Berry the Hatchet Page 2

  Monica walked past the picket fence that would be covered in dusty pink climbing roses come summer and headed toward the front door. The Inn’s white shingles had been painted that spring and the black shutters had been touched up as well. It wouldn’t be long, however, before the wind and snow of a harsh Michigan winter stripped them of their luster.

  Monica was taken aback to discover that the lobby of the Cranberry Cove Inn was crammed with people sitting on the plump sofas, lounging in the deep armchairs and chatting in front of the massive stone fireplace. If her hands and feet weren’t still numb from the cold she would have thought it was the height of the summer tourist season and not the dark, bleak middle of January.

  The receptionist was behind the counter with the telephone pressed to her ear and a harried look on her face. She was a plump woman with graying blond hair that was pulled into a puffy twist at the back of her head. A long strand of hair had broken loose from the knot and was hanging over her forehead and along her nose. She exhaled a huge puff of air and blew the errant strand out of the way.

  Monica smiled as she approached the desk, but despite her friendly demeanor, the woman looked as alarmed as if Monica were a knife-wielding lunatic. She put her hand over the telephone receiver and glared at Monica.

  “If you’re hoping to make a reservation, we’re completely booked,” she hissed. “But if you’re looking to arrange a wedding or some such affair, the banquet manager is in an office down the hall.” She pointed vaguely to the right.

  Monica shook her head. “I was hoping to get a room. It doesn’t matter where it is or what the view is—”

  The woman was already shaking her head, causing the pesky strand of hair to flop forward onto her forehead again. “No room at the Inn. No room at all.” She gave a desperate laugh.

  “It doesn’t matter how small—”

  “Even the old maid’s rooms are booked.” The woman stared at the telephone receiver for a moment before replacing it in its cradle. “Everyone is here for the Winter Walk.”

  Monica had hoped the Winter Walk would be popular, but it looked as if it was succeeding beyond her wildest dreams. Her mother couldn’t have picked a worse time to come to town unless it was the height of the summer season, when Cranberry Cove was even more swamped.

  Reluctantly, Monica left the warmth of the Inn’s lobby. Perhaps Primrose Cottage, a bed-and-breakfast nearby, had opened for the Winter Walk? Charlie Decker, the owner, usually shut down at the end of October, reopened on the weekends during the Christmas season, and then shut down again until the spring flowers were blooming.

  Monica crossed her fingers as she headed down the street. She was buoyed by the fact that Primrose Cottage was lit up like a Christmas tree, with the parking lot full for the first time since the last leaf had fallen off the trees in early November.

  Monica pulled open the front door and approached the reception desk with a feeling of optimism. Charlie Decker was chatting amiably with a couple in matching ski parkas. She looked relaxed and happy—better than Monica had seen her since her mother’s death at the end of September. Charlie smiled as Monica approached.

  “I was hoping I could book a room,” Monica said as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into her pockets.

  Charlie looked startled. “Has something gone wrong at your cottage?”

  Monica had renovated the small cottage that stood on the grounds of Sassamanash Farm. It boasted a living room and kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms on the second with a bathroom between them. The water heater produced barely ten minutes of hot water at a time and there was a leak in the downstairs hallway, but there was a fireplace in the living room and a large bay window, and Monica adored the place.

  “Oh, no.” Monica hastened to reassure Charlie. “Everything is fine. I need a room for my mother—she’s on her way to town.”

  “Coming for the Winter Walk, huh?” Charlie stuck the pencil she was holding behind her ear.

  Monica didn’t think that was the case. She didn’t know exactly why her mother was coming, but she’d find out soon enough.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but we’re booked solid . . . with a waiting list if you can believe it. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “That’s great,” Monica said, although the words practically stuck in her mouth.

  What was she going to do? There were no other accommodations in town. There were houses for rent during the summer but not at this time of year. Besides, that would not be suitable for her mother. Her mother would just have to stay with her.

  She’d better warn Gina.

  • • •

  Gina was standing on a ladder inside her aromatherapy shop when Monica arrived. After much discussion, and an entire bottle of champagne over dinner at the Cranberry Cove Inn, Gina had settled on the name Making Scents for her new venture.

  She was wearing leopard-print leggings, a long black sweater and suede booties. It was going to take longer than three months to get Gina to conform to Cranberry Cove’s unwritten dress code of clothing chosen for its comfort and function rather than its style.

  Gina climbed down the steps of the ladder. “What do you think? Enough sparkle for the mayor?”

  Monica looked around the shop. “Preston will love it—it’s stunning. I don’t see how you could add more pizazz if you tried.” She smiled at her stepmother.

  “Good.” Gina stepped off the ladder. “I started the shop at the wrong time, that’s for sure. I didn’t realize business would dry up as soon as I hung out my Open sign.”

  “Cranberry Cove definitely has its seasons,” Monica said, leaning against the counter where a half dozen glass bottles with medicine droppers were on display. The scents of mint, lavender and citrus filled her nose. “But you did quite well over Christmas, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” Gina straightened a bow on the shelf behind her. “And I’m sure things will pick up when summer comes. If nothing else, aromatherapy will be something novel for the tourists to talk about when they get back home.”

