Berry the Hatchet Page 3

  “Well, dear, it certainly is . . . tiny,” Nancy finally said. She pulled off her gloves. “I’m positively freezing. A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Sure.” Monica took her mother’s coat and hung it in the closet by the front door.

  She hastened down the hallway toward the kitchen, Nancy following, the rubber soles of her shoes silent against the wood floor. Mittens was right behind her, her rigid posture suggesting that she didn’t approve of Nancy at all.

  Nancy sat at the kitchen table while Monica filled the teakettle. She turned around to see that Nancy had pushed the remains of some flour into a small pile at the edge of the table. Monica quickly went over and swept the grains into her palm and dumped them into the sink.

  The kettle finally boiled and Monica filled two mugs with hot water, carefully selecting one without any chips or dings for Nancy. She plopped in two tea bags and carried them to the table. She knew her mother didn’t care for any sugar or milk in hers.

  Nancy picked up her mug and blew on the tea before taking a small sip. She closed her eyes. “Heaven. My hands have been positively freezing. Leather gloves are not as warm as one would think, but of course it’s impossible to drive a car in mittens.”

  She laughed and Monica smiled politely.

  “I assume you’ve booked me a room somewhere.” Nancy put down her mug and wiped a finger along the edge where her lipstick had left a pale pink smudge.

  Monica chewed on her lower lip briefly. “I’m afraid everything in town is booked. But I have a guest room that should be perfectly comfortable.” She pointed toward the ceiling and the second floor.

  Nancy looked doubtful but then gave a quick smile. “I’m sure it will be perfectly adequate. Of course with your Winter Walk going on, it hadn’t occurred to me how crowded this poky little town would be.”

  Cranberry Cove wasn’t poky! Monica was about to rise to the town’s defense but then thought better of it. No need to antagonize Nancy—they were going to be spending more time together in the next few days than they had in years.

  Nancy pursed her lips. “It seemed like the perfect time to come—I could see you, enjoy this Winter Walk I’ve heard so much about and grab a few moments with Preston. I’m sure he’s going to be very busy, but I don’t see why we couldn’t sneak away for a quick dinner.”

  Her mother’s last words were a blur to Monica. She had stopped listening after the word Preston and was trying to convince herself that there could conceivably be more than one person in a small town like Cranberry Cove named Preston. She was having very little success.

  “Did you say Preston?” Monica interrupted Nancy’s chatter about the new purse she’d bought at Nordstrom.

  Nancy looked irritated. “Yes. Preston. Preston Crowley. He’s the owner of the Cranberry Cove Inn. I would have asked him to reserve a room for me there, but I wanted to surprise him.”

  Preston wasn’t the only one who was going to be surprised, Monica thought. When Gina found out that both she and Nancy Albertson were seeing the same man, Cranberry Cove was going to have a fireworks display that had nothing to do with the Fourth of July.

  • • •

  Monica got Nancy settled as best she could in the guest room. Nancy wasn’t pleased when she found out there was only one bathroom, but Monica assured her she would be up early and finished showering long before Nancy wanted to use the tub.

  Monica was about to head back downtown to Sassamanash Farm’s little stall when Nancy came breezing down the stairs. She’d obviously powdered her nose and freshened her lipstick, and she had her purse hanging from the crook of her arm.

  “Are you going out?”

  “Yes.” Nancy opened the coat closet and pulled out her jacket. “I called the Inn and Preston is in his office, so I’m going to surprise him.”

  Monica found her mouth had gone so dry her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Should she warn her mother about Gina? What if the two ran into each other in town?

  In the end, she didn’t say anything—just prayed that the two women wouldn’t cross each other’s paths.

  • • •

  When she got to town, Monica had to park in the lot at the Central Reformed Church and walk back to Beach Hollow Road. Both hands were full with two baskets brimming with more of her homemade cranberry bread, muffins and salsa. At least two inches of snow blanketed the lawns, sidewalk and street, and it continued to fall in big, fat flakes. The sidewalk was slippery and several times Monica barely kept herself from falling. She should have dropped off her goods at Gumdrops and then gone to park the car. She shrugged. Too late now—she was almost there.

  She passed the Pepper Pot and was surprised to find it dark with no signs of activity. Lights had been strung along the roofline in the front, but hadn’t been turned on. The Pepper Pot was the newest restaurant in town. Everyone said it was going to give the dining room at the Cranberry Cove Inn a run for its money. According to the newspaper article Monica had read, the owner planned for it to be an eatery somewhere between the extreme casualness of the Cranberry Cove Diner, with its short-order menu and slapdash service, and the Cranberry Cove Inn, with its white linens, extensive wine cellar and waiters in black tie.

  The menu had been taped to the window for the past few weeks, and Monica had glanced at it whenever she went by. It looked as if the restaurant was going to feature home cooking—roast chicken and turkey, grilled steaks, beef stew and other old-time favorites served in a nice atmosphere. Upscale, but not so fancy that it would scare off the locals who would be the ones to keep it busy all year long. The tourists would like it, too, for its retro menu and its charm.

