Chapter 8

 

Monica was about to head home when she changed her mind. She pulled over, punched some numbers into her cell phone and waited while it rang.

Kit answered on the third ring.

“Darling, what can I do for you?”

“I have one more errand to run,” Monica said, glancing at the clock in her car. “Can you manage a bit longer? I feel terrible leaving you to do everything.”

“Sweetie, don’t trouble your pretty little head about it. You do what you have to do. I’ve got this covered, no problem.”

“Thanks, Kit. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“We aim to please.”

Monica ended the call and pulled back onto the road. Moments later she was driving into the parking lot of the yacht club. There were more cars parked in the lot than there had been earlier—late-model foreign cars that made her ancient Taurus look completely out of place.

Several people were sitting in the lobby, mostly men, reading the newspaper or having quiet conversations. Monica didn’t immediately see any staff so she walked into the restaurant.

The tables were all set for dinner with white tablecloths and navy overlays. The crystal sparkled, the silver shone, everything was ready for the members who would be dining there that evening.

A waitress scurried past Monica, an empty tray tucked under her arm.

“Excuse me, miss. If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

The girl stopped in her tracks and spun on her heel, her long, dark braid twirling in the air.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m wondering if you know this woman.” Monica fumbled in her purse and drew out the picture of Bruce Laszlo with his arm around the dark-haired woman.

The girl hesitated, then took the picture Monica held out. She studied it for several seconds then wrinkled her nose.

“No. I’m sorry. I don’t know who she is. Is she a member here? I’ve just started here myself, see. This is only my second week.”

She sounded apologetic, and Monica hastened to reassure her.

“That’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I only thought you might recognize her.”

The girl wrinkled her nose again—there was a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge where it was pink and peeling slightly.

“You might ask Pete. He’s the bartender. He knows everybody.”

“Pete? I’ll do that. Thanks.”

The girl hurried away and Monica put the photograph back in her purse. She didn’t really think she’d get lucky on the first try. She mentally crossed her fingers that Pete would be more helpful.

All but one of the seats at the bar were taken, and the small cocktail tables were full. Chatter and occasional laughter bounced off the walls. Pete was behind the bar mixing drinks with both ease and speed—shaking the silver cocktail shaker, pouring glasses of wine and pulling drafts of beer. For a moment, Monica wondered if he didn’t possess a second pair of hands.

She hated to bother him when he was so busy, but she didn’t want to go home without an answer either if she could help it. She eased her way toward the empty bar stool.

She slid onto the seat as Pete finished pouring the last order, a cocktail with a strangely blue tint that Monica couldn’t identify. Pete picked up a rag and began polishing a glass as he sauntered toward Monica. He turned his back to her, and when he turned around again, he’d filled the glass with water. He placed it on a coaster and pushed it toward Monica.

“I know you don’t drink,” he said, gesturing toward the glass.

The twinkle in his eye was very attractive, Monica thought. She hadn’t noticed before how good-looking he was.

“Oh, I do drink,” Monica said.

Pete pretended to be affronted. He splayed a hand against his chest. “Just not with me then?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t drink with you.”

Monica suddenly realized he was flirting with her and she was actually reciprocating. She saw him glance at her hand where her brand-new gold wedding band shone in the light. She felt her face go red. She was a married woman now—no more flirting for her. Not that she’d ever done much of it anyway.

“What can I do for you?” Pete said, flinging his rag over his shoulder. “Assuming you didn’t come in just for a glass of water.”

“No . . . I . . . no,” Monica mumbled. She reached for her purse and pulled out the photograph.

“I’m wondering if you can tell me who this woman is? The photograph looks as if it was taken here at the club. I thought perhaps she was a member or perhaps a frequent guest.”

Pete raised an eyebrow as he took the picture from Monica.

“That’s Bruce Laszlo, isn’t it—the man whose body was found in the boat?”

“Yes.”

“He was a member, I can tell you that. Shocking what happened to him.”

“What about the woman?”

Pete smiled and flicked the photograph with his finger.

