Monica drove back down Beach Hollow Road toward Sassamanash Farm. The lake, in the distance, looked cold and forbidding and the wind, which was blowing dark clouds in from the west, was buffeting Monica’s small car. She hoped more snow wasn’t on the way. The winter had already seemed to be decades long.
She couldn’t wait for spring, when things would begin to bloom—the pink flowers on the cranberry vines, the climbing roses on the trellis outside her back door, the fragrant herbs in her small garden.
She was rounding a bend in the road near the farm when she noticed a car stopped by the side of the road and a woman standing next to it.
As Monica got closer she realized the woman was Joyce Murphy, Marta’s friend. She slowed and pulled over onto the shoulder opposite Joyce’s station wagon. Monica checked the traffic, carefully opened her door and got out of the car.
She crunched along the snow piled on the shoulder of the road, at one point nearly slipping on a patch of black ice. A frigid wind blew in off the lake and she huddled in her parka as she dashed across the street.
Joyce had her arms wrapped around herself as she stood waiting in the cold beside her car.
“What’s happened?” Monica asked when she was within earshot. “Have you had a breakdown?”
“I don’t know. I had the car at the garage for a tune-up just the other week—Smitty’s right outside of town. I’ve been going there for years. I think it must be the battery. The nice young man who looked after me warned me that I’d soon need a new one but I didn’t want to spend the money until I had to.” She sighed. “Penny wise and pound foolish, as my dear mother used to say.”
“Have you called for a tow truck?” Monica shouted over the roar of the wind blowing in off the lake.
Joyce shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I forgot to bring my cell phone with me.”
Monica noticed Joyce’s car was filled with cardboard boxes of canned goods. “Were you headed to the food pantry with that?” she asked. She was puzzled since the food pantry was in the opposite direction.
“Yes, but I was going to go home for a bite of lunch first. I was feeling a bit wobbly, I’m afraid. I’m one of the volunteers who are collecting the donations from all the merchants in town. I’m pleased to say we’ve done quite well, as you can see.”
“You must be frozen solid standing out here,” Monica said. “That wind is bitter. Why don’t we sit in my car and call the towing company?”
They waited till a truck had zoomed past them, sending slush and snow flying in its wake, then made their way across the street. Joyce sighed as they settled in the warmth of Monica’s car.
Monica retrieved her cell phone from her pocket and dialed the local towing company. She knew the number by heart—her ancient Ford Focus had broken down numerous times and she knew she’d soon have to face the fact that she’d need to replace it.
“It seems they’re quite busy,” Monica said after ending the call. “It’s going to be over an hour before they can get here.”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you to wait that long,” Joyce said, her hand already on the door handle.
“Why don’t we go back to my house? I’ve got some leftover beef and barley soup in the fridge. We could do with something to warm us up.”
Joyce’s face lit up. “That does sound heavenly,” she said, settling back in her seat.
Monica put the car in gear and headed down the road, quickly traversing the short distance to Sassamanash Farm.
“What a darling place,” Joyce said, clasping her hands together when Monica’s cottage came into view and they made their way down the drive to the farm.
“Come on in.” Monica held the back door open for Joyce. “Don’t mind Mittens. She’s very friendly.”
Mittens stared at the visitor curiously then began to walk in and out between Monica’s legs, her long tail swishing back and forth, nearly tripping her.
“I’ll get the soup going,” Monica said as she led the way to the kitchen. “Take the chair over there by the heating vent and get warm.”
“This is so kind of you, dear.” Joyce kicked off her boots and hung her coat from the back of the chair. She sat down with a sigh of relief.
“How long had you and Marta been friends?” Monica asked as she got the container of soup from the refrigerator and poured it into a pot.
“We go way back,” Joyce said, folding her hands and putting them on the table. “All the way back to elementary school. Marta’s family has been here in Cranberry Cove for generations. My family moved here when I was seven years old. My father took a job with the Baker Furniture Company. It was hard adapting to a new school and a new place. Before that we’d lived in Iowa, you see. It’s so terribly flat there that the hills and valleys here took me quite by surprise.”
