Monica wondered if it was true that Marta had been giving Joyce money, and if so, did Dana know?
She decided she would stop and see Dana before going into town to Bart’s for some meat for dinner.
Someone had shoveled the walk at the Kuipers’ house. Salt grated under Monica’s boots as she headed toward the front door. No one answered the bell at first but Dana’s car was in the driveway, so Monica assumed she was home.
She was about to turn away when Dana opened the door.
She was wearing gray slacks and the sweater Monica assumed she had bought at Danielle’s. She had a pen in her hand and there was a smudge of ink on one of her fingers.
“Monica, please come in,” she said, holding the door wider.
The living room and kitchen were much warmer than they had been on previous occasions, Monica noticed.
“I had a man come out to check the furnace,” Dana explained. “Apparently it wasn’t working properly and that’s why it was always so cold in here no matter what temperature the thermostat was set at. I don’t know why Marta hadn’t had it fixed sooner.”
The kitchen table was covered in papers and a checkbook was open in front of one of the chairs.
“Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you. It looks like you’re busy.” Monica indicated the table. “And I have to run some errands before the shops close.”
Dana sighed. “I’m paying bills. Or trying to. There isn’t much in Marta’s account, I’m afraid, and she’s behind on a number of invoices.” She sat down and motioned for Monica to take a seat. “Did you want to see me about something?”
“Your cousin Cheryl came to see me.”
Dana drew back. “Cheryl? What on earth for? I hope she wasn’t too much of a bother.”
“She wanted to tell me something. It seems that she saw Marta giving Joyce money on several occasions.”
“You can’t believe everything Cheryl says. Besides, maybe Marta owed Joyce money for something. Or perhaps she was loaning it to her? Marta had a soft heart and was an easy touch, I’m afraid.”
“Is that her checkbook?” Monica said, pointing to the ledger in front of Dana.
“Yes.” Dana began to flip through it. She frowned. “I see Marta wrote a check to cash for five hundred dollars.” She looked at Monica. “That’s an awful lot of money. Marta’s income wasn’t very large. John and I helped when we could but . . .” She shrugged. “We felt we owed her since she’d given up any hope of a career caring for our mother. She worked part-time cleaning other people’s houses until she was old enough to collect retirement benefits.”
Dana continued to flip through the check register. She raised her eyebrows. “Here’s another check made out to cash for the same amount. I don’t understand. I suppose it’s possible she was paying some bills in cash.” Dana wrinkled her brow. “But I see checks for the electric bill, the gas bill, even to the grocery store. So what would she have needed that much money in cash for?”
Dana shook her head vigorously. “It’s not like Marta had expensive tastes. She bought clothes at the thrift store and ate simple dishes like the erwtensoep our mother used to make or pannenkoeken, pancakes, which we ate for dinner, or chocolate hagelslag, bread with chocolate sprinkles for breakfast.” Dana ruffled the pages of the checkbook. “She wasn’t one for expensive cuts of meat like filet mignon or beef tenderloin. She would make a meal out of stamppot, mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables. I can’t begin to imagine what she would have done with so much cash.”
“Do you think she might have given it away?”
Dana sighed. “It’s possible. It would have been just like Marta to have given money away willy-nilly when she had barely enough to live on herself.”
• • •
The butcher shop was empty and Bart was at his worktable behind the counter tying up a beef tenderloin with swift, practiced motions. He looked up and smiled at Monica.
“What brings you in today? I have a nice tenderloin here.” He patted the piece of meat.
“That’s a bit out of my league price-wise,” Monica said. “But I would like a pound of your excellent ground beef.”
“Coming right up.”
Bart selected a paperboard tray from a shelf and put it on the counter. He placed a piece of wax paper on the scale, eyeballed the ground beef and plopped some on top.
“Right on the nose,” he said, transferring the meat to the tray. “Anything else I can get you?”
“That’s all, thank you.”
Bart’s expression turned serious. “What’s this I hear about Jeff selling the farm? They’re holding a meeting tonight at the town hall to discuss it.” He pulled a piece of butcher paper from the roll on the counter and began wrapping up the ground beef. “I would never have expected Jeff to do something like that. The rumor is that the developer who’s interested in the property plans to build a mall.” He cut off a length of string and began tying up the package. He handed it to Monica. “We don’t want a mall here, I’ll tell you that right now.”
