“What is it?” Greg raced to Monica’s side, his face pale in the light above the back door. “Are you okay?”
Monica’s teeth were chattering and she could barely talk. She pointed to the branch of the maple tree that hung over her small garden.
“What on earth?” Greg said. He reached up and looked at Monica incredulously. “It’s a noose.”
By now Monica was shivering uncontrollably. “Yes.”
“Let’s go inside,” Greg said, putting his key in the lock. “We need to call the police.”
Monica fell into a chair without even bothering to take her jacket off. She couldn’t stop shaking. Anonymous notes were one thing and so was painting graffiti on the wall of the shed, but a noose had a far more sinister meaning altogether. It was an outright, unmistakable threat.
Greg opened a cupboard and got out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a bit into a glass and handed it to Monica.
“Have a sip of this. You’ve had a shock. This should help.”
Monica raised the glass to her mouth and touched her lips to the liquid. She grimaced and put the glass down.
“I can’t,” she said, putting her head in her hands. She looked up suddenly. “Should we tell Jeff?”
“I suppose we’ll have to.”
“This is really going to upset him. And he’s already upset enough as it is.”
Greg had his cell phone out and was dialing 9-1-1. “He’ll find out anyway. And he won’t thank you for keeping it from him.”
Monica huddled in her jacket, her fingers nervously playing with the tab on the zipper, until they saw lights coming down the driveway.
“They’re here,” Greg said, reaching for his jacket.
Monica already had her hand on the doorknob. She swung the door open and stepped back outside into the frigid air.
A patrol car was parked in back of Greg’s Volvo, the rotating light on its roof sending ribbons of color scudding across the swathes of white snow.
A patrolman got out of the car and walked toward them. Monica recognized him from the farm store—he often stopped by in the morning before his shift for a coffee and a muffin. He must have pulled night duty this week. They knew him as Danny. Monica didn’t know his last name.
Danny smiled and nodded at Monica. “What seems to be the problem? Some sort of vandalism, they said?”
“It’s by the tree.” Monica led him to the low-hanging branch and pointed to the noose.
He whistled. “Someone sure was trying to send you a message.” He pushed his hat back on his head. The tips of his ears were red from the cold.
Monica explained about Jeff’s plan to possibly sell the farm and how the townspeople were up in arms over it.
Danny let out a loud exhale and a puff of steam formed in the air like a conversation bubble in a cartoon.
“Not sure what we can do.” He looked around. “There are a couple of footprints in the snow—at least I assume they aren’t yours.” He looked at Greg, who shook his head.
“I’m wearing boots.” Greg lifted up a foot. “Those look like prints from a pair of running shoes.”
“We’d have no way of identifying them as it is,” Danny said, scratching the back of his neck. He gave an apologetic smile. “The best we can do is send a patrol car by from time to time to check on things. Maybe the perp will come back to try something else and we’ll catch ’em in the act.” He spread his hands out palms up. “It’s probably just a prank. A couple of kids who thought it would be funny given that the feeling in town is running against your brother selling the farm.”
Greg frowned. “We didn’t find it funny in the least, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “But I suppose you’re right—there’s not much you can do. But we did want to report it and get it on the record.”
“Sure.” Danny straightened his hat. “Don’t hesitate to give us a call if anything else happens,” he said as he opened the door to his patrol car and slid into the driver’s seat. He gave a brief salute and began to back out of the driveway.
Greg put his arm around Monica. “Come on. Let’s get inside and get warm. I’ll make us some hot cocoa.”
• • •
Monica woke up feeling as tired as if she hadn’t slept at all, which is what it had felt like—tossing and turning and startling awake every time she thought she heard a noise. The police might have dismissed the noose hanging from the tree as a prank, but how could they be sure the perpetrator didn’t plan to escalate their attacks?
Monica was surprised to see that Kit had a visitor when she arrived at the farm kitchen. He was older than Kit and was wearing worn jeans dusted with sawdust, scuffed work boots and a plaid flannel shirt with frayed cuffs and collar. He had a full beard that looked as if it needed a trim.
