Berried at Sea Page 3

  Greg was clinging to it, and Monica noticed his fingernails were blue from the cold. Just then she heard a siren in the distance—help was on the way.

  Within minutes, two uniformed officers were running as swiftly as they could down the path from the inn and across the sand. One of them turned his ankle and nearly fell, his arms flailing in the air like a windmill run amok.

  When they got closer, Monica noticed that one of the pair was a woman—her long dark hair was fastened into a twist and tucked under her hat. She was tall and slim, and the shapeless blue shirt and pants and cumbersome wide leather belt hid any curves that might have given away her gender.

  She left her partner on the shore with Monica and immediately plunged into the water to where Greg was hanging on to the boat.

  Greg was obviously glad to leave things in her hands and waded back to shore, the water tugging at his sodden trousers and making for slow going.

  He finally reached Monica, and she wrapped the throw around him and rubbed his arms and back vigorously.

  Greg clutched the throw around him, his fingertips wrinkled from their long exposure to the water.

  They heard a shout and turned toward the inn to see the chef, still in his white jacket and toque, making his way across the sand toward them. He had two mugs in his hands and a stainless steel thermos tucked under his arm.

  “I thought you would want something hot to drink,” he said when he reached them. He unscrewed the cap of the thermos and poured steaming tea into each of the mugs. “I put in lots of sugar. They say it is good for the shock, you know?”

  Monica and Greg accepted the tea gratefully and wrapped their hands around the warm mugs. Monica glanced toward the policewoman valiantly braving the waters of the lake to guard the body. Monica hoped Detective Stevens and the medical examiner would arrive soon.

  Moments later she saw Stevens coming down the path from the inn. She’d had the forethought to wear a trench coat and was pulling a camera from her pocket.

  “Are you okay?” she said as soon as she reached Monica and Greg.

  They both nodded.

  “Let me get a few pictures and then we can get that boat out of the water.” She jerked a shoulder in the direction of the policewoman standing nearly thigh-deep in the lake. “She must be freezing, poor thing.” She looked at Monica and Greg. “Then, I’ll be talking to you two, okay?”

  Greg put an arm around Monica and nodded. They watched as Stevens pulled off her shoes, rolled up her pants and waded out to the boat. She stood with her legs spread, bracing herself against the oncoming waves, put her camera to her eye and began snapping pictures.

  Monica huddled against Greg and waited. There was a noise behind them—the rumble of an engine—and they turned to see a white van with Cranberry Cove Inn written on the side in dark blue lettering making its way across the sand toward them.

  The driver swung the van in a large arc and then began backing up toward the edge of the lake. He stopped several feet shy of the water, opened the door and jumped out. Monica realized it was the waiter she’d seen loading glasses on a tray in the kitchen.

  He approached Monica and Greg as Stevens waded out of the water, her camera held above her head and away from the spray of the waves. He had dark eyes and dark hair slicked back except for one curl that had escaped onto his forehead. He was wearing a white waiter’s jacket with his name—Eddie Wood—embroidered in dark blue above the pocket.

  “Do you think you can get that boat out of the water?” Stevens said to Eddie when she reached them.

  Eddie nodded. “Sure thing. You just leave it to me.” And he winked at Stevens.

  She looked momentarily startled but then regained her usual noncommittal expression.

  Eddie moved briskly, making short work of hooking a chain to the hitch on the back of the van and attaching the other end to the boat. The sleeve of his jacket inched up his arm, and Monica noticed he had an elaborate tattoo of a snake on his powerful forearm.

  He hopped back into the driver’s seat and put the van in gear. The van moved briefly, then the tires began to churn in the sand as the slack in the chain was taken up. Eddie kept his foot on the gas and gently eased the van forward, tugging the boat behind it. When the boat was completely out of the lake and far enough from the shore to keep it out of the water even at high tide, he cut the engine on the van, hopped back out and undid the chain from the boat. He unhooked the other end from the trailer hitch, coiled up the chain, opened the back door to the van and tossed it inside.

