Berry the Hatchet (6 page)

Stevens sat down on the couch with a tired sigh. Gina chose the other end of the sofa while Monica opted for perching on the arm of the chair Nancy was sitting in. She slipped an arm around her mother protectively.

“We're investigating a murder that occurred this afternoon.” Stevens rubbed her eyes. “Preston Crowley. You may have heard?” She looked at Gina then nodded toward Monica. “You were there, I know.”

Monica nodded.

Stevens continued. “There isn't much to go on at the
moment, but we did find his cell phone in his pocket. We've gone through the log, and it seems he received calls from both you, Mrs. Albertson,” she nodded at Nancy then turned to Gina, “and you, Mrs. Albertson.”

Monica put a protective hand on her mother's shoulder. “What does that have to do with anything?” she said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of her voice.

Stevens shrugged. “Probably nothing, but we're following up on everything we can. We're trying to piece together Mr. Crowley's movements throughout the day, and I thought one of you might be able to help.”

“I never did see—” Nancy began, but Stevens waved her quiet.

“First, let me ask what your relationship was to the deceased. Friends?”

Gina snorted.

Nancy lifted her head, which had begun to droop, and perked up slightly. “We were dating,” she said with a smug tone to her voice.

Stevens tilted her head, and her blond hair brushed against her chin. She turned to Gina. “And you? You were a friend?”

Gina fiddled with the scarf around her neck. “Not exactly. We were dating as well.”

Stevens looked back and forth between the two women. “So you were both dating Preston Crowley?”

Nancy and Gina nodded in unison.

“Did you know he was dating both of you?”

“No!” Gina said, rather more loudly than necessary.

Stevens looked in Nancy's direction.

“I didn't know either. The miserable dog . . .” she said, her last words trailing off.

“So it was a surprise to both of you.” It was more of a statement than a question. Stevens shifted in her seat. “When did you find out—that you weren't the only woman Crowley was involved with?”

Monica's palms became clammy. She didn't like the direction that Stevens's questions were taking.

Nancy pursed her lips and put a finger to her chin as if she was thinking hard. “It was this afternoon,” she said, although it sounded more like a question than an answer. She suddenly sat up straighter. “Yes! It was this afternoon.”

“She's right,” Gina said, her foot jiggling wildly. “It was only this afternoon.”

Stevens raised her eyebrows and looked solemnly from one woman to the other. She pulled a notepad from her pocket and sat poised with her pen above the blank sheet.

Monica felt a drop of sweat make its way down her back.

“Do you two ladies mind telling me where you were between three fifteen and four o'clock this afternoon?”

Nancy was considerably less tipsy by the time Stevens left, and Monica was considerably more worried.

“It sounds like Stevens thinks one or the other of you had something to do with the murder.” Monica turned from Nancy to Gina and back again. “And neither of you seems to have an alibi.”

“It's not as if we knew we'd need one,” Gina said somewhat petulantly, stroking Mittens's soft fur.

“Are you sure you didn't see anyone?” Monica turned to her mother. She realized she was gripping the arm of the chair so hard her knuckles were turning white and tried to loosen her hand. “Did you stop for gas? Or a cup of coffee?”

“I'm afraid not.” Nancy sat up straighter in her seat. “I just drove around. I popped in on Preston at the Inn, but didn't stay long—he was busy.” She waved a hand in
the air. “Then I thought I'd see some of the sights so I just . . . drove around.”

“What about you?” Monica turned to Gina.

“I was at the shop getting ready for the Winter Walk.”

“Surely someone came in and can vouch that—”

“I'm afraid not. There were no customers all afternoon. I was hoping things would pick up when the Walk started.”

“Maybe someone saw you through the window?”

“I was in and out of the stockroom—besides, how would we ever find the person? Put an ad in the paper and advertise the fact that I'm a suspect in a murder case?” Gina's hand jerked, and Mittens darted away.

Monica held up a hand. “I don't exactly think you're a suspect—”

“Of course I am. You heard the questions Detective Stevens asked. Who's to say that Nancy and I didn't know about Preston's two-timing ways before this afternoon? Maybe I confronted him, we had an argument and . . .” She made a slashing motion across her throat.

Nancy shuddered.

Gina turned and pointed a finger at her. “And who's to say Nancy didn't come here on purpose to have it out with Preston, and her anger got the best of her and . . .” Again, she drew her finger across her throat.

“The whole idea that either of us would . . . it's just ridiculous.” Nancy crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Gina.

“I'm playing devil's advocate and trying to look at it from Detective Stevens's perspective,” Gina said. “We need to be prepared, that's all.”