  Monica knew the owner had planned on a grand opening the first night of the Winter Walk. What had gone wrong? Preston had been vocal in his opposition to the place, claiming it was going to create too much traffic along Beach Hollow Road and make parking nearly impossible. He had tried to rally a group of like-minded people, but had failed.

  Everything was in order when Monica got back to the stall. A bell jingled as Hennie opened the door to Gumdrops and put her head around the edge. “We’ve been keeping an eye.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Monica set her two baskets down on the table and began to unpack them. She would have to warn people to warm the muffins and bread before eating them—the cold air was quickly chilling them, and they felt as if they’d been stored in the refrigerator and not in the warmth of her kitchen.

  People were beginning to stroll down the street, many arm in arm, their cheeks rosy from the cold. The official start of the Walk was four p.m., when Miss Winter Walk, accompanied by Mayor Preston Crowley, would arrive in the horse-drawn sleigh. Fortunately there was now plenty of snow, so Preston must be pleased. The thought of Preston made Monica’s jaw clench, and she quickly turned her mind to something else.

  Monica finished arranging her display and looked around. She had to admit, Cranberry Cove had certainly risen to the challenge. Lights twinkled on all the shop fronts, the scent of hot chocolate and mulled cider drifted on the air, and the old-fashioned street lamps gave a ruddy glow to the entire scene. A group of young men and women dressed in period costume stood at the top of the street singing old English ballads. The whole scene was quite magical.

  Monica glanced toward Twilight and wondered if Tempest was going to hold her ritual despite Preston’s petition. Personally, she thought it would add to the celebration rather than detract. The way Tempest had described it, there would be candles and bells and various other noisemakers. Certainly it would give the tourists something to talk about when they got back home.

  The door to Gumdrops opened and Hennie and Gerda came out, bundled to their eyebrows in matching boiled wool coats, knitted hats and mittens.

  Hennie pushed back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. The sleigh should be arriving
any minute now.”

  “This is so exciting.” Gerda clapped her mittened hands together.

  “Who is Miss Winter Walk?” Monica asked, suddenly realizing she had no idea who had been chosen for this prime part in the celebration.

  Hennie rolled her eyes. “Preston’s niece Candy. She’s a complete ninny if you ask me. We hired her briefly to help out in the store, and even after a week she couldn’t figure out how to make change.”

  “We had to let her go,” Gerda chimed in. “But then I heard she was working at that jewelry store down the street with the unusual name—”

  “Bijou,” interjected Hennie with an air of superiority. “It’s French, I think.”

  “I heard she’s only working because her mother refused to support her anymore.” Gerda squared her shoulders. “She didn’t want to go to college, so it’s time she went out into the world and earned her own keep.”

  “Yes,” Hennie said, lowering her voice confidentially. “Her mother can hardly afford to take care of herself, let alone a twenty-one-year-old girl more than fit enough to hold down a job.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows.

  “Preston has done very well for himself,” Hennie explained, “but his sister hasn’t been as lucky. She married this complete ne’er-do-well who left her high and dry with a baby to raise.”

  Monica didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone use the word ne’er-do-well in conversation before. It was one of the things she liked about the VanVelsen sisters—talking to them was like opening a window into a different era.

  There was a noise at the top of the street—it started as a rumble and grew louder until it reached the spot where Monica and the VanVelsens were standing.

  “The sleigh is coming,” Hennie said, peering into the distance, pressing against the barricade that had been set up to keep people out of the street until after the sleigh had arrived. She checked her watch. “It’s early. It’s only ten to four.”

  “Anyone who’s late is going to miss it.” Gerda pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. “Mayor Crowley said it was to be at four.”

  The horse and sleigh came roaring down the center of Beach Hollow Road, scattering the few pedestrians who had ignored the barricades like pinballs.

  “It’s going awfully fast, don’t you think?” Gerda turned to Monica, her face creased with concern.

  As the sleigh got closer, they could see the horse’s eyes were wide and staring. It looked terrified.

  A murmur rose from the crowd, getting louder and louder the closer the sleigh got.

  “Something’s wrong,” Monica said, gripping the edge of the barricade and straining to see.

  She saw a man running furiously down the street, his arms pumping. It was Bart Dykema, with his white apron flapping in the wind as he attempted to catch up with the sleigh. His face was bright red, and great clouds of air were coming from his open mouth.

  “We’ve got to stop it,” he yelled to the crowd that was now riveted by the spectacle in front of them.

  Bart put on what looked to be a last burst of energy, like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, and finally came abreast of the heaving horse. He grabbed the dangling reins and slowly the horse came to a halt, looking relieved that someone had taken charge at last.

  Bart stood bent over, his hands on his knees, panting furiously. The horse tossed its head, snorted and pawed the snow-covered road.

  “Where is Miss Winter Walk?” Gerda craned her neck. “She must be positively frightened half to death, poor thing.”

  “I don’t see her, either,” Hennie said squinting into the distance.

  A small crowd had made its way around the barricade and was slowly gathering around the sleigh. There was shouting and finally a collective groan followed by a piercing scream that sent Monica pushing through the barricade and running toward the sleigh.