  “Thank you,” Stevens called as Eddie made to get back into the driver’s seat.

  He gave her a brief salute, pulled the door closed and headed back toward the inn.

  They stood in a knot staring down at the body in the boat. Suddenly Stevens’s head jerked up.

  “I hear a car. It must be the medical examiner. At least I hope so. The sooner he gets here, the sooner we can get inside and get warm.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m afraid this is ruining your honeymoon,” she said, making a rueful face.

  “It can’t be helped,” Greg said. “Besides, we’ll be getting back to work tomorrow. We have a trip planned for later in the year—a real honeymoon.” He smiled at Monica.

  A man was making his way toward them, giving his foot a little shake with each step, as if to keep the sand off his highly polished brown oxfords. He was tall and bone-thin with a disapproving expression on his narrow face, as if he expected to have all his cases expire in their own beds, in a warm house, and not outdoors under adverse conditions. His skin was tanned and weathered with deep furrows running across his forehead and bracketing his mouth.

  “A rather sporty-looking bowrider,” he said, gesturing toward the boat. “A sixteen-footer, I’d say. It’s not a yacht but they still cost a pretty penny. Our victim must have had some money to burn.”

  Monica, Greg and Stevens stepped away from the body and Monica and Greg turned their backs as the ME pulled on a pair of gloves and set about his rather gruesome tasks.

  “Can you give me a hand?”

  Monica turned around to see Stevens and the ME easing the body onto its side. Stevens peered at the man’s face and shook her head.

  “Does he look familiar to you?” she asked Monica and Greg.

  Monica took a step closer. She looked at the man and gasped.

  “Greg.” She pointed toward the body. “That’s Bruce Laszlo, isn’t it? He was at our wedding yesterday.”

  Greg looked at the man’s face, his head cocked to one side.

  “I think you’re right.” He turned to Monica. “He’s your friend’s husband, isn’t he?” He scratched his head. “Or, perhaps I should say was.”

  Stevens’s head swiveled in their direction. “You know him? What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” Monica held her hands out palms up. “We only just met him yesterday at our wedding. He was married to a woman I went to college with.”

  Stevens grunted. “Does he live here in Cranberry Cove? If so, he must have stayed pretty far beneath the radar because I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”

  “They’re summer people,” Monica said, using the term everyone in Cranberry Cove applied to anyone who didn’t live there year-round. “He owns one of those houses up on the hill.” She pointed in back of her.

  “You’re friends with his wife but you only met him yesterday?” Stevens raised her eyebrows.

  “I hadn’t stayed in touch with his wife—Andrea her name is, Andrea Bowman. She’s his second wife, and this was her first summer in Cranberry Cove. We ran into each other in town one day and got reacquainted.”

  “What else?” Stevens prompted. “Do you know where their permanent residence is?”

  Monica shrugged. “I think they live in a suburb outside of Chicago. Andrea told me the name, but I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  “That’s fine. Identifying him for us has been a huge help. There’s nothing worse than an
unidentified corpse.” She turned back toward the boat. “Wait a minute. What’s that?” She pointed toward something wedged between the cushions of the front passenger seat.

  Stevens walked around to the passenger side of the boat and leaned in. She plucked something from between the grooves in the seat cushion and held it up in her gloved hand.

  “A cigarette. Was our victim a smoker, I wonder?” She looked at Monica.

  “I don’t know.”

  “An autopsy should tell us all we need to know about the state of our corpse’s lungs,” the ME said. “That will tell us whether or not he was fond of tobacco.”

  Stevens retrieved a plastic bag from her coat pocket and dropped the cigarette into it. She sealed it and pulled off her rubber gloves with a snap.

