Berried Secrets (15 page)

Monica shifted the bag of peas on her head. “That would seem to argue that Mauricio is behind this. He would know about the frost, and he can probably find his way around the farm in the dark better than I can.”

Jeff filled the mugs with water, placed them in the microwave and stood with his back against the counter. While they waited for the water to heat, Monica told him about Cora.

“I can understand why Mauricio might have wanted to kill Culbert, but Cora?”

“Maybe there's a connection we don't know about.”

Jeff was retrieving tea bags from the cupboard when there was a brisk knock on the door. He pulled it open.

Detective Stevens stood on the doorstep. Her hair was rumpled and she was wearing a pair of sweats with a corduroy jacket open over them.

“Sorry to get you out so late,” Monica said.

“It doesn't matter.” Stevens ran a hand over her belly. “I might as well get used to being woken up in the middle of the night.”

“Tea?” Jeff was already reaching for another mug.

“Sure. A little caffeine shouldn't hurt.” Stevens plopped into one of Monica's kitchen chairs with a sigh.

“Is this your first?” Monica took the mug Jeff handed her.

“Yes. And something of a surprise. My husband and I thought we were too old, but obviously Mother Nature didn't think so.” She ran her hand through her hair. “My first husband and I never had any kids, which was fortunate. He was the reason why I joined the force. I saw firsthand how too many cops ignored domestic violence. I hoped I could change that.”

Monica didn't know what to say. She took a sip of her tea and winced when the scalding liquid hit her tongue.

“So.” Stevens pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her jacket. Suddenly she was all business. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Monica told her about hearing a noise and then being hit over the head. Her hand went to the bump on her skull.

Stevens looked up from her pad, a puzzled look on her face. “What were you doing out on the farm in the middle of the night?”

“That's easy.” Jeff jumped in to answer the question. He
explained about the frost and the need to check the temperature in the bogs.

Stevens looked up at Monica. “And you're sure you didn't get dizzy or trip and fall and bang your head? Then, when you came to, you couldn't remember what happened and jumped to the conclusion that you had been attacked?”

Monica stiffened. “No. I'm positive. Someone hit me on the head.” She snapped her fingers. “I remember something else. As I was walking to meet Jeff by the pump house, I saw a light. Just a brief glint, and I thought it was coming from the moon, but maybe it was coming from the road. It might have been someone's headlights penetrating the thick cover of trees.”

Stevens nodded and made a note but didn't say anything.

“It seems obvious to me that this is somehow connected to Culbert's murder, don't you think?” Jeff paced the small room with his hands behind his back.

“What about Cora?” Monica looked at Stevens.

Stevens scrubbed a hand across her eyes, then stifled a yawn. “The ME did the preliminary autopsy. Of course, the toxicology reports won't be back for a while yet. If they keep cutting the budget and laying people off, there won't be anyone left to run the tests.” Stevens sighed. “But I called in a favor, and hopefully we'll be moved to the top of the list. The ME has ruled out the obvious—heart attack, stroke, aneurysm, cancer . . . along with stab wounds, gunshot wounds, strangling, drowning, asphyxiation and the like. It seems that Cora was a reasonably healthy middle-aged woman, and there was no cause for her to drop dead while sitting in her own living room. Of course, until the tox reports come back, we can't rule out poisoning. The ME did find a needle mark on
her right bicep. Just the one, so I think we can safely assume she wasn't a junkie. Besides, my guys searched that trailer from top to bottom and didn't find any evidence that she was a user. She'd probably just gotten a flu shot. It's that time of year.” Stevens stifled another yawn. “Of course they didn't find any other useful evidence, either.”

Monica frowned. “That certainly is strange.”

Stevens nodded in agreement. “It's a real puzzler, that's for sure.”

Monica was surprised when she glanced at her alarm clock and saw that it was already past eight o'clock. She was about to leap out of bed when she remembered it was Sunday. She sank back against her pillows and pulled the comforter up to her chin. Her bed felt warm and delicious, and she decided to indulge herself for a few minutes. She was used to rising before dawn. While she'd been running her café, she would get the first batch of muffins or scones in the oven by four thirty a.m., and now at Sassamanash Farm, she had to get an early start on making the salsa and the fresh-baked goods for the store.

Monica ran a hand through her hair and winced. Why was her head so sore? Almost immediately the events of the previous evening came flooding back. The pitch-black night, her flashlight creating only a narrow band of light ahead of her, the noise she thought she heard . . . then nothing. Monica touched the spot again—more gingerly this time. The lump
was still there, but it was smaller than it had been. She was grateful that she didn't have a headache to go along with it.

Jeff had been concerned that she might have suffered a concussion and had wanted to spend the night on her sofa so he could check on her every hour, but Monica had convinced him to go back to his apartment. She was grateful because the thought of being woken up every hour and asked what day it was or who the president was had been decidedly unappealing.