  Chapter 4

  The shoppers crowding Cranberry Cove’s sidewalks forgot what they were doing or had been about to do and surged toward the sleigh, shopping bags swinging and slapping against their thighs, mouths circled into identical startled O’s.

  Monica managed to maneuver her way through the crowd, softly murmuring “Excuse me” as she went but occasionally employing a sharp elbow to get through a tight spot. She had no idea what she would do when she reached the sleigh, but she felt a strong need to find out what was going on.

  She finally managed to get to the front of the crowd and when she saw the sight in the sleigh, her hand flew to her mouth as if of its own accord, and she stifled the gasp that rose to her lips.

  Preston Crowley was the only occupant of the sleigh—Miss Winter Walk was nowhere to be seen. He was dressed in an elegant black coat that looked like cashmere to Monica, although she was hardly an expert in the matter, cashmere being well out of her price range. He had on a skillfully knotted silk and wool scarf in a discrete paisley pattern, with touches of red, at his neck, and he sported buttery soft black leather gloves on his surprisingly small hands.

  His head was tilted back against the seat of the sleigh, revealing an expanse of white, carefully shaven throat. Monica could have sworn there was a smile on his face. It was completely at odds with the knife that stuck out of his neck at a jaunty angle.

  By now, shopkeepers were coming out of their stores, standing in the chill wind in their shirtsleeves, their arms wrapped around themselves for warmth. Monica saw the VanVelsen twins standing on the edge of the crowd, the round circles of rouge on their cheeks standing out against the white of their faces.

  “Someone call nine-one-one!” Monica heard the clerk from Danielle’s boutique call out.

  Bart Dykema had finally caught his breath. He straightened up and dug around in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got my cell.”

  The tourists gathered around the sleigh continued to stare in wide-eyed fascination, as if this were a play and the whole thing had been planned for their entertainment. They murmured among themselves, stamping their feet against the cold, but didn’t make a move to take shelter in any of the stores.

  “Is he alive?” Greg came out of Book ’Em to stand by Monica.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Someone called out, “Should we take that knife out of his neck?”

  “Better not,” Greg said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He’d managed to grab his jacket but had obviously left his gloves and hat behind. “I’d leave everything exactly the way it is.”

  Moments later they heard sirens in the distance, their wail becoming louder with every passing second. A police car pulled up to the barricade at the end of Beach Hollow Road and two officers jumped out. They were bundled against the cold, with their hats pulled down low on their foreheads, but Monica thought she recognized them. Eventually everyone became familiar in Cranberry Cove.

  Greg was standing behind Monica. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Monica said and meant it. She wasn’t the delicate flower, fainting type, although she sometimes wondered if she would have gotten more attention from men if she had been. But you can’t change who you are, and she really didn’t want to anyway.

  “I’d better get back to the store,” Greg murmured. “In case someone wants to read about a murder mystery rather than take part in the one happening right under their nose. Even though that seems highly unlikely.”

  Monica spun around toward him. “You think it’s murder?” Her breath caught in her throat.

  Greg gave a wry smile. “I don’t think Preston fell on that knife by accident.”

  Monica gave a short, humorless laugh. “True.” She shook her head. “But another murder in Cranberry Cove? It’s hard to believe.”

  Greg sighed. “I know. But greed and jealousy and all those other turbulent emotions exist in idyllic small towns a
s well as big cities.”

  “I guess you can’t call them idyllic then?” Monica said with a question in her voice.

  “I don’t know about that,” Greg responded. “I think any place that suits you, personally, is idyllic.”

  Monica thought about that. Greg was right. Cranberry Cove suited her down to the ground. And Greg was definitely a part of that.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” Greg said, giving Monica’s shoulders a final squeeze.

  Monica went back to watching the police, who were now approaching the sled with Preston’s body. They carried themselves with an air of self-importance as they pushed their way through the crowd.

  “Step back, folks. Nothing to see here.”

  Nothing to see? There was obviously plenty to see. The tourists had gotten their money’s worth and then some. The admonitions of the two officers fell on deaf ears and did little to dissuade the crowd, which pressed even closer to the sled holding Preston’s inert body.

  Bart Dykema hung on to the horse’s reins, whispering softly at it, keeping the animal steady. He wasn’t wearing a coat, but he didn’t seem aware of the frigid air as he soothed the rattled beast. It continued to snort and prance, pawing the ground with its enormous hooves, but it was clearly calming down after its mad dash down Beach Hollow Road.

  The two policemen dispatched to the scene didn’t seem to have any idea as to what to do. They stood around with their arms hanging at their sides, their jaws slack, their heads swiveling right and left, lest any of the people in the crowd try to get closer to the scene.

  The sound of a car’s engine rose above the noise of the crowd, and a black sedan pulled up behind the police car. The front door opened, and a woman emerged. She was dressed warmly in a serviceable navy blue parka, woolen hat and heavy gloves. A fringe of blond hair hung just below the hem of her cap. Monica wasn’t positive, but she thought it was Detective Tammy Stevens. They’d met back in September, when a body had been found floating in the bog at Sassamanash Farm. Stevens had been nine-plus months pregnant at the time. The belt tied tightly around her jacket made it obvious that the baby had duly arrived, and she was back on the job.