monica scrolled through the pictures. She had to admit, her brother was attractive. And if that’s what it took to bring business to the farm, who was she to argue.

Janice bustled past with a black plastic bag full of garbage. “I’m going to put this in the trash.” She stopped abruptly when she caught a glimpse of one of the pictures on the screen of Lauren’s cell phone. She pointed at it.

“What did you say that’s called? Food porn?” She shuddered and wrinkled her nose.

Monica laughed. “No, not this. This is more like beefcake.” She held the phone up so Janice could see and couldn’t help but notice how Janice’s eyes lingered momentarily on the photo.

“Hmmph,” she said. “What you have to do these days to run a business. It’s scandalous.”

“It’s important to go with the times,” Monica said. “Whether you like it or not. Life is always moving and changing and you have to keep up or you’ll be left behind.”

Janice said “hmmph” again and, tightening her grip on the bag of garbage, headed for the trash can, where she dropped it in with a resounding thud.

After Lauren had left, Monica was thinking of the expression food porn as she mixed batter for some cranberry bread. She wondered who was the first person to coin that phrase. It was certainly apt. All those beautifully arranged photographs of cakes, casseroles and people’s restaurant dinners and lunches. Another phrase floated into her mind and she was so startled that she nearly dropped the spatula she was holding. Revenge porn. It had been in the news a lot lately. Was that how Lacey’s picture had ended up on the Internet? Had Rip posted it to get back at her for throwing him out?

If that was the case, Lacey might have a motive for murder after all.

 

• • •

 

Monica was grateful for the warmth of her cottage when she got home later that afternoon. She made herself a cup of herbal tea and carried it into the living room, where she sat on the couch and huddled under a throw, Hercule lying contentedly at her feet and Mittens curled up beside her.

She debated for a moment but then flicked on the television. She was just in time to catch the evening news on WZZZ. The first segment was a report on the ongoing investigation into Kayla Moore’s death. The news anchor relayed the story in somber tones as pictures of the crime scene flashed across the screen one by one.

Monica dropped her head back against the sofa cushions and was nearly dozing when there was a furious knocking on her back door. A delivery perhaps? She didn’t remember ordering anything but perhaps Greg had.

“Coming,” she yelled as she scurried into the kitchen. She quickly glanced out the window and was surprised to see Gina’s car parked in the driveway.

“It’s freezing out there,” Gina said when Monica opened the door. Her coat was unbuttoned and she was holding it closed with one hand. She bustled into the kitchen. “I’m not disturbing you, am I? I simply couldn’t wait to show you this.”

“Show me what?” Monica thought Gina looked as if she was about to burst.

Gina held out her hand. A ring with a sapphire surrounded by diamonds glittered on the ring finger of her left hand.

“Mickey popped the question this morning.”

“Wonderful.” Monica gave Gina a hug. “You must be thrilled.”

Gina couldn’t stop smiling. “He brought me breakfast in bed—his special banana pancakes—and when I lifted up the napkin, there was the ring. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“How romantic.” Monica took Gina’s hand and admired the ring again. “It’s beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”

It sounded as if Mickey was a far better catch than Monica’s father had been.

Monica led Gina into the living room, where she perched on the edge of the sofa. Almost immediately she jumped up again.

“I’m so excited I can barely sit still. I never thought I’d find someone again and certainly not someone as wonderful as Mickey.”

Monica reached for the remote and was about to switch off the television when Gina cried, “No, wait.” She gestured toward the screen.

The two WZZZ anchors—Tanya and Gary—sat behind the desk. On the wall behind them was a graphic featuring a large question mark.

“And now for an update on the Richard Taylor murder case. We still don’t know who the mystery woman is who was in Richard Taylor’s car when he was brutally murdered, do we?” Gary turned to Tanya.

She shook her head and the blond curls tumbling to her shoulders barely jiggled.

“No, Gary, we don’t. No one has been identified yet. The police are hoping she might have seen something that will lead them to the killer.”

“And no one has come forward?”

“No,” Tanya said. “The police are still investigating.”

Gary looked at his colleague, an eyebrow raised. “I wonder if the killer knows who the woman is? Surely, they must have seen her when they shot Taylor. Supposedly they were sitting in the car together.”

Tanya assumed a shocked expression. “Do you think she might be in danger then?”

Gina gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

“Yes, I do. The killer might think she can identify him or her.” Gary leaned toward the camera with an earnest expression on his face. “WZZZ has organized a tip line for anyone who has information that might lead to the identification of this woman. All you have to do is telephone the number on the screen. All calls will be kept confidential.”

Tanya shuffled some papers on her desk then smiled broadly at the camera, as if to indicate a change of topic. “And now for the weather.”

Monica looked at her stepmother. Gina’s face had gone deathly white and she was shaking.

