Chapter 2

 

Monica yanked back the flowered curtains and looked out the window. She and Greg had spent the night in the presidential suite at the Cranberry Cove Inn. It was more charming and cozy than presidential, with a large picture window overlooking Lake Michigan where sunlight sparkled off the blue water and waves topped with white foam rolled toward shore.

“It looks like a beautiful day,” Monica called to Greg, who was in the bathroom shaving. “Blue skies and those puffy white clouds that always make me think of cotton balls.”

Greg emerged from the bathroom wiping the last bit of shaving cream from his face with a hand towel. He joined Monica at the window. “It looks like a good day for a walk on the beach.”

“It does.”

“Meanwhile, though, I’m starving.” Greg grinned.

Monica cocked her head. “You know what? So am I.”

“Let’s go then.” Greg tossed the towel on the bed and opened the door to the hall for Monica. He paused and patted his pockets. “Do you have a key?”

“I do.”

The dining room wasn’t too crowded and they were able to get a table by the window and close to the warmth of the fire burning in the stone fireplace.

“I truly am starved,” Greg said as he picked up the menu.

“We never really had dinner last night,” Monica said. “We had hors d’oeuvres at the reception and we were too full.”

“Although we did manage to polish off that bottle of champagne and the cheese tray your mother had sent to our room.”

Monica giggled. She had felt as if she were in a scene from a movie—propped up in bed sipping champagne and feeding each other bites of cheese and crackers.

“How are you two lovebirds this morning?” A waitress in a frilly pink apron glided over to their table and began filling their water glasses.

Monica felt her face getting hot. Did everyone know they were newlyweds?

“Coffee?” The waitress held the silver pot in her other hand over their cups.

Monica and Greg both nodded.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Greg said, putting down his menu.

Monica sighed. It all looked so good. “I think I’ll go with the eggs Benedict.” She closed her menu. “And you?”

“Two eggs over easy, sausage, hash browns and rye toast.”

Monica realized she still had so many things to learn about Greg—small things to be sure: what he ate for breakfast, whether he liked to read the newspaper while he ate or preferred to save it for later, did he have a favorite sports team.

The waitress brought their order, and they were silent while they downed the first few bites. Finally Greg put his fork down and pushed his plate away.

“What would you like to do today?”

Monica glanced out the window. “It looks lovely out. How about we start with that walk on the beach?”

They didn’t have time at the moment for a proper honeymoon, although they were planning one for later in the year. The cranberry harvest at Sassamanash Farm was in full swing and Greg’s bookstore was still attracting tourists on the weekends who were in Cranberry Cove on autumn color tours.

Greg reached across the table and took Monica’s hands in his. They sat smiling at each other until the waitress came up behind them and cleared her throat loudly.

 

• • •

 

Monica was glad she’d worn a sweater. The day was cool despite the sun and a chilly breeze blew off the lake. They made their way down the path behind the Cranberry Cove Inn, past the dunes and the tall waving beach grasses bleached white by the falling temperatures, and through the opening in the wooden sand fence erected to stem erosion.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m taking my shoes off,” Greg said as he slipped out of them.

“Good idea.”

Monica stepped out of her loafers and dug her toes into the sand. It was warm on top, but as she burrowed deeper it felt cool and damp on her bare feet.

They walked, hand in hand, down toward the water’s edge and stopped to look out over the water. A lone sailboat was on the horizon, its sail puffed out from the wind.

“There’s another boat over there.” Greg pointed to where a small motorboat bobbed on the waves. He frowned. “It doesn’t appear to have its motor running.”

“Maybe they’re fishing?” Monica said.

Greg shrugged. “Could be.”

They continued to walk along the beach. Monica picked up an interesting-looking piece of driftwood she thought would be perfect on her mantel. The wood was smooth and polished and felt like velvet under her fingers.

“What do you think?” She held it out to Greg. “For the fireplace mantel?”

Greg had moved into Monica’s small cottage at Sassamanash Farm, leaving behind his tiny, crowded apartment above Book ’Em. They planned to eventually build a house together, but this arrangement suited them for the time being. Monica could walk to the farm’s commercial kitchen, where she made cranberry salsa and breads and muffins to sell in the farm store and also to a local gourmet chain that had become interested in her products.

And Greg was only a short drive from Beach Hollow Road and the center of Cranberry Cove, where his store was located.