Ten minutes later, Monica realized she was bored with lying in bed and she reached for her robe and slippers and padded down to the kitchen. She got the coffee going and pulled open the back door to retrieve the Sunday paper from the mat where the paperboy had tossed it. She shivered as the icy wind blasted her in the face. She glanced at the sky. The clouds were moving swiftly, buffeted by the strong breeze, and there was a sliver of blue visible to the west. Hopefully that was the portent of a sunny day.

Monica dropped the newspaper onto the table. She poured herself a cup of coffee, popped a cranberry muffin in the toaster oven to warm it and sat down at her kitchen table.

The paper was still cold to the touch as she flipped through the various sections. As usual, the Sunday edition was full of circulars. Monica was about to toss them aside when her eye caught the one for Fresh Gourmet, a national chain grocery store just outside of town that featured a lot of organic products, healthy frozen food items and hard-to-find ingredients.

Monica paged through the insert. Lamb from New Zealand, coffee beans from Tanzania—Monica nearly gasped at the price—smoked salmon flown in daily from Scotland
and other items she couldn't afford. She was about to toss the section in the recycling when a thought occurred to her. Why shouldn't Fresh Gourmet carry Sassamanash cranberry salsa? If it was good enough for the Cranberry Cove Inn, then wouldn't it be good enough for Fresh Gourmet?

Her laptop was already open on the table. Monica pushed the papers and the remains of her breakfast to one side, and pulled the computer closer. She quickly found the website for Fresh Gourmet. Her mouse hovered over the bottom of the screen until she found the link for vendors. She clicked on it and brought up the relevant page.

If Fresh Gourmet agreed to carry the farm's salsa, it would be a source of revenue year round. They could add on to the screening house and build a kitchen. Monica imagined they would need all the appropriate permits as well as be ready to pass health inspections in order to produce the salsa in greater quantities.

She read through the information on the Fresh Gourmet website—the first step was to submit an application to the regional office. Monica was dismayed by the length and breadth of the information required—packaging, labeling, market research and more. First she would have to make sure that the farm's product was right for the store. If they already sold a number of homemade salsas, then they would most likely not be interested in hers. As soon as she was dressed, she'd take a drive to the nearest Fresh Gourmet and scope it out. And she'd pick up something for dinner—assuming she could afford anything more than a can of corned beef hash.

Monica pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, a sweater and then, thinking of her destination, added a decorative scarf
to her outfit. She looked in the mirror. She wasn't ready for the Magnificent Mile in Chicago, but she thought she looked good enough for Fresh Gourmet.

Beach Hollow Road was deserted as Monica drove through town, although the parking lot of St. Andrew's was full. The church bells began to peal as she drove past, and she saw a couple walking arm-in-arm scurry through the doors just as they were being closed.

Monica felt guilty about not being in church. She vowed that the following weekend she would be in the front pew at St. Andrew's. But right now she was on a mission to save Sassamanash Farm, and she hoped God would be okay with that.

Fresh Gourmet was located in a strip mall about five miles outside of Cranberry Cove. A green-and-white striped awning hung over the entrance and two huge terra-cotta pots holding ficus trees flanked the door. Like the shops on Beach Hollow Road, the store was most crowded in the summertime and on weekends, but it was a popular chain and people were willing to drive down from Grand Rapids to frequent it. Despite it being Sunday morning, there were already a dozen cars in the parking lot.

Monica parked the Focus and went inside. The interior smelled of ripe cheeses, smoked meats and freshly baked bread. It was intoxicating, and Monica found herself drifting toward the section where the sign reading
Charcuterie
hung over the cases. She was halfway there before she reminded herself that she was on a mission, and it wasn't to indulge in gourmet food items she could ill afford.

She stopped in her tracks and scanned the overhead signs trying to decide where they would be likely to display fresh salsa. The deli counter seemed the most logical place, and
she was rewarded when she found a refrigerated case of salsa, hummus, cheese spreads and dips.

The salsas were pedestrian fare, or so it seemed to her—tomatoes, peppers, cilantro—all the usual ingredients. She felt her heartbeat quicken. Sassamanash Farms' cranberry salsa could really take off here. She had a lot of work ahead of her, but all of a sudden she was confident she could pull it off.

When she turned away from the refrigerated case, she knew she had a smile on her face. She hadn't gone more than three feet when she bumped into Greg Harper.

His face lit up at the sight of her. “Good morning. I didn't know you shopped here.”

“I don't,” Monica admitted. She explained about the salsa.

“That's a wonderful idea,” Greg said.

He smiled and moved his cart out of the way of a stern woman who shot him a dirty look. Monica noticed Greg had selected several of the gourmet frozen meals and a jar of olives. She recognized bachelor fare when she saw it.

Greg gestured toward his cart disparagingly. “I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid. And I don't have much time for it.” He looked at Monica's face and laughed. “These frozen meals aren't all that bad. You don't have to feel sorry for me.”