Kit smiled when Monica entered. “Monica, I’d like you to meet Sean.” He put his arm around Sean’s shoulders.
“Very nice to meet you.” Sean held out an enormous rough-looking hand. He had a deep, rather pleasant voice.
So this was Sean, Monica thought as she hung up her jacket. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Certainly he was as unlike Kit with his fastidious fashion sense and ultra-modern haircut as he could possibly be.
“Sean is a carpenter,” Kit said with a hint of pride in his voice.
“So have you two made up?” Monica said.
They both looked slightly sheepish. Sean looked down at his feet.
Kit smiled. “Yes. Everything is rosy in paradise again.”
If possible, Sean looked even more embarrassed.
“But Sean has something to tell you, don’t you, Sean?”
“Yeah. I came by here last night to see Kit, I wanted to . . .”
He mumbled something Monica couldn’t quite catch but she thought she heard the word apologize.
“A car was coming down the drive in front of me. I couldn’t see the make on account of it being so dark and all, but I think it was some kind of sports car. Not something I would recognize anyway.” He gave a crooked grin. “I’m a pickup kind of guy myself.”
“Tell her what you saw,” Kit prompted.
“The car pulled into the driveway of this little cottage. A couple of lights were on but it didn’t look like anyone was home. Kit said that’s your place.” He looked at Monica as if for confirmation.
She nodded.
“I saw a man get out of the car. I couldn’t see his face and probably wouldn’t have known him if I had. But when he went by the light over the back door I did see he had real silver hair.”
Monica immediately thought of John Kuiper.
“He didn’t ring the bell or nothing and that made me a little suspicious. I thought he might be trying to break in so I stopped my truck behind some trees and watched him for a couple of minutes. I figured I could call the police if I saw him smash a window or something.”
He took a deep breath, as if he wasn’t used to talking this much. “I don’t know what he was doing, but he had a rope with him. He flung it over a tree branch that was hanging over the driveway. And I know this sounds crazy but . . .” He looked down at his feet. “I could have sworn it was a noose.”
Monica felt the color drain from her face.
Kit put a hand on her arm. “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down? Should I make you a cup of tea?”
“That’s okay. I’m fine.” Monica rubbed her forehead. “Last night when Greg and I got back from the meeting at the town hall, a noose was hanging from that tree branch by our back door.”
Kit gasped and put his hand over his mouth. “Oh, darling, you poor thing.”
“So that is what I saw,” Sean said, sounding satisfied. He kicked at the floor with the toe of his boot. “I knew I should have called the police. I had the feeling the guy was up to no good.”
“Why would someone do something like that?” Kit said, his eyes huge. “That’s horrible.”
“I think it was meant to be a warning,” Monica said. “People found out that Jeff is thinking of selling the farm. He’s only thinking about it—he hasn’t made any decision yet. And people are against it.”
“But why would he sell?” Kit looked stricken.
“There’s an experimental treatment that might restore the function to his arm. Insurance won’t pay for it but if he sells the farm . . .”
“I guess you couldn’t blame him then,” Kit said. “Still . . .” He stuck his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I’ve loved working here.”
Monica smiled. “And I’ve loved working with you. But let’s wait to see what Jeff decides, shall we?”
Sean left and she and Kit got down to work. Monica began preparing the Sassamanash Farm cranberry salsa. She’d taken some cranberries from the freezer to thaw and had put out the rest of her ingredients. The salsa was still selling well and had carried the farm through some lean times. Monica was grateful.
Monica was thinking through things as she worked and by the time she’d finished the first batch of salsa, she’d decided she was going to go to Detective Stevens and tell her what Sean had seen. She would also share her own conclusions about who had killed Marta. Stevens might laugh at her amateur attempts at detection, but knowing her, Monica had a feeling she wouldn’t.
• • •
Detective Stevens was on her way out but the desk sergeant said she would see Monica anyway, but she warned her not to take too long.
Stevens was in her coat when Monica knocked on her office door.
“Come in,” Stevens said.