•   •   •

Monica was up early after a restless night. Even though she knew it was ridiculous that anyone would think her mother capable of murder, it had unsettled her. Mittens watched her from the warmth of the bed while she dressed in some jeans and a cable-knit sweater. The kitten followed her downstairs, weaving in and out between Monica's legs as she headed to the kitchen. Her first order of business was to make coffee—she yawned as she filled the pot with water and poured it into the machine.

Within minutes, coffee began trickling into the carafe, filling the kitchen with its enticing scent. While she waited, Monica got out the ingredients she would need to make Sassamanash Farm's signature cranberry streusel bread—sugar, butter, flour, spices and the cranberries that she'd stocked in the freezer at the end of the harvest season.

Monica had just finished measuring the flour when the last drops of coffee trickled out of the machine. She filled a large mug and set it on the table next to her bowl.

Within half an hour, Monica had her first batch of bread in the oven. She took a moment to sit down while she finished the last sips of her coffee. Next she would start on some muffins and then some cranberry salsa.

Her baking finished, Monica got out the straw baskets she used to carry the goodies down to the farm store. She had no sooner put them on the table than Mittens jumped into one. The kitten peeked over the side, her tail swishing back and forth and the look on her face plainly saying that she, not Monica, was the rightful owner of the basket and Monica should just try to evict her.

Monica laughed. “You think that's yours, do you?”

Mittens's meow was the answer.

“Come on, you little minx. I've got to get going.”

Monica went to scoop the kitten out of the basket, but Mittens nimbly jumped out of it and into the other basket. Monica laughed and took the opportunity to line the vacant one with a piece of blue-and-white checked cloth.

She was about to scoop Mittens out of the second basket when her mother walked into the kitchen. Mittens jumped out and scampered over to Nancy.

“How did you sleep?” Monica asked, hoping the mattress in the spare room hadn't been too soft for her mother's taste.

“Not very well, I'm afraid.”

“I hope you weren't too uncomfortable?”

Nancy waved a hand. “No, it wasn't that. It's the idea that this policewoman seems to have gotten it into her head that either Gina or I have some responsibility for Preston's death. What a ludicrous notion.”

“I'm sure they'll find the real culprit soon.”

“I certainly hope so.”

•   •   •

Monica finished packing the straw baskets and slipped into her jacket. She wound her scarf around her neck, and Mittens leapt onto the table and began batting at the fringe on the ends. Monica shooed her off the table, where she was pretty sure Mittens knew she wasn't allowed. She was only a kitten, but so far she had proven to be very smart.

Nancy had her head half in the refrigerator as Monica opened the back door.

“Do you have any eggs?”

Monica turned around, her hand still on the door handle.

“Middle shelf, left side.” Monica prided herself on keeping a neat refrigerator, which meant everything had a specific place on the shelves. “Do you need anything else? Can you manage—”

“I'll be fine,” Nancy said. “You go on about your business. I know you have things to do.”

Monica said good-bye and went out the back door. The wind immediately tugged at her scarf, tossing it around in the brisk air. Monica pulled her collar closer around her neck, and headed toward the farm store.

The rush of warmth when she opened the door to the store was very welcome. Her hands were chilled right through her gloves, and her face felt stiff from the cold.

She wondered if anyone would show up for Lauren's tour in this weather.

Nora Taylor was behind the counter wearing one of the Sassamanash Farm aprons. She had short, curly dark hair and round glasses that made her look perpetually surprised. She worked in the store in the mornings and left in time to get her two children off the school bus in the early afternoon.

She looked up and smiled when she saw Monica. “I can smell those delicious goodies all the way over here.”

She came out from behind the counter and took one of the baskets from Monica. “I'll just start arranging these, shall I?”

When Monica had arrived at Sassamanash Farm, she'd been dismayed to see that none of the baked goods in the store were homemade. She'd soon changed that, whipping up cranberry bread, muffins, and scones every morning so
they would be fresh for their customers. Their business had grown as a result, and even during the winter people made a special trip to pick up some of Monica's baked goods.

Monica had also spruced up the store with decorative trays and platters she'd collected at garage sales and from secondhand shops. Combined with the delicious smells coming from all their products, it gave the store a comforting, homey feel.

Monica was stashing her special cranberry salsa in the cooler case when she heard her name being called.

She turned around to find Jeff leaning against the doorway. He had on a heavy jacket and work boots and had removed his wool cap and gloves and tucked them under his arm. His face was ruddy from the cold.

“We're about to start the sanding. Want to see how it's done?”

“Sure. Let me grab my jacket.” Monica pulled on her jacket, hat, gloves and scarf and followed Jeff out the door.