“That’s easy. It’s Victoria Cortez. She’s the club’s finance manager.”

Monica was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this to be so easy.

“Do you know if she’s here now?”

“She might be. I don’t get to that end of the building much, just to collect my check at the end of the week. But she’ll be down here in the bar at five thirty on the dot drinking a Tom Collins.”

Monica glanced at her watch. It was only four o’clock. She didn’t want to hang around until five thirty, nor did she want to drive back later.

“How do I find her office?”

“There’s a door next to the reception desk that leads to the offices in back. It will be the third office on your right.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Pete smiled and Monica noticed him watching her as she walked out of the bar.

 

• • •

 

Monica found Victoria’s office easily enough. The door was open and Victoria was seated behind her desk. She had the telephone receiver clamped between her shoulder and her ear and was scrolling through something on her computer.

Her words and tone were sharp—it was clear she was arguing with someone.

Monica glanced around Victoria’s office. There was a generic framed poster on one wall with an inspirational saying on it, a quote about success that Monica had seen on posters, coffee mugs and T-shirts often enough.

A framed photograph hung on another wall above what looked like a diploma. Victoria was in the picture holding a gun in one hand and a bullet-ridden paper target with the other. She was smiling broadly. Monica shivered.

Victoria slammed the receiver down without saying goodbye. “Yes?” She looked up at Monica, who was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Victoria Cortez?”

“Yes. Do you have an appointment?” She brought up a calendar on her computer screen and glanced at it.

“No. But I promise not to take too much of your time.”

Victoria leaned back in her chair. She was wearing a black skirt suit with a cream-colored silk blouse cut low enough to show a bit of lace camisole at the opening.

Monica cleared her throat. “I understand you knew Bruce Laszlo. He was a member of this club.”

“Yes, he was. Along with several hundred other people.”

“So you knew him?”

“Yes. But I know lots of other people, too.”

“This photograph makes it look like you knew him quite well.” Monica removed the picture from her purse and handed it to Victoria.

Victoria glanced at it and tossed it on her desk.

“We went out for a bit. There’s no rule against staff dating the club members.”

“According to Laszlo, you were very upset when he broke it off with you.”

“If you say so.”

“And now he’s dead.”

Victoria pushed her chair back so suddenly that it shot across the room and hit the wall behind her. She stood up, placed her balled-up fists on her desk and leaned over it toward Monica.

“Who do you think you are asking all these questions? I know Laszlo was murdered, and you make it sound as if you think I killed him.” She was quiet suddenly. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You do, don’t you? You think I killed Laszlo. Well, let me tell you something.” She jabbed a finger in the air in Monica’s direction. “Laszlo was stabbed. I wouldn’t have had any need to stab him.”

She gave a smile that chilled Monica to the bone.

“I have a gun and I know how to use it.”

 

• • •

 

Monica was glad to escape the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, and she didn’t care if she never darkened its door again.

The storm clouds had passed and the dying rays of the sun sparkled off the waters of Lake Michigan as Monica drove down Beach Hollow Road and up the hill that led to Sassamanash Farm.

She was looking forward to cooking the steak she’d bought the day before for their dinner. Maybe she’d use her grill, which she had set up outside on the small brick patio that Jeff had laid for her. She’d pour herself and Greg a glass of wine, and he could keep her company while she cooked.

Monica pulled into her driveway with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day, full of surprises, and she was looking forward to a quiet evening.

She spun around when she heard the sound of tires crunching over the gravel drive. She recognized Gina’s Mercedes right away and groaned audibly. If there was anyone she wasn’t up for right now it was Gina, but she put a smile on her face and welcomed her stepmother.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of gin and a straw, would you? Although I’d settle for an open bottle of wine,” Gina said as she picked her way across the gravel in her high-heeled zebra-print pumps. “I sure could use a glass.”

“I can open one. I was about to anyway.”

“Wonderful.” Gina followed Monica through the back door and into the kitchen.

