Berry the Hatchet (8 page)

“That's right,” Monica said with relief. “And we have to work together if we're going to find out who really killed Preston Crowley.”

Since Cranberry Cove was still teeming with tourists, it was decided that the Winter Walk would continue as originally planned. The police had reopened Beach Hollow Road, and it was slowly filling with shoppers. Monica hurried back to the farm stand outside of Gumdrops. She had few baked goods left but plenty of her signature Sassamanash Farm cranberry salsa. She decided she would concentrate on selling that, in hopes of creating enough buzz that some of the chain gourmet stores might consider stocking it. An order like that would mean investing in a professional kitchen, but with a solid plan, she was hopeful the bank would give them a loan. Jeff had already decided where to build—they could create an extension of the farm store and cranberry processing building.

Nancy had gone to lie down for a bit—she still had a slight headache from yesterday's wine binge. Monica made sure she had everything she needed and was
comfortable and then went to carry the containers of salsa out to her car. Three trips later, she slammed the trunk lid of the Focus and took off for downtown Cranberry Cove.

Parking was scarce, even on the side streets, so it was obvious that the Winter Walk was still in full swing. Monica parked at the church and walked back toward town. It seemed odd to see the storefronts sparkling with lights and the street and sidewalks bustling with people—and poor Preston wasn't alive to see it. His idea was definitely a success.

Monica passed the window of Making Scents, where she could see three women clustered around the counter. Gina was putting pink tissue into a pink and white Making Scents shopping bag, so at least one of the ladies must be buying.

Bart was in the window of his butcher shop, tying up what looked like a pork loin. It reminded Monica that she needed to plan something for dinner. More often than not, when she was alone she made a sandwich or heated up a can of soup, but that wouldn't do for her mother. She'd pop in to Bart's later and pick something up.

She passed Book 'Em and peeked into the window but didn't see Greg. He must be in the back room.

A couple of Cranberry Cove residents sat on the stools in front of the counter at the diner. Monica recognized one fellow with a Lions baseball cap and the plaid flannel shirt from the garage just outside of town. They were all sipping coffee and keeping a watchful eye on the door lest any of the tourists, lured by the smell of bacon and potatoes frying, attempted to cross the threshold.

Monica was passing Twilight, Tempest's new age shop, when Tempest ran out of the store and grabbed her by the
elbow. She was wearing a long jacket embroidered with silver and gold threads that looked as if it came from India, with black pants that were almost as fitted as leggings.

“I need to speak to you,” Tempest said, as she pulled Monica through the open doorway of her shop.

“Is something wrong?”

Tempest put a finger to her lips as she closed and locked the door behind her. Her face was as white as a Kabuki performer's.

Twilight was almost as disorderly as Book 'Em, with candles scattered everywhere—tall and short, chunky and tapered. There was also exotic looking jewelry on black velvet stands, stacks of tarot cards and displays of crystals.

Monica's heart began to beat faster. Something had obviously frightened Tempest . . . badly.

“What's wrong?”

“I can hardly believe it,” Tempest said, fingering the large, ornate amulet she wore on a ribbon around her neck. “I assumed they just wanted to know if I'd seen anything, but that wasn't the case.”

“Who are
they
?” Monica put a hand on Tempest's arm to calm her.

“The police. That woman detective.”

“Detective Stevens?”

“Yes.” Tempest put a trembling hand to her face. “It's terrible. I don't know what to do.”

“Why don't you tell me what's happened. What did Detective Stevens have to say?”

“It was about Preston's murder.” Tempest shook her head. “That man is managing to cause me trouble even after his death.”

“What . . . how?”

Tempest played with a loose button on her jacket. “There hasn't been a lot about the murder in the papers. I suppose the police don't know very much at this stage, but people are saying that Preston was stabbed in the neck.”

Monica shuddered. “Yes, he was. I saw it myself.”

“You poor dear,” Tempest said, momentarily forgetting her own troubles. “It can't have been a pretty sight.”

Monica shook her head as if to dislodge the image that rushed to fill her mind. “But what did the police want with you if you didn't even see anything? Maybe it's routine?”

