Berry the Hatchet (17 page)

“No.” The word burst out of Monica with the force of an explosion. She was convinced the coat had something to do with Crowley's murder. Why hide it otherwise? It looked to be expensive, with those fancy buttons. . . . Buttons! Monica bent over the coat for a closer look. She'd seen buttons like these before. Monica rubbed her forehead trying to remember why they looked so familiar when it suddenly came to her.

“Tempest found a button like the ones on this coat on the floor of her shop. I can't imagine there are two people in Cranberry Cove with a garment like this. Whoever hid the coat here had been in Twilight at some point.”

“So what?” Jeff pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “I mean, lots of people must go into that shop.”

“The weapon used to kill Crowley was stolen from Twilight.”

Jeff continued to look puzzled.

“And the murderer must have been wearing this coat at the time. And they didn't notice that one of the buttons had fallen off.” She bent closer and examined the fabric. “That could be blood.” She pointed at the stains.

Monica stumbled to her feet and backed away from the tarp. “I think we'd better call Detective Stevens.” She pointed to the coat. “This might be important evidence.”

Jeff didn't look convinced. “If you say so.” He sighed. “You don't think they'll try to stop us from working, do you?”

Monica looked around. The ground was lightly covered with snow but any footprints had been obliterated by crisscrossing tire tracks. She doubted the ground would yield much in the way of evidence. Most likely the coat was what the police would be interested in.

The rumble of a truck as it rattled over the frozen ruts in the ground broke the silence. Jeff jerked his thumb toward the vehicle. “Looks like Dennis is back for some more sand. I'd better see to it.”

Monica nodded. “Sure.”

Monica was glad she'd stashed her cell phone in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out, ripped off her gloves and once again dialed 911.

The dispatcher sounded bored when Monica reached her but promised to send someone around. Monica wondered how long that would take. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and waited, her eyes scanning the road leading to the bog for any sign of a vehicle.

About ten minutes later Monica heard a car in the distance. At first it was a speck on the horizon, but it slowly came into focus as it bounced along the crude dirt road. Monica recognized it as Stevens's car.

Stevens got out of her dusty gray Taurus and leaned against the door for a moment, her eyes evaluating the scene.

“What have you got this time?” she said when she walked over to where Monica was waiting.

Monica pointed to the coat spread out on the tarp. “Jeff—he's my brother—”

“Yeah, I remember him.”

Monica felt a frisson of fear. Last time, Jeff had been the suspect in a murder investigation, but surely there was nothing to tie him to this one.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Jeff was filling one of the trucks with sand from that pile over there,” Monica pointed to it, “when he found the coat.”

Stevens pinched the bridge of her nose. “What's the sand for?”

“During the winter, the bogs are flooded. When the ice is thick enough, growers spread sand on top. As the ice melts in the spring, the sand sifts onto the vines and provides protection from insects and helps to choke out weeds.”

“Interesting.” Stevens stared up at the pile of sand. “Is this area closed off in any way at night?”

“Closed off?”

“I mean can anyone get to this area? There aren't any guard dogs roaming around or anything like that?”

“Oh, no. But I don't think all that many people know about it—well, maybe the people who have been on tours of the farm.”

“Who are those people?”

“Tourists mostly. The occasional class trip.”

“I see.”

Stevens approached the tarp and knelt carefully on the edge. She stared at the coat, without touching it, for several long minutes.

“That could be blood.” She pointed to the stain on the front. “Then again, whoever owned the coat might have simply dripped ketchup from a burger they ate in the car.” She sighed and got to her feet. “The lab will be able to tell us for sure. Let's hope there's not too much of a backlog at the moment.”

“Do you see those buttons?” Monica asked, pointing at the coat.

Stevens scrubbed a hand across her face. She swayed slightly and Monica looked at her in alarm.

“Sorry, too many late nights with the baby.” She gave a sudden grin that lit her face. “But so worth it. Assuming I don't lose my job.” She massaged her forehead for a second before looking at Monica and smiling reassuringly. “So what about the buttons?”

