Chapter 20

Monica noticed traffic had increased on Beach Hollow Road and more people than usual crowded the sidewalk as she drove back toward the center of town. Flag Day was the unofficial start of the summer tourist season in Cranberry Cove and soon the cash registers would be ringing, the restaurants would be full and men and women in boat shoes would be relaxing with drinks on the deck of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club.

Monica glanced at the clock on her dashboard. She had time to make a trip to the bank before it closed. Nora had said that they were running low on change at the farm store.

The bank was a few blocks removed from the main part of town. It was a small brick building with pillars flanking the front door and only two teller windows and a walk-up cash machine. The fluted white pillars always made Monica smile, as if someone had been attempting to dress it up—they looked like fancy trim on a plain cotton shift.

The bank was rarely busy so Monica was surprised to see several people lined up along the velvet rope that separated them from the tellers’ windows and provided those doing their banking with a modicum of privacy.

She took her place behind a young woman in her twenties who was wearing very short cutoffs, rubber flip-flops and a T-shirt with a deep V-neck. Every few seconds she gave an impatient sigh as she checked the texts on her cell phone.

Monica assumed she was a tourist used to the fast pace of a larger city and wasn’t accustomed to waiting in line at the bank—especially when the two elderly tellers moved at a snail’s pace, wetting their finger and carefully counting out the money two or three times before handing it over.

Monica was thinking about Mauricio and Charlie when she heard a raised voice. She glanced toward one of the windows where a woman was standing, her back to the waiting customers. Something about her was familiar. Monica recognized the short gray hair but at first she couldn’t place its owner.

The woman turned to the side, gesturing frantically, and Monica realized it was Mrs. Wenk. Her voice was loud and was getting even louder and had a plaintive edge to it.

“I should have money in my account. What are you telling me?” Mrs. Wenk leaned closer to the teller as if that would help the teller to understand.

Monica couldn’t hear the teller’s response—only Mrs. Wenk’s querulous voice—as she continued to argue.

“But I can’t be overdrawn. My social security check should be in my account,” she said, her tone pleading.

Monica wasn’t sure what to do. It was obvious that Mrs. Wenk was in distress, and from Monica’s previous encounters with her, she knew that Mrs. Wenk was easily confused. She hesitated for a few more seconds and then stepped forward, going up to Mrs. Wenk and gently touching her on the arm.

“Perhaps I can help.”

Mrs. Wenk’s face brightened. “Would you, dear? That would be wonderful.” She tilted her head to one side. “You look familiar.”

“I knew your daughter, Lori,” Monica said.

“Yes, of course—Lori. She should be home any day now.” She smiled at Monica.

Monica didn’t have the heart to correct her. At least her memory loss was protecting her against the harsh reality that she’d lost her daughter. Maybe in this case it was for the best.

Monica leaned across the counter toward the teller. The women’s posture was ramrod straight, her mouth set in a tight line and her thinning brown hair sprayed into place.

“What seems to be the problem?” Monica asked.

The woman hesitated, her fingers plucking at the pearl buttons on her long-sleeved lace blouse.

“We’re not supposed to reveal information about our customers.” Her face took on a brighter look. “Unless your name is on the account.” She looked at Monica expectantly.

“I’m afraid it isn’t.” Monica held out both hands. “I’m not asking you to reveal anything, but surely it’s okay if Mrs. Wenk doesn’t mind. I only want to help.”

The woman continued to fuss with the buttons on her blouse, her mouth working.

“I don’t know. We have rules, you know.”

“I realize that,” Monica said with as much patience as she could muster.

The woman lowered her hands, and they hovered over her computer keyboard for a few seconds before she began clicking the keys. She frowned at the screen and looked at Mrs. Wenk.

“You withdrew all the money from your account last week.” She tapped the monitor with a bony finger. She looked at Monica. “I suspect she’s forgotten.”

Mrs. Wenk twisted her plain gold wedding band around and around on her finger. “I didn’t take the money out. I didn’t come to the bank last week. I would remember.”

“Would you, dear?” the teller asked.

Monica felt her neck stiffen. The teller had no need to be so snarky to the poor woman just because she was a little befuddled.

“If you didn’t take it out yourself,” the clerk said, her pointed nose still in the air, “then you must have given someone else permission to do it for you.” She clicked off the screen on her computer and folded her hands on the counter as if to say that was that. “Because the money isn’t there, and that’s all I can tell you.”

•   •   •

Monica felt a thrill of anticipation as she waited for Greg to pick her up. She was looking forward to a good dinner and Greg’s warm and interesting companionship.

