Chapter 5

 

Once again, Monica said goodbye to Mittens and headed back to the farm kitchen. They’d just received a large order from Fresh Gourmet for their cranberry salsa. She would have her work cut out for her getting it all done in time.

Monica was pleased when she managed to get all the containers of salsa ready by later that afternoon. She’d even made a few extra to take down to the farm store since Nora had warned her that they were almost out.

Monica retrieved her straw baskets from the shelf, filled them, checked to be sure the stove and oven were off, and headed out the door. The farm store was on the other side of the processing building—a wooden shingled structure with a small parking lot out front for customers.

The scent of baked goods wafted toward Monica when she opened the door and the bell overhead jingled jauntily as she walked inside. Nora was behind the counter arranging a pyramid of jars of cranberry compote next to the cash register.

Monica noticed that a few more strands of gray were woven through Nora’s dark hair and that the fine lines around her eyes were more visible.

“Oh, hello, there,” Nora said as she balanced the last jar of compote atop her pyramid. “What have you brought me? We’re almost out of muffins, scones, bread and . . . well, almost everything really. Good thing I put aside the half dozen scones I wanted earlier this morning.”

Nora leaned her elbows on the counter. “My mother-in-law is coming for a visit.” She rolled her eyes and Monica laughed. “She spent a month in England recently and has become quite fond of afternoon tea. She thinks she’s the queen now. Your delicious cranberry scones will be the perfect accompaniment.”

“Good thing it’s almost closing time. It’s too late to do any more baking,” Monica said, glancing at the clock on the wall in back of her. “I have brought you some salsa though.” She put her basket on the counter. “And Kit and I will be cranking up the oven early tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks.” Nora gathered a handful of containers and began stocking them in the refrigerated glass case next to the counter.

“How are the kids?” Monica took the last cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookie from the case. She broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

Nora turned around to face Monica, her hands on her hips. “Right now I’m ready to sell Kevin to the highest bidder.”

“Why? What did he do?”

Monica knew that Nora’s kids were basically good boys but that they had a penchant for getting into scrapes.

Nora sighed loudly and blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “He was in the yard practicing his pitching, and even though I told him to be careful, did he listen? Of course not. He broke our neighbor’s window. Old Mr. VanVliet is cranky enough as it is. He’s always complaining—the children are making too much noise, why is Rick mowing the lawn on a Sunday—you know the sort of thing. At least now he has something he can really sink his teeth into.”

Monica thought about what Nora had said about her neighbor as she walked back toward her cottage. Andrea had mentioned a disagreement between her husband and their neighbor. Maybe she should talk to the Laszlos’ neighbor and find out what their disagreement had been about. It might have been over something relatively minor—much like cranky old Mr. VanVliet’s broken window.

Then again, it might have been something serious enough to lead to murder.

 

• • •

 

As soon as Monica got back to her cottage, she phoned Andrea to get her address and clarify exactly where Nelson Holt lived. She had no idea what she was going to say to Holt when she got there—she hoped he was like most people who, when asked a direct question, tended to answer whether or not it was any business of the questioner. Certainly she had no official standing to be investigating Laszlo’s death, and she would have stayed completely out of it if it hadn’t been for Andrea asking for her help.

The Laszlos’ house was large and spacious with a perfectly manicured front lawn, but the Holts’ house was even bigger, with a vaulted arch over the front door and elaborate flower beds surrounding the house and lining the driveway.

It was with some trepidation that Monica knocked on the Holts’ door. She half expected to have them slam it in her face, and she actually winced when someone finally answered her knock.

“What can I do for you?” the woman answering the door said. “I hope you’re not selling anything.”

She was in her forties with dyed reddish blond hair past her shoulders and was wearing yoga pants and a hot pink tank top along with diamond stud earrings the size of headlights. She smelled of perfume and stale booze and had a cigarette dangling from the fingers of her left hand.

“I’m here to see Mr. Holt. I’m a friend of his neighbor, Andrea Laszlo.” Monica jerked her head in the direction of the house next door.

