Monica looked at her watch. It was almost time for her book group. Greg ran several groups at Book ’Em and they were quite popular. Monica had joined the one focused on reading classic detective novels from the Golden Age, books by Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham and Patricia Wentworth.
She hurried down the sidewalk. The sun was on its way down and the cold wind coming off the lake felt as if it was going straight through her jacket. She reached the front door to Book ’Em and ducked inside gratefully, basking momentarily in the warmth that enveloped her.
Greg was in the process of grabbing the mismatched armchairs scattered around the shop and pulling them into a circle in an open spot near the back of the store.
“Need some help?” Monica said, giving Greg a kiss on the cheek.
“I think I’ve collected all the chairs,” Greg said, running his hands through his thatch of dark hair. “But if you wouldn’t mind putting on the coffee?”
“No problem.”
Monica measured coffee into the machine, added water and flicked it on. Soon coffee was gurgling into the carafe, filling the air with its heavenly scent. Monica laughed to herself—she’d always thought coffee smelled better brewing than it actually tasted.
She walked back into the main part of the bookstore just as Phyllis Bouma was coming through the front door, yanking off her knit beret and unwinding her scarf. She was carrying a plastic-wrapped plate of cookies.
She gave Monica a rather strange look that made Monica feel quite uncomfortable.
“Has Jeff made a decision yet?” she said, her mouth pinched into a thin line.
Monica squared her shoulders. “Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.”
As Phyllis took a seat, the VanVelsen twins walked in, their faces rosy from the cold.
“Hello, dear,” they chorused when they saw Monica. “Phyllis.” They nodded in her direction.
Greg bustled around pouring cups of coffee and distributing them, along with urging everyone to take one of the lemon cookies Phyllis had brought. As Monica watched him, a wave of affection swept over her. She felt it catch in her throat and bring tears to her eyes. She dashed a hand across her eyes hoping no one had noticed.
Everyone was stirring sugar into their cups of coffee and nibbling on the lemon cookies when the door opened again, sending a current of cold air flowing through the store.
“Am I late? I’m so sorry.” Andrea Morgan rushed into the room.
She was the wife of the new rector of the Episcopal church in town and was the youngest member of the book group at only thirty-one. The couple had an infant son and she’d told them that the outing to the book group was the highlight of her week. Indeed, she confessed that it was the only outing she was able to manage until Christian was a bit older.
She took a seat quickly and demurely folded her hands in her lap. Hennie VanVelsen offered to get her a cup of coffee and Gerda passed her the platter of cookies but she said no to both.
Monica had a sudden idea. She pulled the photograph of Marta Kuiper, Joyce Murphy and Mildred Visser from her purse. She handed it to Hennie VanVelsen.
“Do you know these girls?” she said. “I know you know Marta Kuiper.”
Hennie adjusted her glasses and looked at the photo. She smiled.
“Yes. That’s Marta, Joyce and Mildred Visser.” She turned to Gerda. “Look who it is.”
Gerda looked at the photograph. “We went to elementary school with Marta and Joyce. Mildred was a bit older.” She looked at Monica. “We started kindergarten with Marta and Joyce.”
“Did you stay in touch?” Monica said.
“We stayed in touch with Marta but not the others, although we still see Joyce from time to time. She likes the Droste pastilles we carry at Gumdrops and occasionally comes in to get some.”
“Someone mentioned an incident that occurred that involved Marta and Joyce,” Monica said. “Do you know anything about it? It would have been when they were older.”
Hennie frowned. “I’m afraid not. We transferred to a Christian high school while they continued on in the public schools.”
Monica turned to Phyllis and raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t know them, I’m afraid,” she said.
Monica put the photograph back in her purse and Greg began the discussion of The Chinese Shawl by Patricia Wentworth.
Talk was lively and interesting but Monica was afraid her mind was elsewhere. Eventually she gave up all pretense of joining in and didn’t realize the hour was over until everyone began to stand up.
She jumped to her feet quickly when Hennie tapped her on the shoulder.
“You were daydreaming, dear,” she said. “Is everything all right?” Her forehead was creased with concern.
“Yes, fine.” Monica smiled reassuringly.
The ladies straggled out one by one and Monica helped Greg put the chairs back in their places.
“That went well,” Greg said as he collected the used coffee cups and plates. “Andrea Morgan is new to the group, but I think she’s going to be a great addition. She’s smart and quite sharp.”
“Yes, definitely,” Monica said, although she hadn’t paid enough attention to really have noticed Andrea’s participation.
Greg paused with dirty dishes in both hands. “Did you ever find out anything about that photograph I found?”
“Yes. I met the daughter who had arranged the sale and she put me in touch with her mother, who is in the Windhaven Terrace nursing home in Holland. She recognized herself in the photograph along with Marta Kuiper and Joyce Murphy.”
“Was she able to tell you anything useful?”
Monica sighed. “No, not really, beyond identifying the girls in the picture. She mentioned an incident, as she called it, something to do with Marta and Joyce, but before she could explain, she was whisked away for her therapy session. I went back again, but her dementia was worse and she could no longer remember what it was she was going to tell me.” Monica brushed some crumbs off the seat of a chair into her hand. “The aide said she had what they called sundowners.”