Tempest shook her head. “It was about the murder weapon—the knife in Preston's neck.”

“But what does that have to do with you?”

Tempest touched the amulet hanging from her neck. She held the pewter charm toward Monica. “This is the Sigil of Defense—a magic symbol that is supposed to protect you from harm.” She made a wry face. “Maybe it really is all hocus-pocus after all, because it's certainly not working.”

“I think you'd better tell me all about it.”

Tempest's lower lip trembled, and for a moment Monica thought she would cry.

“The police researched the murder weapon. It wasn't an ordinary kitchen knife or hunting knife or anything like that. It was an athame.”

Monica frowned. “What on earth is that?”

“It's a double-edged ceremonial dagger.” Tempest paused as if the words were stuck in her throat. “It's a magical tool used in Wiccan rituals.”

Monica gasped.

Tempest moved to the glass counter that dominated the center of the store. She went behind it, opened the
back and took something out. She placed it on the counter. It was a long dagger with an ornately carved black handle.

She pointed to it. “This is an athame.”

“Oh,” Monica said, understanding dawning as swiftly as a wave rushing across Lake Michigan to the shore. “But the police couldn't possibly think . . .”

“What else are they going to think? It's not like you'd find one of these in every kitchen drawer or toolbox.” Tempest managed a brief smile. “It's not your everyday household item.”

“And the police think it belongs to you?”

“Everyone knew that Preston and I had butted heads over the Imbolc ceremony I wanted to hold on the green.”

Monica thought back to the previous day in Gina's shop when Tempest had threatened to kill Preston. She hadn't believed her, of course. Tempest certainly hadn't meant it—but the police didn't know that. Monica was quite certain there were any number of people in Cranberry Cove willing to make sure the police knew about the animosity between Tempest and Preston.

Tempest put the dangerous-looking dagger back in the case. “The problem is the athame might have come from my shop. I'm hopeless at keeping inventory. Obviously there isn't any place else in town where you would find one of these.”

“The murderer might have bought it somewhere else—another town or city perhaps.”

“There aren't all that many new age stores around. Maybe in Chicago. . . .”

“Is it possible someone stole it from you?” Monica asked.

“I suppose so. I don't worry about shoplifting all that much—it's never been a real problem.” Tempest waved a hand around the shop. “Besides, I doubt I would even notice if something went missing.”

“Someone might have bought the knife from you,” Monica said. “And just waited until the right time to use it.”

Tempest fiddled with her loose button again. Monica was convinced it was going to come off in her hand.

“That's possible. I don't sell many of these though, and I think I'd remember it.”

“It looks to me like the murderer is trying to implicate you, but why?” Monica mused.

“As I said, I make the perfect candidate. It was well known that Preston and I didn't see eye to eye, and the locals obviously distrust me underneath their polite facade—if anyone has to be held responsible for the murder, they'd rather have it be an outsider like me than one of their own.”

Monica understood—for her part, she couldn't help wondering if this new evidence would clear both her mother and Gina. Of course it was no better having the police suspect Tempest. She had always been welcoming to Monica, and Monica liked her offbeat personality.

“I don't know what to do. Should I call a lawyer or will that make things look worse?” Tempest smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped from the white streak that cut through her otherwise black hair. “I feel like I need to be prepared.”

Now Tempest was picking at the threads on her exotic jacket, her fingers twitching like chickens pecking at grain.

“Where were you during the opening of the Winter
Walk?” Monica asked as delicately as possible. “Did you have your ceremony on the village green?”

“I had everything planned,” Tempest said. “Candles, noisemakers, everything that would be needed. I didn't expect the entire village to join in, but several people had indicated an interest in taking part—even Zoe Farthing, who teaches history over at the high school.”

Tempest fiddled with that loose button again and this time it came away in her hand. She looked at it as if she'd never seen it before—as if it were some sort of ancient artifact. She finally put it in her pocket.

“If there were people around, they can vouch for the fact that you couldn't have committed the murder,” Monica told her. Even Tempest couldn't be in two places at once.

