Berried in the Past Page 3

  “I’m sorry about my brother,” Dana said as soon as she joined Monica in the living room again. “He doesn’t mean to be rude. It’s the pressures of his job. I can’t imagine holding someone else’s life in my hands and that’s what he does every single day.”

  Monica felt like uttering a few choice words but she restrained herself. Dana wasn’t responsible for John’s behavior.

  She waved a hand. “It’s fine. Please don’t worry about it.”

  But Monica wasn’t entirely convinced that John had been simply rude. She had the feeling that he’d been scared.

  But scared of what?

  Chapter 4

  Delicious smells were coming from the kitchen when Monica opened the back door to her cottage. She slipped off her boots and went to stand next to Greg, who was hovering over something on the stove.

  “That smells heavenly,” Monica said, realizing for the first time that she was hungry. “What is it?”

  Greg smiled and kissed Monica on the cheek. “Smokey chipotle chili,” he said, giving the pot a stir. “I thought we’d have it with some of your cranberry corn bread.”

  “You spoil me,” Monica said, giving him a quick hug.

  She hung up her coat, put her hat and gloves on the shelf and went to the cupboard for place mats and napkins.

  “I hope that will be ready soon. I’m starving.”

  “It’s ready just as soon as you are,” Greg said, lowering the flame under the pot.

  Greg filled bowls with chili while Monica warmed the cranberry corn bread in the oven. She carried it to the table along with a tub of fresh butter.

  “Did you find the mysterious house with the red door?” Greg said as he unfurled his napkin and placed it on his lap.

  “We did. It turned out to be Dana’s childhood home. Her sister lives . . . lived there.”

  “Lived?” Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yes. Sadly, we found she’d passed away. The doctor was treating her for a heart condition.”

  “Natural causes then? No foul play? No blunt instrument?”

  Monica could tell Greg was teasing—she’d been involved in more than her share of murders. Tempest Storm, who ran the new age shop in town, said there had to be something in her aura that attracted death. Monica hoped she was wrong—not that she really believed in things like that. She was far too pragmatic and practical.

  “Not even an autopsy,” Monica said. “The ME believed it to be natural causes. Although he was in such a hurry, I wonder how he could be sure.”

  “How is Dana coping? Did her memory come back?”

  “She seems to be doing okay. Her brother didn’t help—what an obnoxious so-and-so.” Monica picked up her spoon. “She did remember the house when she saw it. And she recognized it and her sister. But the accident is still a blur to her. She doesn’t remember a thing.”

  “Will she be coming back to stay here?” Greg dug into his chili.

  Monica jerked around to look at him. “But Greg, we—”

  He held up a hand. “I know. But you said you would think about it.”

  “No. She’ll be staying at her sister’s house until the funeral is over.”

  “So. Life goes back to normal then.”

  “Yes,” Monica said, but she had the feeling that this was far from over.

  • • •

  Monica was stripping the sheets off the bed in the guest room—she’d toss them in the washer in the morning while she waited for the coffee to brew—when Greg came up behind her.

  He put his arms around her waist. “You know,” he said softly, “this would make a good room for a baby. At least until we build our house.”

  Monica bit her lip. It wasn’t that she didn’t want a baby or was opposed to the idea of having one. It had just never occurred to her. After all, she’d never expected to marry—she’d been engaged once but her fiancé had been killed in an accident, and after that she’d had her share of dates but nothing had ever come of them. The idea of a baby had never even crossed her mind.

  Monica looked around the room trying to picture a crib against the far wall, a small dresser painted pink or blue and maybe a rocking chair in the corner.

  She frowned. “Greg, I don’t want us to get our hopes up. I’m afraid I might be too old . . .”

  “We won’t know until we try, will we?”

  Monica looked up at Greg’s face. “You won’t be disappointed in me if it doesn’t work out?”

  Greg smiled, put his finger under Monica’s chin and tilted her face up.

  “I could never be disappointed in you.”

  • • •

  Monica normally jumped out of bed the minute the alarm went off if not before. Mittens could be counted on to make sure she didn’t oversleep—frequently Monica’s wake-up call was the cat sitting on her chest and patting her face with a paw.

  Today, however, the room was chilly and the bed was deliciously warm. Monica pulled the comforter up further and burrowed beneath it.

  But she didn’t stay long. She had a busy day—and a busy week—ahead of her. And when duty called, Monica generally answered.

  In order to provide fresh stock for the Sassamanash farm store, she had to be up early to start baking. A small group of customers, on their way to work, often stopped in for a warm muffin or scone and mothers would be in a bit later, after dropping their children off at school, for baked goods for their families.

  She dressed quickly in warm clothes—the weatherman was predicting temperatures in the low teens—and headed down to the kitchen with Mittens at her heels.

  She filled the coffee maker and turned it on, yawning as the water began to trickle into the pot. She heard Greg’s feet hit the floor overhead and then the sound of the shower running.

  She put the sheets from the guest room in the washer and went to turn it on, but paused with her hand on the knob, remembering her conversation with Greg the night before. She shook her head. This wasn’t the time to think about it. She had to get to work.