“Tempest Storm found a button matching these in her shop.” Monica pointed to the coat. “As you can see, two of them are missing.”

“Maybe the coat belongs to Ms. Storm.”

Monica looked at the coat, trying to quell her alarm. Would this evidence incriminate Tempest even further?

“It looks too small for Tempest. She's a tall woman, and broad-shouldered.”

“The lab results should reveal some clues.” Stevens pulled a small camera from the pocket of her coat. “Mind if I snap a few pictures?”

“No, not at all. Go right ahead.” Monica stepped back and out of the way.

The cold was beginning to get to her—she hoped Stevens wouldn't be too long.

A few minutes later, Stevens stuffed the camera back in her pocket. “I've got some evidence bags in my car.” She started toward the dirt road where she'd left her Taurus. “You don't have to wait if you don't want to,” she called over her shoulder to Monica.

Monica was more than happy to head back to her cottage. On the way she kept picturing the coat Jeff had retrieved from the sand pile. Was it really too small to be Tempest's?

One thing was for certain—if the coat belonged to the murderer, then Roger Tripp was out of the running as a suspect.

Monica was surprised to see Gina's car in the driveway when she got back to her cottage. She was even more surprised to smell pizza when she opened the back door.

“Just in time,” Gina said as she set plates out on the table.

Mittens sat off to the side, twitching her tail back and forth. She scampered over to Monica and began to rub against her legs.

Gina was wearing a zebra-print tunic over black leggings. It was quite a contrast to Nancy's carefully pressed and creased blue jeans, baby blue cashmere pullover and suede driving shoes.

Monica was surprised that her mother would deign to eat pizza. She was usually so health conscious.

Gina was about to turn away when she spun around and looked Monica over carefully.

“Something's happened. You look terrible.”

“Gina's right. What's happened?” Nancy looked up from the paper napkin she was carefully folding into a triangle.

Monica told them about finding the bloodstained coat in the sand pile.

“How gruesome.” Nancy shivered as she transferred the pizza from the cardboard box to a platter.

Gina watched her, one eyebrow raised. “We could have eaten that out of the box, you know.”

“Yes, and we could also eat it off paper towels instead of plates, but one must have at least a few standards,” Nancy said pleasantly.

Monica tensed, but Gina just laughed.

“I've been thinking,” Gina said.

Nancy feigned surprise and Monica shot her a warning look.

“The murders have to be connected,” Gina continued as she helped herself to a slice of the pie. “But what danger could a silly ninny like Candy pose to anybody?”

“She knew something that's a danger to the murderer?” Nancy suggested.

“She knew that Ryan wasn't at his post with the horse but was meeting her in the gazebo instead,” Monica said.

“But unless she saw something while she was there—” Gina began.

“Wait.” Monica held up her hand. She had to think it through. Things were starting to come together.

“Her landlord said she'd recently come into some money.”

Nancy raised her eyebrows.

“But that she was also acting uncharacteristically frightened but wouldn't say what was bothering her.”

Monica absentmindedly picked a mushroom off her piece of pizza and ate it. “What if the killer paid her to lure Ryan away from the scene? That would account for Candy coming into money . . . and being frightened. Maybe she was bright enough to put two and two together and realize she was a danger to the murderer.”

“I'll bet it was the fellow who owns that new restaurant. What was his name?” Gina turned to Monica.

“Roger Tripp. Although I doubt he's our murderer. Jeff just found a woman's coat buried in the pile of sand by the bogs. It looks as if there are bloodstains on the front and there are buttons missing—buttons that look just like the one Tempest found in her shop.”

“So that person is probably the one who stole that thing . . . what was it called?”

“An athame.”

“Stole the athame that killed Crowley,” Nancy finished.

“Now we just have to find out who the coat belonged to,” Gina said, biting into her pizza with relish, oblivious to the tomato sauce dripping down her chin.

“I wonder,” Nancy said, casting a disapproving eye in Gina's direction, “if that's going to be—”

Nancy was interrupted by the sound of the front doorbell. The three women looked at each other, and Monica pushed back her chair.

