Chapter 3

 

“Who is it?” Monica said, her teeth beginning to chatter, although whether it was from the cold or nerves, she didn’t know.

“I have no idea,” Greg said, wrapping his arms around himself. “He looks familiar, but without being able to see his face . . .”

The man lying on the bottom of the boat was stocky with broad shoulders and curly blond hair. There was a strip of bright red across the back of his neck, as if he’d gotten sunburned while out fishing or playing golf.

“We’d best call the police,” Greg said. “I didn’t bring my cell, did you?”

Monica noticed he was beginning to shiver, too.

“No, I didn’t. Why don’t we go back to the inn and call? You’re freezing.”

“I want to stay with the boat. If it comes loose, it might start drifting again. You go and call, and I’ll wait here.” He must have noticed the look on Monica’s face. “I’ll be fine.” He smiled.

Monica didn’t want to leave him there. The dark gray clouds that had been hovering on the horizon had moved closer to shore, causing the temperature to drop significantly, and the wind was churning the waves into greater fury, causing them to slap against the small boat and sending spray into the air.

 

• • •

 

A fire was burning in the huge stone hearth in the inn lobby, and Monica was tempted to stop and warm herself in front of it, but the thought of poor Greg standing thigh-deep in cold water made her hurry past.

She first ran to the reception desk, but no one was there. The lobby was empty, and she heard a vacuum going somewhere down the hall. Most of the guests were already out for the day and the rooms were being cleaned in their absence.

Monica dashed into the restaurant. It, too, was empty. The tables had been stripped of their linens and a bus bin on a stand was loaded with used crockery. Monica paused briefly in front of the large plate-glass window that overlooked the lake. From this vantage point, she was able to see Greg standing in the water. A feeling of love rushed over her at the sight of him.

She didn’t linger but quickly pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, and for a moment the heat from the ovens and stoves felt delicious. A sous-chef stood at a cutting board slicing carrots with a rapidity that Monica envied.

The chef, a large man with a red face wearing a white jacket and black-and-white houndstooth trousers, stood in the corner running his finger down a sheet attached to a clipboard.

Monica shimmied between the stainless steel tables to where he was standing.

“Excuse me,” she said.

The chef lowered his clipboard and smiled at her. He had watery blue eyes that made her think of underdone poached eggs.

“Can I use your phone?” She realized she sounded slightly breathless.

“Is something wrong?” the chef asked in lightly accented English.

Monica explained about the body lying on the floor of the abandoned boat.

The chef gasped and his red face became redder. He put a hand on Monica’s shoulder and led her over to a telephone affixed to the far wall.

Monica took a deep breath in an attempt to still her shaking hands and managed to punch in 911 on the second try.

The operator assured her that a patrol car would be sent immediately and that Detective Stevens would be notified as well.

Monica thanked her and hung up.

On her way out of the kitchen, she noticed one of the waiters standing in the corner loading clean glasses onto a tray. He gave her a strange look as she swept past him toward the swinging door that led out to the restaurant.

On her way back through the lobby, she grabbed a knitted throw that had been draped over the back of one of the sofas.

The tide was going out and the water had receded slightly, but the sucking motion of the waves was threatening to pull the small motorboat loose from the sand where it had run aground.

Greg was clinging to it, and Monica noticed his fingernails were blue from the cold. Just then she heard a siren in the distance—help was on the way.

Within minutes, two uniformed officers were running as swiftly as they could down the path from the inn and across the sand. One of them turned his ankle and nearly fell, his arms flailing in the air like a windmill run amok.

When they got closer, Monica noticed that one of the pair was a woman—her long dark hair was fastened into a twist and tucked under her hat. She was tall and slim, and the shapeless blue shirt and pants and cumbersome wide leather belt hid any curves that might have given away her gender.

She left her partner on the shore with Monica and immediately plunged into the water to where Greg was hanging on to the boat.

Greg was obviously glad to leave things in her hands and waded back to shore, the water tugging at his sodden trousers and making for slow going.

He finally reached Monica, and she wrapped the throw around him and rubbed his arms and back vigorously.

Greg clutched the throw around him, his fingertips wrinkled from their long exposure to the water.