  Mittens appeared and meowed loudly. Monica went back to the kitchen, put food in the bowl for Mittens and began scrambling some eggs.

  Greg came downstairs as Monica was finishing the last bit of her breakfast.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, pushing back her chair and carrying her dishes to the sink. She rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. “There are still some cranberry scones if you’d like. And I left some scrambled eggs in the pan. You just have to warm them up a bit.” Monica gestured toward the stove. “And would you mind throwing those sheets in the dryer when the washer stops?”

  “Sure, no problem. And thanks.” Greg kissed her on the cheek. “You take such good care of me.”

  Monica put on all her winter gear—parka, hat, scarf, gloves and boots—and with a final goodbye to Greg headed out the door.

  The cold nearly took her breath away but it swept away any last remaining vestiges of sleepiness. She buried her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders as she walked from her cottage to the commercial kitchen Jeff had built on the farm when Monica’s cranberry products began to take off.

  The snow crunched under her feet as she headed down the path past the cranberry bogs—dark smudges against the sky, which was beginning to lighten ever so slightly. The delicate vines were protected from the cold by a thick layer of ice and soon Jeff and his men would be spreading sand on top. As the ice melted, the sand would sift into the trenches, choking out the opportunistic weeds that would appear in the spring.

  The interior of the farm kitchen, which smelled of sugar, baked dough and cranberries, was still chilled from the frigid temperatures of the night before, but it began to warm up nicely as soon as Monica cranked up the heat.

  She hung up her jacket and took her chef’s apron from a hook by the counter. She planned to start with some muffins and scones, which were the products most in demand by their early morning customers. Later on she would start work on the chocolate
chip cranberry walnut cookies that had become a favorite.

  Empty wooden crates stamped with Sassamanash Farm were stacked against the wall. The cranberries had been transferred to the freezer for the long winter until the next crop was harvested.

  A blast of cold air swept across the room. Monica looked up. Her assistant, Kit Tanner, had just arrived. His cheeks were red from the cold and he was blowing on his hands to warm them.

  “A bit nippy out today,” Monica said.

  “Yeah.” Kit hung up his jacket.

  Monica was surprised. Kit’s greeting was usually more effusive and accompanied by a broad smile. There was no smile today.

  Kit had started working for Monica in the fall and had proven himself to be an enormous help. He was a talented baker—efficient, organized and trustworthy—with a flair for creating new recipes.

  At first, Jeff had been put off by Kit’s appearance—he was slim and wore his black hair shaved up the sides and long enough on top to flop onto his forehead—but Monica had been taken with Kit and had persuaded Jeff to give him a chance. Neither had been sorry.

  “Is everything okay?” Monica said as Kit measured flour into the mixer. The bracelets on his wrist jingled as he worked.

  “Yes, darling, I’m fine. Do stop worrying,” Kit said, standing with one hand on his cocked hip.

  Monica wasn’t convinced. Something was clearly wrong. Kit was definitely not his usual self. She decided to drop the subject for the moment and got started on a batch of scones. She mixed the dough, spread flour on the counter and then began to roll it out.

  She was putting the scones in the oven when Kit suddenly said, “Okay, if you must know, Sean and I had a wee little spat last night and I’m still upset.”

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said, trying to conceal her surprise at Kit’s sudden confession. “I hope it wasn’t serious.”

  Kit pursed his lips and made a face. “All I can say is he needs to apologize . . . stat.” He pushed his lower lip out further.

  “I hope the two of you make up.”

  “I hope so, too,” Kit said, but his tone was glum. “Say”—his face brightened—“I heard you found another body. Girl, I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck.” He grinned to show he was kidding.

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think. This time it was natural causes,” Monica said.

  Kit must have picked up on the note of doubt in her voice.

  “You don’t sound convinced.” He turned toward Monica with his hands on his hips. He had a bit of flour on the end of his nose and she had to resist the urge to laugh.

  “You have to ask yourself who benefits. Did the deceased have any money?”

  “I don’t think so,” Monica said. “She owned a farmhouse and a good amount of land down off Bluff Road.”

  Kit whistled. “Darling, property is money. Is there a view?”

  “You do get a glimpse of the lake up that high. I suppose someone might buy it. But the house can’t be worth very much—it’s not in the best repair.”

  “Are you kidding? Developers are gobbling up places like that and building shopping malls and gigantic new developments with hideously tacky houses. Cranberry Cove is ripe for the picking for something like that, if you’ll pardon the pun.” He giggled.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  That certainly put a new spin on things, Monica thought. Had someone approached Marta about selling her property? And if so, who would stand to benefit now that she was dead?

  • • •

  Monica forgot about Dana and Marta as she worked through the morning, pulling sheet after sheet of cranberry scones from the oven and glazing the tops with drizzles of icing.

  She whipped up some batter for muffins, added cranberries and filled the muffin tins. Once they were out of the oven, she glazed them with a confectioner’s sugar icing and sprinkled chopped candied walnuts on top. It was a new recipe she’d decided to try, and so far their customers had responded enthusiastically.