“That's the problem. No one showed up. They were scared off by Preston and his wretched petition.”

“But someone must have seen you. You lit candles and shook noisemakers, didn't you?” It seemed to Monica that Tempest would have been hard to miss out there on the green, chanting and shaking noisemakers.

Tempest looked over Monica's shoulder. “I decided not to go ahead with it in the end. It seemed pointless out there all by myself. . . . I suddenly felt foolish.”

“Did you go to the green? Did anyone see you?”

Tempest shook her head. “I don't think so. I don't remember seeing anyone myself, although I seem to recall . . .” Tempest paused.

“Have you remembered something?”

“I don't know. I have a feeling I did see someone, but maybe I'm imagining it.”

Monica sighed. It seemed as if Tempest didn't have even a shred of an alibi.

Tempest looked at Monica as if entreating her to do something, but what could she do? She tried to find the words to reassure Tempest, but they didn't come—the evidence was damning. An athame wasn't your common, everyday weapon.

And it pointed straight at Tempest.

Monica left Twilight with her mind going in every direction—whirling with thoughts that floated away and were quickly replaced by new ones. She knew Tempest didn't kill Preston, no matter how bad it looked, but what was she going to do? It was obvious that Tempest was looking to her for help, and she couldn't let her down.

The sidewalk and the blocked-off street were crowded with people, and Monica felt herself being jostled repeatedly as she made her way toward Gumdrops. Laughter and loud conversation filled the air—it seemed wrong in light of Preston's murder.

Monica glanced across the street. The front of Bijou twinkled with tiny white lights. She could see there were several people standing around the counter inside the shop, while others peered at the display of diamonds and other gems in the window.

Next door was the Purple Grape. The wine store did
most of its business during the summer when tourists were in town, but the locals were becoming more and more interested in learning about grapes and various vintages. It, too, had been decorated with lights, which created a distinct contrast with the storefront next door.

A sign with
Pepper Pot
in paprika-colored script hung outside the darkened space, and Monica could see the menu she'd looked at the other day still taped to the window. She'd have to ask the VanVelsen sisters about it—they knew virtually everything that went on in Cranberry Cove. The restaurant should have been open by now to take advantage of the crowds gathered for the Winter Walk. At least Monica understood that that had been the plan. Grace had told the book club that the dining room of the Cranberry Cove Inn was fully booked with a waiting list as long as her arm, so another restaurant in town would have been a boon. People wanted atmosphere and good service, which the Cranberry Cove Diner couldn't provide, although the merits of its chili were known far and wide.

Monica finally reached the makeshift booth Jeff had created for the Walk. She was relieved to set down her baskets—they'd grown heavier with each step. She carefully arranged the containers of salsa—each glass jar topped with a piece of cloth printed with cranberries and tied around the lid with a red grosgrain ribbon.

She was setting the last few in place when the door to Gumdrops opened and Hennie stepped out. She had a gray cardigan draped around her shoulders, and her arms were crossed over her chest.

“Glad to see you're back, dear.” She pulled the sweater around her more tightly. “We've been doing a brisk business. A very brisk business indeed.” She pointed at
Monica's tower of cranberry salsa. “Those will be gone in no time. We're fresh out of pastilles and root beer barrels.” She shook her head. “That's never happened before—not even on summer holidays like Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.”

“Everyone seems to be busy. It's a shame that new restaurant hadn't been able to open.” She pointed across the street toward the Pepper Pot.

“They were supposed to.” Hennie frowned. “I heard something about a permit being delayed. Apparently the owner was furious. Edith DeHamer—she works over at the town hall—told me about it. The fellow raised quite a ruckus apparently.” Hennie shivered. “I'd best be going in. I don't want to catch my death of cold out here.”

Monica gazed longingly at the warmly lit front of Gumdrops. Her fingers and toes were already turning numb. She thought of Jeff and his crew working out on the bogs, where there was nothing to block the frigid wind blowing in off the lake.

Soon Monica had sold all the stock she had with her. She picked up her empty baskets and was about to leave when she changed her mind. She'd go into Gumdrops and get something to take home to her mother. Nancy needed cheering up, and who didn't love candy?