They walked on, leaving footprints in the sand that disappeared behind them as the waves washed them away. Monica was surprised at how warm the water was even though it was September, but it had been heating up ever since June when the temperatures began to rise. In a few more months, though, ice floes would be bobbing just offshore and the lighthouse would be encrusted with icicles.

They had walked a little farther when Greg stopped suddenly. He put his hands on Monica’s shoulders and turned her toward him. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers.

He hugged her then held her at arm’s length and smiled. “Thank you for marrying me, Monica Albertson.”

Monica snuggled close to him and nestled her head against his shoulder. As they walked along she noticed the sun glinting off her shiny gold wedding ring, and she couldn’t help glancing at it with pride. A lump formed in her throat suddenly. She couldn’t believe her great good fortune to have found someone as wonderful as Greg.

“Look.” Greg pointed toward the lake at the small motorboat that was bobbing in the water at the mercy of the waves. “They still haven’t turned the motor on on that boat. That’s strange, don’t you think?”

Monica, who knew very little about boats, shook her head. “I guess it’s unusual.”

Greg frowned. “I wonder if something is wrong.” He squinted into the distance then turned to Monica. “Can you see anyone on board?”

Monica looked out over the increasingly turbulent waters of the lake. She was lucky enough to have excellent eyesight, but the boat was quite a distance away, and she couldn’t be completely sure.

“Do you think we should call the Coast Guard?” Monica said.

Greg continued to stare at the blue and white speck on the horizon. Finally, he shrugged.

“I imagine I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Monica linked her arm through his. “I suspect we’ve both read too many mysteries.”

Greg laughed. “You’re probably right. We’re creating a plot out of thin air.”

They hadn’t realized how far they’d walked until they turned around to head back. The Cranberry Cove Inn was a smudge of white in the distance. Dark clouds had rolled in from across the lake, obliterating the sun and making it look more like dusk than late morning.

The breeze had picked up in intensity as well, and Monica brushed at the strands of hair blowing across her face and into her eyes. She pulled her sweater around her more closely and hunched her shoulders against the wind.

The small motorboat they’d noticed earlier was closer to shore now. Monica grabbed Greg’s arm and pointed toward it.

“You may be right. I don’t see anyone on board that boat.”

Greg stopped and looked out across the lake. “I wonder what happened? You don’t suppose they fell overboard, do you?”

Monica shivered. “I hope not. That would be horrible.”

She could well remember being in the lake herself—pushed out of a rowboat by a determined killer. Fortunately for her, the lake had been calm that day, the water as smooth as glass and no rip current.

“When we get back to the inn, I’ll call the police and let them decide whether or not the situation warrants getting the Coast Guard involved.”

They were almost back to the inn when Greg glanced up at the sky.

“It looks like rain. It’s hard to believe it was so bright and sunny when we started our walk.”

“You know the saying about Michigan weather—if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”

Greg pointed to the lake. “That cloud is so low, it’s hard to tell where the sky ends and the water begins.”

Monica scanned the horizon. “That boat is still there. Look. It’s much closer to the shore now.”

Greg frowned. “I’m definitely calling the police as soon as we get in.”

They watched as the churning waves pushed the small boat closer and closer toward the shore.

“It’s going to run aground,” Greg said, starting toward the water’s edge.

“What are you doing?” Monica followed him.

“There’s no one on board.” Greg bent and began to roll up his pants legs. “If I can reach it, we can see if the owner left any identification behind. The police can then check to see if that person is missing or is simply sitting at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club having a Bloody Mary, unaware of the fact that their boat has come loose from its moorings.”

“Be careful,” Monica said, biting her lower lip.

A feeling of déjà vu washed over her. Her first fiancé had been killed in a swimming accident, caught in an invisible riptide. She wanted to stop Greg, but he was already wading into the water.

The water splashed up around his knees, wetting the edges of his rolled-up trousers. A large wave rushed in toward shore and Greg turned his back to it. It hit him mid-back and wet him nearly head to toe, but he continued to scramble toward the motorboat, which was now almost within arm’s reach.

Another large wave hit the boat, pushing it closer toward the shallow waters along the shore and ramming its hull into the soft sand, where it stuck.

The water was up to Greg’s thighs when he finally reached the boat. He peered over the side then stood staring for several minutes. Monica waited then finally rolled up her own trousers and plunged into the lake.

Greg put an arm out to stop her, but it was too late. She’d already seen the body lying prone on the floor of the boat, blood leaking from a wound in its back and puddling around it.