“We're starting with the bog over by the pump house.” He pointed to a spot in the distance. “The bogs have been flooded, and we now have a good three to four inches of ice. That's the minimum thickness to hold the weight of the machinery without cracking.”

“You said that sanding keeps down insects,” Monica said, the wind snatching her words away as she said them.

“Yes. Way back in 1816, when the cranberry growing industry was in its infancy, a Captain Henry Hall of Dennis, Massachusetts discovered that the sand that regularly blew onto his cranberry vines seemed to stimulate their growth. Sanding is now a best practice in cranberry farming.”

By now they had passed the pump house, where the
controls for the sprinklers were housed, and had reached the bog in question. It looked so different in winter, Monica thought, without the brilliant ruby red of the cranberries dotting the vines. The bog was frozen over and the vast expanse of ice was a bluish gray that blended with the overcast sky so that the line of the horizon nearly disappeared and you could barely tell where the ground ended and the sky began.

Two of Jeff's men stood around with their hands shoved into their pockets. They were dressed for the frigid weather in thick jackets and heavy work gloves. Monica recognized the one with the green cap pulled down low over his curly blond hair. He'd helped Jeff with the fall harvesting. They were standing next to a machine that looked like a cross between a Bobcat and a dump truck.

“That's our sand buggy,” Jeff said, pointing at the contraption. “I adapted it from a crawler. Cranberry growing is all about making do with what you have. There are only around one thousand cranberry farmers in the country, so manufacturers aren't rushing to create equipment for us—we have to do it ourselves.” He grinned. “At least it's something to keep us busy during the winter.”

At a signal from Jeff, one of the men jumped into the sand buggy and started the engine with a roar. Carefully he guided the strange-looking machine down a ramp and onto the frozen bog. A spreader, hooked to the back of the sand buggy, slowly released a layer of sand onto the ice.

“When the ice melts, the sand will automatically sift onto the vines,” Jeff said. “It will choke out any weed seeds or insect eggs and act as a fertilizer, as crazy as that sounds.”

As they were talking, a small group of people approached, led by a pretty blonde in a dark blue parka.
Monica caught the glance that she and Jeff exchanged, and she smiled. Jeff had been hesitant to pursue Lauren at first, feeling he had nothing to offer with a farm on the brink of bankruptcy and an injury that was never going to heal. But Lauren had waited for him to come around, and he had.

Together, Jeff and Monica had managed to turn Sassamanash Farm around as well, and they were now making a small profit. A chain gourmet grocery store had taken an interest in stocking Monica's cranberry salsa, and they had their fingers crossed that the deal would soon go through and bring an infusion of cash to the farming operation.

Lauren's brave little tour group huddled together as Jeff explained about the sanding process. One gentleman, who looked like a retired professor with his tweed overcoat and plaid scarf, asked numerous questions, which Jeff patiently answered while the others looked around, stamping their feet to keep warm.

Lauren was about to shepherd them toward the farm store when Monica noticed a woman in the distance headed their way. She was waving at them. Monica watched as she ran down the dirt path toward them.

The woman finally reached them, breathless and red-faced, with her fancy heeled boots coated in mud.

“Jacy!” Jeff said. He looked from Jacy to Lauren. “Lauren, this is Jacy Belair. She owns Bijou, that new jewelry store in town.”

Monica could tell Jeff felt awkward. He kept looking back and forth between Lauren and Jacy.

Jacy put her arm through Jeff's, apparently not noticing
his scowl, and looked up at him. “You sound surprised to see me. You did invite me to come tour the farm.”

Lauren raised her eyebrows at Jeff, and he smiled sheepishly.

“I'm sorry I missed cranberry picking season,” Jacy continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air. “But I'll make up for it next fall, I promise.”

Lauren sidled up to Monica and whispered, “Sounds more like a threat than a promise, doesn't it?”

•   •   •

Monica checked in at the farm store and even though they were doing a brisk business, Nora said she was managing just fine. She enjoyed working in the shop while her husband spent time with the kids—he was taking them sledding, yesterday's snow having accumulated just enough to make that possible.

Today was the monthly mystery book club at Book 'Em, and Monica always looked forward to it. They were reading Margaret Yorke's
Dangerous to Know
. She was a new author to Monica and to most of the others, and Monica was very glad that Greg had introduced them to her books. Most were stand-alone novels with fascinating characters and edge-of-the-seat suspense that the author managed to achieve despite most of the stories being set among seemingly ordinary people in small villages much like Cranberry Cove. Monica looked forward to discovering more of her work.