Bart put his hands palms down on the counter. “I have to say I’m disappointed in Jeff. I didn’t think he’d sell Cranberry Cove out like that.”
Monica felt her face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. She held up a hand.
“Jeff hasn’t made up his mind yet,” she said. “He’s only thinking about it.”
“I hope he comes to the right decision,” Bart said, frowning. “If he decides to sell it could ruin Cranberry Cove and all of us with it.”
Monica hurried out of the butcher shop feeling chastened. As much as she believed in Jeff’s right to sell the farm if that’s what he decided to do, she couldn’t help but feel for the people of Cranberry Cove.
As she walked down the street toward her car, she felt as if people were looking at her with condemnation, although in reality she supposed it was probably just her imagination.
Primrose Cottage, a white Victorian house with mauve trim, was on the other side of the inlet from Flynn’s and the food pantry in a decidedly more hospitable and upscale atmosphere.
Charlotte Decker, more commonly known as Charlie, had started keeping Primrose Cottage open during the winter even though tourist traffic died to a trickle during those months. But it had become popular to visit the lake during the winter to view the fantastic ice formations that were created when there was a string of days with temperatures below zero.
Monica parked her car with the three others in the parking lot and walked to the front door.
The lobby, which was originally the parlor of the house and which was decorated with authentic period furniture, was empty.
“Hello?” Monica called.
A woman appeared. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and was holding a dustcloth.
“Can I help you?” she said in accented English. Her dark hair had a gray streak in front and was pulled back into a bun. She looked familiar even though Monica knew she had never met her before.
“Is Charlie Decker around?”
The woman smiled. “I will go get her for you.” She bowed slightly as she turned around and disappeared through a doorway.
“Yes?” Charlie said as she came through the same doorway moments later. “Oh, Monica, it’s you.” She smiled. “Not looking for a room, are you? You and Greg have a fight?” She laughed to show she was only teasing.
Monica shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” Charlie gestured toward a tufted velvet settee. “Let’s sit down. I’ve been up since dawn cleaning rooms and I’m bushed. There’s always so much to do, even with Bianca’s help.”
“Bianca?”
“Yes. She’s Mauricio’s sister. She came over six months ago. Their mother died and there was no longer anything keeping her from emigrating.”
“I thought she looked familiar. How is Mauricio?”
Mauricio was Charlie’s significant other. He had been in Cranberry Cove for quite a while now, long enough to be accepted by the residents, at any rate. During the harvest season he worked on Jeff’s crew and the rest of the time he helped out at Primrose Cottage.
“He’s well,” Charlie said. “He’s really happy to have his sister here. She’s been cooking him some of his favorite dishes—caldo verde, bacalhau, bifanas. He said it makes him feel less homesick.
“So,” Charlie said after a pause, “if you didn’t come to rent a room, I assume you came for some other reason. Are you investigating again?” She grinned.
“Yes. I guess I am,” Monica admitted. “Someone claimed to have stayed here and I wanted to know if she really was a guest.”
Charlie blew out a puff of air. “We usually keep those records confidential. No point in getting into trouble with someone’s wronged spouse.”
“That’s sort of the situation here, although the couple is apparently divorcing.”
“What’s the name?” Charlie called over her shoulder as she headed toward the antique escritoire that served as a reception desk.
“Cheryl DeSantis. But the reservation might have been made in the name of John Kuiper.”
Charlie stopped with her hand on the guest ledger. “I remember them. Yes, they did stay here.”
“Do you have the dates and check-in times?”
“Let me see.” Charlie flipped some pages. “Here it is.” She gave the information to Monica.
The dates coincided with the day of Marta’s murder. So Cheryl was telling the truth, Monica thought.
Charlie closed the book with a snap. “They were a complete nightmare to deal with. I was concerned when they showed up and had obviously already been drinking—at least she had. It went downhill from there.”
“What happened?”
“They got into a loud argument almost as soon as they got to their room and you could hear them all over the place. Fortunately they were our only guests that day.” Charlie shook her head. “Bianca went to clean the room but the Do not disturb sign was hanging on the door all day. They never came down to the lobby to check out. At first I assumed they’d decided to stay another day but then I began to get worried.”
