Chapter 7

After lunch, Monica changed, washed her face and brushed her hair, and headed into town for her monthly book club meeting at Book ’Em. She’d debated going—she knew the talk would turn to the incident at Sassamanash Farm. She didn’t want to call it murder—not even in her own mind. It was a juicy story and the inhabitants of Cranberry Cove loved nothing more than a good dose of gossip to pass the time. No doubt the story had made the rounds by now.

Monica hoped that by attending book club, she could give those present the true story and possibly quash some of the rumors that were sure to be spreading around town already.

This month they had agreed to read Brat Farrar by Josephine Tey. Monica had enjoyed the book and was looking forward to a lively discussion.

She was a bit late, and the members of the book club were already seated in the slightly worn chairs Greg had pulled from all corners of his untidy store. Everyone looked up eagerly when they saw Monica come in.

Monica saw Hennie VanVelsen sitting in Greg’s mustard-colored corduroy armchair that had the springs bottoming out. She looked around but Gerda VanVelsen wasn’t there. She couldn’t recall ever having seen one twin without the other being nearby. She hoped Gerda wasn’t really sick this time.

Everyone had plates balanced on their laps with cookies, cake and other goodies Greg had set out at the back of the store on an old gateleg table. Monica helped herself to some coffee and two Dutch windmill cookies.

She slipped into a seat next to Phyllis Bouma, who worked part-time as a librarian. Everyone turned and looked at Monica expectantly.

They were all quiet, waiting patiently, until Phyllis gave an exasperated sigh and said to Monica, “Aren’t you going to fill us in on what happened out at Sassamanash Farm yesterday? Donald DeGroot was all agog when he came into the library to pick up the book he’d reserved on Abraham Lincoln. He said he passed a police car and an ambulance heading down the road to the farm. We were all praying nothing had happened to you or your brother.” She looked around the small group. “And since you’re here, I’m guessing the ambulance must have been for someone else.”

Monica glanced around Book ’Em with its crowded shelves and piles of books on every surface, buying time and trying to decide what to say. How much did everyone know already?

“There was an unfortunate accident,” Monica said finally, “while releasing the bees that are used to fertilize the cranberry flowers.”

That wasn’t strictly true, Monica thought. No one knew why the bees had been released, but she thought the story would suffice to satisfy everyone’s curiosity.

She was wrong.

Eleanor Mason, a retired schoolteacher with a wobbly gray bun loosely anchored to the back of her head, spoke up. “Who was hurt? How bad was it? Are they dead?”

The questions came at Monica like staccato gunfire. She took a deep breath.

“The young woman who works for Rick’s Bees—Lori Wenk—died, I’m afraid.” She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to have any more details wormed out of her. But she underestimated the women of Cranberry Cove.

Phyllis put a hand to her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “Lori works part-time at the library. I can’t believe it.” She looked around at the others. “I didn’t know her well, but it’s still a shock. Her poor mother.”

“Harriet Wenk might be too far gone to understand,” Eleanor said. “I know her from church—not well—but people have been saying that she’s suffering from dementia. I know Wilma Krondyke looked in on her just last week and said it’s getting worse.”

“It was an accident?” Phyllis asked. She gave Monica a shrewd look.

“Yes,” Monica said firmly. She thought about what Detective Stevens had said about the needle puncture that had turned up in the autopsy along with the ME’s suspicions about ricin—details she planned to keep to herself.

“And here I thought that boyfriend of hers had finally done her in,” Phyllis said, raising her unkempt gray eyebrows.”

“Him!” Hennie said, rolling her eyes.

“If she thought she was going to drag Dale Wheeler to the altar, she had another think coming,” Phyllis said. “All he wants out of life is to sit at the bar at Flynn’s and drink beer.”

“I hope this isn’t going to interfere with our Flag Day celebration,” Hennie said fretfully.

“I don’t see why it should,” Phyllis snapped.

“You never know,” Hennie said

While they’d been talking, Greg had been in the back room brewing another pot of coffee. He came out carrying the newly filled carafe.

“If anyone wants a refill, I’ve made a fresh pot,” he said, putting the coffee down on the table. He wheeled his desk chair to the head of the circle and sat down. “Shall we get down to our book discussion? Have you all had a chance to read Brat Farrar?”

Everyone’s head bobbed up and down in assent.

Monica had a hard time concentrating on the lively discussion that swirled around her. She was thinking about Lori and the comment Phyllis had made about Lori’s boyfriend, Dale. If this did turn out to be murder, he was a logical suspect.

But so was Rick. The thought flew unbidden into her mind.

Monica tried to turn her attention back to the discussion and felt guilty that she hadn’t contributed more. When it was over, and everyone had left, Greg put his arm around her.

“You don’t seem like yourself. Is everything okay?”