“They’re right.” Gina’s voice cracked and she clutched the edge of her sweater. “The killer had to have seen me. And they might come after me next,” she said with a horrified expression.

 

• • •

 

“How was your day?” Greg said to Monica when he got home an hour later. Hercule greeted him as if he hadn’t seen Greg in months instead of merely hours. Even before he unbuttoned his coat, Greg bent down to scratch Hercule’s ears and ruffle his fur.

Monica shrugged. “The usual. Janice had another pregnancy myth to share with me.”

Greg chuckled. “What was it this time? They really are quite entertaining.”

“Not if you’re the one who has to listen to them.” Monica peeked into the oven, where a loaf of corn bread was baking. “She’s convinced we’re having a boy.”

Greg got a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator and poured himself a glass.

He gave a hoot of laughter. “And what does she base that on?”

“Some nonsense about girls stealing their mother’s beauty while boys enhance it.”

“You do look beautiful.” Greg put his arm around Monica and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Janice was right about that at least.” He picked up the lid and peered into the pot on the stove. “Chili?” he said, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes.” Monica took a spoon from the spoon rest and gave the chili a stir. “How are things going at the bookstore? Is the work almost finished?”

Greg blew out a sigh. “Yes, thank heavens. It’s been quite the process. There was a bit of a problem with the wiring in the café—the electrician explained it, but frankly it was Greek to me. And he and his associate got into a bit of a spat about something and the associate threatened to walk out. But fortunately, it was all sorted out in the end and we’re still on schedule for our opening.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe it’s almost here.”

He glanced at Monica and raised his eyebrows. “Is everything okay? You look worried.”

Monica turned toward Greg, a knife poised in her hand. “I am worried. It’s about Gina.”

“Oh? What is it this time?” Greg’s voice held a smile.

Monica put the knife down on the cutting board and placed her hands on her hips.

“She still hasn’t gone to the police to tell them she was in Rip’s car when he was murdered. And now WZZZ has set up a tip line for anyone who can provide information.” Monica paused. “But that’s not the worst of it. The reporter pointed out that Gina could be in danger.”

“But she was unconscious,” Greg said as he got a container of sour cream out of the refrigerator. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“The reporter pointed out that the killer might think Gina saw something that would help identify them. And if the reporter thought of that, then certainly the killer has, too. She could be in danger.” Monica’s voice caught in her throat.

She remembered how she’d initially been hostile toward her new stepmother. Gina had stolen her father away and broken up their family. But as Monica got to know her, she came to like her.

“You know,” Greg said as he grabbed some bowls from the cupboard. “Why bother to drug Rip and Gina at all? Why not just shoot Rip and be done with it?”

Monica went back to chopping cilantro. Greg was right—why put the benzodiazepines in the coffee and then shoot him? It was sort of like wearing a belt and suspenders. Unless . . .

Monica whirled around to face Greg, the knife still in her hand.

Greg faked alarm. “Hey, be careful with that thing.”

“Sorry.” Monica put the knife on the counter. “Maybe they thought they’d put enough benzodiazepines in his coffee to kill him.” She frowned. “And maybe because he shared what was in the thermos with Gina, the drugs only made them both sleepy.”

“Or,” said Greg, getting silverware from the drawer, “they miscalculated how much was needed to be fatal.”

Monica grabbed a pot holder and pulled open the oven door. The blast of heat blew tendrils of hair around her face. She removed a pan of golden cornbread and placed it on a trivet on the table.

Greg leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “The person had to have had a gun, so why not shoot Rip in the first place?”

“That is curious,” Monica said, her head stuck in the refrigerator. She pulled out a tub of butter and put it on the table. “Maybe they thought the murder would be harder to solve if he’d been drugged? It could be they thought the police would rule it an accident or a suicide.” She picked up a spoon and stirred the pot of chili on the stove. “Rip was having substantial financial problems. People have committed suicide for less.”

“You may have hit the nail on the head.” Greg squeezed Monica’s shoulder.

Monica dipped a clean spoon into the pot and tasted the contents. “Needs more salt,” she said, reaching for the salt shaker.

“You know, guns aren’t exactly hard to come by these days.” Greg scowled. “It seems everyone has one.”

“But maybe the killer had to learn to shoot a gun. Even though Rip was shot at fairly close range, if they weren’t used to using guns, they still needed to know how to operate a firearm.” Monica shrugged. “I wouldn’t know one end of a gun from the other.”

“Frankly, neither would I.” Greg grabbed the bowls from the table and carried them over to the stove, where Monica ladled hot chili into them. “So the person had to have practiced at the very least.”

“What better place to learn how to shoot than a gun range.” Monica took a seat at the table. “I think there’s one not far from here. Maybe I can find out if any of the suspects were seen practicing there.”

Greg reached out a hand and put it over Monica’s. “Be careful. If the killer finds out you’ve been snooping around, they might come after you next.”