She frowned. “I used my pass key to open the door. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The woman was sprawled on the bed and the bedclothes were a mess, half on the floor. They looked as if someone had had a tug-of-war with them. At first I thought she was sleeping, but then I realized she must have passed out. I found two empty bottles of vodka on the counter in the bathroom.”
“Was the man in the room?”
“No. There was no sign of him—no clothes in the wardrobe, nothing.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“No. I asked Bianca and Mauricio but neither of them saw him either.”
Monica thanked Charlie and left.
That had certainly been a worthwhile trip, she thought as she headed home. If Cheryl was passed out drunk the day Marta was killed, then John could have easily slipped out undetected.
And that meant that John did not have an alibi.
• • •
Monica was taking the shepherd’s pie she’d made for dinner out of the oven when there was a knock on the door.
“Jeff,” Monica said, surprised to see him. “Is everything okay?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s not.”
“Come in.”
Jeff stamped his feet to rid his boots of the snow that was caught in the treads.
“What smells so good?” he said as he walked into the kitchen.
“Shepherd’s pie. Would you like some.”
He gave a sheepish grin. “I sure would.”
“Your timing was perfect,” Monica teased as she put the casserole on the table.
“I swear I wasn’t angling for a dinner invitation,” Jeff said with a cheeky grin.
Greg got another plate from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer and placed them on the table.
“Was it the smell that lured you to our kitchen?” Greg said as he passed the casserole to Jeff.
“Not exactly.” Jeff’s expression turned somber. “I wanted to see if you were going to the meeting at the town hall tonight. I don’t dare go myself—I’m afraid they might pelt me with rotten eggs—but I’d like to know what is being said.”
Monica and Greg exchanged a glance.
“We hadn’t planned on it,” Monica said, “but I’ll go if you like.” She glanced at the clock. “It doesn’t start for an hour and a half.”
“I’ll go with you,” Greg said.
“Thanks. I would really appreciate it,” Jeff said. “Although I’m sure I’m not going to like what they have to say.”
• • •
The evening was bitterly cold and Monica wondered how many people would be willing to leave their warm homes and their favorite evening television programs to attend this meeting. She was therefore quite surprised to see that the parking lot of the town hall was nearly full. Greg had to drive around twice to find an empty space.
The hallway was filled with people, their chattering voices echoing off the walls. Someone opened a door and the crowd began to flow into the room, yelling greetings to each other as they jostled for seats.
Several people carried homemade signs with slogans like No Developments in Cranberry Cove and Ban the Sale.
Monica and Greg found a spot in the back. Several people obviously recognized them because they shot her and Greg strange looks, as if they wondered how they had the nerve to show up.
Mayor Laninga tapped his microphone and the crowd slowly hushed. A baby began to cry and a woman in the back muttered an apology as she carried the infant out of the room and into the hall.
“It’s nice to see our citizens getting involved at a young age,” Laninga said and everyone laughed politely.
The mood quickly changed and soon voices were raised in heated arguments when Laninga indicated that unfortunately there was nothing in the current zoning laws to prevent a developer from turning Sassamanash farm into a mall.
“Then change them,” a man in jeans and a flannel shirt yelled from the audience.
The crowd quickly took up the cry. “Change them. Change them,” they chanted in unison.
Laninga’s face got beet red and he began to look flustered. A deputy in the back of the room moved away from the wall, where he had been casually leaning, suddenly on the alert.
Finally the crowd settled down and the meeting continued. Monica was relieved when it was over. Her arms ached and she realized she’d been clenching her fists the entire time.
“I don’t think this bodes well for Jeff,” Greg said as he beeped open the Volvo. “Those people sounded as if they were out for blood.”
“I have to admit I felt slightly frightened,” Monica said, latching her seat belt.
Greg yawned. “I’m glad that’s over. What are we going to tell Jeff?”
Monica chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know. The truth? I don’t want to upset him but he should know what he’s up against. I don’t think we should sugarcoat it. I’m just afraid it might sway his decision about whether to sell or not.”
It was almost ten o’clock by the time they pulled onto the road that led to the farm. The streetlights quickly retreated behind them and the darkness in front of them was inky black and nearly impenetrable.
Monica had left a few lights on in the cottage and they made a welcome glow in the dark night as they went around the bend and the cottage came into view.
Greg pulled up to the cottage and turned off the engine. Monica got out and was walking toward the back door when she felt something brush her face.
She looked up and screamed.