Chapter 16

 

While she was in town, Monica decided to stop at Bart’s Butcher Shop and pick up something for dinner.

Monica suspected that Bart’s hadn’t changed since Bart’s father first hung the wooden sign with Bart’s Butcher Shop and an outline of a pig carved into it over the front door.

Bart was busy preparing a crown roast of pork, complete with paper frills, when Monica walked in.

“Well, if it isn’t the lady from Sassamanash Farm,” he said when he saw Monica. “How are things over there? Your brother finish the harvest yet?”

“Almost. I think there’s one more bog to go.”

Bart leaned his hands on the wooden counter. “I heard he’s getting hitched next spring. Having the wedding at the farm, is he?”

“Yes. With a big tent out by the bogs, which will be in bloom then,” Monica said as she eyed the meat in the case.

“That girl has made a big difference in him. When he first came back from Afghanistan we were all worried about him. You know, there’s all that talk about soldiers and what they’re calling post-traumatic stress syndrome. I don’t suppose it’s anything new—I’m sure my father and grandfather probably had it when they came home from the wars over in Europe. Like I said, we were worried about your brother, but that girl pulled him out of it.”

“We’re all happy he met Lauren.”

“So how’s married life treating you?”

“Fine.” Monica couldn’t control the smile that broke out on her face. “And speaking of marriage, I thought I’d make Greg a nice meat loaf for dinner tonight,” Monica said, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation around to something else.

“Then you’ll be after some ground beef and a bit of ground pork to round it out and add some fat to keep it moist. Not that pork is nearly as fatty anymore as it used to be.”

Bart pulled a tray from the case and scooped some meat onto a piece of butcher paper and placed it on the scale.

“Is this only for the two of you or do you want some leftovers?”

Monica thought of meat-loaf sandwiches with ketchup and mustard, and her mouth watered.

“Leftovers. Definitely.”

“Any news about that murder over by the yacht club?” Bart peered at Monica over the half-glasses perched on his nose. “I know you keep up with that sort of thing.”

She was gaining a reputation, Monica realized. She wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.

“Nothing that I know of. I haven’t been involved with it at all.”

“But you and your hubby found the body, didn’t you?”

Monica reluctantly agreed.

Bart placed the ground meat on the counter and began to wrap it in the butcher paper. He pulled a piece of string from a roll next to the counter and tied it up.

“Here you go.” He handed the package to Monica.

He was quiet as he rang up her order, and Monica was relieved when she was able to escape without any further questions.

 

• • •

 

Monica knew how to grill a steak or some chops and throw together a pot of soup but hadn’t explored much beyond that since she was only cooking for herself. She figured meat loaf ought to be something she could handle, along with mashed potatoes and applesauce.

She’d stopped at a farm stand on her way back to the cottage for a bag of Cortlands to make the applesauce from scratch. She’d pondered something for dessert but both she and Greg were watching their waistlines.

She was up to her wrists kneading ground beef, eggs, breadcrumbs and chopped onions in a bowl when she heard a car crunching over the gravel driveway. Was Greg home already?

When there was a pounding on the back door and she realized it couldn’t be Greg, she wiped her hands quickly and pulled the door open.

“That’s it. I’m done,” Gina said as she stalked into the kitchen.

She was wearing skinny jeans and a cropped mohair sweater with a pair of sky-high heels.

“Done with what?” Monica said as Gina pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down.

“I’m done with men,” Gina said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Any man in particular?” Monica said. She raised an eyebrow.

“All of them.”

Gina swept her arm in an arc, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers. She glared at them and then stood them upright again.

“Does this have anything to do with Xavier?”

Gina exhaled loudly through her nose. “This has everything to do with Xavier.”

“I thought you were through with him?” Monica shaped the meat in her bowl into a loaf and put it in a pan. “After all, he cheated on you with that woman from the yacht club.”

“I decided to forgive him,” Gina said. “Again. Everyone makes mistakes, right?” She looked at Monica, her eyes wide. “Besides, I’m not getting any younger.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life, and I’m afraid that’s what’s going to happen.”

“But surely you don’t want someone who cheats on you and lies about it?” Once again Monica thought how lucky she was to have found Greg.

“No, but . . . what if no one else comes along? You may not realize this, Monica, but as I said, I’m not getting any younger.” Gina touched her brow, which she kept smooth with injections of Botox and various fillers.

Monica stifled a laugh. Gina was bound and determined to stop the clock, and she didn’t care how much it cost.

“Although the young man at the checkout counter at Fresh Gourmet did ask for my ID the other day when I was buying a bottle of vodka.”

