Berried Motives

  Berried Motives

  With the cranberry farm in full harvest mode, Monica is thrilled to learn that they’ll be the featured guests on a local TV news show. Certain the exposure will give her bakery products and the farm’s store a welcome boost, she’s also nervous about how she’ll come across on-screen. But her real worries begin when the show’s ruthless star is found bludgeoned to death on a side road of the farm—and Monica’s own brother heads up the list of suspects.

  Launching an investigation to find the real killer and clear her brother, Monica discovers there was no love lost between the victim and those closest to her. From the dead woman’s husband, a calculating politician with his sights set on more lucrative pastures, to the timid cameraperson she repeatedly bullied, there’s no shortage of suspects or motives. And when Monica unearths a compromising secret that turns the spotlight on one of them, she suddenly realizes the solution has been staring her in the face. As she closes in on the killer, she’ll need sharp wits and steely nerves to avoid taking her final bow . . .

  Title Page

  

  Copyright

  Berried Motives

  Peg Cochran

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Peg Cochran

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-950461-87-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Recipes

  Books by Peg Cochran

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The day started like any other.

  Monica Albertson microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal, sprinkled on some dried cranberries and ate it standing at the counter with a spoon in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other.

  She then kissed her husband Greg goodbye, scratched Mittens, her tuxedo cat, under the chin, and headed out the door of her cottage.

  There was the whiff of autumn in the air on this early October morning. Dew sparkled on the grass and the air was chilly. The leaves on the trees were turning color and a few had already dried up and dropped to the ground. Monica pulled up her collar and stuck her hands in the pockets of her fleece.

  She passed one of the cranberry bogs where Jeff, her half brother, and his crew were already at work. The bog had been flooded and the bright red cranberries bobbed on the surface of the water. She paused for a moment and watched as they hauled the boom across the bog, corralling the plump berries into an ever-tightening circle.

  Jeff stopped to adjust the straps on his waders and must have noticed Monica, because he waved and shouted good morning. Monica waved back and continued walking toward the commercial kitchen, which they had recently added on to one of the farm buildings. Monica baked all sorts of cranberry goods to sell in the farm store, along with a cranberry salsa that was very popular with the local Cranberry Cove restaurants and was now being carried by an upscale chain grocery store. She had started out in the kitchen of her small cottage but had soon outgrown that space.

  Monica had had her own small café in Chicago, where she’d served coffee, tea and her homemade baked goods, but when Jeff had needed help at Sassamanash Farm, she’d closed her business and headed to Michigan to lend a hand.

  She dug her keys out of her pocket, selected one, inserted it into the lock and opened the door to the kitchen. The large room retained some of the early morning chill, but once she had the ovens going full blast, it would quickly heat up.

  The space had been outfitted with industrial-sized appliances, a long counter for rolling and cutting dough and a table and chairs where Monica could take a break and eat her lunch.

  She hung up her fleece on one of the hooks 0n the wall by the door and replaced it with an apron printed with bright red cranberries, although she knew she would still manage to get flour all over her clothes and sometimes even in her hair by the end of the day.

  After measuring out flour, butter, sugar, buttermilk, vanilla extract, baking powder, salt and an egg, she blended the ingredients into dough studded with dark red cranberries.

  She placed the mound of dough on a marble slab on the counter and eased her rolling pin across it, watching with satisfaction as the lump slowly became flatter and rounder with each pass. She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, dusted off her hands and began to cut the circle into even triangles.

  The door to the kitchen flew open as she was placing the scones on a baking sheet and Lauren, Jeff’s fiancée, burst in.

  Monica jumped. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” Lauren said, brushing strands of her long blond hair back from her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m so excited.” Her voice rose to a squeal.

  Monica smiled with amusement. Lauren was bouncing on the balls of her feet and her cheeks were tinted pink with excitement.

  “What has you so worked up?” Monica opened the oven door and slid in the sheet of scones.

  “Sassamanash Farm is going to be on What’s Up West Michigan. You know—it’s that local evening show that comes on before the news. I contacted them about featuring the farm and I couldn’t believe it when they replied.” She paused to take a breath. “I know it’s terribly short notice, but one of their guests canceled so they had an opening and anyway, they called to set it up.”

  “Isn’t that the show hosted by that young blond woman—Betsy something-or-other?”

  Lauren nodded. “Yes. Betsy DeJong. I pitched the story to one of their producers, and he loved the idea. Like I said, it’s short notice. They’re coming this afternoon to film the harvest.”

  “This afternoon?” Monica said in panic. “Does Jeff know?”