She’d taken extra care with her hair—fumbling with the new blow dryer she’d purchased at the drugstore—and had spent more time than usual in her closet choosing an outfit.

Finally she was standing in the living room in her coat, looking out the window, waiting for Greg to pull up.

Right on the dot of six forty-five, she heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway. Monica smiled. She appreciated when people were on time.

Monica gave Mittens a final scratch under the chin, checked her hair in the mirror in the foyer and headed out. Greg immediately ran around to the passenger side of the car to open the door.

“You look lovely tonight,” Greg said as he put the car in drive.

Monica felt a blush color her face and was glad Greg’s eyes were on the road.

The drive into town was quick, and they managed to secure a parking spot a few doors away from the Pepper Pot. Greg took Monica’s arm as they strolled down the sidewalk. A light breeze blew in off the lake and Monica caught a whiff of the spicy scent of the geraniums in the planters hanging from the light posts.

Enticing smells wafted from the restaurant as soon as Greg pulled open the door to the Pepper Pot. Monica recognized notes of garlic, onions and herbs, and her mouth watered.

Greg looked around the crowded room. “Good thing I made a reservation.”

“I think summer tourist season is almost in full swing.”

“You’re probably right.”

“If you’ll come this way, please.” A hostess in a long, gauzy white skirt and tangerine top breezed up to the podium and grabbed two large, leather-bound menus.

They followed her through the wood-paneled room, skirting occupied tables, dessert carts and bussing stations overflowing with dishes headed for the kitchen.

“Here you are.” She pulled a chair out for Monica and handed them the menus.

Before opening hers, Monica looked around. A planter with a silk flower arrangement sat on the grate of the stone fireplace that reached to the wooden beamed ceiling. Most of the tables were occupied, lit by small lamps that lent a rosy glow to the room.

A waiter appeared at their table. “What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, please,” Monica said.

Greg ordered a Scotch and soda, and the waitress headed off to fill their order.

Unlike the Cranberry Cove Inn, where the waitstaff wore formalwear, the servers at the Pepper Pot wore black shirts and pants and tan canvas bib aprons with Bon Appetit written on them in red script. Monica knew the owner had wanted to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere that would complement the menu, which consisted of elegant takes on hearty fare like chicken pot pies with a puff pastry crust, meatloaf with a balsamic glaze and macaroni and cheese embellished with chunks of lobster.

The waitress appeared with their drinks and set them down on the table.

“Here’s to a bright future,” Greg said, taking a drink of his Scotch.

Monica took a sip of her wine and breathed in the delicious smells. She felt her shoulders slowly relax.

“This is just what the doctor ordered,” Monica said.

Greg looked up from his menu, his eyebrows drawn. “This murder is getting you down, isn’t it?”

Monica ran her finger around and around the rim of her glass. “It is casting a shadow over things.”

“What are your thoughts so far?”

“My thoughts are in a jumble, to tell you the truth. I was convinced the culprit was Lori’s boyfriend, but he has an alibi. Of sorts. I suppose he could have convinced the bartender at Flynn’s to lie for him. But then why wouldn’t he tell the police where he was?” She paused and took a sip of her wine. “That leaves Nora, who works in the farm store, or her husband Rick. They both seem like nice people.”

“Nice people sometimes do surprising things when cornered. And it sounds like Rick, at least, was cornered by the victim.”

Monica didn’t want to believe that. She fiddled with the edge of her cocktail napkin. “Then there’s Charlie Decker. Mauricio gives her an alibi, but he would, wouldn’t he?”

Greg nodded. “Tit for tat, I guess.”

Monica was about to open her menu when she heard someone calling her.

“Yoo-hoo, Monica!”

Monica swiveled around in her seat to see Gina making her way toward them through the crowded tables. She was wearing what could only be described as a bandage dress with stiletto-heeled sandals. She had Xavier Cabot by the hand and was dragging him along behind her. Xavier was wearing a black polo shirt with a sport coat over it and had a look of bemusement on his face.

“This is wonderful,” Gina said when she reached their table. “We don’t have a reservation, and they said it’s going to be an hour wait.” She feigned a pout. “You know how I hate to wait. But now we can sit with you.”

“There’s not much room. . . .” Monica began but Gina had already signaled to the waitress who was bearing down on them, a concerned look on her face.

“Can you bring us two more chairs? We’d like to join our friends.”

The waitress bit her lip, opened her mouth and then closed it again. She obviously recognized that there was no point in arguing with Gina.

“Monica, you know Xavier,” Gina said when they were finally all crowded around the small table. “And Greg?” Gina put her hand over Xavier’s.