Greg nodded. “Yes, sundowners. They call it that because people with dementia often have increased symptoms in the evenings.” He began walking toward the back room, where he had a sink and refrigerator. “My aunt Clementine, my mother’s older sister, was afflicted with dementia and we used to visit her early in the day before the sundowners set in. She was terribly young when she was diagnosed.”
Monica was surprised that Greg hadn’t mentioned his aunt before. She realized there were still things she didn’t know about him.
“The good news,” Greg said over his shoulder, “is that people with dementia are usually better in the morning and afternoon. So your Mildred Visser might be able to explain what she meant about the incident with the girls in that photograph if you go see her earlier in the day.”
• • •
Monica was up by four a.m. She dressed in the dark and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. It was bitterly cold—a layer of frost caked the edges of the windows—and she dreaded the thought of going outside. But after a quick bowl of instant oatmeal, she put on her boots, jacket, hat, scarf and gloves and braced herself as she pulled open the back door.
The icy air seemed to make its way through her layers of clothing to her bare skin and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and hunching her shoulders against the wind.
She walked as fast as possible—there were still icy spots on the path to be beware of—and headed to the farm kitchen.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally pulled open the door and stepped inside. Kit had turned the heat down for the night, and even though the room was chilly, it felt warm in comparison to the outdoors. Monica shed her outer clothing and got down to work.
She tried to work quietly so as not to wake Kit, whom she assumed was still asleep in the storage room.
She was finishing up a batch of cranberry muffins with streusel topping when she felt a cold draft and looked up to see the door opening.
Kit came into the room in his usual good humor, his face ruddy from the cold.
“Oh,” Monica said. “I thought you were asleep in the storage room.” She gestured over her shoulder. “I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake you.”
“Good news,” Kit said as he yanked off his boots and exchanged them for a pair of clogs he kept by the door. “Sean and I moved into our new apartment. We were up half the night arranging furniture and hanging pictures. It’s smaller than we’re used to, but it’s quite cozy and I think we’re going to like it.”
“How wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
“As soon as we’re settled, we’d like to have you and Greg over for dinner. Although he doesn’t look like it, Sean is a good cook and makes a mean chicken Kiev. And not to blow my own horn”—Kit bowed his head—“but people have been known to say my chocolate volcano cakes are awesome.” He raised an eyebrow. “Their word, not mine.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if we could add cranberries to them and sell them in the shop?”
“It’s something to think about.”
Monica sprinkled the streusel topping on the last cranberry muffin and put them in the oven.
“I’ve made a good start on what we need for today.” She gestured toward the items lined up on the counter. “So I hope you don’t mind if I run an errand. We need some more cranberry banana bread if you wouldn’t mind working on that.”
Kit gave a brief salute. “Your wish is my command.” He smiled as Monica pulled on her jacket. “Stay warm out there.”
• • •
Monica had decided she would make another visit to Mildred Visser. Hopefully Greg was right and she would find her more coherent in the morning. She didn’t want to go empty-handed so she stopped in at Gumdrops to buy some candy to take.
“Hello, dear,” Gerda said in her tremulous voice when Monica arrived at the pastel pink candy shop on Beach Hollow Road. “What can we do for you today?”
“I need to take a gift of some candy to someone. What do you suggest?”
The beaded curtain to the back room rustled and Hennie walked out. She bustled over to Gerda.
“What are you looking for?”
Gerda gave her an exasperated look. “I’m managing just fine, thank you. Monica needs to take some candy to a friend and I’m helping her make a selection.” Gerda gave Monica a big smile. “Do you think she would like some hopje?”
“Hopje?”
“It’s a candy made with caramel, cream, butter and coffee.” She reached into the case. “Let me give you a sample.”
Monica unwrapped the piece of candy Gerda handed her and popped it into her mouth.
“Mmmm,” she said around the sticky candy. “I think these might be too hard for her to eat but they are delicious.”
Gerda frowned and then her face brightened. “Everyone likes licorice. Some of that, perhaps?”
“I think the King soft mints would be more appropriate, don’t you?” Hennie looked at Monica.
“Perhaps some of each?”
“Excellent,” Gerda declared with a side glance at her twin sister.
“You know who was in earlier?” Hennie said as she watched Gerda package up the candy. “Joyce Murphy. What an odd coincidence since you were showing me that photograph and asking me about her and Marta just yesterday.”
“She likes the Wilhelmina peppermints,” Gerda said.
Hennie shot her a look that clearly said that that was a completely irrelevant point.
“Anyway,” Hennie said with a sharp exhalation of breath, “poor Joyce is blaming herself for Marta’s death.”
Monica’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would she blame herself?”
Hennie leaned her elbows on the counter. “It seems poor Marta had recently developed a tremor in her hands.”
“It’s called an essential tremor,” Gerda interjected as she finished tying a ribbon on the package she had put together for Monica. “Our dear uncle Heinrik had it.”
“Yes,” Hennie said rather tersely. “He did.” She sighed again. “The tremor made it difficult for Marta to organize her pills herself. I imagine it would have been nearly impossible for her to get them in those little compartments if she couldn’t keep her hands steady.”