“You must be frozen,” Gerda said when she spotted Monica standing by the counter. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely.” Monica took off her gloves, shoved them into her pockets and rubbed her hands together briskly.

The shop momentarily emptied of customers, and Hennie went over to Monica.

“Are you calling it a day?” she asked.

Monica nodded. “Yes. I've sold everything I had. I'm going to have to do some serious baking tomorrow morning.”

“It's a shame Preston's not here to see what a success the Winter Walk is. A lot of people balked at the idea in the beginning, but obviously it was brilliant. Normally at this time of year, we'd be lucky to have a handful of customers a day—mostly mothers coming in to buy treats for their child's birthday party—but today, like I mentioned to you, we've actually started to run out of stock.”

Monica felt something brush against her leg and looked down to see Midnight weaving in and out between her legs. Midnight was the mother of Monica's kitten Mittens, having presented the VanVelsens with an unexpected litter.

Midnight gave a plaintive meow, and Monica bent down to scratch her head.

“Midnight!” Hennie scolded her in pretend stern tones, but Monica could hear the affection in her voice. “You've had plenty of attention already today. And a bowl of cream, too.”

Monica laughed. “Mittens takes after her mother, I think!”

The door opened, and a customer came in. She was wearing a royal blue parka trimmed in fur and a pair of sheepskin boots lined in fleece. Monica glanced at them and was reminded of her half-frozen toes. She was going to have to go shopping for a new pair for herself. Hennie glanced at her customer and raised her eyebrows at Monica. Monica waved her away. She could wait until Hennie had served the woman.

The woman spent several minutes studying the cases
of candy, then nodded at Hennie and left without making a purchase.

Hennie shrugged. “You can't please everyone.” She smiled.

A thought had been formulating in Monica's head while she waited. She motioned for Hennie to step closer and with a lowered voice she said, “I've been thinking about the restaurant across the street and how they weren't able to get their permit in time for the Winter Walk.”

Hennie tipped her head to the side. She was obviously all ears.

“Everyone has been talking about how the Pepper Pot was going to give the dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn a run for its money. Preston was mayor of Cranberry Cove. Do you suppose he might have—”

“Had a hand in delaying the permit?” Hennie finished for Monica. “An intriguing thought. I'm afraid I have no idea how these things are done. I wonder . . .” Hennie put a finger on her chin. “I imagine Edith might know. Of course she won't be at work until Monday morning, but she lives quite close. She has an apartment over the hardware store, which her parents used to own. She grew up there. When her folks died and the new owner took over, they let her stay on as part of the arrangement.”

“Do you think she'd mind if I stopped by?”

“On the contrary. You'd be lucky to get out of there in less than two hours. Poor Edith. She's quite alone . . . and a little . . . peculiar, if you know what I mean.”

Was Hennie trying to warn her, Monica wondered? When Monica ran her café in Chicago, she'd met her share of unusual types—she was pretty sure she could handle it.

Gerda emerged from the stockroom with a mug of tea
for Monica. Monica accepted it gratefully, enjoying the warmth of the cup in her hands and the steam that rose to bathe her face.

“Who
is
the owner of the Pepper Pot?” Monica looked from Hennie to Gerda and back again.

Both the sisters shrugged their shoulders.

“Whoever it is has stayed in the background,” Hennie said. “No one knew anything about the restaurant until the work crew showed up that one morning and began tearing out the interior of that notions shop that used to be there. Never could figure out how they'd stayed in business as long as they did. The stock never changed and old Mrs. Veenstra could never be bothered to run a feather duster over things. Not very appealing.”

“I heard they got a good price for the shop, though,” Gerda said.

“I should imagine so. It's a prime location—right on Beach Hollow Road.” Hennie fiddled with the glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. She looked around the shop. “I wonder what this place would be worth?”

Gerda got a panicked look on her face, and Hennie put a hand on her arm.

“Don't worry, I'm not thinking we should sell. I'm only curious.”

Gerda looked relieved.