  Lauren nodded again. “I just told him. He’s quite excited.” She frowned. “But nervous, too. He’s afraid viewers will notice his arm.”

  Jeff had been injured in Afghanistan and had returned to Michigan with a partially paralyzed arm. It was one of the reasons Monica had left Chicago to come and help him.

  “Will Jeff eve
n have to be in the segment?”

  Lauren nodded excitedly. “Yes. He’ll be the one explaining to Betsy how the berries are cultivated and harvested.” She frowned. “I’d better make sure he doesn’t wear that ratty old Lions sweatshirt of his. Maybe I’d better run buy him a new one.”

  “Good idea,” Monica said, brushing some flour from the front of her apron. “He’ll want to look his best.”

  Monica couldn’t imagine Jeff on television. Her half brother wasn’t shy but he was quiet and avoided the spotlight.

  “You’ll be in the segment, too,” Lauren said.

  Monica gasped and whirled around. “What? Me?” She looked down at her worn jeans and her stretched-out sweater, which was pilled around the elbows. She’d never been on television and had never had any desire to be.

  “They’ll want you to give them a tour of the farm store and explain about all the cranberry goodies you make, especially your famous cranberry salsa. The whole segment should do wonders for business.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m hardly dressed for it.”

  Lauren looked Monica up and down, taking in the clothes she had thrown on that morning without much thought as to how she looked. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.” But Monica could detect the note of doubt in her voice.

  It wasn’t encouraging.

  Lauren had barely left in a flurry of excitement when the door opened again. Monica looked up as Kit Tanner walked in. She had hired him to help with the baking now that their orders had increased and it was becoming too much for her to handle by herself.

  When she had first met Kit, he’d had his black hair shaved up the sides but left long enough on top to flop onto his forehead. Since then, he’d grown it out and now wore it slicked back in a ponytail. To go with his new hairdo, he’d also cultivated a beard—a scruff that he somehow managed to keep at precisely the length of three days’ worth of growth.

  “I’m going to be on television,” Monica said glumly after they’d greeted each other.

  Kit stood with both hands on his hips. “Honey, I always knew you were meant to be a star.”

  Monica laughed. Somehow Kit always managed to cheer her up.

  “I don’t know about being a star,” Monica said, brushing some flour off the counter and into the palm of her hand. She explained about What’s Up West Michigan coming to film the cranberry harvest that afternoon.

  Kit clapped his hands together. “But darling, that’s marvelous. What incredible publicity for Sassamanash Farm. Serious kudos to Lauren for arranging it, the clever girl. I guess all those marketing and PR courses she took in college paid off.”

  Kit looked Monica up and down again. “But darling, I do hope you’re going to change into something a little more . . .” Kit waved a hand in the air.

  “Don’t worry,” Monica said as she untied her apron. “I was just about to go back to the cottage and do just that.”

  • • •

  By the time the film crew was due to arrive, Monica was dressed in a pair of clean and pressed jeans, a white shirt and the crewneck sweater her mother had sent her last Christmas and which had still been wrapped in tissue paper in the box it had come in.

  She pulled on her fleece but didn’t zip it—the sun was higher in the sky now and the air had warmed up considerably. She checked Mittens’s food and water dishes then headed out the door.

  There was no sign of the film crew yet. Monica felt relieved. She heard shouts coming from the nearest bog and began walking in that direction.

  Jeff was standing hip-deep in the water surrounded by bobbing cranberries. The berries moved in bright red eddies as Jeff waded through them toward the edge of the bog. Dan Polsky, one of Jeff’s crew members, was sitting on the bank. He had a plastic water bottle in his hand and was tipping it toward his mouth. Water dripped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Mauricio, who had been with Jeff since Jeff took over the farm, was squatting next to a tree stump and twisting the top off a thermos.

  Lauren, standing at the edge of the bog, was deep in animated conversation with another young girl, whose long blond hair was blowing across her face. She brushed it away with an impatient motion and gestured toward the bog.

  Monica wondered if she was with the film crew. The girl was wearing distressed jeans, a black moto jacket and had a phone with a hot pink cover clutched in her hand. There was a camera slung around her neck.

  Lauren turned, saw Monica and motioned her over.

  “Monica, this is Melinda Leigh,” Lauren said somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve hired her to take some pictures of the farm for our Instagram account.”

  “Instagram?” Monica hadn’t realized the farm even had an account. “Are we on Instagram? Is that really necessary?” Monica had barely caught up with Facebook, let alone other social media.

