Berried Motives Read online

  “Whose idea was this anyway?” Betsy grumbled as she stumbled over a rock. She turned and glared at Todd.

  Todd’s expression didn’t change. “It’s going to be a wonderful segment,” he said in a soothing voice, pushing his glasses back up his nose with his index finger. “Your public is going to love it.”

  Betsy’s face relaxed slightly.

  Your public? Monica thought. Obviously Todd knew how to handle the anchorwoman, who was clearly something of a diva.

  “Are we almost there?” Betsy whined again several moments later. “I’m cold and my feet are killing me.”

  “We’re almost there,” Monica reassured her.

  The bog came into view as they rounded the bend. Jeff was waiting on the bank. Monica noticed he’d changed into the new sweatshirt Lauren had bought him and had combed his hair. Lauren was standing next to him, but when she saw the news crew in the distance, she raced over to them.

  “I’m Lauren,” she said somewhat breathlessly. She nodded at Todd, who smiled in return. “Jeff is waiting for you,” she said and motioned toward the bog. “He’s going to talk you through the process of cultivating cranberries. It’s quite fascinating actually,” she said brightly, obviously noting the look of doubt on Betsy’s face.

  Betsy stared at the bog, her forehead wrinkled. She pointed toward one of the workers who was busy guiding the boom.

  “Is that Dan Polsky?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?” Monica said.

  “I used to.” Betsy’s face tightened.

  Lauren hustled the group over to where Jeff was standing. Jeff smiled broadly and held out a hand as Betsy approached.

  Suddenly Betsy’s entire demeanor changed. She smiled, lowered her eyelashes and bit her lower lip as she took Jeff’s outstretched hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. Jeff didn’t appear to mind.

  Monica watched as an angry expression spread over Lauren’s face. She turned red and it was obvious she was furious. She glared at Jeff briefly and then turned on her heel and stomped off.

  Monica watched her go. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into Lauren—she was usually so levelheaded. Jeff was focused on Betsy and didn’t seem to have noticed.

  Jasmine, meanwhile, was fiddling with the lens on her camera before hoisting it to her shoulder. She looked through the viewfinder as she panned the bog and surrounding area.

  She lowered her camera. “Whenever you’re ready,” she shouted to Betsy.

  Betsy smoothed down her dress and touched a hand to her hair. Jeff looked nervous, Monica thought. He was nibbling on the side of his thumb—something he did when he was anxious.

  Todd pinned a microphone to Betsy’s dress and the camera began rolling.

  Monica edged closer to the pair but was careful to stay out of the shot.

  “We’re here today at Sassamanash Farm in Cranberry Cove,” Betsy began in her silken voice, “talking to Jeff Albertson, the owner. He’s going to explain cranberry farming to us.”

  Jeff gave the camera a bashful smile.

  While Jasmine was filming, Melinda was hovering nearby taking still pictures of the event and scuttling out of the way like a frightened crab whenever the camera swung in her direction. Monica supposed Lauren would be putting the pictures on the farm’s new Instagram account.

  “So, Jeff, why Sassamanash Farm? Does the name mean something?” Betsy tilted her head coyly.

  Jeff took a deep breath—Monica could see his chest rise and fall—then said, “Sassamanash is the Algonquin word for cranberry.” He gave a deprecating shrug. “It seemed appropriate.”

  “So cranberries grow in water?” Betsy said, gesturing toward the flooded bog. “Tell us about the process.”

  “Actually, contrary to what most people think, cranberries don’t grow in water,” Jeff said. “They actually grow on vines. We flood the bog when it’s time to harvest them.”

  “Why do you do that?” Betsy tilted her head coquettishly and widened her blue eyes while looking directly at the camera.

  “Once the bog is flooded, we go through it with a machine we affectionately call an egg beater.” Jeff chuckled. “It dislodges the berries from the vine, and since there are air pockets inside the berries, they float to the surface.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Betsy cooed and made wide eyes at the camera again.