  “With any luck, our killer will have left behind some DNA on that cigarette if it doesn’t turn out to be Laszlo’s.” She frowned and held the bag up. “Although it hasn’t been lit. But then maybe they stuck it in their mouth and were about to light it when they hit a wave?” She grinned. “One can dream, right?” She shook her head. “Somehow I doubt this is going to be that easy.” She smiled. “Why don’t you two go inside and get warm. If I need you, I know where to find you.”

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, as Monica and Greg snuggled on a love seat in front of the inn’s roaring fire, cozy and warm under a fleece throw and sipping tea made for them by the chef, who had fortified it with a spoon or two of brandy, it was hard to believe the horrific events of the morning had actually taken place.

  “Frankly,” Greg said, tightening his arm around Monica, “that Laszlo guy looked like the sort who would come to a bad end.”

  Monica laughed and poked him in the side. “That sounds like something Hennie or Gerda VanVelsen would say.”

  Greg snorted. “Heaven help me! I’m turning into an old lady. But seriously, some people simply have that look about them, don’t you agree?”

  “I do. It’s almost an odor.”

  “Like bad fish.”

  Monica spit a mouthful of tea into her lap. “Yes, very much like bad fish.” She dabbed at the damp patch on the throw with a tissue. “I didn’t like the way Laszlo treated Andrea. Certainly not this early in the marriage.”

  Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Do you expect me to treat you badly after we’ve been married for a few years?”

  Monica poked him again. “Certainly not. And you know what I mean. They’ve only been married a short time—they should have had more patience with each other. Been more loving.”

  “When you say he treated her badly, what did he do? Nothing physical, I hope.”

  “No, nothing like that. At least not that I saw. But they were arguing, and she was obviously close to tears. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his tone was nasty.” Monica shivered.

  “Hmmm,” Greg said, pulling Monica closer. “You don’t think . . .”

  “That Andrea had something to do with Laszlo’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know.” Monica picked at a loose thread on the throw. “I just don’t know.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday morning and it was business as usual, Monica thought as she pulled on a pair of jeans and a light sweatshirt. Except it wasn’t. Greg was in the shower singing some cheesy pop song at the top of his lungs, and that was very much not business as usual.

  Monica wondered how long it would take for her to get used to being married and sharing her life with someone else as she smoothed the comforter and shook out the pillows. It was a new experience waking up with someone instead of being alone in the house. And so far she was loving it.

  Greg bounded down the stairs as Monica was heating up some cranberry muffins she’d made earlier and stashed in the freezer for breakfast.

  “Something smells good,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. His own cheek was soft and smelled like shaving cream. “Those look delicious,” he said, peering over her shoulder as she pulled the muffins out of the oven. “I’m lucky if I manage a granola bar before I head down to the store.”

  “You know the old platitude—breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “When breakfast is a homemade cranberry muffin, I’d have to agree.” Greg grinned as he took his plate to the kitchen table.

  “Butter?” Monica paused with her hand on the door to the refrigerator.

  “Sure.”

  “So what are you up to today?” Monica said as she sat down opposite Greg and put the butter dish in the middle of the table.

  Monica’s black-and-white kitten, Mittens, eyed the butter from her perch on the windowsill, her black tail with its white tip swishing back and forth.

  “I had a call from the son of a collector in Spring Lake. His father is going into a nursing home and they’re in the process of cleaning out his house. Apparently the gentleman was an avid book collector and has a small group of first editions his son thought I might be interested in.”

  “Oh? Any particular author?”

  “Several, actually. A Dorothy Sayers, which would be quite rare. A few Margery Allingham and a John Dickson Carr and a Michael Innes.”

  Monica loved to read and she particularly loved mysteries, but she was no way near as informed as Greg. She was enjoying learning about authors she’d missed, particularly those of the Golden Age of mysteries who were Greg’s passion.

  “That sounds exciting.”

  “We’ll see. They might be foxed with turned-down pages and therefore worthless to collectors.” Greg looked up from buttering his muffin. “What about your day? Anything special?”