They heard a shout and turned toward the inn to see the chef, still in his white jacket and toque, making his way across the sand toward them. He had two mugs in his hands and a stainless steel thermos tucked under his arm.

“I thought you would want something hot to drink,” he said when he reached them. He unscrewed the cap of the thermos and poured steaming tea into each of the mugs. “I put in lots of sugar. They say it is good for the shock, you know?”

Monica and Greg accepted the tea gratefully and wrapped their hands around the warm mugs. Monica glanced toward the policewoman valiantly braving the waters of the lake to guard the body. Monica hoped Detective Stevens and the medical examiner would arrive soon.

Moments later she saw Stevens coming down the path from the inn. She’d had the forethought to wear a trench coat and was pulling a camera from her pocket.

“Are you okay?” she said as soon as she reached Monica and Greg.

They both nodded.

“Let me get a few pictures and then we can get that boat out of the water.” She jerked a shoulder in the direction of the policewoman standing nearly thigh-deep in the lake. “She must be freezing, poor thing.” She looked at Monica and Greg. “Then, I’ll be talking to you two, okay?”

Greg put an arm around Monica and nodded. They watched as Stevens pulled off her shoes, rolled up her pants and waded out to the boat. She stood with her legs spread, bracing herself against the oncoming waves, put her camera to her eye and began snapping pictures.

Monica huddled against Greg and waited. There was a noise behind them—the rumble of an engine—and they turned to see a white van with Cranberry Cove Inn written on the side in dark blue lettering making its way across the sand toward them.

The driver swung the van in a large arc and then began backing up toward the edge of the lake. He stopped several feet shy of the water, opened the door and jumped out. Monica realized it was the waiter she’d seen loading glasses on a tray in the kitchen.

He approached Monica and Greg as Stevens waded out of the water, her camera held above her head and away from the spray of the waves. He had dark eyes and dark hair slicked back except for one curl that had escaped onto his forehead. He was wearing a white waiter’s jacket with his name—Eddie Wood—embroidered in dark blue above the pocket.

“Do you think you can get that boat out of the water?” Stevens said to Eddie when she reached them.

Eddie nodded. “Sure thing. You just leave it to me.” And he winked at Stevens.

She looked momentarily startled but then regained her usual noncommittal expression.

Eddie moved briskly, making short work of hooking a chain to the hitch on the back of the van and attaching the other end to the boat. The sleeve of his jacket inched up his arm, and Monica noticed he had an elaborate tattoo of a snake on his powerful forearm.

He hopped back into the driver’s seat and put the van in gear. The van moved briefly, then the tires began to churn in the sand as the slack in the chain was taken up. Eddie kept his foot on the gas and gently eased the van forward, tugging the boat behind it. When the boat was completely out of the lake and far enough from the shore to keep it out of the water even at high tide, he cut the engine on the van, hopped back out and undid the chain from the boat. He unhooked the other end from the trailer hitch, coiled up the chain, opened the back door to the van and tossed it inside.

“Thank you,” Stevens called as Eddie made to get back into the driver’s seat.

He gave her a brief salute, pulled the door closed and headed back toward the inn.

They stood in a knot staring down at the body in the boat. Suddenly Stevens’s head jerked up.

“I hear a car. It must be the medical examiner. At least I hope so. The sooner he gets here, the sooner we can get inside and get warm.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m afraid this is ruining your honeymoon,” she said, making a rueful face.

“It can’t be helped,” Greg said. “Besides, we’ll be getting back to work tomorrow. We have a trip planned for later in the year—a real honeymoon.” He smiled at Monica.

A man was making his way toward them, giving his foot a little shake with each step, as if to keep the sand off his highly polished brown oxfords. He was tall and bone-thin with a disapproving expression on his narrow face, as if he expected to have all his cases expire in their own beds, in a warm house, and not outdoors under adverse conditions. His skin was tanned and weathered with deep furrows running across his forehead and bracketing his mouth.

“A rather sporty-looking bowrider,” he said, gesturing toward the boat. “A sixteen-footer, I’d say. It’s not a yacht but they still cost a pretty penny. Our victim must have had some money to burn.”

Monica, Greg and Stevens stepped away from the body and Monica and Greg turned their backs as the ME pulled on a pair of gloves and set about his rather gruesome tasks.