“It was very kind of Joyce to help her,” Gerda said.
“But why would Joyce blame herself for Marta’s death? Is she afraid she might have messed up the pills somehow?”
“No.” Hennie shook her head. “I guess she wasn’t able to get over to Marta’s when her pill caddy ran out and needed refilling. She’d already purchased a ticket to a church bus trip to Shipshewana in Indiana.”
“That’s where the Amish live,” Gerda interjected.
Hennie sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
“Apparently Marta filled the pill caddy herself and Joyce is afraid she might have made a mistake and accidentally put in too many of those pills. What are they called?”
“Beta blockers,” Gerda said. She looked quite proud of herself. “Marta was on atenolol. It slows your heartbeat, she told us.”
“Yes,” Hennie said, her lips in a thin line. “I imagine taking too many would leave you feeling very faint.”
Monica imagined Marta would have been feeling very faint if she’d taken too many of those pills. And that would have made it a lot easier to smother her.
“Joyce is beside herself, the poor dear,” Gerda said. “I can only imagine how she must be feeling.”
• • •
Monica was passing Twilight on her way to her car when she had a sudden memory of that man handing her the threatening note. She shivered. The experience had been very unsettling. He had looked familiar at the time but so far she had been unable to place him.
She had taken a few more steps when the answer hit her. The man who had handed her the note was the same fellow Dorothy at the food pantry had said had been pestering Marta.
She remembered his name now. Dorothy had called him Don.
She doubted that Don had had anything to do with the note itself. More likely he had been paid to hand it to Monica.
And if that was the case, maybe he could tell Monica who the person was who had offered him money to be the delivery boy.
Monica thought she knew where to find Don. Dorothy had said he was a regular at Flynn’s, and even if he wasn’t there now, he’d be bound to show up eventually.
She wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of visiting Flynn’s again—the floor was always sticky with spilled beer and the walls were imbued with old cigarette smoke—but she was determined to find out whether or not John Kuiper had been the author of that note.
She beeped her car open and got behind the wheel. It didn’t take long to get down to the harbor. The water churning under the bridge over the inlet looked dark and forbidding and thick ice had formed along the shore.
Monica found a parking space and walked up the hill to Flynn’s. She paused with her hand on the door handle but then finally pulled it open and went inside.
It was dark and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The bartender, who had a stained towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers, was pouring a beer for a man wearing an ill-fitting business suit. He barely glanced at Monica as she walked in.
She scanned the room, which was virtually empty, and spotted Don sitting at a table near the rear exit sign, which glowed red in the shadowy light. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, an empty glass on the table in front of him.
Monica walked over to him and cleared her throat. “What are you drinking?” she asked, pointing to the glass.
Don’s eyes flew open and he gave a broad smile.
“Looks like the young lady wants to buy me a drink. I don’t mind if I do. A whiskey, make it a double.” He winked at her.
Monica tried not to visibly cringe. She plunked Don’s empty glass on the bar and motioned for the bartender.
Monica thought he might have been surprised to see a woman in the bar but his expression suggested he was past being surprised by anything. He raised his eyebrows.
“A whiskey, please. A double.” Monica took a couple of bills out of her wallet and put them down on the bar.
The bartender placed a glass with a good measure of amber liquid in it in front of Monica and palmed the bills she’d put out.
“Change?” he said, raising his eyebrows again.
“Keep it.”
Monica carried the drink over to Don and put it in front of him. He’d closed his eyes again but opened them when he heard the clink of the glass on the table.
“Thanks,” he said.
His words were slurred and Monica was afraid he was going to fall asleep on her.
She sat down opposite him, careful not to touch the table, which looked as if it could use a good wipe, preferably with a disinfectant.
“You’re the person who bumped into me and handed me that note the other day when I was walking down Beach Hollow Road.”
Monica had decided not to frame it as a question but rather to put it to him as a statement.
A guarded look came over Don’s face. “So what if I did? No law against it, is there? I didn’t mean no harm.”
“All I want to know is who wrote the note and who asked you to deliver it?”
“I needed the money. You can’t blame me for that.” Don took a big gulp of his drink. “I don’t want no trouble,” he grumbled.
Monica made soothing noises. “You’re right, there’s nothing illegal about delivering a note. I’m not going to tell anyone. I only want to know who sent the note in the first place.”
“I don’t know his name,” Don said, more to his glass than to Monica.
“What did he look like?”
“What does anybody look like,” Don said, suddenly becoming philosophical.
Monica stifled a sigh of impatience. “Was he old or young? Tall or short? What color hair did he have? Can you tell me that at least?”
“He was well dressed. Probably middle-aged. Expensive coat, it looked real soft.”
So far he hadn’t said anything that didn’t make it sound as if John Kuiper had hired him to deliver that note.
“Hair?” Monica said again.
“Gray. More like silver.”
That sealed it. It was John Kuiper who was threatening her and Jeff.
But had he killed Marta? Monica could easily picture him putting a pillow over his sister’s face and smothering her. He didn’t appear to have a heart—something quite ironic in a heart surgeon.