Monica got bowls out of the cupboard and two spoons out of the drawer.
“Can I do something to help, dear?”
“Thank you, but there’s no need. You sit and rest. I hope you’re getting warm.”
“Delightfully so. It’s those small pleasures that are so important in life,” Joyce said. “Getting warm when you’ve been cold, eating when you’re hungry. Who needs the grand things in life when all your needs are being met?”
Joyce had a point, Monica thought.
“That very first day at my new school I was scared half to death,” Joyce continued. “I remember my knees were shaking when my mother dropped me off outside the second-grade classroom.” Joyce’s eyes took on a faraway look. “But Marta befriended me almost immediately. Later on I realized how unusual that was—she was painfully shy and didn’t really mingle much with the other children. Perhaps she sensed a kindred spirit in me that day.”
“How wonderful to have had such a long friendship,” Monica said as she ladled the hot soup into bowls. Steam rose up from the hot liquid and bathed her face.
“Yes, we were certainly blessed.” Joyce gave a sniff and fumbled in her purse for a tissue. “I’m certainly going to miss her. I was quite alarmed when I thought she’d be moving.”
“Oh?” Monica put the bowls on the table.
“Yes. When the developer made that offer for her land. It was an incredible amount of money for someone like Marta, who had spent her life scrimping and saving and making do.”
“But I understand she didn’t plan to sell.”
“She didn’t. Money can’t buy everything, you see. She’d grown up in that house. It was all she’d ever known and she didn’t want to leave no matter what her brother did.”
“John?” Monica’s ears perked up. “What did John do?”
“He was putting pressure on her. He wouldn’t let up. He had the poor thing in tears at times. He even put her name down on a waiting list at the Sunnyside Retirement Community in Grand Rapids. As if Marta wanted to move that far away from everything and everyone she knew.”
“Why would John do that?” Monica asked even though she knew the answer.
“For the money, of course. He stood to inherit a third of the profits.”
“I thought John was quite successful. Dana says he’s a surgeon. I’ve always heard they make a lot of money.”
Joyce looked at her slyly and tapped the side of her nose. “Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?” she said cryptically.
• • •
Monica was pulling a sheet of cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies from the oven when she had an idea. She would put together a snack for Jeff, some cookies and a flask of hot coffee. He was out on the bogs laying down sand and would probably appreciate something to eat.
She brewed some coffee, steam wreathing her face as she poured it into a thermos, placed several of the warm cookies in a bag and headed out.
Jeff was out on a tractor at the far end of the bog nearest the farm kitchen. The bog was covered in a thick layer of opaque ice. Jeff had already spread a layer of sand over half of the bog. He was heading away from Monica, and when he turned she waved to him.
He swung the tractor around and drove over to where Monica was standing.
“I’ve brought you some hot coffee and cookies fresh from the oven. I thought you might be able to use a snack.”
Jeff’s face lit up. It was ruddy from the cold, his cheeks and the tip of his nose bright red. “How did you know I was beginning to get hungry? You’re a lifesaver, Sis.” He opened the bag of cookies and sniffed deeply. “These smell delicious.”
Monica unscrewed the cap to the thermos and poured him some coffee. “This should warm you up.”
Monica held the cookies while Jeff cupped a hand around the coffee and took a sip.
He sighed. “Just what I needed.” He handed the cup back to Monica. “I’ll take the cookies on the tractor with me.” He squinted at the sky. “I need to get this done before the sun goes down. There’s snow in the forecast for tomorrow.”
Monica was walking back to the farm kitchen when her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the number. It was Gina.
“Hello?”
“Monica? This is Gina. I found something you should probably see,” Gina said somewhat enigmatically. “I think it might relate to the death of that woman you were telling me about.”
• • •
Monica closed up the farm kitchen, got into her Focus and headed back toward town, her curiosity decidedly piqued by Gina’s call. What on earth could Gina have found that related to Marta’s death?