“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you from something.”
Stevens waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It can wait. I’m interested in hearing what you have to say. You’re not the sort to give in to hysterical theories.”
Stevens’s desk was as burdened with files and papers as it had been the last time Monica was there. The partially eaten doughnut was gone and had been replaced by a paper plate crusted with the remains of a breakfast sandwich.
“I assume you’ve heard about the incident at my house last night,” Monica said.
Stevens shoved her hand through her blond hair, leaving it standing on end. “I heard about it briefly, but I’m afraid I’ve been so busy . . .” She waved a hand at her desk.
“A noose was found hanging from a tree branch in my back garden. We found it when we got back from the meeting at the town hall.”
Stevens nodded. “Any idea why someone would do something like that?” Her look turned hopeful. “It could have been some sort of prank, although it’s not in the least bit funny.”
Monica took a deep breath. “Jeff—he’s my half brother—is considering selling Sassamanash Farm.”
Stevens’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
Monica explained about the experimental treatment that could possibly restore some function to Jeff’s arm.
“I see.” Stevens slipped her coat off her shoulders and loosened her scarf.
“A developer made him an offer. The same developer also made an offer on the Kuiper property, but that sale hinged on all three siblings agreeing to sell. Marta Kuiper was the only holdout.
“The developer only wants one of the properties. Marta dying has removed one obstacle for the Kuipers. But there’s still the chance the developer will opt for Jeff’s farm instead. The noose, along with a threatening note someone handed me as I passed them on the sidewalk and the graffiti on the shed, appear to have been meant to discourage Jeff from selling.”
Monica shifted in her chair. “I think the killer—because I think the same person is responsible for all of this—decided to piggyback on the fact that the town is in an uproar over the possibility of Jeff selling.” Monica picked a piece of lint off her coat. “The townspeople don’t seem to have gotten wind of the fact that the Kuipers might sell their land, which would result in the same thing—a mall they are dead set against being built in Cranberry Cove.”
“Do you have a theory as to who this person is?” A small smile played around Stevens’s lips.
Monica knew Stevens was simply humoring her, but she didn’t care. “John Kuiper,” she said succinctly. “He appears to be in need of money so it’s no surprise he would be anxious for this sale to go through.”
“Hmmm,” Stevens said.
“You will look into it, won’t you?”
Stevens looked surprised. “We are looking into it, believe me.”
“I mean,” Monica amended, “you’ll look into the incident with the noose?”
Stevens gave an exasperated sigh. “We’ll try. We’re spread quite thin right now. We haven’t publicized it yet, but there’s been a string of robberies in those big houses along the lake. The mayor wants us to make that a priority.” She smiled. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
• • •
She’d have to be content with that, Monica told herself as she left the police station and headed into town.
Gina motioned from the door of Making Scents as Monica walked past on her way to her car.
“You look excited,” Monica said, sniffing the air inside the shop. “Chamomile?” she said.
“No, actually it’s an essential oil called helichrysum,” Gina replied. “It’s used for speeding healing of wounds. It’s antibacterial and very good for your skin. Not many people know about it—they think essential oils are all about lavender, rosemary and peppermint.” Gina reached under the counter and took out a small bottle. “Here’s a sample for you to try.”
“Thanks.” Monica dropped the vial into her purse, where she suspected she would immediately forget about it.
“I have big news for you,” Gina said.
Monica groaned inwardly. Gina’s big news could be something as harmless as the fact that she’d decided to dye her hair or as life-changing as her decision to move to Cranberry Cove had been.
She gave a smile that made Monica think of the cat that ate the canary.
“I had a date last night,” Gina announced triumphantly.
“Oh.” Monica felt relieved that that was all it was. “Who with?”
Gina twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “Mickey Welch. The proud new owner of the Pepper Pot.”
“So you were able to lure him into it!”
Gina leaned closer. “Frankly, it wasn’t difficult. He fell hard.”
“Did you learn anything useful?”