Monica retrieved a bottle of merlot from the cupboard along with two glasses. She opened the wine and poured them each a glass.

Gina was seated at the kitchen table, fiddling with the fringe on her black suede jacket, smoothing it out with her fingers over and over again.

Monica sensed she had something on her mind but assumed Gina would tell her in good time. Whatever it was, it was bound to go down better after a couple of sips of the merlot.

Monica stuck her head in the refrigerator and poked around. She managed to find a jar of garlic-stuffed olives that had been a hostess gift the time she and Greg had invited Nora and Rick for dinner. She pried off the top, poured some olives into a bowl and placed it on the table.

Gina reached for one, carefully holding it between two long fuchsia-painted nails then popping it into her mouth.

“I’ve been working on the plans for Jeffie and Lauren’s wedding,” Gina said, reaching for another olive. “The shop isn’t terribly busy at the moment, which is a blessing, I suppose.”

To everyone’s surprise Gina had decided to put down roots in Cranberry Cove after arriving to check on her son, despite the fact that she stood out like some sort of very exotic bird. She’d opened an aromatherapy shop—something most of the natives had never heard of and certainly felt no need for—and called it Making Scents. No one had expected the shop to last—let alone Gina to survive in a town with one stoplight—but they both had thrived and prospered.

“Isn’t Lauren’s mother planning the wedding?” Monica said, slipping into the seat opposite Gina. “That’s customary, isn’t it?”

“I’m just lending a hand,” Gina said, taking a sip of her wine. “Her poor mother has been ill—something to do with her heart—and really isn’t up for it, what with needing to rest and all. She said she was ever so grateful for my help.”

Monica had her doubts about that, but she didn’t say anything.

“I’ve asked Jeffie to measure the area for the tent, but he still hasn’t done it.”

“He’s a little tied up with the harvest at the moment. He’s been working from dawn until dusk every day.”

Gina snorted. “This wedding isn’t going to plan itself, you know.”

“I suppose they could always go down to the courthouse and be married by the justice of the peace.”

Gina looked so horrified that Monica hastened to reassure her. “I’m just kidding. I’m sure the wedding is going to be lovely.”

“We’ll have white tablecloths with pink overlays to match the flowering cranberries in the bogs. And I’ve been talking to the caterer—the most clever man. He suggested we start with a salad of baby greens with candied walnuts and dried cranberries. In keeping with the cranberry theme, of course.”

“Of course. Very clever, indeed,” Monica said dryly.

Gina sighed loudly and drained her wineglass. Monica reached for the bottle and refilled it.

“I think Xavier’s cheating on me,” Gina said suddenly.

“What?” Monica’s hand jerked and a drop of wine splattered onto the table. “Why do you think that?”

Gina twisted the large topaz ring she always wore around and around her finger.

“The day of your wedding we were meant to spend the night at my place. We were going to build a fire and have a cozy evening together. I’d bought some champagne and some chicken for our dinner.

“But after your reception, Xavier wasn’t feeling well. Something about the crab canapes not agreeing with him. He said he wanted to go home and get into his own bed and rest. I was disappointed, of course, but what can you do?”

Monica plucked an olive from the dish and popped it into her mouth. She was getting hungry.

“I was up early the next morning so I decided to make Xavier some chicken soup, thinking that might settle his stomach and make him feel better. As soon as it was done, I filled a large thermos and headed over to his cottage. And what do you think I saw?”

Monica shook her head. She couldn’t imagine.

“There was another car in his driveway! He wasn’t alone.”

“But it could have been anybody.” Monica plucked another olive from the bowl and bit into it.

“It wasn’t anyone. It was a woman.”

“How do you know?” Monica could picture Gina tiptoeing around the house, peering in the windows.

“There was a flowered tote bag on the backseat of the car and a lipstick—something cheap—in that compartment thingie under the radio.”

“They might have belonged to anyone. Someone the driver had given a ride to.”

Gina’s face set in the stubborn look Monica knew too well.

“No. I’m sure he’s cheating on me.” She burst into tears.