Monica smiled. Greg had a way of tuning into her feelings.

“Everything is fine. But I can’t help thinking about the accident.” She hesitated for a moment. “Which appears not to have been an accident at all.”

“You’re not serious?” Greg perched on the arm of the corduroy chair and stretched out his legs.

“Yes. Detective Stevens said that the autopsy uncovered a puncture mark from a hypodermic needle on Lori’s thigh, along with signs that suggested she’d been injected with ricin.”

“Ricin! This is beginning to sound more and more like an Agatha Christie novel.”

“Only much more real.” Monica frowned. “By the way, I noticed that Gerda wasn’t here today. I thought she and Hennie went everywhere together. Were they unable to get someone to mind the store for an hour?”

Greg’s expression was pained. “Gerda is in the hospital.”

“Oh, no!” Monica twisted a loose thread from her shirt around her finger. “I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“I don’t know. Hennie didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

•   •   •

Half an hour later, Monica left Book ’Em and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. The door to the Cranberry Cove Diner next door was propped open to the fresh summer breeze. The smell of something frying mixed with coffee brewing drifted out.

Monica hesitated then decided she would walk down to Gina’s shop. The air outside Making Scents carried the faint aroma of vanilla, lavender and citrus. The scent intensified as Monica pulled open the door and stepped inside.

Gina was behind the counter, organizing small glass bottles of essential oils. She smiled and leaned on the counter when she saw Monica.

“Has there been any more news about the death of that girl?” Gina asked. She picked up a bottle and spritzed some lavender oil into the air.

“Not really,” Monica said. “Have you heard anything? I know news travels quickly around town.”

“Not a thing. But guess who I met?”

Monica tried to come up with a possibility but failed. “I give up. Who?”

“The mysterious new occupant of that cottage on the road to the farm.”

“Did he live up to your expectations?” Monica remembered how avidly Gina had listened to Greg’s description of the man.

“He went well beyond,” Gina said. She fiddled with the links of her necklace. “Very good-looking.”

“Greg did make it sound as if he was attractive.”

Gina snorted. “You can never trust a man’s assessment of another man’s looks. Did I ever tell you about the time . . . well, that’s neither here nor there.”

“What is the man’s name again?”

“Xavier Cabot. Isn’t that romantic sounding? And with the looks to match. . . .” Gina sighed and leaned against the counter. “I’m determined to get him to ask me out.”

“And I have no doubt that you’ll succeed. I’ll look forward to learning more about Mr. Xavier Cabot.”

“How was your book club?”

Monica started to open her mouth then realized she’d barely been present during the book club discussion.

“I learned something interesting.”

Gina leaned farther over the counter. “Really?”

“Lori had a boyfriend named Dale Wheeler, according to Phyllis Bouma. And it sounded like Lori wanted to get married but he didn’t.”

“Lots of men don’t want to get married, but they don’t kill their girlfriends over it.”

“True. But maybe Dale had another reason for killing her,” Monica said. “She certainly can’t have had that much in the bank, so it couldn’t have been for money.”

Gina let her chin rest in her hand. “Have the police said anything more . . . ?”

Monica shook her head. She thought about what Nora had told her and guilt prickled at her skin like hives. She ought to tell Detective Stevens, but she didn’t want to betray Nora’s trust.

“At least this is one murder you won’t have to investigate,” Gina said with a laugh. “No one is accusing Jeff or me or your mother. We can leave the detective work to the police this time.”

Uneasiness washed over Monica. Didn’t she owe it to Nora to try to get some information at least? Nora had been such a huge help to her and Jeff.

“What?” Gina asked.

“Nothing,” Monica said sharply.

“Come on. It’s not nothing. I can tell by the look on your face.”

She really had to work on her poker face, Monica thought with dismay.

“You know Nora Taylor who works in the farm store?

Gina nodded.

“There’s reason to believe . . .” Monica tried to think of how to put it without revealing the confidences Nora had shared. “Nora is afraid the police will accuse her husband.”

Gina looked startled. “Why?”

“Let’s say they have their reasons.”

“Do be careful.” Gina put a hand on Monica’s arm. “Last time you almost . . .”

“I will, don’t worry. All I plan to do is ferret out some information if I can.”

“As long as you’re careful,” Gina said. She fiddled with three of the glass bottles, arranging and rearranging them. Finally she looked up. “Do you think Jeff has seemed—I don’t know—not quite himself these days?”

“How do you mean?” Monica thought back to the last time she’d talked to Jeff.

“Sort of down. I wonder if something is wrong?”

“I imagine his experience in Afghanistan is bound to haunt him at times. No amount of therapy can wipe out the horrible memories.”

“True,” Gina said briskly. “I’m probably worrying for nothing.

Monica agreed with her but made a mental note to pay more attention to Jeff the next time she was with him.