Chapter 14
“Are you sure?” Monica asked.
Even as she said it she knew it was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course Stevens was sure—autopsies didn’t lie. It was Arline who must have been wrong—she’d obviously read the pregnancy test incorrectly.
“I’m as sure as the ME is,” Stevens said. “Discerning a pregnancy during an autopsy is hardly rocket science. Or so I’m told.”
Monica went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea and refilled their glasses.
“Does Dale Wheeler have an alibi?”
“Not that he’s willing to admit to.” Stevens took the glass of iced tea from Monica. “I asked him where he was when the murder occurred and he said ‘nowhere.’” She sighed. “Which is impossible. He had to have been somewhere.” She took a sip of her tea. “It’s obvious he doesn’t want to say. He wasn’t working that day, so his pals at the garage can’t vouch for him, either. Which makes me suspect he was up to something he shouldn’t have been. Whether that was murder or not, we’ll see.”
Stevens wiped at the wet ring her glass had left on the table. “I’ve got someone looking into Mr. Wheeler’s background, but it’s slow going. We’ve got a couple of people on vacation so we’re short-staffed at the moment.” Steven’s cell phone buzzed and she glanced at the number before dropping it back in her purse. “Besides, Wheeler isn’t the only one on our radar.”
“Oh?”
“It seems more than one person had a beef with our victim.”
“Do you think the killer was trying to implicate someone? I mean by using the bees, stealing the beekeeping equipment. It seems as if they wanted to throw suspicion on Rick.”
Stevens scowled. “Criminals are rarely that intelligent.” She began to get up. “Thanks for the iced tea. And the sympathy.” She gave a wry smile. “If you learn anything new, you’ll let me know, right?”
To Monica, it sounded more like an order than a question.
• • •
Monica washed and dried the iced tea glasses—she’d run the dishwasher but didn’t feel like emptying it at the moment. She put the glasses away, hung up the dishtowel and topped off Mittens’s bowl of water. The kitten was napping under the kitchen table but began to stir when she heard the metallic ping as Monica bumped the faucet with her bowl.
Monica decided she’d walk down to the farm kitchen and store to make sure everything was okay and ready to be locked up for the night. She trusted Nora, but she didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
The sun was lower in the sky and the temperature had dropped slightly when Monica stepped outside. The air was cool against her face. The scent of freshly cut grass floated on the breeze, and the roar of mowers vibrated in the distance.
She passed the first bog on her left. It hummed with the activity of the bees as they flitted from one pale pink flower to the next. Jeff was a blur in the distance, still working even though it was after six o’clock.
Monica continued down the path until she reached the farm store. Nora was doing a final tidying up when Monica arrived. She spun around when she heard the door open.
“You gave me a fright,” she said, a hand to her chest.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I guess I’m a bit jumpy after what happened the other day.”
“I think that’s perfectly normal.” Monica smiled. She put a hand on Nora’s arm. “Has Rick said anything more about . . .”
Nora fiddled with the strings of her apron. “No. He still hasn’t told me where he was headed when he left here right before the . . . the . . . right before Lori was killed.”
Monica gave Nora a squeeze. “First,” she ticked it off on her fingers, “I’m sure it was something perfectly innocent, and second, there must be a way to find out.”
Nora’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so?” She gave a bitter laugh. “I might regret this if I find out he was meeting another woman.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” Monica said, praying she was right and that she hadn’t misjudged Rick.
“But how will we find out?” Nora straightened a stack of cranberry-embroidered tea towels. “He won’t talk to me about it.”
“Can you check his cell phone? See what calls he’s been making lately? Maybe he had an appointment of some sort.”
Nora looked doubtful, but then her face brightened. “I suppose I could. He leaves it on the table in the foyer when he comes in from work. He usually falls asleep in front of the television after dinner. I can check it then. He would never know.” She frowned. “Should I write the numbers down?”
“Yes. Later we can do a reverse lookup on the computer and find out who the numbers belong to.”
Nora reached out and squeezed Monica’s arm. “Thanks. Thanks for believing in me. And in Rick.”
Monica smiled. “Now you go on home. It’s late.”
Let’s hope we get good news, Monica thought to herself as she began to leave.
• • •
Monica had a small plot of land next to her cottage where she’d planted fresh herbs—dill, parsley, rosemary, thyme and basil. Jeff and one of his crew had dug the garden for her, arranging the sections of herbs like the spokes of a wheel, with a narrow brick path between each green triangle.
Monica had a batch of wax beans from the farmer’s market that she’d been meaning to turn into a pot of soup. She stopped on her way back into the house to pick a sizeable handful of fresh dill to add to it.
The soup was beginning to simmer when her back door opened and Jeff stuck his head in.
“Can I come in?”
“Do you have to ask?” Monica said with a cheeky grin.
She looked at Jeff but instead of seeing the mature, twenty-five-year-old man, she saw the ten-year-old boy with the dark red hair, cowlick and broken left arm in a sling. Jeff had matured but he’d managed to retain his boyish charm.
Jeff ambled into the kitchen and bent down to pet Mittens, who was rubbing up against his leg, meowing loudly.
“What smells so good?” He lifted the lid and peered into the pot on Monica’s stove.
“Bean soup with dill and freshly baked cornbread,” Monica said as she emptied the last of the clean dishes from the dishwasher. “Even thought it’s June, it’s still chilly enough at night out here for a warm bowl of soup to taste good.”