“Yes, we’ve certainly met.” Xavier raked a hand through his thick gray hair. “He’s helped me track down some volumes that have been invaluable in my research.”

Gina put her arm around Xavier’s waist and drew him toward her. “Xavier is so intellectual, don’t you think?” She cupped a hand under his chin and smiled at him.

Monica took a deep breath and exhaled quietly. She’d been looking forward to dinner with Greg—just the two of them. She glanced in his direction to see how he was taking the intrusion. He didn’t look as if he minded, but Monica knew his innate good manners would prevent him from showing any signs of irritation.

Gina flagged down the waitress as she flew past their table. She turned to Xavier when the waitress came to a halt by their side. “What would you like to drink?”

Xavier turned an appreciative glance on the waitress whose Pepper Pot apron couldn’t disguise her ample curves. “What single malts do you have?”

“We have Macallan.”

Xavier stroked his beard. “I’ll have that.”

“Water or soda?”

“Neat, please.”

The waitress made a note on her pad and turned to Gina, her eyebrows raised.

“A glass of champagne, please. Veuve Clicquot, if you have it.”

“We only sell that by the bottle.”

Gina waved a hand in the air. “Fine. Bring the whole bottle then.” She turned in her chair. “And four glasses,” she called to the retreating waitress. She swiveled back toward the table. “Isn’t this cozy?” She linked her arm through Xavier’s.

Monica hoped her smile didn’t look too forced.

“Tell us about your book,” Greg said to Xavier. “Which shipwreck are you researching at the moment?”

“Several, actually.” Xavier put his hands behind his head and tilted his chair back slightly. “Six boats went down in the Armistice Day Blizzard of 1940. Three of these have already been well documented—the SS Anna C. Minch, the SS William B. Davock and the SS Novadoc. Two smaller ships were also lost between Little Sable Point and Pentwater.”

The waitress reappeared with Xavier’s drink, a silver bucket of ice with a champagne bottle sticking out of the top and four champagne flutes. She deftly uncorked the champagne, which gave a satisfying pop, and poured Gina a glass. She glanced at Monica, who was nearly finished with her chardonnay. Monica nodded and the waitress poured her a glass of the bubbly. She held the bottle out toward Greg, but he was still nursing his scotch and soda.

“I’ve read about the Armistice Blizzard of 1940,” Greg said when the waitress moved away. “The temperatures were unseasonably warm—into the sixties that afternoon. But then they dropped precipitously.”

“The perfect atmospheric conditions for a big storm,” Xavier said, taking a sip of his whiskey and leaning back in his chair. “The blizzard that ravaged the Midwest. Two ships lost all hands but some of the crew from the SS Novadoc were rescued by an intrepid fisherman named Clyde Cross.” Xavier chuckled. “Some called him a hero and others called him crazy. No matter. He saved quite a number of lives that night.”

“Do we want to order?” Gina said. She’d been perusing her menu while Xavier was talking.

They quickly decided what they wanted, Monica settling on the chicken potpie, although it had been tough to choose between that and the beef stew.

“You mentioned a sixth ship,” Greg said when the waitress had finished taking their order.

Xavier leaned toward Greg. “It was a smaller ship and much less is known about it. It was called the SS Pegasus. She was carrying a load of hardwood lumber to Chicago. I’ve unearthed a couple of interesting facts.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. Xavier took a deep breath as he launched into the story.

“It seems that one of the sailors on board, Patrick Boudreaux, had had a run-in with another member of the crew, a young man by the name of Jacob Spindler. Some notes about their set-to were found in a journal one of the sailors had been keeping but which he’d left behind on this particular voyage—thus it survived. A fellow at the Michigan Shipwreck Research Association has been most helpful.”

Xavier paused and took a sip of his Scotch. Gina leaned over and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead.

“It was about a woman, of course. Most of these things are.”

Monica started to protest, but Xavier continued on.

“It’s conjectured that Patrick, who had been seen near the telegraph machine on board the Pegasus, intercepted a telegram warning the captain of the raging blizzard. Again, this is all conjecture, but it is thought that instead of delivering the correct message, Patrick told the captain that it was safe to embark—the storm was letting up—consequently sending the ship directly into the eye of the storm.”

“But wasn’t he putting his own life in danger?” Monica asked.

“That’s the interesting part—and the reason this story has been put forward. A crew member from another ship saw Patrick standing on the dock as the ship pulled away. And records indicate that a Patrick Boudreaux lived a long and healthy life, dying in 1998 at the age of eighty-six.”