Chapter 17

Arline was giving the farm kitchen a final cleaning when Monica arrived, slightly breathless. She knew Arline would be waiting for her. She opened the door to the smell of disinfectant in the air and all the stainless steel appliances gleaming brightly.

“I’m sorry you had to do that all by yourself,” Monica said, noting the martyred look on Arline’s face. “I got held up, I’m afraid.”

“No problem. I’m glad to be of help.” Arline wrung her sponge out in the sink. “I saw the police were here again. I hope they didn’t find another dead body.” Arline gave a bark of laughter.

“Nothing like that, thank goodness. They found Lori’s beekeeping hat.”

“Imagine that,” Arline said as she pulled off a length of paper toweling and dried her hands. “That was lucky. It couldn’t have been easy with Sassamanash Farm being so big.”

Monica explained about Jeff and his crew cleaning the ditches. “I suppose they were lucky, as you said. It could have been easily missed.”

“I wonder if the hat will tell the police anything?” Arline took a sample-sized bottle of hand cream from her purse and squeezed a dab onto her palm.

“I don’t know,” Monica admitted. “Maybe there will be some trace of DNA? From a stray hair or something?”

“I always thought that only happened on those television shows,” Arline said, returning the tube of hand cream to her purse. “I still wonder if it wasn’t that Dale Wheeler who did it. Dale felt cornered by Lori and her insistence that he marry her. And you know how savagely a cornered animal will fight.”

“You’ve met him,” Monica said. “Did you get the impression he might be dangerous? He certainly scared me.”

Arline ran a hand through her short dark hair. “There was something unsettling about him, although I can’t put my finger on exactly what it was. Maybe it was because he had a drinking problem.”

“What?” Monica whirled around. “How do you know? Did Lori tell you that?”

For a brief moment Monica wondered if Arline wasn’t fabricating things to make them sound more dramatic than they really were.

“He had one of those Breathalyzer thingies in his car. I saw it when he picked Lori up one time. You know—you have to blow into it and the car won’t start if it senses you’ve been drinking.”

“Why would someone have one of those—”

Arline laughed. “Well you can be pretty sure no one would willingly install one of those Breathalyzers themselves.”

Arline brushed at a spot on her T-shirt. Monica feared it was juice from a cranberry and not likely to come out in the wash.

“Usually people have to install them as part of a deal with the courts when they’ve been hit with a DUI.”

“Oh,” Monica said. That did make it sound as if Dale had a drinking problem. Had he been drinking when he killed Lori?

•   •   •

Monica couldn’t wait to get back to her cottage and her computer. Once she did, Mittens seemed determined to thwart her efforts—strolling across Monica’s keyboard, her tail swishing back and forth under Monica’s nose.

Monica gave Mittens a kiss and put her down on the floor. Seconds later, Mittens was on the table again, batting at Monica’s Q key. Monica was about to put her down again when Mittens became bored of the game and dashed off to chase a tumbleweed of cat fur being blown across the floor by a breeze coming in the window.

Monica went to her favorite search engine and put in Dale Wheeler’s name. Some of the results weren’t relevant—like the obituary for a Dale Wheeler in West Virginia who died twenty-three years ago. She scrolled through the entries, wondering if she was wasting her time, when she came to a link to a newspaper story.

The story was brief and contained few details, but there was enough information for Monica to glean that her Dale Wheeler had been arrested for drunk driving. He looked younger in the grainy picture that accompanied the article, but it was definitely the Dale Wheeler who worked at Peck’s Garage and who had been dating Lori Wenk.

Monica went back to the search engine and put in Dale’s name again, only this time she added the date of his DUI. A new list of results popped up when she hit enter. At the top of the list was a link to another news story. Monica clicked on it and was taken to a story from the local paper. This report was about Dale’s trial and subsequent sentencing. Apparently a man had died in the crash that Dale had caused. His attorney was obviously very adept because Dale got away with several years’ probation and was restricted from using or being around alcohol for the duration of his sentence. It was also stipulated that a Breathalyzer be installed in his car.

Had Dale been out drinking when Lori was killed and that was why he couldn’t give the police an alibi? Monica remembered something the receptionist at the garage had said—about Dale being a regular down at Flynn’s. Of course it would do nothing to help Nora or Rick if Dale turned out to be innocent.

Monica bit her lip. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She had nothing against Dale but she could picture him as a murderer far more easily than either of the Taylors.

Maybe the bartender would remember if Dale had been at the bar when Lori was killed.

Monica did not relish the thought of another trip to Flynn’s bar. She’d been there once before—in the interests of chasing down a clue—and the experience hadn’t been particularly pleasant. Flynn’s was located by the harbor, down a dark, seedy alley. She certainly wasn’t going to go there alone. The thought made her shiver. Maybe Gina would be up for an adventure—she usually was.

Gina was closing up Making Scents when Monica called her. She was more than thrilled to join Monica on a trip to Flynn’s as soon as she’d gone up to her apartment and changed.

Monica suspected that Gina’s attire was fine the way it was, given that the male patrons of the bar were usually in jeans with flannel shirts in the winter and stained T-shirts with risqué sayings on them in the summer. But Gina never missed an opportunity to dress up if there was even the remotest possibility of meeting a man. Monica didn’t think she’d find any likely candidates at Flynn’s, but as Gina always said, you never know.

