Berried at Sea Page 2

  Someone turned the tap on in the other room and a minute later walked into the lounge.

  Monica looked up. “Andrea.” She got to her feet and embraced her friend. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  Andrea gave a sheepish smile and gestured toward the door with her shoulder. “I’m sorry Bruce got so loud out there. He can be quite passionate at times.”

  “Please. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You and Greg must come over for dinner soon,” Andrea said, her hand on the doorknob.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Monica breathed a sigh of relief as the door shut behind Andrea. She sat at the vanity and patted her hair, although not a single strand was out of place. The hairdresser had used enough hairspray to keep it tidy in a gale-force wind.

  Finally, Monica squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and prepared to plunge back into the crowd outside. She wasn’t used to being around so many people at once.

  There was a small room across from the restroom that looked like an office. The lights were out and the door partially closed, but Monica heard voices. One of them sounded like Andrea’s. Then there was another voice—a man’s—and even though he wasn’t speaking loudly, Monica could tell by his tone that he was extremely angry. Andrea said something in return, and it was obvious she was holding back tears.

  As Monica edged past, she caught a glimpse of the man—it was Laszlo. Laszlo and Andrea had barely been married a year. Was the relationship already going sour? Monica had to admit that her first impression of Laszlo hadn’t been favorable. She and Greg had met the couple for a drink at the Cranberry Cove Inn shortly after Monica discovered that Andrea was in town for the summer.

  She’d sensed then that there was tension between the two of them. Laszlo was demanding and sometimes downright rude to Andrea. It had made Monica all the more glad that she’d found Greg.

  • • •

  Finally the last of the guests had departed and Monica, Greg, Nancy and Gina collapsed into the chairs around one of the cocktail tables, the top of which was littered with balled-up napkins and plates with the remains of the wedding cake Monica and Greg had cut earlier. Xavier, Gina’s date, had gone outside to smoke, and the faint fragrance of his cigar drifted into the room through the open doors of the terrace.

  Monica eased off her shoes again—she wasn’t used to wearing heels anymore. Aside from the occasional dinner out with Greg, she had no real need to dress up.

  “We must thank Xavier for getting the yacht club to give us permission to have our reception here,” Greg said as he loosened his tie.

  “I’m so glad it worked out.” Gina leaned in closer. “It was a good dry run for our . . .” She trailed off, suddenly looking flustered.

  “I think there’s something you’re not telling us,” Greg teased, his eyes twinkling.

  “It’s too early to say anything officially.” Gina looked over her shoulder at the door to the terrace. “But I almost have him where I want him.”

  “He is quite dreamy,” Nancy said. “That beard and those broad shoulders.”

  Gina put her fingers to her lips. “Don’t say anything just yet. Not until we make it official.”

  Monica was surprised. She hadn’t gotten the impression that Xavier was the sort to allow himself to be tied down. She hoped Gina wasn’t in for disappointment.

  Chapter 2

  Monica yanked back the flowered curtains and looked out the window. She and Greg had spent the night in the presidential suite at the Cranberry Cove Inn. It was more charming and cozy than presidential, with a large picture window overlooking Lake Michigan where sunlight sparkled off the blue water and waves topped with white foam rolled toward shore.

  “It looks like a beautiful day,” Monica called to Greg, who was in the bathroom shaving. “Blue skies and those puffy white clouds that always make me think of cotton balls.”

  Greg emerged from the bathroom wiping the last bit of shaving cream from his face with a hand towel. He joined Monica at the window. “It looks like a good day for a walk on the beach.”

  “It does.”

  “Meanwhile, though, I’m starving.” Greg grinned.

  Monica cocked her head. “You know what? So am I.”

  “Let’s go then.” Greg tossed the towel on the bed and opened the door to the hall for Monica. He paused and patted his pockets. “Do you have a key?”

  “I do.”

  The dining room wasn’t too crowded and they were able to get a table by the window and close to the warmth of the fire burning in the stone fireplace.

  “I truly am starved,” Greg said as he picked up the menu.

  “We never really had dinner last night,” Monica said. “We had hors d’oeuvres at the reception and we were too full.”

  “Although we did manage to polish off that bottle of champagne and the cheese tray your mother had sent to our room.”

  Monica giggled. She had felt as if she were in a scene from a movie—propped up in bed sipping champagne and feeding each other bites of cheese and crackers.

  “How are you two lovebirds this morning?” A waitress in a frilly pink apron glided over to their table and began filling their water glasses.

  Monica felt her face getting hot. Did everyone know they were newlyweds?

  “Coffee?” The waitress held the silver pot in her other hand over their cups.

  Monica and Greg both nodded.

  “Do you know what you’re having?” Greg said, putting down his menu.

  Monica sighed. It all looked so good. “I think I’ll go with the eggs Benedict.” She closed her menu. “And you?”

  “Two eggs over easy, sausage, hash browns and rye toast.”

  Monica realized she still had so many things to learn about Greg—small things to be sure: what he ate for breakfast, whether he liked to read the newspaper while he ate or preferred to save it for later, did he have a favorite sports team.

