Chapter 9

 

“You look all in,” Greg said when he walked through the door later.

“Gina was here. She’s upset because she thinks Xavier is cheating on her.”

Greg put his arms around Monica, turned her around and began massaging her shoulders.

“She might be right,” he said as he kneaded her left shoulder.

“What?” Monica spun around.

Greg made a face. “The VanVelsens were in this afternoon to pick out some new books.” He chuckled. “Sweet timid Gerda opted for one of those romance novels with the shirtless man with the six-pack abs on the cover. She turned all shades of red when she brought it up to the counter to pay for it. Hennie, as you’d imagine, chose a biography of Agatha Christie.”

“But what does that have to do with Gina and Xavier?”

“You know how the ladies love to gossip. They couldn’t wait to tell me they saw Xavier drive by with a woman in his car.”

“Did they say what she looked like?”

“No. Apparently they only got a glimpse of her. But their impression was that she was rather young. Younger than Gina at any rate.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. He might have been giving someone a lift. Perhaps he’s hired a secretary to help him with research for his book.”

“All possible, certainly.”

Greg retrieved a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some wine from the bottle on the kitchen table.

“Do you think I should tell Gina?” Monica said as she retrieved the steak from the refrigerator and unwrapped it.

“I don’t know. Probably not. It will only upset her, and, as you said, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Monica put the steak on a platter and sprinkled on a rub Bart had recommended.

“Want me to light the fire?”

Monica refilled her wineglass, pulled on her fleece and followed Greg out to the patio. The sun was setting, turning the sky beautiful shades of pink and purple. There was a chill in the air, and when Greg got the fire going in the barbecue, they both huddled over it watching the coals catch, glow red and finally become covered with gray ash.

“Time to throw on the steak, I’d say,” Greg said, taking the platter from Monica.

He picked the steak up with a pair of tongs and placed it on the grill. The meat sizzled and fragrant smoke rose in the air. Monica felt her stomach rumble.

When the steak was well seared and cooked through, Greg took it into the kitchen and sliced it while Monica tossed the salad.

“Has there been any news about Bruce Laszlo’s murder?” Greg said as he picked up his fork.

“Nothing new in the paper.” Monica hesitated. “But I had lunch with Andrea today, and she told me that Bruce had been involved with someone before he met her and that the woman didn’t take the breakup lightly.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Another suspect then?”

“It looks like it. She works at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, and when I talked to her, it was obvious she was still very angry with Laszlo.”

“You talked to her?” Greg paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Shouldn’t you leave that sort of thing to Detective Stevens?”

Monica looked down at her plate. “I assume Andrea will tell Stevens about the woman, and she’ll ask her own questions.”

“Maybe you should tell the detective,” Greg said. “It’s something she needs to know, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

Greg stopped in the midst of cutting a piece of steak. “I know you’ve been quite successful at playing detective—”

“I’m not.” Monica looked Greg in the eye. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Greg said. But the look on his face made it quite plain that he didn’t believe her.

 

• • •

 

Monica thought about her conversation with Greg as she rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Greg had gone back to Book ’Em to shelve the carton of new books that had come in earlier that day. He’d been too busy during the store’s business hours to do it.

Had she lied to Greg when she promised she would leave the detective work on Laszlo’s murder to Stevens? She had good intentions—did that count? She couldn’t help it if she was drawn to the puzzle. It couldn’t hurt to keep her ears open for any new information she might come across.

Monica was pushing the button to start the dishwasher when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Monica, it’s Andrea.”

Andrea was breathless—as if she’d been running.

“Is everything okay?”

“No.” The word came out with a sob.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Monica could hear Andrea crying quietly in the background.

“Andrea, what’s wrong?”

“I . . . I’ve been arrested,” Andrea finally said. “The police have arrested me. I’m at the station. I don’t know what to do. I’m so embarrassed. What will people think?”

Monica thought that was the least of Andrea’s worries at the moment.

“Do you have a lawyer?” Monica clenched the telephone receiver.

“Yes. I’ve contacted her. She’s arranging bail as quickly as she can.”

“I’m sorry,” Monica said, thinking of her promise to Greg. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do. You’ve contacted your lawyer. I’m sure she’s doing everything she can.”

“I’m afraid that the police will stop investigating. I mean, they obviously think I did it.”

Monica hadn’t thought of that.

“You said you would help me.”

Monica was torn. She’d promised Greg but she couldn’t bear to think of Andrea being accused of something she didn’t do.

“I don’t know how I can help.” Monica paced the kitchen while she talked.

“Everyone says you solved those other murders.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Monica finally said against her better judgment.