The woman turned her head and yelled, “Nelson.” She motioned to Monica. “You might as well come in.”

A man’s voice came from the other room. “Is it really necessary, darling? I’m in the midst of something terribly important.”

The woman rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes. “Someone is here to see you.”

“Who is it? Can’t it wait?”

A man came out of the other room. He carried himself with an air that made it clear he was used to getting his own way. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, clean and pressed khakis and an open-necked shirt. His dark, thinning hair was brushed back from his high forehead, and the lines on his face suggested that his scowl was very nearly permanent.

Monica was sorely tempted to turn tail and run, but she held her ground.

The woman turned to Monica and held out her hand. “I’m Mitzi, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Monica Albertson.”

Mitzi led them into a wood-paneled room that appeared to be her husband’s study. It was book-lined with a large partner’s desk covered in papers. Holt collapsed into a quilted black leather chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Monica took a seat on the matching chesterfield sofa and Mitzi perched on the arm.

Holt uncrossed his arms, shot his cuffs and glared at Monica. “I hope you’re not selling anything.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Monica hastened to reassure him. “I’m a friend of the Laszlos next door.”

“Shame about Bruce,” Mitzi said, leaning forward to put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table.

Holt shot her an indignant look. “A shame?” he sputtered, his face beginning to turn red.

Mitzi shrugged and ignored her husband.

“You and Laszlo didn’t get along?” Monica said.

“Hardly. Do you have any idea what that man did?”

Monica shook her head.

“He put a fence up around that ghastly house of his and he put it over my property line!”

“The surveyor said—” Mitzi began before she was interrupted.

“I don’t care what the surveyor said. I had a survey done when we bought this house, and I know perfectly well where our property line is. And Laszlo’s fence is on the wrong side of it.”

His face was very red now and there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“Not only that, but you’re meant to put the attractive side of the fence facing out, so that’s what your neighbors see, and he didn’t. The cad had them put it up the other way around. When I confronted him about it, he said it was too late to change it.” Holt blew air out of his nose in a way that reminded Monica of a bull before it charges the red cape.

“We had a huge row about it. He refused to listen to reason. We very nearly came to blows over it.”

“So you were very angry with him.” Monica leaned forward slightly.

Holt pulled back. “What are you getting at?” His voice got louder and his face even redder. “You’re not trying to say I killed him?”

Mitzi turned and looked at her husband. “Well, did you, darling?” she said coolly.

 

• • •

 

On her way back from the Holts’, Monica decided to stop at Bart’s Butcher Shop to pick up a steak for dinner. She ought to still be able to find some juicy late summer tomatoes at the farmer’s market for a salad. And maybe a bottle of champagne? Why not, she decided. She and Greg would be having their first dinner in her cottage as a married couple.

Monica hummed as she drove down Beach Hollow Road. The lowering sun glanced off the pastel-colored hues of the buildings. Monica passed the pale pink front of Gumdrops and thought she saw the lace curtain behind the window display twitch ever so slightly. She smiled. Neither Hennie nor Gerda could bear to let anyone go by without their knowing about it.

A dusty red pickup truck was backing out of a space in front of Bart’s Butcher. Monica thought she recognized Dusty Mason at the wheel—she worked part-time filling in at the Cranberry Cove Diner during the rush. Monica waited, then pulled into the empty spot herself.

The bell tinkled when she opened the door to Bart’s. Bart was behind the counter, wearing a large white butcher’s apron with rust-colored smears on it and whistling tunelessly as he arranged the last few pork chops on a tray in the old-fashioned glass-fronted case.

“How’s the new bride?” he said and smiled when he looked up.

Monica felt herself blushing a little. She still found it hard to think of herself as a new bride.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to make a special dinner for your man tonight,” Bart said with a sly look. He pulled a platter of NY strips from the case. “Look at these beauties. Would one of these do?”

“They’d do admirably,” Monica said, eyeing the plump, well-marbled steaks.

Bart pointed to one. “This ought to do the two of you.” He held it up so Monica could see.