“They ask everyone for their ID. It’s company policy.”

Gina pouted. “You did have to go and spoil it for me, didn’t you.”

By now, Monica had started peeling the apples for the applesauce, when the back door opened.

“Oh, hello, Gina,” Greg said as he stepped inside.

He went over to Monica and kissed her on the cheek. He looked at Gina. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Yes, please stay for dinner. There’s plenty,” Monica said, hoping there would still be leftovers for sandwiches the next day.

Greg pulled out another kitchen chair and sat down. “How was your day?” he said to Monica and Gina.

“Weren’t you going to go to the marina today?” Gina said.

Greg looked startled. “The marina? Not your usual stomping grounds, I wouldn’t think.”

Monica felt herself flushing. She turned her back to the table and began mashing the simmering apples in the pot. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.

“I was asking around to see if anyone noticed anything unusual the morning Laszlo was killed. If there’d been a fight or an argument . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at Greg. “I read that the police believe Laszlo was killed at the marina before his body was put in that boat and set adrift.”

Greg raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything.

“What did you find out?” Gina said, leaning forward in her chair.

“There was an argument that morning. The fellow who manned the fuel pump heard it. Unfortunately, what he heard was two men arguing.”

“Why is that unfortunate?” Greg asked.

Monica turned around and leaned back against the counter. “I was convinced that Mattie Crawford was responsible for Laszlo’s death. I’ve already ruled out Nelson Holt and Alton Bates.”

“Maybe the argument had nothing to do with Laszlo,” Greg said.

“True,” Monica said. “But I was hoping for some sort of clue that would further implicate Mattie.”

“I wish we knew if she has any kind of alibi,” Gina said, jiggling her foot, her high-heeled pump dangling off her toes.

“I can’t exactly go up to her and ask her.”

“She works at the inn.” Greg got up and began helping Monica set the table. “You might be able to find out whether or not she was working that morning.” He set three forks out. “It might give her an alibi of sorts.”

 

• • •

 

Monica was washing the last pan and Greg was wiping down the kitchen table when he stopped and looked out the window.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said, parting the curtains. “Why don’t we go for a walk along the lake when we’re done?”

“I’d like that.” Monica put the pan in the dish drainer and pulled off her rubber gloves.

They finished tidying up the kitchen, turned on the dishwasher and went out to Greg’s car.

Within a few minutes they were driving along Beach Hollow Road. The shops were closed, their lights out and welcome mats brought inside. The old-fashioned gas lamps, now outfitted with electricity, were on, and twinkling white lights outlined the window of Twilight, illuminating a display of new-age items.

They found a parking space on the street down from the Cranberry Cove Inn. Greg locked the car and they made their way to the sandy path that led over the dunes, around the storm fence and to the beach.

The moon was strong and bright and the outline of the lighthouse was visible in the distance.

Greg put his arm around Monica. “It’s hard to believe that a week ago we found Laszlo’s body right there.” Greg pointed to a spot on the water.

Monica shivered and Greg tightened his arm around her.

“And the police don’t seem to be any further along in solving the murder,” Monica said. “As far as I know Andrea is still under arrest, so who knows if they are even looking for anyone else?”

“The police might know more than we think.”

“True.”

They stopped to look out over the lake at the pinpricks of light from the boats sailing on the horizon. Monica dug her toes into the sand and raised her face to the breeze. Her hair blew back off her face and she could almost feel it curling in the humidity.

They continued walking along the beach until the lights of the Cranberry Cove Inn slowly dimmed and nearly disappeared.

“Are you getting cold?” Greg looked at Monica.

“A bit. Why don’t we head back.”

The sound of the waves lapping against the shore was soothing, and by the time they reached the inn, Monica was feeling considerably more relaxed.

“Would you care for a nightcap?” Greg asked, squeezing her hand.

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

The lights of the inn’s lobby seemed extra bright when they walked in and Monica stood blinking for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. Logs hissed and popped in the stone fireplace, throwing off waves of delicious warmth. Monica hadn’t realized quite how chilled she’d become on their walk back along the beach.

Greg led her into the Nook, a small wood-paneled bar with stools along the counter and a handful of round tables and chairs.

They took a seat at the one unoccupied table and the waiter took their order—a brandy for Greg and a Baileys for Monica.

Two men sat at opposite ends of the bar with a couple seated close together in the middle. Monica watched them as they sipped their drinks, their heads close together, the man reaching out to occasionally touch the woman’s arm. Monica smiled and looked over at Greg. She knew how it felt to be in love.

