Chapter 14

 

Monica was tired and chilled by the time Detective Stevens arrived at the farm. She’d been standing by the bog for half an hour praying that Jeff wouldn’t come along and see her. She didn’t know how she would explain having found the knife when she’d promised Lauren not to breathe a word to him about the temporarily lost engagement ring.

Stevens carefully picked her way across the field, holding a steaming foam cup aloft. Monica smelled the coffee as soon as Stevens got closer. The aroma was heavenly and she could imagine how deliciously warm it would be.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Stevens said when she reached Monica. “I had to testify in court this afternoon.” She scanned the area. “This is quite remote. If this is the murder weapon in the Laszlo case, the killer really went out of their way to dispose of it.”

“It’s possible it’s only an ordinary knife. I hope I haven’t brought you out here on a wild-goose chase.”

Stevens held up a hand. “Don’t apologize. I’d rather it turn out to be nothing than to miss something important. Half . . . no, three-quarters of police work often turns out to be a wild-goose chase. But we usually get our man . . . or woman . . . in the end.”

Monica led Stevens over to the knife. Stevens bent over and looked at it for a moment then removed a pair of gloves and a plastic evidence bag from the pocket of her trench coat. She slipped the gloves on and picked up the knife.

“Interesting,” Stevens said as she examined the knife. “I was expecting a switchblade or something equally vicious-looking, but this looks like a somewhat ordinary kitchen knife.”

Monica pointed at it. “The blade is rather long and thin.”

Stevens turned the knife this way and that. “It looks like a boning knife. The sort a butcher would use.” She must have noticed the surprised look on Monica’s face. “My father was a butcher back in Iowa. He had a number of knives like this of various sizes and blade lengths.”

“You don’t think Bart, the butcher in town, had anything to do with this?” Monica was horrified at the thought. Bart was . . . Bart. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Stevens laughed. “Knives like these are a dime a dozen. Anyone can order one online. The fact that it’s a butcher’s knife doesn’t mean anything.”

Stevens slipped the knife into the plastic bag she’d been holding and sealed it up.

“I can see some residue on the blade, but it could be anything. The lab should be able to tell us whether it’s blood or not.” She paused. “And whether the blood is human or animal.”

“Will that take long?”

Monica knew that Andrea would continue to be under suspicion if not arrest until it was proven that someone else had killed her husband.

A small smile played around the edges of Stevens’s mouth.

“Normally it would take several weeks, but let’s just say I know somebody.”

Monica knew Stevens’s husband had left her right after their son was born. Had she found herself someone new?

 

• • •

 

Dusk was rapidly falling as Monica walked back to the farm kitchen. The sky was streaked with pink and purple and the clouds swirled back and forth over the setting sun. She was tired and would have rather gone home, but she’d left her first batch of breakfast bars cooling on the counter and wanted to taste one and then package the others up and put them away.

She flicked on the lights in the kitchen and grabbed her apron from the hook. She’d left the bars on a wire rack next to the oven. They looked good, she thought, and the smell was certainly enticing. She picked one up. It held together well, which was important. She nibbled a bit off the end and closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the taste. Moist yet crunchy with a nice tang from the dried cranberries. Monica took another bite and chewed thoughtfully.

They would do, Monica decided. Actually, they would more than do, she thought as she rolled the taste around in her mouth. She’d make a big batch in the morning and get them over to the farm store right away.

Monica hung up her apron again, flicked out the lights and shut the door. She’d started along the path to her cottage when she remembered she’d left her car in the parking lot. She turned on her heel and began walking back in the other direction.

She thought about dinner as she drove the short distance to her cottage. She was tired and longed to do what she’d normally have done when she lived alone—make some toast and a cup of tea and dine in front of the television.

Greg was already home when Monica pulled into the driveway. She found him in the living room playing laser tag with Mittens. It was Mittens’s favorite game and she could barely spare Monica a glance when Monica walked in.

“You look tired,” Greg said.

“I am,” Monica admitted.

She told Greg about Lauren’s missing engagement ring and about their finding the knife while they were looking for it.