Her marriage was less than a week old and here she was, already keeping secrets from Greg. She hoped their relationship wasn’t doomed.

 

• • •

 

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Greg said the next day as they ate breakfast. “Is everything okay?”

Greg had the front section of the paper propped against his juice glass while Monica was scouring the local section for any news about the investigation into Laszlo’s murder. She was terrified she’d come across a mug shot of Andrea and a bold headline about her arrest.

“Andrea’s been arrested.”

Greg lowered his newspaper. “I don’t believe it.”

“She was taken into custody yesterday. I imagine her lawyer has gotten her out on bail by now.”

“What evidence do the police have?”

“None, as far as I know. If there is something, Andrea hasn’t told me.”

“You’ve already discovered two people who had a motive for killing Laszlo. The police can’t be far behind. Surely they’ll find the real culprit soon.”

“Assuming they keep looking.” Monica poked at her dish of cereal. Her appetite had deserted her.

“And assuming there isn’t something your friend hasn’t told you.”

That’s what she was afraid of, Monica realized as she put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher. What if Andrea hadn’t been completely truthful with her?

 

• • •

 

It was a beautiful day out and that lifted Monica’s spirits somewhat. She passed the bog, where Jeff and his crew were hard at work, standing thigh-deep in the water raking ripe cranberries toward the vacuum machine that would suck them out of the water and into a container that would then be trucked to the processing area.

Monica remembered helping Jeff with the harvest when she first arrived at Sassamanash Farm. The waders that the workers wore were cumbersome and difficult to move in and she’d found it hard to maintain her balance on the uneven ground of the bog. She’d proven to be far more useful to Jeff doing the bookkeeping and handling the production of baked goods for the farm’s store.

Jeff looked up as Monica went by. He smiled and waved and Monica waved back. She’d always had a soft spot for her half brother. When Monica’s father deserted Gina, it had strengthened their bond and brought them even closer together.

Jeff had returned from Afghanistan with an injury to his arm that had made him bitter, but meeting Lauren had made him smile and laugh again. Monica couldn’t wait for their wedding in the spring.

Monica was greeted with a rush of warm, yeasty-smelling air when she opened the door to the farm kitchen.

“Good morning,” Kit called from the counter where he was rolling out dough. “I’ve got some lovely muffins and scones for you all ready to go.”

“You’re a wonder,” Monica said, smiling. “What time did you get here? Last night?”

Kit laughed. “I’m an early riser.” He gestured toward the baked goods lined up on the counter. “Do you want to take those down to the store now?”

“Good idea. Our early-bird customers will be arriving soon.”

Monica grabbed one of her baskets from the closet, lined it with a clean red-and-white-checked cloth and began to load it up with the pastries Kit had baked.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to help,” she said as she went out the door.

Kit, intent on cutting out scones from his newly rolled dough, nodded his head in her direction.

The farm store was empty of customers when Monica got there.

“Those look and smell heavenly,” Nora said, taking the basket from Monica. “And just in time for our morning customers.”

Nora took some empty platters out of the case—Monica had unearthed them at various estate sales and thrift shops and no two were alike—and began to arrange the muffins and scones on them.

A car door slammed and a moment later the door to the shop opened and Detective Stevens walked in.

Monica didn’t know which of them looked more startled to see the other.

“Good morning,” Stevens said. “I’ve promised to bring a half dozen of your delicious muffins to the departmental meeting this morning.”

She held a foam coffee cup in her hand. A half-moon of pink lipstick was smeared on the lid.

“Coming right up.” Nora retrieved a white bakery bag from under the counter and shook it open.

“Has there been any news about the Laszlo case? I didn’t see today’s paper yet.” What Monica really wanted to ask was why Stevens had arrested Andrea.

Stevens shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. “Nothing notable. The autopsy confirmed that Laszlo wasn’t a smoker so that cigarette we found wasn’t his.”

“So it could have been dropped by the killer?”

“Maybe. But who knows how long it will take for us to get the DNA tests back from the state.” Stevens dug in her purse for her wallet. “And someone else might have dropped the cigarette. Does the wife smoke, do you know?”

“Andrea? I’ve never seen her smoking.”

“Laszlo might have taken someone out on the boat for a ride at some point during the summer, and it’s their cigarette and nothing to do with the case at all.”

Stevens sighed.

“You look tired,” Monica said.

Stevens gave a smile that was more grimace than grin. “The baby’s teething.” She took a sip of her coffee.

“Try rubbing a little whiskey on his gums,” Nora said, smoothing out the front of her skirt. “It’s an old-fashioned remedy, but it worked for my boys.”

“I’m ready to try anything,” Stevens said, giving a real smile this time.

