Berried Motives Page 4

  “So it was just bad timing?” Monica said as she picked up two of the wineglasses. “Nothing suspicious?”

  Jeff hung his head. “I wish I could say there wasn’t anything suspicious about it.”

  “Do you think he was trying to duck having to talk to Stevens?”

  Monica found that hard to believe. She didn’t know Dan, but Jeff always spoke so highly of him.

  “Besides, what involvement could he have had in Betsy’s death?”

  Jeff’s head shot up. “I don’t know, but I heard Dan and Betsy arguing before the filming of the segment at the farm store. They were standing by the processing shed. And it wasn’t just a spat—it sounded serious.”

  • • •

  Later, as they were doing the dinner dishes, Monica told Gregg about her conversation with Jeff.

  “I suppose you would first have to find out what connection there is between Dan and Betsy,” Gregg said as he dried a wineglass. He gave an impish grin. “Because I know you’re not going to be able to resist investigating this.”

  Monica laughed. “You know me too well.” She plunged her hands into the soapy water in the sink again. “I’ll need to find out if Dan grew up in Cranberry Cove. They said on the program that Betsy did.” She scraped at a bit of potato that had stuck to the baking dish. She’d made roast chicken, butternut squash and scalloped potatoes for dinner.

  “Maybe they knew each other at school,” Greg said as he opened a cupboard and put the glass away.

  Monica paused with the sponge in her hand. “I’ll have to find out if they’re close in age. They look to be. Because if they both grew up in Cranberry Cove, it’s probable they did know each other in school.”

  “But just because Jeff heard them arguing doesn’t necessarily mean that Dan had anything to do with Betsy’s death,” Greg said as he picked up another glass from the draining board and began to dry it.

  “That’s true.” Monica lifted a plate out of the sink and sudsy water ran down her arm. “But you have to admit he did have opportunity.”

  “Now I guess you’ll just have to identify a motive.”

  • • •

  Monica was putting on the coffee the next morning and Greg was still upstairs in the shower when there was a knock on the door. She wasn’t completely surprised to find that it was Detective Stevens.

  “I’ve just started the coffee,” Monica said as she led Stevens into the kitchen.

  Stevens glanced at the carton of eggs sitting out on the counter and the frying pan waiting on the stove.

  “I won’t keep you long. I’m hoping you can help me reconstruct everyone’s movements yesterday.”

  “Sure,” Monica said, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. “How do you take it?”

  “Black would be fine.” Stevens sank into one of the kitchen chairs with an audible sigh.

  Monica filled the mugs and carried them over to the table.

  “Can you remember who left when?” Stevens said as she blew on the hot coffee.

  Monica closed her eyes as she tried to picture yesterday afternoon.

  “Todd Lipton left first,” she said finally. “He’s the producer. He got a phone call, and when he hung up he said he had something to do at the station.” She frowned. “Of course, he could have come back.”

  Stevens’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “We’ll be sure to ask him.”

  Point taken, Monica thought. It was clear that Stevens was letting her know that Monica should leave the investigating to her.

  “Then what happened?” Stevens took a sip of her coffee.

  Monica stirred hers absentmindedly, swirling the glug of milk she’d added into the dark brown liquid.

  “Jasmine left as soon as the filming was complete. She’d come in the station’s news van. Betsy left a few minutes after she did. She had her own car.”

  “What about the young girl. Melinda . . .” Stevens began paging through her notes.

  “Melinda Leigh,” Monica said. “She didn’t leave until later. She was still wandering around taking pictures. She blotted up a bit of coffee that had dribbled down the side of her mug with her napkin. “But I doubt Melinda and Betsy even knew each other.”

  “So she said when I talked to her.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe her,” Monica said.

  Stevens shrugged. “People lie. Especially to me. And they have all sorts of reasons, most having nothing to do with their guilt or innocence or even the case in general.”

  “You mentioned that the victim’s fiancé was there.” Stevens held her pencil poised over her pad.

  “Yes, Bob Visser, but he came and went before the filming was finished.”

  Monica nodded.

  “What was he doing there?”

  “He claimed he wanted to stop by and see his girl, as he put it.” Monica scowled. “Frankly, it seemed more like a campaign stop to me.”

  Stevens laughed. “That’s a politician for you. Always campaigning.” She pursed her lips. “I suppose he could have come back as well to lie in wait for Betsy.”

  “How did he know that there wouldn’t be anyone else around? That the film crew had already left?” Monica said.

  Stevens pursed her lips. “Maybe he didn’t. But he did find her alone. And perhaps they had an argument. He got frustrated. No one was around so he picked up a rock and hit her. Maybe he didn’t even mean to kill her but his anger got the best of him.”

  Stevens sighed and stuffed her notebook into the pocket of her jacket.

  “Sorry to have disturbed your breakfast,” she said as Monica led her to the front door and said goodbye.