The waiter set their drinks on the table, and when they assured him there was nothing else they needed, he departed.

Monica’s eyes were drawn back to the couple sitting at the bar. There was something familiar about them—or at least about the woman. Especially the woman’s posture—erect but at the same time fluid and not at all rigid. The lighting was dim and she had her back to Monica, so Monica couldn’t really see her all that well. She supposed the woman reminded her of someone, she just couldn’t put her finger on who at the moment. It would probably come to her later when she wasn’t thinking about it.

The woman turned suddenly to look at the man, a small smile playing around her lips, her profile now visible.

Monica stared at her in shock. It was Andrea.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, sensing her alarm.

Monica leaned close to him over the table and whispered, “That’s Andrea Laszlo. And she’s looking terribly cozy with another man awfully soon after her husband’s death.”

Greg turned to look at the couple at the bar. He raised an eyebrow.

“It certainly doesn’t look like a business meeting, if you ask me.”

“What should we do?”

Greg laughed. “Enjoy our drinks and then get out of here and go back to our lovely little cottage.”

 

• • •

 

Monica didn’t sleep well that night. She kept waking up and thinking about seeing Andrea in the bar seeming so cozy with that strange man. Did that mean that Andrea was a murderer who had killed her husband in order to be with someone else? Monica didn’t know. She didn’t think so—she thought she knew Andrea better than that. But that was the Andrea she knew a long time ago in college. The Andrea who loved Hawaiian pizza and cried at romantic movies and tutored underprivileged children. This was a new Andrea—one Monica realized she didn’t know very well at all.

Before Monica knew it, the sun was rising and dawn was breaking on Sunday morning. Book ’Em was open on Sundays during tourist season, which extended through the summer until mid-October, when the leaves stopped changing color and the weather turned bitter. Greg usually checked in with the staff on Sunday mornings to make sure things were going smoothly, and then, if everything was in order, took the afternoons off.

While he was gone, Monica decided she’d take Greg’s suggestion and head over to the Cranberry Cove Inn. Hopefully she would find out if Mattie had been working the Sunday Laszlo was killed and whether anyone could give her an alibi for the time of death. According to the medical examiner’s report, Laszlo hadn’t been dead for much more than an hour when Monica and Greg had found his body.

Monica cleaned up the dishes—she’d made Greg pancakes—filled Mittens’s bowl again and finally got into her car to head into town.

Her car started making a strange noise as she crested the hill overlooking Beach Hollow Road. Monica held her breath. She couldn’t afford to replace her ancient Taurus at the moment. She and Greg were saving every penny in order to build a house.

Greg had had the foresight to buy a piece of property when he first moved to Cranberry Cove, at a time when prices were much more reasonable and wealthy people weren’t yet buying up lots to build their large summer homes. He’d hoped to build on the land eventually but had found living over the shop to be so comfortable and convenient that he’d put the idea on the back burner.

Monica noticed the sidewalks were crowded as she drove through town. It was a beautiful day—a brief spell warm enough for shorts and a light sweater. A few brave souls were on the beach and boats were out bobbing on the waves.

The inn offered an elaborate brunch buffet as well as their regular menu on Sundays and their parking lot was full. Monica drove around to the service entrance. They weren’t likely to be getting deliveries on a Sunday, so no one should mind if she left her car there.

Eddie Wood was standing outside the service entrance door, a cigarette in one hand and a cell phone in the other. He moved aside as Monica approached.

She caught a snippet of his conversation—something about a shipment—and stopped just inside the door, where he couldn’t see her, to listen.

She stood as still as possible in order to hear what he was saying.

“The boat with the shipment will be in position in an hour, I promise.” There was a pause. “No, that guy’s out of the picture. Permanently.” He laughed. “There’s a dock about one hundred yards south of the lighthouse. It’s old and rickety but it will do. It’s shallow there but you should be okay if you use the skiff. You might have to make two trips. I’ll meet you there.”

He ended the call and Monica scurried down the corridor to the kitchen. She didn’t think Eddie had seen her. She hoped not.

She wondered what sort of shipment he was anticipating. And who was the guy who was permanently out of the picture? His voice had been low, as if he hadn’t wanted anyone to hear, and she didn’t think he was waiting for an order of meat or vegetables for the inn. Besides, all of that was trucked in, not brought over by boat.

The kitchen was bustling with pots sending clouds of steam into the air, and the swinging door to the restaurant opening and closing so fast it was practically a blur as waiters grabbed orders from the counter and scurried back out to deliver them to their waiting customers.