“You’ve had quite a day,” Greg said, clicking off the laser pointer. “Why don’t we go to the inn for dinner tonight. It’s buffet night.”

Monica’s spirits lifted at the thought. “Give me a chance to freshen up.”

Greg and Mittens were playing again as Monica walked upstairs. She took a little extra time fixing her hair and putting on some makeup. Her choice of outfits was fairly limited given that she spent most of her days in jeans and sweatshirts, but she did manage to unearth a pale pink cashmere sweater that she’d splurged on when she’d lived in Chicago and that, along with her good black slacks and the silk scarf her mother had given her for her birthday, made a very nice outfit.

Greg’s reaction when Monica came back downstairs made the extra primping especially worth it.

“Shall we go?” Greg said, holding out Monica’s jacket.

 

• • •

 

Monica wasn’t surprised to find the parking lot at the Cranberry Cove Inn quite full. Their Friday night buffet was very popular—the tourists loved it and locals often planned special celebrations around it.

“I hope we can get a table,” Greg said. “It’s unfortunate they don’t take reservations on buffet night.” He straightened his collar and brushed some lint off his jacket.

They wound their way through the parked cars toward the flagstone path leading to the doors of the inn. A stiff breeze was blowing in off of Lake Michigan and Monica felt a few grains of sand stinging her face.

“Are you cold?” Greg put his arm around her and pulled her close.

Monica happened to glance into a late-model white Escalade as she brushed past it, trying not to rub up against it.

The beam from one of the fluorescent lights in the parking lot glinted off of something in the backseat of the Escalade. Monica put out a hand to stop Greg and peered more closely through the car’s window.

At first she thought she must be mistaken, but when she looked again, she realized she wasn’t. There was a large gold trophy in the backseat of the car.

“Look.” Monica turned to Greg.

Greg peered through the window. “Looks like someone got lucky and won something.”

Monica pressed her nose as close to the glass as possible. Her breath fogged the window and she wiped it away with the edge of her jacket sleeve. There was an engraved plaque on the front of the trophy, and she strained to see what it said.

“Do you have a flashlight?” she said to Greg.

“Only that little one that hangs on my keychain.”

“That ought to work.”

Greg dug in his pocket and brought out his keys. They jingled as he flipped through them looking for the flashlight.

“Here you go.” He handed them to Monica.

Monica flicked on the flashlight and trained the meager beam through the car window at the trophy lying on the backseat.

“It’s hard to see, but I think I can read it. It says,” she said, squinting at the writing on the plaque, “First place in the annual Cranberry Cove to Chicago Race.” Monica turned to Greg, her mouth open. “This is the trophy that was stolen from Andrea’s house the morning her husband was murdered.”

“So whoever owns this car is the thief. Should we call the police?”

“Not yet,” Monica said. “I’d like to know who this car belongs to.”

“That could be tricky.”

Monica paced back and forth in the parking lot. Suddenly she stopped and snapped her fingers.

“I’ve got it.”

Greg looked amused. “Okay, let’s hear it, Miss Marple.”

“We go inside.” Monica pointed at the lit windows of the inn.

“So far I like it.”

Monica punched him on the arm. “We tell the receptionist that someone in the parking lot has left their lights on. And we give them this license plate number.” She pointed toward the Escalade. “Then we wait out of sight to see who comes rushing out of the inn to turn off their lights.”

“Good idea. I think that might work.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Monica began digging in her purse. She pulled out a pen and a small notebook and walked around to the back of the car. She scribbled the license plate number on a blank piece of paper.

“Got it,” she said, clicking her pen closed and dropping it into her purse.

“Let’s go then.”

The heat from the huge stone fireplace felt good when they entered the inn. The temperature had dropped with the sun going down and the evening had grown chilly. Monica wondered if Jeff would be awakened by alarms in the middle of the night. He would have to hurry to flood the bogs remaining to be harvested to protect the berries from the ruinous frost.