“Perfect.”

Bart pulled a length of brown butcher paper from the roll on the counter and began wrapping the steak.

“That was quite a lovely do the other day. I never thought I’d see myself sipping champagne at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club. I’ll be dining out on that for a couple of years.”

He grinned, showing strong yellowed teeth. They made Monica think of a horse’s mouth and she had to stifle a giggle.

She didn’t know what had come over her lately. She was as giddy as a teenager and everything made her want to laugh.

“I was surprised to see that Laszlo fellow there,” Bart said as he tied a piece of string around the carefully wrapped parcel.

“Do you know him?” Monica was surprised. It didn’t seem likely that the two would have crossed paths.

“I don’t actually know him.” Bart slid the wrapped steak into a white paper bag with Bart’s Butcher on the front in black lettering. “His missus used to come into the store all the time. They were good customers, always wanting the best. I imagine they entertained a lot because she thought nothing of ordering a whole butterflied leg of lamb or a five-pound standing rib roast. A bit much for just the two of them, wouldn’t you think? Especially her being as thin as wallpaper, as my grandmother used to say.”

Bart handed Monica the paper bag. “I was surprised when she suddenly stopped coming in.” He grabbed a rag and wiped down the counter. “Then all of a sudden here’s this other lady coming in calling herself Mrs. Laszlo.”

“Oh?” Monica’s ears perked up.

Bart leaned his elbows on the counter. “A very different lady. Always in one of them tennis or golf outfits—you know what I mean. Tall and strong-looking, too.”

Andrea, Monica thought.

Bart laid his palms down flat on the counter. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Bart’s interest in gossip wasn’t nearly as strong as the VanVelsen sisters’. Monica suspected that she would get no more out of him today.

 

• • •

 

Monica glanced at the clock. Nearly five o’clock. Greg ought to be home soon.

Home—it gave her a warm feeling to say that. She was excited about the house they’d talked about building. They didn’t want much—a bigger kitchen perhaps and a small office for Greg. And maybe another bedroom.

She and Greg had talked about starting a family. Monica thought it would be wise for them to spend at least a year alone—getting to know each other, establishing a routine—before introducing a baby into the family. She was more than content to wait.

Greg’s car pulled into the driveway at twenty after five. Monica had already powdered her nose and touched up her lipstick—something she rarely, if ever, bothered to do.

“Where’s my bride?” Greg called out as he strode in.

“Right here.” Monica walked into the kitchen.

Several minutes passed—Monica was astonished when she looked at the clock and saw how many—as they hugged and kissed.

“How was your day?” she said somewhat breathlessly when they pulled away from each other.

“Splendid,” Greg said, plopping into one of the kitchen chairs. “Those first editions I told you about—the Allingham and the Carr and the Innes . . .”

“Yes?”

“All first-rate. Perfect condition. I couldn’t believe it. The son obviously knew nothing about books because he quoted me a ridiculously low price. I insisted he take more. I would have felt as if I’d robbed him otherwise.”

Greg pulled Monica toward him and she sat on his lap. “And how was your day?” he said, his lips whispering the words against her hair.

“Fine. I got us a nice steak for dinner. And what are probably the very last of the fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market.”

“Sounds good.” Greg nuzzled Monica’s neck. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Monica was settling into Greg’s arms when the phone rang.

“Do you have to get that?” Greg said.

“I suppose I’d better.”

Monica slid from his lap and reached for her cell phone on the counter.

She listened briefly then turned to Greg and put her hand over the mouthpiece. She made a face.

“It’s Gina. She wants to treat us to dinner with her and Xavier at the Pepper Pot. What do you think?”

Greg sighed then shrugged. “Why not? The steak will keep, right? And they do a wonderful chicken hash there.”

Monica took her hand from the phone’s mouthpiece and told Gina they’d be glad to take her up on her offer.

“We’re to meet them at seven o’clock,” Monica said, clicking off the phone. “They’ve made reservations.”

“Great. That gives us time to . . . relax.” Greg waggled his eyebrows at Monica.