Monica slipped past the pastry station, where a chef was briskly organizing miniature strawberry and blueberry tarts on a tray to be taken out to the buffet. Monica’s mouth watered at the sight of them.

No one noticed her as she made her way through the swinging door and into the restaurant—they were too busy focusing on the work at hand.

The restaurant was as busy as the kitchen. Every table was filled and people were lined up at the buffet, where a sumptuous brunch had been set out, including a carving station with roast beef and ham and a station where a chef in a white apron and tall toque was making omelets to order.

Monica made her way through the restaurant and out to the lobby. Several people were lined up near the reception desks, suitcases at their sides. Monica glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner—it was eleven o’clock and checkout time.

The receptionist behind the counter wasn’t anyone Monica recognized. She’d hoped Patty would be working today but someone else had obviously drawn the Sunday morning shift.

The elevator door opened and a chambermaid pushing a trolley filled with dirty laundry stepped out. It was Mattie Crawford. Before Monica could approach her, she disappeared down the corridor and through a door.

Monica took a seat in the lobby and pretended to be studying the screen on her phone. She debated what to do. Should she try to talk to Mattie directly or hope that the receptionist would be as chatty as Patty had been and as disinclined to ask questions.

She still hadn’t made up her mind when Mattie walked into the lobby. She straightened the magazines on the coffee table in front of the sofa and plumped the sofa cushions. Monica wanted to talk to her but was at a loss as to how to start the conversation in a way that wouldn’t put Mattie on the defensive.

She glanced at the occasional table next to her. On top of it was a small vase with a bouquet of gold and rust-colored flowers in it. Monica hesitated and then swept it off the table with her hand. The vase clattered to the floor and the water spilled out and trickled toward the edge of the Oriental carpet.

Mattie spun around when she heard the noise.

“I’m so sorry.” Monica jumped to her feet. “That was so clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry,” she said again.

Mattie frowned, her dark brows drawn over her dark eyes.

“I’ll get a cloth,” she said and whirled on her heel.

Monica pretended to fuss over the mess until Mattie came back with a thick, absorbent towel. She bent over and began to mop up the water.

“I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” Monica said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mattie said, continuing to blot up the water with the cloth.

“I’m sure it’s bad enough having to work on the weekends . . .” Monica let the sentence trail off, waiting to see if Mattie took the bait.

“I don’t mind. I’m used to it now and the tips are better on the weekend.”

“So you work every Sunday?”

Mattie gave Monica a sharp look. “Yes.” She began picking up the flowers.

“Were you here last weekend? I gather there was quite a bit of excitement.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Were you here when they found the . . . body? I heard the police were all over the place.”

Mattie stood up and faced Monica, her hands on her hips. “I’m here from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon unless the girl working the next shift doesn’t show up, and then I work until eleven at night, okay?” She glared at Monica.

Monica gave a wan smile.

Now she knew Mattie had been working at the inn the morning Laszlo died, Monica thought as she headed back through the kitchen. It wasn’t an airtight alibi, but it certainly made Mattie a less likely suspect. Undoubtedly someone would have noticed if she’d gone missing for an hour or two.

Monica passed the small closet in the corridor leading to the exit and again she heard voices coming from behind the partially closed door.

One was definitely Mattie’s. Who had she been so quick to run off to talk to? Monica wondered. As she passed the open crack in the door, she caught a glimpse of a man—a man who she was pretty certain was Eddie Wood.

It was perfectly reasonable that Mattie should be talking to her husband, Monica thought as she opened her car door. But was it merely a coincidence that she’d been in such a hurry to catch up with him right after her conversation with Monica? Was she telling him that Monica had been asking her questions?

Monica couldn’t imagine that Eddie had had anything to do with Laszlo’s death. What did he have to gain by it? Being heard arguing once didn’t make them mortal enemies. Besides, she didn’t see a connection between them—Laszlo was a wealthy summer visitor and Eddie was a local who waited tables at the inn for a living.

Monica had turned the key in the ignition when she remembered Eddie’s telephone conversation and his remark about the shipment. She tried to imagine what sort of shipment it could be—most likely something illegal or he wouldn’t have sounded so secretive about it. All Monica could think of was drugs or alcohol. Drugs would be awfully risky, and she knew nothing about smuggling alcohol or whether there was much profit in it. She remembered Jeff’s crewmember telling her how cigarettes were cheaper in Indiana because the taxes were lower. Maybe it was the same with alcohol?

Eddie had mentioned someone on the phone—someone who was permanently out of the picture. Laszlo was definitely permanently out of the picture. Could there be some connection between him and Eddie Wood after all?