Monica had been cooking since she was a child—dragging the stepstool to the counter to help her mother as she prepared for one of the many dinner parties her parents used to give. She'd even had her own miniature apron that she had treasured more than any of her dolls or stuffed animals.

“And speaking of food,” Greg hesitated briefly and looked down at his feet. “Have you eaten yet? The Cranberry Cove Inn does a great brunch.”

Monica's smile broadened. “I had a muffin several hours
ago, and after smelling all the delicious aromas in here, I'm starving.”

“Splendid.” Greg's smile widened as well. “I'll check out and meet you there in ten minutes.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I'll just call ahead to make sure we get a table. It's a popular place on a Sunday morning.”

As Monica headed toward the Cranberry Cove Inn she wondered if her outfit was up to snuff. Greg had been dressed just as casually in corduroys and a sweater. There was probably no need for her to worry, but she was glad she'd taken the time to add the silk scarf and to dab on some lipstick. She put a hand to her hair. Hopefully it wasn't in too much of a tangle. Fortunately Greg didn't seem like the type who cared. His own hair, more often than not, was a rumpled mess. Adorable, to be sure, but definitely not every hair in place.

Judging by the number of cars in the Cranberry Cove Inn parking lot, Greg had been wise to call ahead for a reservation. There was a line of people ahead of Monica waiting to be seated by the hostess. Monica peered into the dining room but it appeared as if Greg hadn't arrived yet. She perched on the edge of a white wicker settee by the front door.

Greg strode in moments later, slightly breathless, his hair having blown into even greater disarray by the strong breeze coming off the lake.

“Sorry you had to wait. I stopped by the store to pick up this.” He handed Monica a book. “It's a first edition Louise Penny—
A Fatal Grace
. I think you'll like it.”

Monica didn't know what to say—it was so unexpected. “Thank you. That's terribly kind of you.”

“Have you read her before?”

Monica shook her head.

“Harper?” the hostess called, a stack of menus clutched to her chest.

“Here.”

Greg raised a hand, and he and Monica followed her to their table.

“A table by the window.” Monica smiled. “I'm impressed.”

“I have clout, you know.” Greg laughed. “Not really. We just got lucky I guess.”

Monica looked around. The dining room was nearly full, with several of the larger tables being the only ones unoccupied. Animated chatter, along with the melodic clinking of silverware, filled the room. Monica found herself relaxing for the first time in a long time.

Greg pointed toward the window. “Looks like another storm is brewing.”

Monica followed his gaze. Angry-looking dark clouds hovered on the horizon, and the waters of Lake Michigan were whipped into a froth.

A waitress in a pink apron appeared at their table and filled their coffee cups. “Ready to order?” she asked, holding the pot out to the side.

“I think so?” Greg looked at Monica.

Monica nodded her head.

“I'll be right back.” The waitress turned and put the pot of coffee down on a warmer at the side of the room.

“I'll have the eggs Benedict,” Monica said when the woman returned, order pad in hand.

“The waffles with strawberries for me.” Greg handed the waitress his menu. “I've got an insatiable sweet tooth,” he said to Monica.

“I'm more the savory type myself.”

They chatted easily until the waitress slid plates of food in front of them.

“I heard about poor Cora,” Greg said as he poured a puddle of syrup over his waffles.

Monica looked surprised.

“The tom-toms have been working overtime in the village lately. News like that won't stay under wraps for long.” He forked up a bite of his breakfast. “I wonder if there's any connection between her death and Culbert's?”

Monica leaned back as the waitress refilled her coffee cup. “Mauricio—he's the fellow who was working on my brother's crew—seems the most logical suspect in Culbert's murder.”

The waitress moved around to the other side of the table and held the pot of steaming coffee over Greg's cup. “More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Greg said.

“Culbert was forever threatening to report Mauricio because he didn't have his papers,” Monica continued. “And he acted suspiciously when the body was found. But as far as I know, there's no connection between him and Cora at the diner.”

The waitress had finished pouring Greg's coffee and was about to turn away when she stopped. “You're talking about that Portuguese fellow, right? I mean, there can't be more than one person in Cranberry Cove with that name.”

Monica was startled. “Do you know him?”

“Sure. He used to work here but left for some reason. Went to work at the Cranberry Cove Diner. I can't imagine the tips there would be as good although I gather he wasn't there long either.”

“I wonder why he left the diner?” Monica said when the waitress moved away.

Greg stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “Maybe Gus got cold feet about his lack of papers.”

“Or, maybe there was another reason. Maybe he did something . . . something not quite right, and Cora caught him. And then she told Gus about it.”

“You could be right, Miss Marple,” Greg said with a smile.

Monica laughed. “I guess I am playing amateur detective.” Her expression grew serious. “It's not that I don't trust Detective Stevens to get to the bottom of things. I'm sure she knows what she's doing. But until she does solve this, people in Cranberry Cove will continue to think my brother had something to do with the murders.”