“I'll see who it is.”

Mittens followed on Monica's heels out to the foyer, then got bored and scampered off to bat at the living room curtains as Monica opened the front door.

A number of things went through Monica's mind—the caller wasn't likely to be Jeff, nothing could be as startling as having her father arrive on her doorstep, and finally the
certainty that it was Detective Stevens and she had found something.

“Sorry to bother you,” Detective Stevens said when Monica opened the door.

“No problem.” Monica took in the reddened tip of Stevens's nose and her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket. “Come in and get warm.”

“I could certainly do with that.” Stevens stepped across the threshold and slipped out of her shoes. “Don't want to track dirt all over your place.” She looked around. “It's so clean. I'm afraid our house smells like dirty diapers and spit-up and is awash with baby toys.” She smiled. “Not that I would have it any other way.”

A thought flashed across Monica's mind—would she ever have children? It wasn't too late. She hadn't ever given it much thought—she'd been focused on getting her café off the ground and then when she lost Ted . . .

“I wanted to ask Mrs. Albertson something.” Stevens interrupted Monica's thoughts.

“My mother?” Monica asked in surprise.

“If it isn't too much trouble. Assuming she's here . . .”

Where else would she be
, Monica thought. There weren't many places to go in Cranberry Cove once the sun went down. Except maybe for Flynn's—a seedy bar down by the harbor. The thought of her mother perched on a bar stool knocking back a shot of whiskey made Monica smile. Stevens gave her a strange look but didn't say anything before following Monica down the hall and out to the kitchen.

Nancy and Gina were seated at the kitchen table finishing their pizza. Both turned to stare when Stevens walked into the room.

Stevens gave an apologetic smile.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Nancy jumped up, ever the hostess. “You look cold.”

“Yes, please. I am rather cold still. “

“Let me take your coat.” Monica held out her hand for Stevens's jacket, which she hung on the coat tree.

Stevens brushed at her shoulder, and Monica noticed her face turn slightly red.

“It looks as if the baby missed the spit-up cloth.” She gave a chagrined smile. She sniffed. “I don't think I smell.”

Nancy and Gina laughed.

“I remember wanting to buy a hazmat suit when Jeff was a baby,” Gina said. “First it's the spit-up, then it's fingers sticky with peanut butter or jelly.”

“And don't forget finger paint.” Nancy put a mug in front of Stevens. “Once when Monica was in preschool, I arrived early to pick her up—while they were doing finger painting. She was so excited she came running to me, throwing her arms around me and completely ruining my beige slacks. They had red and yellow fingerprints all over them.”

They laughed, and Monica wondered how she could steer the conversation away from anecdotes about her obviously less than stellar past. Before she could think of anything, Stevens cut the conversation short.

“As much as I enjoy chatting with you all, I've actually come to ask you some questions.”

“Me?” Gina and Nancy said in unison as they pointed to themselves.

“Both of you, yes. I'm glad I've caught you together.” Stevens ran a hand over her face. “It will save me some time. That seems to be a precious commodity these days.”

The room was quiet as she pulled a plastic evidence bag from her pocket. Monica could see there was a piece of paper inside, along with something else—something shiny.

Stevens pulled her chair closer to the table and upended the bag. A diamond solitaire ring tumbled out but she had to fish around to retrieve the piece of paper that was also inside. She smoothed out the paper and placed the ring on top.

Gina looked at the diamond and whistled. “I wonder what lucky woman is getting that?”

“That's what I'm wondering,” Stevens said. She turned the ring so that the stone caught the light, and looked back and forth between Nancy and Gina.

“I don't see why you think we can help—”

“The ring—and the receipt—were found in Preston Crowley's pocket the day he was murdered.”

Gina shot a triumphant look at Nancy. “He was going to propose!” She put her hands against her chest, her eyes shut.

“But he was seeing both of you. . . .”

Gina's eyes flew open. “Yes, but we've been going out longer—”

“How do you know?” Nancy shot back.