Monica looked at her watch. “If I'm going to visit Edith, I'd better get going so I don't interrupt her dinner.” Monica peered into the glass candy case. “I wanted to pick up something for my mother.”

“Does she like chocolate?” Hennie asked.

Monica wrinkled her nose. “Not so much.”

“I know.” Hennie went behind the counter, opened the
case and pulled out a package. “Katjes winegums. I'm sure she will like these.”

“I'll take them,” Monica said, digging around in her purse for her wallet.

Hennie waved a hand at her. “Never mind. Our treat. To welcome your mother to Cranberry Cove. You must bring her by someday.”

Monica promised she would as she took her leave and plunged back into the cold and crowded night.

The hardware store was at the other end of the block from Gumdrops. Monica stepped off the curb and into the street, where it was slightly less crowded. Chatter filled the air around her—it was impossible to believe that someone had been murdered here only the day before.

Monica arrived at the entrance to the hardware store, and then took a few steps back—she'd gone too far. Off to the side was another door, red with a brass doorbell alongside it. Monica pressed the button. She heard the buzzer ringing inside and waited.

Monica was about to turn away—perhaps the VanVelsen sisters were wrong and Edith had decided to go out—when the door opened a crack.

“Yes?” A woman's voice came through the small opening.

“Edith? I'm Monica Albertson. I live out at Sassamanash Farm. The VanVelsen sisters told me you lived here. Could I possibly come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Are you a reporter? Because I don't want my name in the paper. My mother always said the only time a lady should have her name in the paper is when she's born, when she's married and when she dies.”

“No, no. I'm not a reporter.”

“I suppose it's okay.” Edith pulled open the door.

She was wearing an old silk peignoir ensemble, the sort actresses wore in movies made in the thirties and forties, although Edith's set was frayed at the hem and cuffs and sported several tiny holes. Her thin hair was dyed a red that bordered on fuchsia, and her lips were extravagantly colored with bright orange lipstick.

Whatever Monica had been subconsciously expecting, this certainly wasn't it.

Monica followed Edith up a set of bare wooden stairs that ended in a small landing. The door to the landing was propped open with a rolled-up newspaper. Edith kicked it aside as they entered the apartment.

The apartment itself looked as if time had stood still. The sofa and chairs were Victorian era with antimacassars draped over their backs and knickknacks—porcelain ladies in stiff petticoats and gentlemen in knee breeches—were scattered everywhere. A Victrola stood on a tabletop in the corner.

From the living room, Monica could see a small kitchen and the door to what looked like a bedroom. Noise from the street—the rise and fall of voices and far-off horns—drifted in through the closed windows. Edith had a chair pulled up next to one of them—Monica suspected she sat there and watched life go by downstairs.

“It's so nice of you to visit me. I don't get many visitors.” Edith sat down opposite Monica and crossed her ankles primly, her hands folded in her lap. Suddenly she struggled to her feet. “I'm forgetting my manners. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. I just had a cup with the VanVelsen sisters.”

“Oh, yes. Hennie and Gerda.” Edith resumed her seat. “I knew them when we were all in school together. Our families have been in Cranberry Cove for several generations.”

And I'm a newcomer
, Monica thought.

“I understand from Hennie that you work at the town hall?”

“That's right, dear. I've just had my fiftieth anniversary. They threw me quite a lovely party to celebrate in the private dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn. Even the mayor was there. Of course, I've worked with numerous mayors, as you can imagine.”

Monica smiled. “The Cranberry Cove Inn is lovely. I imagine you had a wonderful time.”

Edith clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, we did. We certainly did. A steak dinner with all the trimmings. Wine, too, but I don't care for liquor.”

“It looks as if there'll soon be a new restaurant in town—the Pepper Pot.”

Edith nodded, and her bright red curls bobbed with the movement. They looked almost neon in the light cast by the lamp next to the sofa. “There was quite a to-do over the opening. I understand the owner wanted everything to be in order for the Winter Walk, but for some reason the permit was delayed. Something to do with an inspection not taking place on time. Rieka would know. She's a secretary in the health department.”