“Well . . .” Gina paused. “He told me that the Pepper Pot isn’t making money . . . yet. He had to buy a new stove for the kitchen and some of the fixtures needed updating even though the place wasn’t that old. But he’s confident that he’ll be turning a profit within six months.”
“Did he sound desperate enough to do something drastic?”
Gina shook her head. “Not really, no. He seemed quite confident. Although he was worried about the possibility of that mall being built. Very worried, as a matter of fact. Without it, he knows he’ll soon be in the black, but with it . . . he’s not so sure.”
“Did he know anything about the restaurant being proposed by the developer?”
Gina shrugged. “It sounded like it’s one of those places with a really extensive menu, where there’s something to please everyone—from a steak to tacos to spaghetti and meatballs.” She scowled. “No way a real chef could make that many diverse dishes in one night. I’m sure they’re microwaving them.” She took a deep breath. “But people like that kind of thing. When you can’t decide between Mexican, American and Italian, everyone can have exactly what they want.”
Monica felt her spirits sink. The thought of a restaurant like that luring patrons away from the Pepper Pot, the Cranberry Cove Inn and even the Cranberry Cove Diner made her feel sad. Cranberry Cove, which she had come to love, would change, and not for the better.
“And the desserts!” Gina threw her hands in the air. “Of course I never eat them myself.” She patted her stomach. “Have to watch my figure. But this particular restaurant specializes in ice cream creations—sundaes, baked Alaska, frozen hot chocolate. That alone is going to draw people. Especially people with children.” Gina’s expression turned grim.
“Still . . .” She perked up. “I did have a great time. Mickey and I really hit it off. He certainly doesn’t look like my type.” She wrinkled her nose. “But he made me laugh and the time flew by.”
“Where did he take you for dinner?”
Gina looked at Monica with an incredulous expression on her face.
“The Pepper Pot, of course. We had a secluded table that he reserves for important guests and the chef made a special dish just for us.”
She smiled at Monica, a coy grin that lifted one corner of her mouth. “And the best part? He said he’s going to call me.”
Monica was quite surprised that Gina had taken to Mickey Welch the way she had. He wasn’t her usual type—her usual type being men who wore custom-made suits, drove fancy cars and had high-paying jobs.
Monica was happy for her though. Who knew if this one date would blossom into a full-fledged romance, but the possibility was there if Gina was able to recognize the fact that money wasn’t everything.
Perhaps she had matured since she’d lured Monica’s father away from her mother. It had been like one of those old thirties or forties movies, a young girl working behind the perfume counter in an upscale department store seduces successful man there to buy a gift for his wife.
Monica was nearly to her car when a thought occurred to her, and it was so startling that she nearly tripped.
Mickey Welch had silver hair, not as artfully cut as John Kuiper’s, but the same color. What if Mickey was the man Sean had seen hanging the noose outside Monica’s cottage? And what if it had been Mickey who had painted the message on the processing shed at the farm?
Had Monica been looking at everything all wrong from the very beginning? Perhaps the three incidences—the noose, the graffiti and the threatening note—weren’t related to Marta’s death at all.
Was she looking for two suspects, not one?
• • •
Kit had outdone himself by the time Monica got back to the farm store. Lined up on the counter were cranberry scones, cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies, and coffee cakes studded with cranberries and topped with streusel.
Monica felt slightly superfluous looking at the array of products Kit had managed to produce while she was gone. All that remained was to shuttle it all down to the farm store.
Nora looked very pale when Monica arrived with the cart of goodies. She was leaning on the counter with a hand on her forehead.
“Are you okay?” Monica said.
Nora gave the ghost of a smile. “Feeling a bit green around the gills, that’s all. It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. Things should improve next month when I’m out of the first trimester.”
Monica offered to man the store so Nora could go home, but Nora assured her that she would be fine.
Monica was feeling at loose ends—no one seemed to need her and she was almost beginning to feel sorry for herself—when she had an idea. The rope used in the noose that had been hung from her tree had to have come from somewhere. Of course, it was possible the person had had it in the trunk of their car or in their garage for ages, but it was also just possible that they bought it right before hanging it that night. And it was also possible that they might have purchased the rope in Cranberry Cove.