  Once Monica had everything ready, she filled trays with the baked goods and put them on a cart. She pulled on her jacket, hat and gloves.

  “I’m taking these down to the store,” she yelled to Kit.

  The kitchen had become quite warm with the ovens going full tilt for several hours. The blast of cold air when Monica opened the door sent a shiver down her spine and she was glad she didn’t have a long walk.

  The farm store was on the other side of the cranberry processing building, a wooden shingled structure with a small parking lot out front for customers.

  The short walk had been enough to get her blood flowing, and she peeled off her parka as soon as she reached the store and got inside. Monica had recently added three small tables and chairs where customers could sit and drink a cup of coffee and enjoy a muffin or other breakfast treat. All the tables were full and several more people were on line at the counter.

  Nora, the woman who helped in the shop, smiled when she saw Monica.

  “Reinforcements! Wonderful. We’re nearly out of muffins and scones from the freezer.”

  “Are these freshly baked?” a woman in a camel-hair coat asked.

  “They’re still warm,” Monica said as she shifted the trays from the cart to the glass bakery case.

  Nora filled the woman’s order and placed two muffins and two scones in a white paper bag.

  “Those muffins look delicious,” Nora said to Monica as she rang up the sale.

  “It’s something new I’m trying,” Monica said, slicing a loaf of cranberry bread and arranging the slices on a silver tray she’d picked up at an estate sale. “Fingers crossed they go over well.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Nora said, eyeing the muffins in the case. “I’m dying to have one, but sadly they aren’t included in my diet.” She patted her stomach and smiled.

  There was a momentary lull after the customers left and then the door opened again.

  Monica looked up from the receipts she was going through.

  “Oh,” she said.

  It was Dana. She’d changed her clothes, Monica noticed. She was wearing a sweater Monica had seen in the window of Danielle’s on Beach Hollow Road, a chunky knit pullover in a vivid royal blue. Monica had gone into the shop to check the price even though she knew beforehand it would not be in her budget.

  Dana smiled nervously as she approached the counter. “I was wondering if you had a minute? There’s something I’d like you to see,” she said to Monica. “It’s at my sister’s house if that’s not too much trouble. The tow truck finally got my car unstuck so I can drive you if you’d like.”

  Monica looked at Nora.

  “Go on.” Nora flapped a hand at Monica. “I can handle things.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll get my coat,” Monica said.

  She followed Dana to the parking lot, where Dana pulled out her keys and beeped open a late-model BMW parked at the end of a row.

  Monica slid into the front passenger seat. The car was luxurious inside and smelled of leather. Monica ran her hands over the seat—she knew she’d never have a car like this but that was okay with her.

  The sun was up now and ice was beginning to melt off the tree branches with a steady drip-drip, although the piles of snow pushed to the side of the road by the plows probably wouldn’t be gone until the spring.

  The heat was on in the farmhouse, making it feel slightly more hospitable but no less grim. The bright sun coming through the window only illuminated the bare patches on the sofa and the frayed spots on the rug.

  “Would you like some tea?” Dana said. She unwound her scarf and tossed it and her coat on a chair.

  “That would be lovely,” Monica said, following Dana to the kitchen.

  Dana swung the teakettle under the tap, filled it with water and put it on the stove. She turned the gas on underneath.

  “Our father died before our mother did. Even though she had dementia, she managed to outlive him. I think his death pushed her even further into the
world she’d escaped into.”

  Dana took two tea bags and two mugs from the cupboard.

  “My father was very old-fashioned. He and my mother took care of each other. I don’t see why people nowadays look askance at that. He worked and handled the finances, she took care of the children and cooked and cleaned.”

  She paused as she retrieved the kettle and poured water over the tea bags.

  “On the other hand, it did make my mother very dependent on him for certain things. She had no idea how to balance a checkbook or even how to write a check. But by then it hardly mattered since she was no longer capable of those things even if she had known how to do them.”

  Dana carried the mugs to the kitchen table and sat down. A stack of papers was next to her elbow.

  “The house was left to us three children but with the provision that Marta would be allowed to live in it until she died.” Dana shuddered. “Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get away from here, but Marta never minded. She’d become isolated—taking care of our mother—and seemed uncomfortable whenever she had to leave to go somewhere.”

  Dana took a sip of her tea.

  “Which brings me to these papers.” She pulled the stack by her elbow in front of her. “I found this among Marta’s things.” She handed a letter to Monica.

  Monica scanned it swiftly and then handed it back.

  “So a developer wanted to buy the property from Marta?”

  “It appears so,” Dana said. She pushed another set of papers toward Monica.

  Monica looked through them and nearly gasped when she saw the sum the developer was offering.

  “The developer, Shoreline Development, apparently wants to build a mall here.”

  Monica couldn’t imagine it. There would be more traffic, and the small shops on Beach Hollow Road would suffer. It would change Cranberry Cove, and not necessarily for the better.

  “Was Marta planning to sell?” Monica said, handing the paper back to Dana.

  “I don’t know.”