The receptionist was on a telephone call when they approached the desk and they had to wait for her to hang up. She replaced the telephone receiver in the cradle and turned to Monica and Greg.

“Can I help you?” She had very light blond hair in braids that were wound around her head and pinned in the back. She made Monica think of Heidi.

“We noticed that someone in the parking lot left their lights on,” Monica said, gesturing toward the door. “I would hate to think of their coming out to a dead battery.”

The girl smiled. “Do you happen to have the license plate number?”

Monica read off the number she’d jotted down in her notebook.

“I will take care of it,” the girl said with an air of dismissal.

“What now?” Greg whispered as they turned away from the reception desk.

“We go back outside and wait.”

“I wonder how long it’s going to be before she makes the announcement?” Greg said. “I’m starved.”

“It shouldn’t be too long,” Monica whispered back. “At least I hope not.”

They were on the threshold of the inn when they heard a voice come over the loudspeaker making the announcement.

“Come on,” Monica said, grabbing Greg’s arm. “Let’s hurry and find a spot where we won’t be seen.”

In the end they decided their best bet was to get back in their own car and wait. They could casually get out of the car when they saw the owner of the Escalade coming.

Five minutes went by before the door to the inn opened, sending a shaft of light onto the flagstone path. The figure walking out cast a long shadow on the walkway. Monica couldn’t tell what he looked like yet. He passed under a lamp that illuminated his blond hair but did little to light up his face.

“Let’s go,” Monica said as the man neared the Escalade.

“That car could belong to anybody,” Greg grumbled as he opened his door. “If we don’t recognize the person what will we do?”

But Monica was already out of the car and walking toward the Escalade. There was something familiar about the man’s broad shoulders and about the way he walked with an obvious sense of purpose. She felt sure she knew him from somewhere.

“Pretend we’re simply walking toward the inn,” Monica whispered to Greg when he caught up with her.

“We are walking toward the inn,” he said in a teasing tone.

Monica gave him a quelling look and turned her attention back to the man standing by the Escalade looking slightly confused.

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” Greg said. “He realizes his lights aren’t on.”

“That’s okay,” Monica said as they got nearer. She drew in her breath.

“What’s wrong.”

“I know who that is,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Alton Bates.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the man who accused Bruce Laszlo of cheating in that Cranberry Cove–to-Chicago race. He said it could be the only explanation for a novice sailor like Laszlo winning.”

“Is that the race that trophy was given for?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this Bates doing with it then? If Laszlo won, it belongs to him.”

Monica stopped dead in her tracks. “He had to have stolen it.”

“It would certainly seem so.”

She turned to Greg. “The trophy was stolen from the Laszlos’ house while Laszlo was being murdered somewhere out at sea. Which means Alton Bates can’t be the murderer.”

 

• • •

 

“You’re disappointed,” Greg said later that evening as he was helping Monica off with her jacket. He took a hanger from the coat closet by the front door and hung it up, pushing aside some of the other coats to make room.

“I really thought Bates was the killer,” Monica said, easing off her shoes. “It would have made it so easy. Now I’m running out of suspects, but I still refuse to believe Andrea had anything to do with her husband’s death.” She held her hands out palms up. “Maybe it was completely random?”

“It is hard to picture Andrea wielding that knife. Especially since the killing seems to have taken place on a boat out on the water.” He looked at Monica and raised his eyebrows. “Or have the police uncovered something else?”

“Not that I know of.”

They started up the stairs and were halfway up when Monica stopped.

“If that knife that Lauren and I found in the bog is the murder weapon, how did it end up way out here? Does the killer have some connection to Sassamanash Farm?”

“I can’t imagine they do. It would have to be one of Jeff’s crew, and I can’t imagine what connection any of them could have to that Laszlo fellow.”

“That’s true.”

Monica continued up the steps and into the bedroom, where she pulled the curtains closed and turned down the bed. She couldn’t shake her feeling of discouragement. If she hadn’t promised Andrea she’d do her best to investigate Laszlo’s murder, she’d happily forget the whole thing.