Monica knew that the hardware store carried rope and so did the marine supply store down by the harbor. With any luck, one of them sold that rope and perhaps they would even remember who bought it.
Once again Monica headed out. Her first stop was the marine supply shop across the inlet from Flynn’s and the food pantry, a stone’s throw from the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club.
The outside of the shop had dark blue metal siding and a large anchor hung over the front door. The inside of the shop smelled like motor oil combined with the faint brackish scent of the nearby lake.
As usual, the owner was behind the counter ringing up the lone customer’s purchases. He was a big man with a ready laugh and a handlebar mustache and was often tapped to play Santa Claus in the annual Cranberry Cove Christmas parade.
“What can I do for you, young lady?” he said when Monica approached the counter.
“I have a question,” Monica said a little hesitantly, being careful to choose her words carefully.
“And I have the answers.” He guffawed loudly then frowned. “At least I hope so.”
“I was wondering if anyone has been in here recently, within the last week and a half or so, buying a length of heavy-duty rope.”
Monica wished she could have shown him the rope but the police had taken it away.
He scratched his belly absentmindedly as he thought.
“Rope, you say? People don’t seem to have much call for rope in the wintertime. Now if it was summer that would be a different story. Lots of customers come in looking for rope to moor their boats in the harbor.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember selling any recently. Now last October, that’s a different story. I sold some to Mr. Boscombe—he’s a summer visitor—but I don’t hold that against him.” He gave another loud guffaw. “He’s a nice enough fellow, doesn’t look down on us residents the way some of them do. I can’t remember exactly why he wanted the rope, but it was for that boat of his, she’s a beauty.”
“Thank you,” Monica said.
“My pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Tell that brother of yours I said hello, would you?”
Monica promised she would and left the shop. That had been a dead end, she thought. She hoped she’d have better luck at the hardware store.
The hardware store had been on Beach Hollow Road in Cranberry Cove even before any of the trendier shops had opened and still had the original wooden floors that creaked with age when you walked across them.
Bill Oliver, who had been clerking at the hardware store for years, was arranging a display of hammers at the front of the shop. He was stick thin with tan, roughened skin and an Adam’s apple that stuck out and bobbed up and down when he talked.
“Bill,” Monica said, and he spun around.
“Well, hello there. How are things at the farm? Good, I hope.”
“Fine,” Monica said, wondering if Bill was the only person in Cranberry Cove who hadn’t heard about Jeff possibly selling.
“I’ve got a question for you,” Monica said.
“Shoot.” Bill put down the pricing gun he was holding and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you and Greg doing some renovating on that cottage of yours?”
“No, nothing like that,” Monica said. “I was wondering if anyone has come in recently, within the last week or two, let’s say, to buy some heavy-duty rope.”
“I have to say, that’s not any of the questions I was expecting.” Bill laughed. “I don’t suppose you want to share your reason for asking this.”
“Not right now, no. I’m sorry.”
He let out a breath of air. “Let me see. We did have a gentleman come in recently. I didn’t wait on him but I saw him heading toward the counter with a length of rope over his arm.” He shrugged. “There might be others, but then I’m off on Mondays so if someone came in then I wouldn’t know about it.”
Monica felt a stirring of excitement. “The gentleman you saw, can you tell me what he looked like?”
“I’m not real good at describing things,” Bill said with an apologetic smile. “And I didn’t pay all that much attention to him. I did notice that he had real silver hair though, thick, too.” Bill ran a hand over his own thinning brown hair. “And he was dressed like one of them executives—suit and tie, starched shirt, the works. You don’t see too many like that around here. Even the fancy summer visitors dig out their shorts and T-shirts when they’re here. After all, they come to Cranberry Cove to relax.”
Monica didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until just then when it all came out in a rush.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling herself break into a smile.
Monica felt a huge sense of relief as she left the hardware store. It couldn’t have been Mickey Welch who had bought the rope. It had to have been John Kuiper. Bill had described him to a tee.