 

• • •

 

The Pepper Pot was the newest restaurant in Cranberry Cove. While the dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn was generally frequented by tourists and locals celebrating a special occasion, the Pepper Pot was more affordable, and while attractive, less forbidding than the inn with its tuxedo-clad waiters and extensive wine list.

The Pepper Pot had wooden floors and beamed ceilings and tables set with white cloths and dark green napkins. The menu featured what had become known as comfort food—roast chicken, potpies, beef stew and other familiar dishes.

It was crowded when Monica and Greg arrived. They looked around, but it was obvious that Gina and Xavier hadn’t arrived yet.

“Shall we sit at the bar?” Greg asked, gesturing to the handful of round, high tables flanking the long polished wood bar.

He helped Monica onto a stool and pulled out the one opposite.

“Yoo hoo, here we are,” Gina called, walking toward them with open arms. Xavier trailed behind her, an unlit pipe in his hand.

Gina was wearing a leopard-print silk blouse, black leather leggings and black suede booties—a fairly tame outfit for her, although the blouse was cut low enough to reveal plenty of décolletage. Once again Monica marveled at how her father could have married two such different women—Gina and her leather and animal prints and Monica’s mother with her twin sets and pearls.

“How are you two lovebirds?” Gina kissed Monica and Greg on the cheek, then took the seat that Xavier had pulled out for her.

Xavier shook hands with Greg. He glanced toward the bar then looked around.

“Looks like they’re pretty busy. I don’t see a waitress.”

“Let’s go to the bar and get the drinks ourselves then,” Greg said, getting up. “What would you ladies like?”

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

Greg nodded.

“I don’t know.” Gina put a finger to her lips. “What are you having?” She turned to Xavier.

He raised an eyebrow. “The usual. Assuming they have some decent single-malt Scotch here.”

Gina let out a sigh. “Bring a martini then. Dirty,” she added, looking at Xavier from under her eyelashes.

Xavier appeared not to notice as he and Greg headed to the bar.

Gina watched the men until they were out of sight and then turned to Monica.

“Remember I told you at your reception that I thought Xavier might be getting ready to pop the question?”

“Yes,” Monica said cautiously.

“Well! My birthday’s next week, and Xavier has been hinting that he has a big surprise for me.” She waggled the fingers of her left hand at Monica. “What do you want to bet that it’s an engagement ring?”

“I don’t know, Gina. Do you really think—”

“Isn’t it wonderful, being in love?” Gina said before Monica could finish her sentence. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Monica raised an eyebrow. “I thought my father was everything you ever wanted.”

“Well, he was until he ran off with that tacky Vegas showgirl.” Gina fiddled with the special drinks menu, spinning it around and around. “But this time I know I’m right.”

“And you’re sure Xavier feels the same way?” Monica took a deep breath. “For some reason I’ve gotten the impression that he’s the perennial bachelor type.”

“Oh, pooh.” Gina waved a hand at Monica. “All it takes is the right woman to change that. And I know I’m the right woman.”

“Here we are, ladies,” Greg said as he approached their table with their drinks.

He was about to sit down when a waitress approached them.

“Your table is ready. If you’ll please follow me.”

They trooped behind her to a table in the corner and took their seats.

“I know I want the chicken hash,” Greg said, lowering his menu. “How about you?” He looked at Monica.

“I’ll have the shepherd’s pie. It seems perfect for a night like tonight. It seems to have gotten colder and that was quite a wind coming off the lake.”

Gina opted for the grilled salmon with dill sauce, and Monica wasn’t surprised when Xavier ordered a porterhouse cooked rare.

“What do you make of that fellow being found dead?” Gina asked when the waitress left.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait until the police release some news,” Monica said, hoping to put an end to the topic. The last thing she wanted to think about tonight was Laszlo lying stabbed in his boat.

“You haven’t heard anything?” Gina said. “I thought you and that Detective Stevens had become quite chummy.” She snorted. “I still can’t forgive her for thinking my boy Jeffie might have been a murderer.”