 

• • •

 

On Saturday mornings Monica used to allow herself the luxury of sleeping in. Sometimes she would make herself a cup of tea and take it back to bed with her along with the morning newspaper. Unfortunately, Greg still had to be up early to get to Book ’Em in time to open the store. He did have some part-time staff, but Saturday was usually a busy day and he liked to be there himself to oversee things, especially if a knowledgeable collector came in.

Monica had rather reluctantly given up her Saturday routine in favor of getting up with Greg. While he showered, she made breakfast—something substantial that would last him into the afternoon if he didn’t have time for lunch, like bacon and eggs or pancakes and sausage.

The farm store did its share of Saturday business, too, so Monica often baked extra product on Fridays to tide them over, and she wanted to go today to make another batch of her breakfast bars. As soon as she cleared up the breakfast dishes she’d head to the farm kitchen to begin work on extra muffins, scones and cookies too.

Kit had the day off, although Monica was thinking about asking him if he could work Saturdays in exchange for having Mondays off.

The kitchen seemed empty without his presence. Monica missed his amusing banter and the tunes he would whistle while he rolled out dough or creamed butter and sugar.

Monica was drizzling a sugar glaze on a batch of scones when the telephone rang. She was surprised—the telephone rarely rang at the kitchen. She hoped nothing was wrong with Greg, although he would be more likely to ring her cell phone.

She wiped her hands on a paper towel and grabbed the receiver. It was the Cranberry Cove Inn. They’d run short of her cranberry salsa, would it be possible for her to deliver some more for that evening’s dinner? The chef had put duck breast rubbed with coriander on the menu and thought the cranberry salsa would go perfectly with it.

Monica was thrilled to get the order—every sale helped to keep the farm afloat—but she knew she had to get to work to make sure she’d be able to deliver on time. She began mincing the jalapeños, onion, and cilantro, then got to boiling the berries with sugar.

By noon she had her containers filled and ready to go. She packed them in cardboard boxes and began carrying them out to her car. She was heading back inside for another load when she noticed Jeff in the distance. He was walking back from the bogs, his waders slung over his shoulder. She waved and he waved back.

When Monica came out of the kitchen with the last box of containers of salsa, Jeff was standing by her car.

“Are you stopping for some lunch?” Monica said.

Jeff scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes. We’re almost done with the harvest fortunately.”

“I’m glad. You look tired.”

“I am tired. The frost alarms went off at three o’clock in the morning and I had to scramble to flood the remaining bogs. Luckily we’d already harvested most of them. I managed to trip over a tree root in the dark and fell flat on my face.”

“Oh, no. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Only my pride. Good thing no one was around to see me.”

“I hope you’ll take some time off when the harvest is done and get some rest.”

Jeff grinned. “Lauren’s got me booked for any number of things as soon as I’m free—cake tasting, menu planning, an engagement photography shoot and I don’t know what else. I think it would be more restful to be working. I suggested we elope, but that idea didn’t go over very well.”

Monica laughed. “I should imagine not. Lauren is very excited about this wedding.”

“I just want her to be my wife no matter how we do it.”

Monica pulled her keys out of her pocket. “I’ve got to get this salsa over to the inn.”

Jeff looked down and toed the ground. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’re doing for the farm. I wouldn’t have been able to make a success of it without you.”

“It’s been good for me, too,” Monica said. “I wouldn’t have met Greg if I hadn’t come to Cranberry Cove to help you.”

Jeff smiled. “That’s true. Greg’s a great guy. I really like him.”

“So do I. I think I’ll keep him,” Monica said, reaching for the car door handle. “And I’d better get going.”

She was about to get into the car when she had a thought.

“A question for you,” she said. “Is Sassamanash Farm selling fresh cranberries to the Cranberry Cove Inn?”

Jeff frowned. “No. Why?”

“I saw one of the waiters from the inn here the other day. He was talking to a member of your crew.”

Jeff shrugged. “Maybe they’re friends?”

“Probably. I was just surprised to see him here. I thought maybe you’d started doing business with the inn other than for the salsa.”