  Lauren nodded. “Yes. It’s important to have a presence on Instagram these days. Besides, the farm will make a spectacular subject.” She gestured toward the bog, where the sun sparkled on the water and illuminated the various shades of the berries, which ranged from a deep cherry to a pale pink. “Mel is a brilliant photographer so I know she’s going to get some great shots.”

  Melinda ducked her head as if she was embarrassed. She seemed shy, with slightly rounded shoulders and a habit of pulling her upper lip over slightly protruding front teeth. Monica thought there was an air of defeat about her.

  There was still no sign of the crew from WZZZ.

  “Do you know when they are coming to film?”

  “Todd Lipton, he’s the producer, called to say they were running a little late,” Lauren said.

  “Do I have time to go home and get a bite to eat?”

  Monica was hungry, but at the same time felt slightly queasy at the thought of her upcoming television appearance.

  Lauren waved a hand. “Sure, go get something to eat. I’ll call you when they get here.”

  Monica was almost to her cottage when she heard a rumble in the distance. Moments later a red-and-white van with a large antenna on the roof and WZZZ on the side in white lettering came into view. It jounced down the road, which was barely more than a dirt path worn in the earth, and came to a stop in front of Monica’s cottage.

  A young woman stuck her head out the driver’s-side window. She had a mop of unruly dark curls, thick straight brows and a ring through her nose.

  “Are you Lauren?” she said. “I was told to ask for Lauren.”

  “I’m Monica Albertson,” Monica said, approaching the van. “My brother owns the farm.” She gestured toward her cottage. “Why don’t you park in my driveway. You’ll be out of the way of any farm vehicles that might need to come through.”

  Monica watched as the young woman expertly backed the van into the driveway and came to a stop. The driver’s-side door opened and she jumped out.

  “Jasmine Talcott,” she said, holding out a hand. “I’ll be filming the segment.” She went around to the back of the van, slid open the door and pulled out a large camera, which she hefted onto her shoulder with apparent ease.

  Monica was about to direct her to the bogs when she heard the purr of an engine and a bright yellow Mustang came into view. The driver pulled over and parked on the grass alongside the path. The door opened slowly and a slender leg in a red stiletto pump dangled out briefly before the other leg came into view and the occupant slid from the seat.

  Monica recognized her immediately as Betsy DeJong, the anchor of the evening news as well as the host of What’s Up West Michigan.

  She was wearing the usual exaggerated amount of on camera makeup—blue eye shadow swept nearly to her brows, spidery false eyelashes, and bright red lipstick filling in her full lips.

  Her highlighted blond hair was in a perfectly layered bob that brushed her cheeks when she moved her head. She was wearing a white dress with navy blocking on the sides that made her waist appear impossibly small and had a trench coat slung loosely around her shoulders.

  She looked like a Barb
ie doll version of a newscaster.

  The downturn of her mouth clearly indicated that she wasn’t happy. She looked around her and sighed.

  “Where are the bogs? I was told we were going to be filming cranberry bogs.”

  Monica smiled. “Welcome to Sassamanash Farm. The bogs are a bit of a ways down the path.”

  “I hope it’s not far to walk,” Betsy said in a querulous voice.

  Monica smiled again and shook her head. “No, it’s not far at all. This way.” She motioned toward the path in front of her.

  She was about to start walking toward the bog when she heard another car coming down the drive, its engine not as sleek-sounding as the Mustang’s. A green and cream Subaru station wagon came into view and stopped in back of Betsy’s car.

  “That must be Todd,” Betsy said, squinting into the distance.

  Monica watched as a man in his early forties got out of the car. He paused to straighten his tie and then began walking toward them.

  “That’s Todd Lipton,” Jasmine said. “He produces What’s Up West Michigan.”

  Todd had light brown hair that probably turned blond in the summer sun and hooded hazel eyes. He wasn’t tall but had the body of a swimmer, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His pants were a bit too short to be fashionable and the collar of his dress shirt could have used a bit more starch.

  He rubbed his hands together as he neared them. Monica could see that his thick glasses were smudged and that there was an eyelash caught in the corner of one of the lenses.

  “Are we all ready to go?” he asked cheerfully. He had a rather nasal high-pitched voice. He smiled at Monica. “I’m Todd Lipton.”

  He shook Monica’s hand.

  “It’s this way,” Monica said, pointing down the path.

  Betsy made a face. “Do we have to walk? Can’t we drive the van to wherever it is we’re going?”

  “It’s not far,” Monica reassured her again.

  No wonder she didn’t want to walk, Monica thought as she watched Betsy pick her way down the dirt path, her ankles wobbling dangerously in her high heels. Monica couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn heels herself and she certainly didn’t miss it.