  Jeff pointed to the bog, where two of his crew were now wielding the boom.

  “The boom helps us corral the berries, which are then sucked out of the water into the pump truck.”

  “And they end up on our table at Thanksgiving,” Betsy said brightly with a tinkling laugh.

  Jeff laughed too and gave a mischievous smile. “Would you like to put on some waders and try your hand at it?”

  Betsy giggled.

  “I hope you’re not afraid of spiders,” Jeff said as he motioned for one of his men to bring over a pair of waders.

  “Spiders?” Betsy’s voice rose an octave.

  “Wolf spiders,” Jeff said succinctly. “They make their home in the vines and clean the vines of any insects. Once we flood the bog with water, the spiders float to the surface and run across the tops of the berries.”

  Betsy shivered dramatically. “No, thanks. I think I’ll pass.” She laughed and grinned at the camera as if sharing a secret with the audience.

  “We’re just about out of time for this segment.” Todd looked at his watch. “We still need to film the farm store sequence and then we’ll need time to edit before we go on the air tonight.”

  That was her part, Monica thought. She wondered how her hair looked. A breeze was blowing over the bog and she could feel strands brushing across her face. She probably looked a wreck.

  Jasmine had lowered her camera from her shoulder and was looking at the screen.

  “What did you get?” Betsy yelled to Jasmine, gingerly picking her way across the rough ground.

  Jasmine held the camera so that Betsy could see it as well. As Betsy watched the screen her face began to cloud over. Her fists were clenched at her sides and her eyes narrowed.

  “You must be the most incompetent cameraperson in the entire world,” she hissed at Jasmine. “You always manage to make me look bad.”

  Her voice was getting louder. Monica was embarrassed for both Jasmine and Betsy. She’d never been the sort to make a scene herself and they made her uncomfortable.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that my right side is my best side? Huh?” Betsy stood with her hands on her hips, her face inches from Jasmine’s.

  “I tried but you—” Jasmine began, but Betsy cut her off.

  “I’m tired of your excuses. I’m going to talk to Gus when we get back. It’s time they hired someone competent to film my segments.”

  Monica expected Jasmine to look crestfallen but she merely looked resigned, her shoulders slumped and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  Monica knew that people in television could sometimes be difficult to deal with—the pressure was enormous and tempers were bound to get heated. But Betsy DeJong really took the cake. Jasmine seemed to take Betsy’s ill treatment in her stride—Monica wasn’t so sure she would have been able to do the same.

  Chapter 2

  “What now?” Betsy said, looking at Todd, her hands on her hips. She looked both bored and annoyed.

  “We head down to the farm store for the next segment,” Todd said brightly. “You were great, by the way. Just great.”

  Betsy grunted and continued to scowl.

  Monica felt her stomach tighten. This was going to be her part. The only other time she’d ever been on camera was when a reporter had stopped her on the street in Chicago to get her opinion for a segment WSNS was doing on the current political candidates. It had all happened too quickly for her to develop a case of the nerves.

  Jasmine was walking ahead of her, lumbering along with the heavy camera balanced on her shoulder. Monica caught up with her.

  “Does Betsy always treat y
ou like that? I don’t know how you stand it. It’s so unfair.”

  Jasmine shrugged. “There’s a lot of competition for my job at all the stations. I was lucky to get this gig. Besides, Betsy’s just upset about what happened.”

  “Oh?” Monica didn’t think that was any excuse, but she didn’t say anything.

  Jasmine kicked a small rock on the path and sent it skittering off to the side.

  “She was angling for this job in DC.” She turned to Monica. “Did you know she’s engaged to Bob Visser? He’s running for Congress. She thought if she got the new position, they’d both be based in the capital. She had visions of a big house in Kalorama, the two of them hosting important parties, becoming part of the DC social scene—you know, the works.”

  “What happened?”

  “She didn’t get the job.” A ghost of a smile played around Jasmine’s lips. “Let’s face it, it would be a huge leap from hosting What’s Up West Michigan and anchoring the local news to having your own political talk show.” She repositioned the camera on her shoulder. “Anyway, it’s put her in an even more foul mood than usual.”