  Monica traced a circle on the floor with her toe. How was she going to break it to Gina that the two ex–Mrs. Albertsons were going to be occupying the same town at the same time?

  But before she could say anything, Gina spoke. “I’m meeting Preston tonight—after the Winter Walk.”

  Monica looked up, surprised. “I didn’t realize you were dating.”

  Gina shrugged. “We’re keeping it rather quiet.” She shrugged. “It’s what Preston wants. He asked me to share a bottle of champagne with him tonight to celebrate the success of the first Cranberry Cove Winter Walk.”

  Monica had always been told that it wasn’t good to count your chickens before they hatched, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to burst Gina’s bubble—it might make the news about Monica’s mother arriving in town go down easier if she didn’t.

  “By the way,” Monica said with studied casualness, “my mother is coming for a visit.” Gina, who had been wiping fingerprints off the counter, stopped abruptly and spun around toward Monica. “Your mother! What does she want to come here for?”

  “To see me, I guess,” Monica said, somewhat dryly. “Actually she said she’s been dating a man from Cranberry Cove who she met in Chicago when he was on business.”

  Gina went back to vigorously scrubbing a spot on the glass countertop, which already looked perfectly clean to Monica. “Just so she doesn’t come near me. After the things she said to me . . .”

  Monica knew the relationship had been quite heated, almost ugly, between her mother and Gina, but she didn’t know the details and didn’t want to.

  Gina’s mouth was open and she was about to continue when the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air and a swirl of snowflakes.

  It was Tempest Storm. Her cheeks were bright red, and Monica didn’t think it was because of the frigid temperatures. Tempest looked absolutely furious.

  “What a bunch of narrow-minded nincompoops these people are.”

  Gina looked sympathetic. She and Tempest had bonded in their roles as Cranberry Cove’s most gossiped about citizens.

  “What have they done now?” Gina asked.

  Tempest’s face became even redder, if possible. She drew the long purple cape she was wearing around her. It made her look like the high priestess of some ancient religion.

  “That idiot mayor of ours, Preston Crowley, has started a petition to bar me from holding my Imbolc rite on the village green tonight.”

  Gina bristled at hearing Preston called an idiot. She glanced at Monica and rolled her eyes but held her tongue.

  “What is this rite you’re planning anyway?” Gina reached behind her for an emery board that was stuck in a pencil holder on the counter and began to file one of her nails.

  “It’s not like it’s going to hurt anyone,” Tempest said.

  “It might even amuse the tourists.” Gina stuck the emery board back in the cup.

  “It’s not meant to be amusing,” Tempest said rather huffily. “The rite is believed to date back to the Babylonians. It marks the halfway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.” She frowned. “We’re doing it a bit early, but I thought it might be something to draw the tourists in and show them that there is some culture in Cranberry Cove.”

  “Greg Harper holds a book club at Book ’Em once a month,” Gina said.

  “That’s not what I meant. We need to show them that we’re tolerant of different peoples and different practices.”

  “Good luck with that.” Gina laughed.

  “We’ll have candles and noisemakers,” Tempest said. “It will be quite a sight.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” Gina finished wiping down the counter and tossed the paper towels in the trash. “Who is going to be taking part in this ritual?”

  “I’m hoping that some of Cranberry Cove’s visitors will join in. I’ve got extra candles for them.”

  The door to the shop opened again and Gina looked up, a practiced smile on her face.

  A woman came in, stamping her feet against the cold. A scattering of snowflakes were melting across her shoulders and leaving wet splotches on her dark coat.

  “Can I help you?” Gina glided toward her.

  Tempest wandered over to the other side of the shop and began to examine a display of oil diffusers.

  The woman seemed like an unlikely customer for Making Scents, although Gina had told Monica she was pleasantly surprised by the number of people interested in exploring essential oils for the treatment of insomnia, anxiety and other conditions.

  But this woman didn’t look as if she was intent on purchasing anything. She had a clipboard clutched to her rather flat chest, a pen in her gnarled hand and a determined look on her gaunt face.

  “I’m here to ask if you will sign this here petition,” she said to no one in particular.

  Gina, as owner of the shop, obviously felt it her duty to take charge. The woman eyed Gina’s leggings and sweater with distrust as she stepped forward, her hand outstretched for the piece of paper the woman was brandishing.

  “And what is it you’re asking me to sign?” Gina arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow as she accepted the clipboard from the woman.

  “It’s a petition to stop that . . . woman. . . .” She seemed momentarily overcome by emotion and had to clear her throat several times before continuing. “From holding that pagan ceremony on the village green and ruining our Winter Walk. Mayor Crowley himself asked us to go around and collect signatures.” She held out the pen to Gina with a shaking hand. “Mayor Crowley has worked hard to make this event a success and nothing can be allowed to ruin it.”