She parked in front of the Purple Grape, the Cranberry Cove wine store that was mostly frequented by summer visitors. The local residents were more concerned with the price of a bottle of wine than its vintage and tended to go in for the boxed stuff sold at the large chain grocery store just outside of town.
The sun was starting to go down and although the sky was still bright, the shadows were deepening. The large ceramic flowerpots outside the shops that overflowed with flowers in the summer were now topped with snow and snow was banked along the sides of the road where the plows had pushed it.
Monica passed Bijou, the jewelry store, where a few pieces were displayed in the window—a strand of pearls, a gold watch and a silver charm bracelet.
She crossed the street to Gina’s shop, picking her way through the slush that had accumulated along the curb. A customer was at the counter waiting while Gina rang up several bottles of essential oils. Monica pretended to study a display of books on aromatherapy while she waited.
Finally the customer left and the shop was empty. Monica went over to the counter and leaned on it.
“So what did you find? I have to say, I was terribly intrigued by your telephone call.”
Gina took a rag from under the counter and scrubbed at a spot on the glass. “I wouldn’t have thought much of anything about it if it hadn’t been for that woman’s death and the bottle of missing pills you told me about. When we put out the food collection bins, I suspected that at some point someone was going to decide to use one of them as a trash can.” Gina rolled her eyes. “And I was right. People can be so lazy. They can’t be bothered to walk to the end of the block and dispose of their garbage appropriately.”
Gina reached under the counter again. “I found this in our bin.” She put a prescription pill bottle on the counter. “Someone must have dropped it in there instead of in the trash can. I guess it was too far to walk.”
Monica picked up the pill bottle. Could it be . . . ?
The corner of the label was missing, but it was still easy enough to read. The bottle had been issued to Marta Kuiper and contained a thirty-day supply of atenolol—a generic beta blocker. And it was empty.
Monica held it up. “There weren’t any pills in here?”
“No.” Gina shook her head. “I only happened to find it because I accidentally dropped my keys in the bin when I was locking the door and had to fish them out.” Gina pointed to the bottle. “Do you think it means anything?”
“I don’t know.” Monica bit her lip. “I think it might. I guess I’ll leave it up to Detective Stevens to decide.”
• • •
Detective Stevens furrowed her brow and tapped the pill bottle on her desk in a slow rhythm.
Monica waited patiently. She was seated across from Stevens’s desk in her office at the police station. The chair was rather hard and she squirmed around trying to get comfortable.
Stevens’s desk was awash with papers, some in labeled folders, many with coffee rings on top, and others loose. A chipped and stained coffee mug was next to her laptop and a piece of aluminum foil was balled up next to it. The remains of a stale doughnut sat on a napkin on top of one of the stacks of paper.
Stevens tapped the pill bottle against her chin. She let out a heavy sigh.
“I don’t know. You said you found this in one of the food collection bins?”
“Yes. Or rather my stepmother, Gina, did. It was in the bin in front of her shop Making Scents.”
“I’m trying to decide if there’s any real significance in the fact that this bottle”—she waved it toward Monica—“is empty. It’s possible that Marta Kuiper took the pills out of the bottle and put them somewhere else.” She looked at Monica. “You did say she used a pill caddy, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but it only holds enough pills for the week. That prescription is for a thirty-day supply.”
“Still. Why throw it in one of the collection bins? Why not the trash?”
“I don’t know.”
“If your suspicions are correct,” Stevens continued, “that someone gave Marta Kuiper an overdose of these pills, that would make it . . . murder.”
Monica nodded. “Yes.”
Stevens’s shoulders rose up and down as she sighed again. “I’ll see what I can do. They still haven’t held the burial yet, have they?”
“No. I believe it’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
“I’m still trying to get the county to agree to an autopsy. But I can’t make any promises.” Stevens frowned. “If the body has already been embalmed—which I imagine it has—we won’t be able to get an accurate toxicology report. But if there’s anything else out of the ordinary, the pathologist will find it.”