  Greg was coming down the stairs as Monica closed the door. His hair was still damp from the shower and slightly tousled, and Monica found it terribly endearing. Not for the first time, she thanked her lucky stars that she and Greg had found each other.

  “Who was that?” Greg said after giving her a kiss.

  “Detective Stevens.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She was bound to be back. Did she fill you in on the case?” Greg asked teasingly.

  “Not really,” Monica said as she put a chunk of butter in the frying pan and turned on the burner. “I wish I knew what Dan and Betsy had been arguing about yesterday.”

  “There might not have been anything sinister about it,” Greg said, fishing silverware out of the drawer. “I mean, she might have backed into his car while parking or made a rude comment about what he was wearing. It could have been anything—even something completely innocent.” Greg put two forks down on the table. “I guess the first thing you’ll want to do is to find out if Dan grew up in Cranberry Cove.”

  Monica smiled. “That should be easy. I’ll ask the VanVelsen sisters. They know everything.”

  “That they do,” Greg said with a wry smile.

  • • •

  The VanVelsen sisters, elderly identical twins, ran Gumdrops, the local candy store, where residents and tourists could buy bags of penny candy (now a dime or more thanks to inflation) and traditional Dutch confections like Droste chocolates and Wilhelmina Peppermints.

  Monica had been planning to go into town to see the progress they were making on renovating Book ’Em. It would be easy enough to stop in to see the VanVelsens as well.

  She spent a couple of hours with Kit in the farm kitchen, baking several batches of cranberry muffins and a number of loaves of cranberry bread.

  “I’ll be gone for a bit,” she said to Kit as she put on her jacket. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  Monica first stopped at home to check Mittens’s food and water bowls. Both needed refilling, and she smiled as Mittens meowed her thanks, rubbing against Monica’s legs affectionately.

  Monica grabbed her purse, dug out her car keys and went out the back door.

  It was a bright day with blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds that occasionally blotted out the bright sun, leaving patches of shadow on the road in front of Monica.

  The scent of woodsmoke mixed with hay drifted through her partially opened window—two scents that Monica always associated with autumn. As she crested the hill by the abandoned Shell station, Beach Hollow Road and Lake Michigan beyond came into view. The lake was relatively calm with only a bit of white froth topping the waves.

  The few boats that had not been put in dry dock yet bobbed in the harbor by the Cranberry Cove Yacht Club and the blue-and-white club flag fluttered briskly out front in the breeze.

  Gumdrops was on Beach Hollow Road, where all the shops were painted in various pastel hues. The Cranberry Cove Diner, favorite spot of the locals, was down the street, and next to it was Book ’Em.

  Downtown Cranberry Cove was more crowded than usual, with tourists on trips to see the autumn leaves. Monica had to wait for a blue pickup truck to back out before she managed to get a parking space down the street from Book ’Em.

  The scent of frying bacon and potatoes drifted out into the air from the Cranberry Cove Diner, where the door had been propped open to catch the breeze. The flowers in the baskets hanging from light poles meant to look like old-fashioned gas lamps were fading, but the yellow mums in the planters alongside the doors of Book ’Em were still bright with color.

  The sound of hammering came from the upper floor, and when Monica opened the door, plaster dust was evident in the air. A loud bang from above made her jump and she noticed the overhead light fixture sway slightly.

  Haley Bouma, the niece of Phyllis Bouma, Cranberry Cove’s librarian, was behind the counter. Greg had hired her to help out occasionally. She was only in her teens and was already nearly six feet tall.

  Several customers browsed the used book section, seemingly oblivious to the noise coming from the second floor.

&
nbsp; Greg rushed forward to greet Monica, a feather duster in his hand. He glanced at it ruefully after kissing her on the cheek.

  “It’s a losing battle, I’m afraid,” he said. “They’re knocking down the wall between my former living room and the bedroom and it’s been raining plaster all day.”

  Just then another loud crash made everyone jump. Monica was surprised to see that an older woman, sitting in one of the sagging armchairs scattered around the shop, hadn’t even blinked at the noise. Nor did she seem to notice that the shoulders of her jacket were speckled with dust.

  “It’s hard working with that noise overhead.” Greg pointed to the ceiling. “But I didn’t want to close the shop any longer than necessary. Fortunately, the customers don’t seem to mind.” Greg brushed some dust off his trousers. “I will have to close though when they break through the ceiling to install the spiral staircase, but by then the renovations will nearly be done. The contractor said that is the last step before they paint.”

  “That’s exciting,” Monica said as she looked around the shop and tried to imagine an elegant wrought iron spiral staircase in the center.

  “Would you like to see what the construction crew has done so far?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Monica followed Greg through the stockroom and up the wooden stairs that creaked with every step. The noise from above got louder and louder as they approached the second floor and the air was thick with plaster dust. It stuck in Monica’s throat and she began to cough.