  The waitress brought their order, and they were silent while they downed the first few bites. Finally Greg put his fork down and pushed his plate away.

  “What would you like to do today?”

  Monica glanced out the window. “It looks lovely out. How about we start with that walk on the beach?”

  They didn’t have time at the moment for a proper honeymoon, although they were planning one for later in the year. The cranberry harvest at Sassamanash Farm was in full swing and Greg’s bookstore was still attracting tourists on the weekends who were in Cranberry Cove on autumn color tours.

  Greg reached across the table and took Monica’s hands in his. They sat smiling at each other until the waitress came up behind them and cleared her throat loudly.

  • • •

  Monica was glad she’d worn a sweater. The day was cool despite the sun and a chilly breeze blew off the lake. They made their way down the path behind the Cranberry Cove Inn, past the dunes and the tall waving beach grasses bleached white by the falling temperatures, and through the opening in the wooden sand fence erected to stem erosion.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m taking my shoes off,” Greg said as he slipped out of them.

  “Good idea.”

  Monica stepped out of her loafers and dug her toes into the sand. It was warm on top, but as she burrowed deeper it felt cool and damp on her bare feet.

  They walked, hand in hand, down toward the water’s edge and stopped to look out over the water. A lone sailboat was on the horizon, its sail puffed out from the wind.

  “There’s another boat over there.” Greg pointed to where a small motorboat bobbed on the waves. He frowned. “It doesn’t appear to have its motor running.”

  “Maybe they’re fishing?” Monica said.

  Greg shrugged. “Could be.”

  They continued to walk along the beach. Monica picked up an interesting-looking piece of driftwood she thought would be perfect on her mantel. The wood was smooth and polished and felt like velvet under her fingers.

  �
�What do you think?” She held it out to Greg. “For the fireplace mantel?”

  Greg had moved into Monica’s small cottage at Sassamanash Farm, leaving behind his tiny, crowded apartment above Book ’Em. They planned to eventually build a house together, but this arrangement suited them for the time being. Monica could walk to the farm’s commercial kitchen, where she made cranberry salsa and breads and muffins to sell in the farm store and also to a local gourmet chain that had become interested in her products.

  And Greg was only a short drive from Beach Hollow Road and the center of Cranberry Cove, where his store was located.

  They walked on, leaving footprints in the sand that disappeared behind them as the waves washed them away. Monica was surprised at how warm the water was even though it was September, but it had been heating up ever since June when the temperatures began to rise. In a few more months, though, ice floes would be bobbing just offshore and the lighthouse would be encrusted with icicles.

  They had walked a little farther when Greg stopped suddenly. He put his hands on Monica’s shoulders and turned her toward him. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers.

  He hugged her then held her at arm’s length and smiled. “Thank you for marrying me, Monica Albertson.”

  Monica snuggled close to him and nestled her head against his shoulder. As they walked along she noticed the sun glinting off her shiny gold wedding ring, and she couldn’t help glancing at it with pride. A lump formed in her throat suddenly. She couldn’t believe her great good fortune to have found someone as wonderful as Greg.

  “Look.” Greg pointed toward the lake at the small motorboat that was bobbing in the water at the mercy of the waves. “They still haven’t turned the motor on on that boat. That’s strange, don’t you think?”

  Monica, who knew very little about boats, shook her head. “I guess it’s unusual.”

  Greg frowned. “I wonder if something is wrong.” He squinted into the distance then turned to Monica. “Can you see anyone on board?”

  Monica looked out over the increasingly turbulent waters of the lake. She was lucky enough to have excellent eyesight, but the boat was quite a distance away, and she couldn’t be completely sure.

  “Do you think we should call the Coast Guard?” Monica said.

  Greg continued to stare at the blue and white speck on the horizon. Finally, he shrugged.

  “I imagine I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Monica linked her arm through his. “I suspect we’ve both read too many mysteries.”

  Greg laughed. “You’re probably right. We’re creating a plot out of thin air.”

  They hadn’t realized how far they’d walked until they turned around to head back. The Cranberry Cove Inn was a smudge of white in the distance. Dark clouds had rolled in from across the lake, obliterating the sun and making it look more like dusk than late morning.

  The breeze had picked up in intensity as well, and Monica brushed at the strands of hair blowing across her face and into her eyes. She pulled her sweater around her more closely and hunched her shoulders against the wind.

  The small motorboat they’d noticed earlier was closer to shore now. Monica grabbed Greg’s arm and pointed toward it.

  “You may be right. I don’t see anyone on board that boat.”

  Greg stopped and looked out across the lake. “I wonder what happened? You don’t suppose they fell overboard, do you?”

  Monica shivered. “I hope not. That would be horrible.”

  She could well remember being in the lake herself—pushed out of a rowboat by a determined killer. Fortunately for her, the lake had been calm that day, the water as smooth as glass and no rip current.

  “When we get back to the inn, I’ll call the police and let them decide whether or not the situation warrants getting the Coast Guard involved.”

  They were almost back to the inn when Greg glanced up at the sky.