“Everyone was a suspect—” Monica began.

“Anyway, I wonder if the fellow had enemies? He looked like the sort who would. I thought his expression was awfully mean, didn’t you?” She turned to Monica, then Greg and then Xavier.

“He was something of a rough-looking character,” Monica agreed.

Xavier took a sip of his Scotch, rolled it around in his mouth and swallowed. He tilted his chair back on two legs and took a breath. “All men who have really lived have enemies,” he said in sonorous tones.

He had a rich, deep voice and knew how to use it to good effect.

“But I wonder if there was someone specific. Someone here in Cranberry Cove who hated him,” Gina said a little testily.

“I can think of one,” Xavier said, letting his chair fall back into place. He sat up a bit straighter, as if preparing to make a speech.

“You’ve heard of the Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago sailboat race, I presume?” He looked around the table.

Monica shook her head.

Xavier looked startled. “It’s an annual event and draws sailors from all over the country anxious to test their mettle. A lot of them underestimate the power of our Great Lakes.”

“But what does that have to do with that man who was killed?” Gina said, impatience clear in her voice.

Xavier held up a hand. “I’m getting to that.” He picked up his glass, inhaled deeply and took another sip of his Scotch. “It’s a privilege to take part in this race, and while there are few rules, participants are expected to act with honor and integrity.” He took a deep breath, puffing out his broad chest.

“But they don’t always?” Greg said.

“Exactly. Cheating is part of human nature. Most of us resist the temptation but not all.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with that man’s murder.”

Again, Xavier held up a hand. “I’m getting to it. Your victim, Bruce Laszlo, took part in the race last year. He was a newcomer—most of the other sailors had been in it for years and most likely their fathers and grandfathers before them. And as is usual, a newcomer is looked at somewhat askance until they’ve been able to prove themselves.”

They were quiet as they waited for Xavier to continue.

“For the last several years the race has gone to Alton Bates, and he was favored to win again this year. He grew up on the water, and among them the crew has over a hundred and fifty years of experience. Chandler Gates was expected to provide some stiff competition, having come in second last year despite being caught in a bad storm.”

Xavier took a sip of his Scotch and stared off into the distance.

“But then Bruce Laszlo, the new kid on the block, comes out of nowhere to take the race. There was a lot of talk at the time, and it was never proven, but everyone agreed he’d cheated somehow.”

“How do you cheat in a sailboat race?” Monica said.

“Oh . . . illegal propulsion and things like that,” Xavier said, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “I’m merely an amateur sailor myself and the rules are complicated. But sailors proficient enough to enter a prestigious race like this one are expected to know the ins and outs of what’s legal and what’s not. And that includes Bruce Laszlo, even if this was his first big competition.”

Greg looked slightly mystified. “But to kill someone because they cheated in a sailboat race? You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Xavier looked affronted. “It’s a matter of honor, and sailors take these things very seriously.”

“Enough talk about that,” Gina said. “We’ve forgotten to toast the newlyweds.” She held up her glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, which Xavier had ordered to go with their meal.

Monica smiled dutifully, but her mind was elsewhere. If what Xavier had said was true, then this Alton Bates had a potential motive for murder.

The waitress approached with a tray and distributed their meals, and they chatted amiably while they ate. Finally, Xavier pushed his plate away.

“Does anyone want dessert?”

“I’m stuffed,” Greg said. “And I have an early morning tomorrow. I think we’d best think about heading out.”

Xavier raised his hand. “Check, please?”

“My treat,” Xavier insisted when the waitress brought the bill.

He signed his name to the credit card slip with a flourish, stood up and pulled out Gina’s chair.

Greg and Monica followed behind them as they walked toward the exit.

A waitress in a low-cut blouse with puffed sleeves, somewhat reminiscent of a barmaid in an old Shakespearean play, passed close by them.

Monica couldn’t help but notice how Xavier’s head automatically swiveled in her direction, following her passage until she was out of sight.

She sighed. She feared that Gina was in for a major disappointment, and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do about it.