Chapter 15

 

Lunch was in full swing at the Cranberry Cove Inn when Monica pulled into their parking lot. A fresh crop of tourists must have arrived for the weekend, she thought. The leaves were beginning to change but the temperatures hadn’t yet plunged to uncomfortable levels. The parking lot was crowded, and she was glad she didn’t have to hunt for a space. Instead she headed around back to the service door.

She found a spot as close to the entrance as she could get, although she would still have to make several trips. She opened the trunk and retrieved the first carton of salsa. She pushed open the door to the service entrance with her hip and shoulder and carried the box down the corridor to the kitchen.

There was an odd atmosphere in the kitchen. Monica felt it as soon as she walked in. The sous-chef and several line cooks were hard at work, their heads lowered over their cutting boards or the pots on the stove, which wasn’t unusual. But it was quieter than normal—none of the banging of pans or shouting of orders that she would have expected in a kitchen going full steam ahead preparing a meal. The staff looked as if they were trying their best to disappear, or at least to escape notice.

Suddenly a roar came from a small office off the kitchen . . . followed by a string of words in a language that sounded like German to Monica. But no matter the language, it was fairly obvious they were swear words.

“Thar she blows,” said one of the line cooks with a smirk.

“Again,” replied another.

“What’s going on?” Monica said, shifting her cardboard box to one hip.

One of the line cooks hurried toward Monica and took the box from her.

“It’s the chef,” he said over his shoulder as he carried the salsa to the refrigerator. “He’s in a tizzy.”

“A tizzy? He’s furious,” one of the other line cooks said.

Monica heard banging coming from the office, as if someone was slamming drawers or throwing things on the floor.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“He thinks one of us did it,” the line cook said as he closed the door to the refrigerator.

“Or one of the waiters,” someone else said. “He always has it in for the poor waiters.”

“What are you trying to pin on us now?” The swinging door from the restaurant to the kitchen had opened and Eddie walked in. “It’s always our fault, isn’t it?” he said with a laugh as he picked up a tray of food.

“It has to be,” the line cook shot back. “We all know better than to even touch them.”

By now Monica was thoroughly confused. What shouldn’t the staff touch?

Finally, one of the line cooks, laughing at the confused look on her face, took pity on her. “Someone took one of the chef’s knives,” he said. “He’s furious.”

“Took it?” Monica said, feeling a frisson of excitement shoot down her spine. “Or stole it?”

“Same thing, isn’t it?” the line cook said. “Chefs bring their own knives to the job. They don’t like using someone else’s. And they don’t like anyone using theirs. They don’t even like it if someone touches them.” He put both hands down on the counter, his fingers splayed. “I remember when I got my first job in a kitchen, it was down in Battle Creek. It was a small place, nothing special. I borrowed the chef’s knife to cut my sandwich in half at lunch. The chef went ballistic. I was out on my ass within the hour.”

“So someone helped themselves to one of the chef’s knives. Did that just happen? Is that why he’s so upset?”

The line cook scratched his head. “No one knows. Chef Zimmermann only discovered it was missing today. It’s what they call a boning knife. We had boned duck breast on the menu for tonight and when Chef Z went to get his knife, it was gone.”

“Does everyone who works at the inn have access to the kitchen?” Monica said.

The line cook scratched his head again. “The people who work in the restaurant, sure. I wouldn’t say anyone’s forbidden to come into the kitchen—although Chef Z wouldn’t like it, it’s not against the rules or anything like that. It’s more of an unwritten rule, if you know what I mean.”

“So anyone would have access to the chef’s knives?”

“I guess so. I mean, unless you worked in the restaurant or kitchen you really wouldn’t have any reason to be in here.”

Monica carried the rest of her cartons of salsa into the inn’s kitchen almost without realizing what she was doing. Bruce Laszlo had been stabbed. Someone had stolen Chef Zimmermann’s boning knife. And she and Lauren had found a boning knife hidden in the grass alongside one of the bogs at Sassamanash Farm.

Was it that much of a stretch to think there was a connection between them?

 

• • •

 

Mattie Crawford had access to the Cranberry Cove Inn’s kitchen, Monica thought as she drove back to the farm. It wouldn’t have been all that hard for her to sneak in and steal Chef Zimmermann’s knife. She worked at the inn—it wouldn’t have seemed that unusual for her to walk into the kitchen.