  • • •

  Nora, who had run the farm store for Monica for several years, was behind the counter arranging a pyramid of cranberry jams and jellies when Monica and the crew arrived. Crates stamped with Sassamanash Farm were stacked against the wall and the display case was filled with cranberry scones, bread, muffins and Monica’s signature cranberry walnut chocolate chunk cookies.

  Nora was clearly excited by the presence of the film crew. Her cheeks were pink and her hands fluttered over the various jars she was arranging.

  Monica noticed Jasmine looking longingly at the baked goods and smiled.

  “Can I offer you something?” she said. “A muffin or a cookie?”

  Jasmine grinned. “A muffin would be super. I was running late this morning and breakfast was nothing more than a cup of tepid coffee from the station break room.”

  Monica motioned to Nora, who pulled a piece of glassine from the box on the counter, reached into the case and selected a muffin. She handed it to Jasmine along with a paper napkin.

  Jasmine took a bite of her muffin and closed her eyes. “Delicious,” she mumbled, brushing some crumbs off her lips. She glanced at Betsy, who was waiting impatiently by the door. She finished the rest of the muffin quickly, tossed the wrapper and the napkin in the trash and picked up her camera from the table where she’d left it.

  Once again, she held up the camera and panned the scene, moving this way and that, studying the various angles. Betsy was touching up her hair and lipstick and Todd was on his cell phone.

  “Time to film,” Jasmine said briskly.

  “Where do you want me?” Betsy said to Todd, her expression bored.

  Todd moved the cell phone from his ear and put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Let’s start in front of those crates over there. Jasmine,” he called to the camerawoman, “make sure you get the Sassamanash Farm stamped on the crates in the shot.”

  “Okeydokey,” Jasmine said. She stood poised with her camera pointed at the spot.

  Todd maneuvered Betsy into position and Monica noticed that she made it a point to aim her right side at the camera.

  Lauren still hadn’t returned by the time Jasmine was ready to film. Monica was worried—that wasn’t like her. Had it only been Betsy flirting with Jeff that had set her off or was something else going on?

  Todd clicked off his call. “Gotta run. Something’s come up. I’ll see you back at the station.” He nodded at Betsy and Jasmine as he left.

  The door had barely closed before it opened again.

  “Surprise,” came a hearty male voice.

  “Bob! What are you doing here?” Betsy said.

  He was tall—a couple of inches over six feet—and was wearing a well-tailored and expensive-looking suit, a white shirt and red tie. He appeared to be in his fifties and had the professional smile of a politician. Monica thought he looked familiar.

  He breezed past Monica, leaving the scent of his woodsy aftershave in the air, went up to Betsy and kissed her on the cheek. Now that he was closer, Monica recognized him as Bob Visser, Betsy’s fiancé and a candidate for senator.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing anything?” He smiled broadly at everyone. “Just thought I’d pop around and see how my girl is doing.” He put his arm around Betsy.

  Betsy looked pained and patted her hair as if she suspected him of having disturbed it.

  He turned to Monica and stuck out his hand, baring his perfect white teeth at her like a shark. “Bob Visser,” he said.

  Monica had never met Visser before but she recognized him from his commercials on television. He owned several luxury car dealerships—one just off the highway outside of Cranberry Cove, one in Grand Rapids and one in Kalamazoo—and starred in his own commercials for Visser Motors, which aired regularly on WZZZ and had made him a household face and name even before he began his run for the Senate.

  Visser proceeded to go around shaking hands with everyone else in the room. Politicians never stopped campaigning, Monica supposed. Betsy looked irritated that Visser’s attention had been diverted from her. She’d better get used to it, Monica thought. If he won the Senate race he was going to be a very busy man.

  “How did you know I was here?” Betsy said after Visser made the rounds.