  “It looks like rain. It’s hard to believe it was so bright and sunny when we started our walk.”

  “You know the saying about Michigan weather—if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”

  Greg pointed to the lake. “That cloud is so low, it’s hard to tell where the sky ends and the water begins.”

  Monica scanned the horizon. “That boat is still there. Look. It’s much closer to the shore now.”

  Greg frowned. “I’m definitely calling the police as soon as we get in.”

  They watched as the churning waves pushed the small boat closer and closer toward the shore.

  “It’s going to run aground,” Greg said, starting toward the water’s edge.

  “What are you doing?” Monica followed him.

  “There’s no one on board.” Greg bent and began to roll up his pants legs. “If I can reach it, we can see if the owner left any identification behind. The police can then check to see if that person is missing or is simply sitting at the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club having a Bloody Mary, unaware of the fact that their boat has come loose from its moorings.”

  “Be careful,” Monica said, biting her lower lip.

  A feeling of déjà vu washed over her. Her first fiancé had been killed in a swimming accident, caught in an invisible riptide. She wanted to stop Greg, but he was already wading into the water.

  The water splashed up around his knees, wetting the edges of his rolled-up trousers. A large wave rushed in toward shore and Greg turned his back to it. It hit him mid-back and wet him nearly head to toe, but he continued to scramble toward the motorboat, which was now almost within arm’s reach.

  Another large wave hit the boat, pushing it closer toward the shallow waters along the shore and ramming its hull into the soft sand, where it stuck.

  The water was up to Greg’s thighs when he finally reached the boat. He peered over the side then stood staring for several minutes. Monica waited then finally rolled up her own trousers and plunged into the lake.

  Greg put an arm out to stop her, but it was too late. She’d already seen the body lying prone on the floor of the boat, blood leaking from a wound in its back and puddling around it.

  Chapter 3

  “Who is it?” Monica said, her teeth beginning to chatter, although whether it was from the cold or nerves, she didn’t know.

  “I have no idea,” Greg said, wrapping his arms around himself. “He looks familiar, but without being able to see his face . . .”

  The man lying on the bottom of the boat was stocky with broad shoulders and curly blond hair. There was a strip of bright red across the back of his neck, as if he’d gotten sunburned while out fishing or playing golf.

  “We’d best call the police,” Greg said. “I didn’t bring my cell, did you?”

  Monica noticed he was beginning to shiver, too.

  “No, I didn’t. Why don’t we go back to the inn and call? You’re freezing.”

  “I want to stay with the boat. If it comes loose, it might start drifting again. You go and call, and I’ll wait here.” He must have noticed the look on Monica’s face. “I’ll be fine.” He smiled.

  Monica didn’t want to leave him there. The dark gray clouds that had been hovering on the horizon had moved closer to shore, causing the temperature to drop significantly, and the wind was churning the waves into greater fury, causing them to slap against the small boat and sending spray into the air.

  • • •

  A fire was burning in the huge stone hearth in the inn lobby, and Monica was tempted to stop and warm herself in front of it, but the thought of poor Greg standing thigh-deep in cold water made her hurry past.

  She first ran to the reception desk, but no one was there. The lobby was empty, and she heard a vacuum going somewhere down the hall. Most of the guests were already out for the day and the rooms were being cleaned in their absence.

  Monica dashed into the restaurant. It, too, was empty. The tables had been stripped of their linens and a bus bin on a stand was loaded with used crockery. Monica paused briefly i
n front of the large plate-glass window that overlooked the lake. From this vantage point, she was able to see Greg standing in the water. A feeling of love rushed over her at the sight of him.

  She didn’t linger but quickly pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, and for a moment the heat from the ovens and stoves felt delicious. A sous-chef stood at a cutting board slicing carrots with a rapidity that Monica envied.

  The chef, a large man with a red face wearing a white jacket and black-and-white houndstooth trousers, stood in the corner running his finger down a sheet attached to a clipboard.

  Monica shimmied between the stainless steel tables to where he was standing.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  The chef lowered his clipboard and smiled at her. He had watery blue eyes that made her think of underdone poached eggs.

  “Can I use your phone?” She realized she sounded slightly breathless.

  “Is something wrong?” the chef asked in lightly accented English.

  Monica explained about the body lying on the floor of the abandoned boat.

  The chef gasped and his red face became redder. He put a hand on Monica’s shoulder and led her over to a telephone affixed to the far wall.

  Monica took a deep breath in an attempt to still her shaking hands and managed to punch in 911 on the second try.

  The operator assured her that a patrol car would be sent immediately and that Detective Stevens would be notified as well.

  Monica thanked her and hung up.

  On her way out of the kitchen, she noticed one of the waiters standing in the corner loading clean glasses onto a tray. He gave her a strange look as she swept past him toward the swinging door that led out to the restaurant.

  On her way back through the lobby, she grabbed a knitted throw that had been draped over the back of one of the sofas.

  The tide was going out and the water had receded slightly, but the sucking motion of the waves was threatening to pull the small motorboat loose from the sand where it had run aground.