Or perhaps she had waited till after hours when the restaurant, and the kitchen, were closed. She had access to the building, and again, no one would have thought twice about seeing her there.

Unfortunately, there was no way she could prove it, Monica realized. And until Stevens got the lab analysis of the knife back, there was no confirmation that it was even the knife that had been used to kill Laszlo.

Monica was nearly halfway home when she remembered she wanted to talk to Andrea about Laszlo’s supposed cigarette smuggling. Instead of continuing along the road to the farm, she turned off onto a dirt road that eventually led to the neighborhood where the Laszlos lived. The road wound up a modest hill that elevated the houses enough to offer them a view of the water.

Perhaps she should have called first, she thought as she pulled into Andrea’s driveway. There was no guarantee Andrea would even be home.

But Andrea answered the bell a few moments after Monica rang it. She was wearing black Lycra workout shorts, a purple tank top, and had a white towel around her neck. She was breathing heavily and was covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No. I’ve finished.” Andrea swiped at her face with the towel. “Forty-five minutes on the treadmill. I’m bushed.”

She stood aside and waved Monica into the foyer.

“We can sit on the three-season porch. The handyman was just here to take out the screens and put in the glass. Bruce used to do it himself, but I’m afraid I can’t manage it all by myself. It’s quite lovely out there at the moment. The trees keep it shaded from the sun.”

She led the way to a large glassed-in porch.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Andrea asked as Monica took a seat.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother. I have a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. Will that do?”

“Yes. That would be lovely.”

While she waited, Monica looked around. The porch was furnished with a wrought iron dining table and chairs, along with several wicker chairs and matching ottomans upholstered in coral and white stripes. Towering houseplants in ceramic pots stood in the corners of the room.

Andrea returned with a tray with two glasses of iced tea and a plate of cookies, which she set on a small glass coffee table. She took a seat in the chair opposite Monica.

Monica took a sip of her iced tea and cleared her throat.

“I heard something rather . . . odd,” Monica began. “I’m afraid it might be distressing, but I wanted to know if it was true. One of the members of my half brother’s crew at Sassamanash Farm told me that he was buying bootleg cigarettes from your husband.”

Monica studied Andrea carefully. Various emotions chased each other across her face—shock, anger, dismay.

“What do you mean, bootleg cigarettes?”

“Apparently because of the varying states’ tax laws, cigarettes are cheaper in Indiana than they are here in Michigan.”

“So people . . . smuggle them?” Andrea looked incredulous.

Monica nodded. “Yes.” She set her glass down on the coffee table. “Did you know anything about this? Did Bruce talk to you about it?”

Andrea placed a hand against her chest, her fingers splayed. “Did I know about it? No, absolutely not. Bruce never said a word. Why on earth would he get involved in smuggling cigarettes?” She waved a hand as if to encompass the house. “There was no need. He had his investment business. He had no need to do something so . . . tawdry.”

“You told me that the investment business wasn’t going that well.”

“I never said that.” Andrea bristled. She folded her arms across her chest.

“Maybe not in so many words. You said there wasn’t as much in the bank accounts as you’d expected.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I thought Bruce would do something illegal. Look.” Andrea leaned forward, her forearms resting on her legs, her hands open and outstretched. “I know Bruce was . . . a little rough around the edges. A bit too loud sometimes. But that doesn’t make him a criminal.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. All I know is what this fellow told me.”

“He must have been lying.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, what does this have to do with Bruce’s death?” Andrea began jiggling her foot.

“I don’t know,” Monica admitted. “Perhaps he crossed the wrong people?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you hear him mention any names you didn’t recognize? Or have phone calls with people you didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know most of his clients. Besides, he took those calls on his cell phone.” Andrea gave a half smile. “I never picked up the house phone and heard a strange voice uttering things in code, if that’s what you mean.”

Monica sensed Andrea’s mood turning. She was becoming defensive. Was it because she knew something or because she was angry that her husband had duped her?

“I’m sorry,” Monica said, putting down her glass and standing up. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

Andrea walked with Monica toward the door. They stood in the foyer for a moment, Monica’s hands hanging by her sides. She tried to find the words to bridge the gulf that had opened between her and Andrea, but they didn’t come.