Monica thought about Victoria Cortez and her not-so-veiled threat and was about to open her mouth to tell Stevens about it—Greg was right, the detective needed to know—when Stevens’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, grabbed her bag of muffins from the counter and started toward the door.

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder.

Monica stared at the door closing in back of the detective.

She’d tried, hadn’t she? Surely that counted?

 

• • •

 

Monica spent the rest of the morning in the farm kitchen with Kit, making an order of her cranberry salsa for the Cranberry Cove Inn. Kit was working on the cranberry walnut chocolate chip cookies that had become such a huge hit with their customers. He got the last sheet of cookies in the oven, pulled off his gloves and ran his hand through his short, bristly hair, coating it with flour and making it look as if he’d bleached the ends blond.

Monica snapped the lid on the last container of salsa.

“I’m going to run these up to the inn if you don’t need me. They want them by tonight. It looks like you’ve got everything under control.”

“You go on, sweetie. I’ve got this covered.”

“Great.”

Monica wasn’t sure how she felt about being called sweetie, but Kit was such a find that she decided it didn’t matter.

 

• • •

 

A handful of people strolled the sidewalks of downtown Cranberry Cove, where the flowers in the baskets hanging from the light posts were beginning to fade. They would be taken down soon and then replaced with wreaths tied with large red bows the day after Thanksgiving.

The door to the diner was propped open to catch the breeze. The owner, a taciturn Greek named Gus Amentas, only turned on the air-conditioning in the depths of summer, preferring to use the large fans stationed at the front and back of the restaurant to cool things.

The scent of bacon frying and hamburgers grilling drifted in through Monica’s open car window, and she realized she was hungry. Maybe she would treat herself to some of the diner’s much-loved chili—a dish that wasn’t on the menu and consequently separated the tourists from the residents who were in the know.

Monica pulled into the parking lot of the inn and made her way around to the service entrance in the back. A large black panel truck with VanderWal’s Produce written on the side in white lettering was pulled up to the door. A thin middle-aged man with a sparse mustache was unloading a crate of produce from the back of the truck.

He disappeared through the service door as Monica pulled into the space next to him. She retrieved her box with the containers of cranberry salsa from the backseat and carried it to the service entrance.

A corridor carpeted in rubber matting and lit with a bulb hanging from the ceiling led to the swinging door to the kitchen. Monica rested the carton on her hip as she pushed the door open with her shoulder.

The rush of hot air from the kitchen ruffled the tendrils of hair around her face and she could feel it turning her cheeks red.

One of the sous-chefs abandoned his work station where he was slicing onions and rushed toward Monica.

“Can I help you with that?” he asked in his lightly accented English. He peered into the box. “Cranberry salsa?”

“Yes. It needs to go into the refrigerator.”

He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I’ll take care of it, ma’am, don’t worry.”

When had she morphed from a miss to a ma’am? Monica wondered. Was it the dozen strands of gray hair that now wove through the rest of her auburn curls, or the gold wedding band gracing the ring finger of her left hand that had occasioned it?

The fellow nodded and carried the carton of salsa over to the large stainless steel refrigerators that lined the far wall.

The swinging door to the restaurant opened and for a moment Monica could hear the rise and fall of quiet chatter and the tinkling of glass and silverware from the dining room. A waiter walked in, his empty tray tucked under his arm.

Monica recognized him as Eddie Wood, the fellow who had arrived on the beach with the Cranberry Cove Inn van to pull Laszlo’s motorboat out of the water. He glanced at Monica but then his eyes slid away from hers as he brushed past her and disappeared into the corridor leading to the service entrance. Monica supposed he was headed outside for a break and a smoke.

The fellow who had taken Monica’s salsa returned with the empty box. He signed a receipt attached to the clipboard he’d brought back with him and handed it to Monica.

She thanked him and turned to leave.

She was in the narrow corridor leading to the back exit when she heard someone talking. She thought she heard the name Laszlo mentioned. The voices appeared to be coming from behind the partially open door of a small storage room off to the left. Monica stopped and listened.

“I don’t see why you had to have anything to do with Laszlo,” a woman said in rather petulant tones.

Who was talking about Bruce Laszlo? Monica wondered. She walked past the storage room, making as little noise as possible. She caught a quick glimpse of Eddie Wood and a woman wearing the pale pink uniform of a Cranberry Cove Inn chambermaid. She had long dark hair in a rather messy ponytail, an angry-looking raised scar on her cheek and a very sour expression.

Monica turned her head and walked past them briskly hoping they wouldn’t realize she’d been listening in.

What connection did Eddie Wood have to Bruce Laszlo and who was that young woman he was talking with so furtively?