Stevens held up the receipt. “At least Crowley shopped locally. It looks like the ring came from Bijou here in town.”

Gina pointed at the paper. “Does it say anything on there—a name or some kind of . . . hint?”

“I'm afraid not. Maybe you should both try it on—like Cinderella's glass slipper. Of course, it might have been meant for someone else entirely.”

“Not a chance,” Gina said as she reached for the ring and
slipped it onto her finger. She had to struggle a bit to get it past her knuckle but when she did, she held her hand up and admired the winking diamond. “See? It fits perfectly.”

“It looks a little snug to me,” Nancy said, holding her hand out for her turn.

Gina turned slightly red as she attempted to tug off the ring, but eventually it came free.

Nancy slipped it onto her own well-manicured finger. It slid on easily enough but when she held up her hand, the diamond flipped around her finger.

“Looks a little big to me,” Gina pointed out.

Stevens laughed. “Maybe it's not a Cinderella tale after all but Goldilocks. Too big, too small—I wonder who would fit it just right?”

•   •   •

Monica was up early the next morning to do some baking. But first, of course, Mittens needed to be fed. The kitten waited patiently by her bowl as Monica got her food from the cupboard. She occasionally emitted a soft meow as if to say
Hurry up, please, I'm hungry.
Monica filled the dish and stepped back. Mittens approached her replenished food slowly, gave it a sniff and pranced off with her tail in the air. Monica sighed but knew Mittens would be back later to eat.

Monica was working on perfecting a new concoction for the farm store—a cranberry, raisin and pecan bread. When she'd owned her own café, she'd loved experimenting with new recipes, and she hoped to continue. Her dough, which was in a blue-and-white-striped bowl and covered with a white cloth, was sitting on the counter. Monica lifted the dish towel and peered inside. The mound
of dough was plump and airy looking, and a delicious yeasty aroma rose from the bowl.

Monica gently punched down the dough, letting her fist sink into its soft interior. She watched as it slowly deflated. Punching down the dough was not as harsh as it sounded—it helped release some of the gas bubbles formed by the yeast during rising and produced a finer grain.

Monica upended the bowl onto the countertop dusted with flour. She enjoyed kneading—the feeling of the dough becoming more and more elastic under her hands. Finally she shaped it into loaf form, put it in a pan and slid it into the hot oven.

Monica was wiping down the counter when the back door opened, letting in a gust of cold air.

“Hey, sis,” Jeff said, unceremoniously taking a seat at the kitchen table. “What smells so good?”

“Cranberry, raisin and pecan bread. It's a new experiment.” Monica hesitated with her hand on the handle of the coffeepot. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Jeff yawned widely as if to punctuate his need for a good dose of caffeine.

Monica poured herself a cup and joined her brother at the table.

“Are you done sanding the bogs?”

“Yes. Got the last of it done yesterday. Now it's on to all the other winter chores.”

Monica looked at him curiously.

“There's never a dull moment on a cranberry farm.” Jeff smiled. “Winter is the perfect time for repairing equipment, performing routine maintenance, stuff we don't have time for the rest of the year.”

“It's a lot of work.”

Jeff scratched his head. “Sure is. But I wouldn't have it any other way.” His expression became serious. “If I have any chance at all with Lauren, I've got to make the farm a success. I can't afford to have two strikes against me.” He gestured with his chin toward his injured arm.

Jeff had finally agreed to get counseling to come to grips with his injury and the things he'd seen while stationed in Afghanistan, but Monica realized it was going to take quite a bit more time before he was completely ready to move past it and let go.

“I don't think Lauren's after your money,” Monica said, trying to lighten the mood.

Jeff laughed. “That's one thing that's for sure. Even if I do make a success of Sassamanash Farm, it's not exactly going to be a life of luxury.” He ran his finger around the rim of his coffee cup, making it squeak. It was something Monica had shown him how to do when he was a little boy. He looked up at Monica. “Did I tell you about Lauren's interview?”

“No.” Monica felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“In Chicago.” Jeff grimaced. “She says she's not interested in the job but the company recruited her at some campus job fair.”