Andrea suddenly put her hand on Monica’s arm.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re only doing what I asked—trying to find Bruce’s murderer.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “About the cigarette smuggling. More than once I walked into Bruce’s study when he was on the phone with someone and he became . . . I don’t know . . . secretive. Once he got furious that I’d disturbed him. I assumed I was interrupting a confidential conversation with a client, but he’d never acted like that before. Maybe it was something else.” Andrea turned away from Monica and reached out to straighten a large conch shell displayed on the small table in the foyer.

Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “One time I heard him talking to someone about a shipment.”

“Did you hear anything more than that?”

Andrea shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.” She hung her head. “I did wonder why Bruce often went out so early. He said he was jogging, but . . .” She paused and clenched her fists. “He never looked like he’d been running when he came back.” She waved her hands in the air. “He wasn’t sweating and his running shoes never seemed to get very dirty.”

“So he could have been out receiving smuggled cigarettes from . . . someone.”

“I guess.” Andrea grabbed Monica’s arm. “Listen. I’m sorry I got sort of . . . rude. It’s all so unnerving.” She buried her face in her hands.

Monica waited while Andrea got control of herself.

“I hope you won’t give up on me.” Andrea smiled. “I’m still technically under arrest even if they have let me out on bail.”

Monica squeezed Andrea’s hand. “I won’t abandon you. Please don’t worry. I want to solve this as much as you do.”

Andrea smiled. “Thank you.” She gave Monica’s hand an answering squeeze.

 

• • •

 

It was well past lunchtime by the time Monica got home, and she was starved. Mittens greeted her briefly then lifted her tail and stalked over to her food dish. Monica glanced at it and noticed it was half empty.

“Fine, I’ll fill it up for you,” she said to Mittens as she got the bag of cat food out of the pantry.

Mittens swished back and forth in front of Monica, meowing loudly as Monica tried to pour the food into her dish. When Monica was finished, Mittens looked at her bowl then turned on her heel and walked away. She settled into a pool of sun coming in the window and proceeded to groom herself.

It looked as if Greg had been home for lunch. The day’s newspaper was on the table, folded open to the classifieds. Greg was always on the alert for estate sales that might yield a collection of first editions in good condition. Monica felt a pang of disappointment at having missed him.

She retrieved the fixings for a turkey sandwich from the refrigerator and made herself something to eat. She put her plate and glass of water on the table and opened up the newspaper. A mixture of headlines were scattered across the front page, but the biggest headline—Police Seeking Information in Murder Case—was about the investigation into Bruce Laszlo’s murder.

Monica took a bite of her sandwich, folded the paper open to the lead story and began to read. The reporter had interviewed Detective Stevens. We have reason to believe that the murder actually took place near the marina of the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club on Sunday morning.

It seemed as if the police had come to the conclusion that the murder had taken place where Laszlo’s boat had been docked. His body had then been loaded into the bowrider and set adrift.

When asked what evidence the police had found at the marina, Stevens declined to comment.

Monica finished her sandwich and put her dish in the dishwasher. She couldn’t stop thinking about the article in the newspaper. What if someone had seen something the day Laszlo was murdered but didn’t realize it was important? Perhaps there had been an argument between Laszlo and the killer. Someone might have heard it but dismissed it, never imagining a murder was about to take place.

The idea nagged at her as she headed to the farm kitchen. She continued to think about it as she rolled out dough, pulled baked goods from the oven, delivered the finished products to the farm store and cleaned up the kitchen.

Finally she made a decision. She pulled off her rubber gloves and stowed them under the sink. She was going to the Cranberry Cove marina to see if there was anyone around who might have seen or heard something the morning Laszlo was killed.

Monica realized, even as she drove down the hill toward town, that her mission might be futile. The police might have already spoken to everyone at the marina. She hadn’t gotten any indication from Detective Stevens as to how far along the investigation was. But the threat of going to trial for her husband’s murder still hung over Andrea’s head, and Monica couldn’t bear to think of the anxiety she must be feeling.

It was chilly close to the lake and Monica retrieved her sweatshirt from the backseat of her car. She pulled it on, locked the doors and headed toward the docks, where a handful of boats bobbed with the gentle rise and fall of the water.