  “I stopped by the station first and your sister Heidi told me,” Bob said, straightening his tie again, although it was perfectly straight already. He winked at Betsy. “I’d best be off. I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  Had he really wanted to see Betsy, Monica wondered, or had this simply been an opportunity for a campaign stop?

  Jasmine motioned to Monica and she felt her mouth go dry. She wished she had a glass of water. Jasmine smiled encouragingly at her and motioned to her again, a little more insistently this time.

  Monica made her way over to where Betsy was standing. Jasmine clipped a microphone to the collar of her sweater and hooked the battery pack to the waistband of her jeans.

  Monica felt as if her smile was glued on as the film began to roll and she was convinced that she didn’t start breathing again until Jasmine put down the camera.

  • • •

  Monica felt a great sense of relief as she headed toward the farm kitchen. The crew from WZZZ had left, and she was glad that was over. It had been interesting watching the filming of the segment—although she could have done without having had to play a bit part—but she was ready to get back to work.

  And she was starving. Fortunately she had some soup in the refrigerator that she could heat up.

  She passed the bog where they’d filmed. The berries had all been collected and Dan was hip-deep in water reeling in the boom and guiding it toward the truck parked on the shore. Mel had her camera to her eye and was photographing the process. She saw Monica and waved.

  Monica waved back and continued on.

  There was a note on the counter from Kit when Monica reached the farm kitchen saying that he’d gone into town to deliver an order of cranberry salsa to the Pepper Pot Restaurant.

  Monica crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it in the trash, then went to the refrigerator to retrieve her container of erwtensoep—Dutch pea soup—a recipe that had been brought to West Michigan by the Hollanders, as they called themselves, who had originally settled the area.

  She was about to put the soup into the microwave when she thought she heard the sound of running footsteps outside. That was odd. She listened again. Someone was definitely running down the path.

  Before Monica could get to the window to see who it was, the door was flung open so abruptly that it bounced off the wall. Jeff stood panting on the doorstep, one hand clutching the doorjamb.

  “What’s wrong? Has something happened?” she said, looking at Jeff’s stricken face.

  “Body,” Jeff gasped, trying to catch his breath. “There’s a dead body. It’s Betsy, that newswoman.
”

  “What? Where?”

  “Side of the road.” Jeff still hadn’t caught his breath. He was leaning over with his hands on his knees. He looked up at Monica. “Can you come?”

  “Of course. Did you call the police?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Not yet. I should have, but I was so startled I could barely think.”

  Monica grabbed her cell phone off the counter and dialed 9-1-1. Her call was answered immediately by a woman with a calm and soothing voice. Monica gave her the details and their address and clicked off the call.

  She stuffed her phone in the pocket of her jeans and grabbed her fleece from the hook on the wall.

  “Show me where the body is.”

  She trotted after Jeff as he made his way down the worn dirt path. Betsy’s car was still sitting outside Monica’s cottage, the screaming yellow paint job at odds with the muted greens, browns and reds of the nature that surrounded it.

  “Up there,” Jeff said, pointing ahead of them. His voice caught in his throat.

  She lay sprawled on her back, her body nearly hidden in the tall weeds that grew alongside the dirt road. Her legs were bent and her knees flopped over toward one side. Although Monica couldn’t see any signs of injury, blood matted the flattened grass by her head.

  “It was her shoes that I noticed,” Jeff said, pointing to Betsy’s red pumps. “Otherwise I don’t think I would have seen her.”

  Jeff’s breathing still hadn’t slowed substantially and he looked back and forth between Monica and Betsy’s body as if his eyes were drawn to the gruesome scene in spite of himself.

  “We’d better stand back,” Monica said, crossing to the other side of the road. “The police won’t want us disturbing the scene.”

  She looked around but didn’t see any signs to indicate what might have happened.

  Just then a patrol car came into view, its tires churning up a cloud of dust. It came to a sharp stop when it reached Monica and Jeff.

  Both front doors flew open and two patrolmen got out, the belts around their waists heavy and sagging with equipment. The radio squawked from inside the car, sounding like the cries of an angry bird.