  “Not really. Plenty of baking—muffins, scones and bread for the farm store. And a batch of salsa for Fresh Gourmet. Thank goodness for Kit Tanner. He’s a huge help.”

  Monica had recently hired Kit to help her with the baking. With their new commercial kitchen, she was able to produce a lot more product. The more product she could produce, the more money she could make and the easier the payments for the new kitchen would be. But that also meant she needed another pair of hands, and that was another salary to be paid. Fortunately Kit had turned out to be worth his weight in gold—quick, efficient, effective and, as a bonus, rather funny. Monica enjoyed working with him.

  Greg downed the last bite of his muffin, wiped his mouth on his napkin, slurped down his last glug of coffee and stood up.

  “I’d better get going.” He looked at Monica. “For once, I’m in no hurry to get to the store.”

  Monica was in no hurry to leave either but she squared her shoulders. They both had jobs to do, and if she didn’t drag herself away now, she wasn’t sure she ever would.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” she said briskly. “It will be our first night as a married couple on the farm.”

  Greg broke into a grin. “I can’t wait.” He put his arms around Monica and gave her a kiss. “I’ll see you tonight, Mrs. Monica Albertson Harper.”

  • • •

  Monica checked Mittens’s water dish and food bowl, scratched her kitten under the chin and assured her she would be back by lunchtime.

  The day was sunny with large white clouds scudding swiftly across the blue sky. Monica followed the rutted dirt path that led from her cottage to the commercial kitchen they’d added onto the building where the cranberries were processed and packed.

  Her walk took her past the bogs, where Jeff’s crew was busy working. The near bog was flooded preparatory to the harvesting and one of the men—Monica thought it looked like Mauricio—was riding the water reel—or eggbeater, as it was fondly known—which would beat the berries from the vines. A small cluster of berries of varying hues of crimson had already risen to the surface of the water and was sparkling in the sun.

  Two of the men were sitting near the edge of the bog, their knitted caps pulled down to their eyebrows, putting on the waders that would keep them mostly dry when they plunged into the icy water to begin to corral the berries.

&nbs
p; Monica spotted Jeff and gave a brief wave before continuing on.

  The aroma of butter and sugar greeted Monica when she pushed open the door to the kitchen. Kit Tanner was already at the counter mixing batter for the first batch of the day’s fresh muffins.

  He was slim and not very tall with black hair left long at the crown and buzzed up the sides, making it look as if he was wearing a glossy pelt on the top of his head. He smiled when he saw Monica.

  “Hello, gorgeous. I’ve got the first batch of muffins in the oven. They should be done in about”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“ten minutes.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Monica said, taking an apron from the hook on the wall and fastening the ties around her waist.

  “We aim to please,” Kit said, giving a tiny curtsey. “By the way, darling, you looked stunning on Saturday. I waited outside the church to see you come out. You really should wear makeup more often.”

  Monica laughed. “There are a lot of things I should do more often.”

  She put a hand to her hair, which she wasn’t entirely sure she’d brushed that morning. It was a tangle of auburn curls and no matter how sleek it looked at the start of the day, by the end it looked as if she’d taken a mixer to it.

  “I saw a little tidbit in today’s paper,” Kit said as he scooped batter into a muffin tin. “It seems a small boat washed up onshore near the Cranberry Cove Inn and there was a dead body inside.” He pushed up his sleeves and turned toward Monica. “I hope it didn’t disturb your very brief honeymoon.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Monica knew Kit wasn’t one to ask a direct question. This was his way of getting information out of her without appearing to be prying.

  “I wish we could say we were blissfully unaware of the incident, but Greg and I were on the beach when he noticed the boat drifting toward shore.”

  Kit gasped and clapped both hands to either side of his face. “Was it too, too terrible?”

  Monica opened her mouth then shut it again. It had been terrible. She shuddered when she thought of Laszlo’s body lying in the boat with that terrible wound in his back.