Most of the marina’s patrons were out on the water enjoying the last few weeks of good weather before their crafts would be hauled out of the water and put in dry dock for painting and other maintenance during the long Michigan winter.

Monica walked along the dock feeling it shift slightly under her feet. The lapping of the water was a soothing sound, broken only by the cries of the three seagulls flying in a circle overhead and occasionally swooping down low over the water in search of food. Her hair was blown across her face by the breeze coming in off the lake, and she brushed it back with her hand. She was glad she’d taken the time to put on her sweatshirt.

There was no one about that she could see except for a young man on his hands and knees scrubbing a portion of the dock. He looked up when Monica approached.

He had red hair and freckles and a bit of soft ginger fuzz on his chin and was wearing a cap with Cranberry Cove Yacht Club written on it in blue script. There was a gap between his two front teeth that Monica thought made him look more like a child than a young man. She guessed him to be college-aged.

“Hi,” Monica said.

“Hey,” he said, sitting back on his haunches. Soapy water dripped from the brush in his hand and ran down his arm.

“Do you work here regularly?” Monica said.

He blinked at her rapidly. His eyelashes were so blond they were almost transparent.

“I work here during the summer. I go to school the rest of the year.”

“Were you here last Sunday? Sunday morning?” Monica said, crossing her fingers.

“Sunday? Yeah.” He pushed his hat back off his forehead.

“I’m wondering if you heard or saw anything unusual. Two people arguing perhaps?”

He shook his head, looking confused. “Nothing like that, no.”

“Thanks.”

Monica saw him shake his head as she walked away but she was grateful he hadn’t shown any curiosity as to why she was asking about the morning Laszlo was murdered.

She didn’t see anyone else but walked a little farther along hoping to encounter someone who might have been doing something in the cabin of their boat. She noticed there was a fueling station at the end of the dock. She walked toward it hoping that the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club had been thoughtful enough to provide its patrons with a full-service station. She couldn’t imagine the esteemed members of the club getting out of their boats to pump gas themselves.

As Monica got closer, the scent of gasoline drifted toward her on the air and she noticed an oily slick in the water that ebbed and flowed with the motion of the lake.

At first she didn’t see anyone near the pumps, but then she heard whistling coming from the small wooden shed just beyond.

“Hello?” she called out as she approached the shed.

A head of frizzy gray hair popped through the open door.

“Can I help you, miss?”

A man emerged from the shed. He had a gray beard to match his hair and was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a blue work shirt.

“Do you work here?” Monica gestured to the pumps.

“Yes. At least I do part-time. I’m retired actually, but social security isn’t enough to keep body and soul together so I work here during the summers.” He stroked his beard with a hand that looked as if it was used to manual labor. “I enjoy being outside and being able to chat with people as they come by. The missus passed away a couple of years ago and it’s lonely all on my own.”

He rubbed his hands together. “What can I do for you? I’m assuming you’re not after some gas.”

“You’re right. I was wondering if you were here last Sunday. In the morning.”

“I certainly was. Tuesday through Sunday, those are my days. Not so many people around on Mondays so the dockhand takes care of the fueling.” He thumped the gas pump affectionately.

“Did you hear anything unusual that morning? It would have been quite early.”

He wrinkled his forehead. “Unusual like what?”

“Maybe two people arguing?”

He smoothed his beard with two fingers and pursed his lips.

“Now that you mention it, I did hear some raised voices. They sounded pretty heated, if I recall correctly.”

“Do you remember which direction they were coming from?”

He turned around in a full circle before finally pointing to a spot midway down the dock adjacent to the one they were on. “It was right about there.”

Monica had gotten the location of the slip where Laszlo docked his boat from Andrea, and the fellow was pointing roughly in that direction. So it was entirely possible he’d overheard Laszlo arguing with his killer.

“Did you see anyone? Get a glimpse of either of them at all?” Monica tried to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“The men arguing, you mean?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. They must have been inside the boat’s cabin.”

“You heard two men arguing?”

“Yup.”

“Did you hear a woman’s voice at all?”

“Nope. Just the two men.”

Monica was disappointed. Either the two men arguing had nothing to do with Laszlo’s murder or Mattie wasn’t the one who had killed him after all.