Jeff had such a hangdog look on his face that Monica had to laugh.
“And what are you having for dinner?” she teased, knowing full well that Jeff couldn’t do much more than fry an egg and that his evening meal usually consisted of something heated up in the microwave or picked up at one of the fast food places out by the highway.
Jeff heaved a dramatic sigh and scratched his head. “I have a couple of those microwaveable dinners in the freezer.” He stared longingly at the pot of soup. “Swedish meatballs, a chicken pot pie and turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes, I think.”
Monica couldn’t bear to tease him any longer.
“Stay for dinner. There’s plenty.” She gestured toward the stove.
Jeff’s face brightened immediately although Monica was pretty sure he knew she was playing with him and would have invited him to dinner in the end.
“There’s some cold beer in the fridge.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jeff opened the refrigerator, grabbed a cold can of beer, put the can between his knees and, using his good hand, popped it open.
As Monica ladled out bowls of steaming soup and cut slices of cornbread, she told Jeff about her encounter with Dale.
“I’m surprised. I’ve always thought Dale was a good guy.” Jeff bent his head over the bowl of soup and sniffed. “Ah, this smells delicious. Thanks, sis. I wasn’t really looking forward to that frozen pot pie.”
A man’s idea of a good guy and a woman’s could be vastly different, Monica realized. Men thought someone who paid for a round of drinks when it was his turn was a good guy. Women tended to have slightly higher criteria.
Monica was halfway through her bowl of soup when she decided to tackle the proverbial elephant in the room.
“Have you heard from Lauren?” she asked as lightly as possible.
Jeff dropped his spoon into his bowl, where it landed with a clatter and splashed soup onto his light blue work shirt. He scowled and rubbed at the spot with his napkin.
He glanced down at himself ruefully. “I guess one more spot doesn’t matter,” he said indicating some of the other stains on the well-worn shirt.
Monica realized she’d touched a nerve. Obviously he hadn’t heard from Lauren, or, if he had, the news wasn’t good.
“I think I can guess the answer to my question.”
Jeff sighed. “No, I haven’t heard from her. Now I’m getting worried.” He ducked his head in embarrassment. “I even called the Chicago police to see if there were any reports of—you know.”
“If anything bad has happened, I suspect her parents would have been notified by now, and they would have been in touch with you.”
Jeff bit his lip. “I don’t know. Her parents are farmers, too—mostly corn—but I think they wanted something better for Lauren than marriage to another farmer.”
“Come on,” Monica said, reaching for her glass of water, “I can’t imagine her parents not liking you.”
“Oh, I’m sure they like me. It’s more that they don’t want me marrying their daughter.” He scowled again. “And the way things are going, it doesn’t look as if they have anything to worry about.”
• • •
The sun was barely above the horizon when Monica unlocked the door to the farm kitchen the next morning. She wanted to get a head start on a new batch of cranberry salsa. An order had come in last night from Fresh Gourmet. They were expanding the number of stores that would be carrying the Sassamanash Farm product, and Monica certainly had her work cut out for her if she was going to deliver on time.
She felt a tingle of excitement as she flipped on the overhead lights. It looked as if their gamble was going to pay off after all. All that had been needed was a little faith . . . and an influx of cash from the bank, she reminded herself with a smile.
Arline would arrive in an hour. Monica was confident that Arline could tackle the muffins, scones and breads needed to stock the farm store for the day.
Monica was chopping the final batch of peppers, her eyes stinging slightly from the heat, when Arline arrived.
Arline’s dark, pixie-cut hair was still damp from her morning shower and her T-shirt clung to a wet splotch on her back. She was clutching a large travel mug.
“That smells good,” Monica said, pointing at Arline’s coffee. She’d been in such a hurry to get started, she hadn’t wanted to take the time to put a pot on for herself.
“Haven’t you had any?” Arline glanced at the coffee machine that sat clean and silent in the far corner of the counter. “Let me get some going for you.”
“That would be heavenly,” Monica said, stifling a yawn.
Arline laughed. “Looks like you need it.”
A few minutes later, when the gurgling from the coffeemaker stopped, Arline retrieved a mug from the cupboard, filled it and handed it to Monica.
“Down the hatch now,” she said with a smile.
Monica took a sip and closed her eyes in pretend rapture. “Heavenly. Exactly what I needed.”
Arline laughed and went back to the dough she was rolling out for scones.
Monica took another sip of her coffee and turned toward Arline.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” Monica said. “I spoke with Detective Stevens yesterday,”
“Yes?” Arline spun around to face Monica.
“She told me that according to the autopsy they performed, Lori wasn’t pregnant like we thought.”
“What?” Arline jerked and knocked a shaker of powdered sugar to the floor. She bent to pick it up.
“That’s what Detective Stevens said.”
Arline straightened up. “I must have read that pregnancy test strip wrong.” She smacked herself on the forehead. “I can be a little . . . dyslexic at times, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “Maybe the test belonged to someone else? I don’t think Mrs. Wenk. . . .”
Monica’s laugh cut her off. “I doubt it!”
“I suppose it could have been a girlfriend’s. Maybe she didn’t want to take the test at home . . . in case her parents or her boyfriend . . .”
“True,” Monica said. “That’s possible.” She went back to mixing the salsa. “No harm done. I thought you might want to know.”