“Can you give me a hand?”

Monica turned around to see Stevens and the ME easing the body onto its side. Stevens peered at the man’s face and shook her head.

“Does he look familiar to you?” she asked Monica and Greg.

Monica took a step closer. She looked at the man and gasped.

“Greg.” She pointed toward the body. “That’s Bruce Laszlo, isn’t it? He was at our wedding yesterday.”

Greg looked at the man’s face, his head cocked to one side.

“I think you’re right.” He turned to Monica. “He’s your friend’s husband, isn’t he?” He scratched his head. “Or, perhaps I should say was.”

Stevens’s head swiveled in their direction. “You know him? What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” Monica held her hands out palms up. “We only just met him yesterday at our wedding. He was married to a woman I went to college with.”

Stevens grunted. “Does he live here in Cranberry Cove? If so, he must have stayed pretty far beneath the radar because I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”

“They’re summer people,” Monica said, using the term everyone in Cranberry Cove applied to anyone who didn’t live there year-round. “He owns one of those houses up on the hill.” She pointed in back of her.

“You’re friends with his wife but you only met him yesterday?” Stevens raised her eyebrows.

“I hadn’t stayed in touch with his wife—Andrea her name is, Andrea Bowman. She’s his second wife, and this was her first summer in Cranberry Cove. We ran into each other in town one day and got reacquainted.”

“What else?” Stevens prompted. “Do you know where their permanent residence is?”

Monica shrugged. “I think they live in a suburb outside of Chicago. Andrea told me the name, but I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“That’s fine. Identifying him for us has been a huge help. There’s nothing worse than an unidentified corpse.” She turned back toward the boat. “Wait a minute. What’s that?” She pointed toward something wedged between the cushions of the front passenger seat.

Stevens walked around to the passenger side of the boat and leaned in. She plucked something from between the grooves in the seat cushion and held it up in her gloved hand.

“A cigarette. Was our victim a smoker, I wonder?” She looked at Monica.

“I don’t know.”

“An autopsy should tell us all we need to know about the state of our corpse’s lungs,” the ME said. “That will tell us whether or not he was fond of tobacco.”

Stevens retrieved a plastic bag from her coat pocket and dropped the cigarette into it. She sealed it and pulled off her rubber gloves with a snap.

“With any luck, our killer will have left behind some DNA on that cigarette if it doesn’t turn out to be Laszlo’s.” She frowned and held the bag up. “Although it hasn’t been lit. But then maybe they stuck it in their mouth and were about to light it when they hit a wave?” She grinned. “One can dream, right?” She shook her head. “Somehow I doubt this is going to be that easy.” She smiled. “Why don’t you two go inside and get warm. If I need you, I know where to find you.”

 

• • •

 

Later that afternoon, as Monica and Greg snuggled on a love seat in front of the inn’s roaring fire, cozy and warm under a fleece throw and sipping tea made for them by the chef, who had fortified it with a spoon or two of brandy, it was hard to believe the horrific events of the morning had actually taken place.

“Frankly,” Greg said, tightening his arm around Monica, “that Laszlo guy looked like the sort who would come to a bad end.”

Monica laughed and poked him in the side. “That sounds like something Hennie or Gerda VanVelsen would say.”

Greg snorted. “Heaven help me! I’m turning into an old lady. But seriously, some people simply have that look about them, don’t you agree?”

“I do. It’s almost an odor.”

“Like bad fish.”

Monica spit a mouthful of tea into her lap. “Yes, very much like bad fish.” She dabbed at the damp patch on the throw with a tissue. “I didn’t like the way Laszlo treated Andrea. Certainly not this early in the marriage.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Do you expect me to treat you badly after we’ve been married for a few years?”

Monica poked him again. “Certainly not. And you know what I mean. They’ve only been married a short time—they should have had more patience with each other. Been more loving.”

“When you say he treated her badly, what did he do? Nothing physical, I hope.”

“No, nothing like that. At least not that I saw. But they were arguing, and she was obviously close to tears. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his tone was nasty.” Monica shivered.

“Hmmm,” Greg said, pulling Monica closer. “You don’t think . . .”

“That Andrea had something to do with Laszlo’s death?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.” Monica picked at a loose thread on the throw. “I just don’t know.”