Back at her house, Monica gave a quick glance in the mirror and was pleased to see that her new smooth hairdo still looked good. She ran a brush through it, washed her face and hands, dabbed on some lip balm and was ready.

A well-tuned roar—far different from the dissonant sounds Monica’s Focus made as it chugged along—announced Gina’s arrival half an hour later as she flew down Monica’s driveway and brought her Mercedes to a halt inches from the garage door.

“Oh,” was all Monica could say when she opened the front door.

Gina’s expensively highlighted blond hair was in a casual updo that was almost more down than up, giving the impression she had just rolled out of bed. Thick applications of eyeliner and mascara made her eyes look heavy and sleepy. To continue the illusion, her sundress was more negligee than dress, with a wispy handkerchief hem that ended a good few inches above her knees.

If Gina was dressing like this for Flynn’s, where she already knew she wasn’t going to meet any eligible men, Monica couldn’t help but wonder how she dressed when she was really on the prowl.

Scenery sped by at an alarming rate as Gina shot down the hill toward the town of Cranberry Cove. She negotiated the turn onto the bridge by the harbor on two wheels, causing Monica to hold on for dear life. As much as she was dreading the visit to Flynn’s, Monica was relieved when they pulled up outside its windowless front door.

“Is this a parking space?” Monica glanced at the lines painted on the street, her eyebrows raised in concern.

“Probably not, but it will do,” Gina said. “I don’t want to walk too far. The night air is getting damp, and it will ruin my hairdo.”

Monica put a hand to her own hair.

Gina must have noticed the gesture. “Your hair looks great, by the way. You ought to wear it that way more often.”

Sure, Monica thought. But first she’d have to get on a first name basis with a blow dryer. Not to mention set her alarm clock earlier so she would have time to wrestle with the thing.

Gina pulled open the door to Flynn’s and paused at the entrance. Monica couldn’t tell whether she was assessing the situation or waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Flynn’s hadn’t changed since the last time Monica had been there. It certainly hadn’t changed for the better. It smelled of spilled beer and industrial disinfectant—an unsavory combination.

It was fairly crowded. The men must have escaped from home as soon as the empty dinner dishes were whisked off the table. Most of them chose the stools lining the bar but a few sat at tables by themselves, tilting their chairs back along with their glasses. Two men were throwing darts at a board pockmarked with holes.

The bartender flicked his eyes over Gina and Monica then went back to polishing the glass in his hand with a dingy looking rag.

Gina sidled up to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye. He ambled over to her, still polishing the same glass.

“Listen, I don’t want no trouble,” he said, his eyes on Gina.

“Trouble?”

“With the cops. You know what I mean. I’d rather you ladies took your business outside.”

At first Monica couldn’t imagine what he meant, but then it dawned on her. She tugged at Gina’s arm and whispered in her ear.

“He thinks we’re ladies of the night.”

“Wherever did you pick up that quaint expression?” Gina said sourly as she gave the bartender a look that stopped him in his tracks.

“I’m going to ignore that remark,” Gina said imperiously. “We’re here to ask you a question.”

The bartender looked momentarily nonplussed but quickly regained his composure. He put the glass down on the bar and leaned his elbows on either side of it.

“Shoot.”

Gina looked at Monica.

Monica cleared her throat. “Do you know Dale Wheeler? He works at Peck’s Garage right outside of town.”

The bartender gave a laugh that ended in a wheeze. “Sure I do. He’s a regular. Or he used to be before he got nailed with that DUI.”

Monica’s ears perked up. “So he hasn’t been in recently?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” The bartender smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “He gets his buddies to drop him off by the back door—down that alley over there.” He pointed toward the wall of the bar. “That way his probation officer—nasty fellow always looking to catch Dale out—will be none the wiser if he spends the occasional night or afternoon knocking back a few with the guys.”

“Do you happen to know if he was here on Monday, June 21?” Monica asked.

“That was this Monday, right?” He frowned.

“Yes.”

“I think so.” He rubbed his chin. “Monday, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Let me check something. Give me a minute, okay?”

The bartender ambled off, leaving the polished glass behind on the bar. He disappeared through an archway into a back room.

One of the men playing darts began to walk in Monica and Gina’s direction, but Gina shot him a look and he shrugged, turned around and rejoined his buddies.

“What’s taking him so long?” Gina complained, one eye on her watch, the other on the men playing darts.

The bartender finally reappeared. “Yup,” he said, as he reached Monica and Gina. “Dale was in that morning.”

“Awfully early to be drinking,” Monica said.

The bartender laughed. “I could stay open all day and all night and still have customers.”

“How can you be so sure Dale was here on that particular morning? You must get a lot of people through here in a week.”

“It’s like this, see.” The bartender leaned on the bar, and Monica pulled back, away from his sour breath. “I had a delivery of beer. I’ve been having trouble with my back lately,” he put a hand to his lower back, “and Dale gave me a hand with the boxes. So, yeah, he was here late Monday morning.”