  “Oh, balderdash!” Tempest swung around from the display she’d been examining and drew her cloak around her with a flourish. The ends flicked outward and nearly knocked over a shelf of lavender oil. “Our Imbolc ceremony is going to do nothing to tarnish the mayor’s”—she said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth—“precious Winter Walk.”

  Monica thought she’d better do something to diffuse the tension that was crackling in the air like heat lightning.

  “It’s very kind of you to bring this around,” she said, gently removing the clipboard from Gina’s unresisting hands. “But I think we all agree that we’d rather not get involved in something that we know very little about.”

  Monica handed the woman her petition and reached out a hand to take the pen back from Gina. She handed it over, smiled and opened the door to the shop.

  They all watched through the window as the woman crossed the street and entered Bart’s Butcher shop.

  Tempest clenched her hands into fists and shook them at the plateglass window. “How dare that man! He’s the mayor, not God!”

  “I can understand your being angry,” Monica said in her most soothing voice. She put a hand on Tempest’s arm.

  “Angry?” Tempest turned on Monica, her eyes glittering. “I’m going to kill Preston Crowley for this!”

  Chapter 3

  As Monica hurried to her stall outside of Gumdrops, she was thinking about the scene in Gina’s shop and it wasn’t until she was halfway back before she remembered about her mother. The thought made her stop in her tracks, and a man, bundled up against the cold with a scarf around his nose and mouth, bumped into her.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said, but he hurried past with an irritated look on his face.

  Monica shrugged. Some people seemed to walk around with a black cloud over themselves no matter what was going on.

  She quickly checked on the stall—the tablecloth was still pinned down against the wind, which was now sending snowflakes into swirls like mini tornadoes. She popped her head into Gumdrops and asked the sisters if they would mind keeping an eye on things for her.

  “You go on, dear. We’ll keep a lookout,” Hennie called from behind the counter.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” Gerda added, waving to Monica.

  Monica dashed to her car—she’d gotten to town early enough to snag one of the spaces along Beach Hollow Road. Later, those spaces would be blocked off and the street would turn into an outdoor pedestrian mall. She brushed the accumulating snow off the roof and front and back windows of her Focus and took off.

  As she drove up the hill toward Sassamanash Farm, she thought about what lay ahead. Her cottage was always orderly—she’d dusted and run the vacuum only yesterday—but she’d dashed out early this morning without cleaning up the kitchen. Flour still dusted the countertops and baking pans were soaking in the sink. She’d have to get all that taken care of before her mother arrived.

  The thought made Monica hit the gas a little harder than she should have, and she crested the hill and flew down the other side, her small car skidding slightly on the increasingly snow-covered road. Mayor Crowley had prayed for enough snow for the sleigh to be able to navigate, but she hoped they didn’t get so much snow that tourists weren’t able to get there.

  Mittens met Monica at the door as soon as she arrived home. Monica had adopted the kitten after the VanVelsen sisters’ cat Midnight had given birth to a surprise litter. Monica had chosen the name Mittens because the kitten was all black except for four white paws. And since Michigan was known as the Mitten State, the name seemed particularly appropriate.

  Monica had never had a pet before. She hadn’t had time when she was in Chicago, and her mother had never wanted to be bothered with a dog or cat—she was afraid they would ruin the furniture and generally be too much of a nuisance. But the fluffy black kitten had already wormed her way into Monica’s heart. She slept on Monica’s lap when she was reading—occasionally waking up to bat at the pages of Monica’s book—and she’d proved her mettle as a mouser, having already proudly presented Monica with several presents.

  Now Mittens rubbed against Monica’s ankles until Monica bent down to pet her and scratch under her chin. She followed Monica out to the kitchen, weaving in and out between her feet, tail held high in the air and swishing back and forth. Monica had learned to be extra careful on the steps. The last thing she needed was to fall and break something.

  Monica tossed her jacket toward the coatrack by the back door, where it caught by the edge of the collar, then checked Mittens’s bowls. Water—full. Food—full. She glanced toward the clock on the kitchen wall. She’d better hurry.

  She filled the sink and began scrubbing the baking dishes she’d left for later. Her arms were still plunged up to her elbows in soapy water when she heard a car pull up. She quickly dried her hands and went to the front door.

  By the time she got there, her mother was already standing on the front step. She looked crisp and elegant in a navy double-breasted peacoat, leather gloves, gray slacks, and suede driving moccasins. Her ash blond hair had a few gray strands woven in, but was neat and tidy in a chin-length bob.

  “Mom!” Monica exclaimed. She pulled the door wider. “Come in.”

  Nancy Albertson walked into the small living room. She offered her cold cheek to Monica for a kiss. Monica impulsively gave her mother a quick hug.

  “What’s this?” Nancy asked as Mittens rubbed up against her legs. “I do hope it doesn’t shed,” she said, bending down to pat the cat’s head.

  Nancy straightened and looked around Monica’s living room, with its welcoming brick fireplace, comfortable furniture and bay window. Monica held her breath as she waited.