  Greg turned around. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Monica managed to say.

  Upstairs two men were hard at work, one wielding a sledgehammer against the partially collapsed wall and the other using a pry bar to remove flooring. Monica looked around the space, trying to envision the café when it was completed. She pictured tables and chairs against one wall and a coffee bar against the other. It was going to be lovely and would surely increase business at Book ’Em.

  Suddenly she felt something cold and wet against her hand.

  It was all she could do to stifle the scream that rose in her throat enough so that it came out as a rather pathetic squeak. She looked down not knowing what to expect.

  A rather scruffy dog was staring at her, its pink tongue lolling out of the corner of its mouth and its tail wagging furiously. It had a shaggy brown coat desperately in need of brushing and one ear that stood up perkily while the other flopped over.

  “What . . . ?” Monica managed to find her voice.

  “Apparently he wandered in at some point when the men left the door open,” Greg said, reaching down to scratch the dog behind the ears. “No one seems to know who he belongs to.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “A day or two.” Greg stopped scratching and the dog nudged his hand gently.

  “Where does he go at night?” Monica said, thinking of the temperature dropping now that they were into fall. Jeff was already on the alert for a frost, which could harm the cranberry crop.

  “He’s been staying here,” Greg said. “I put down a bowl of water and Bart from the butcher shop gave me some scraps to feed him.”

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought of putting posters up around town. In the meantime, he seems to be fine here. I’ll be sure to walk him before I leave.”

  Monica pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’ll show his picture to the VanVelsens and see if they know anything.” She angled the camera and snapped a photo.

  “Maybe we can keep him?” Greg said with a sheepish smile.

  The dog tilted its head to the side and looked from Monica to Greg and then back again. He wagged his tail harder, as if trying to convince them.

  “Maybe,” Monica said. “But we first have to make sure someone isn’t looking for him.”

  • • •

  Monica left Book ’Em and headed down the street toward Gumdrops. She passed the diner, where Gus Amentas was behind the counter flipping burgers and frying eggs like a juggler. She waved to Tempest Storm, who was rearranging the crystals in the window of her new age shop Twilight, and finally paused in front of Danielle’s, a pricey boutique frequented more by the tourists than the locals. There was a lovely sweater in the window—a chunky knit in autumn colors of rust and yellow. Monica sighed. There was no point in going inside. She knew without even checking that the price would be beyond her.

  Finally, she reached Gumdrops. The shop smelled of sugar and chocolate mingled with the faint scent of cherries. The display case, filled with gumdrops, jelly beans, licorice, jawbreakers and other sweets, created a colorful backdrop against one wall.

  The VanVelsen sisters were dressed in identical plum sweaters and plaid skirts. Gerda was flipping through a magazine at the counter while Hennie was unpacking a carton of Wilhelmina Peppermints. They both looked up when Monica walked in.

  “Good morning, Monica,” Gerda said.

  Hennie glanced at her watch and then in her sister’s direction. “It’s after twelve so I suppose we should actually be saying good afternoon.” She smiled at Monica “What can we get for you today?”

  “Nothing today, I’m afraid, but I do have a question for you. Two questions, actually.”

  Monica pulled her phone out of her purse and brought up the picture of the dog that had adopted Book ’Em as its new home. “Do either of you recognize this dog? It got into Greg’s shop when one of the workmen left the door open. It doesn’t have any tags and we have no idea who he belongs to.”

  Gerda took the phone and peered at the photograph while Hennie looked over her shoulder. They shook their heads in unison.

  “It doesn’t look familiar to me,” Gerda said, handing the phone back to Monica.

  “Perhaps it’s been chipped,” Hennie said. “The vet would be able to tell you.”

  “Great idea.” Monica dropped her phone back into her purse. “Now for my second question. Do you happen to know a Dan Polsky?”

  “We knew his mother,” Hennie said. “She used to run a hair salon out of her home. It was very convenient. She had a small room near the front door where she saw clients. It brought in a bit of cash. Her husband—he was a long-distance truck driver—was notoriously cheap with the housekeeping money.”

  “And rather a tyrant, I might add,” Gerda said, her mouth pursing as if she had tasted something sour. “She couldn’t take any appointments when he was home.”

  “That’s right,” Hennie said. “Apparently he complained about the smell of the permanent wave solution she used.”

  “We haven’t been able to get a decent marcel wave since she passed away,” Gerda said, touching her gray curls. “These young gals have never even heard of it,” she sniffed.

  “So Dan grew up in Cranberry Cove?”

  “He certainly did,” Hennie said, straightening a display of Venco licorice. “He was a quiet boy, as I recall. He spent most of his time with that girlfriend of his.”

  Gerda nodded. “Yes, he did. She’s on the television now, you know.”

  Monica’s breathing quickened. “She is? Do you happen to know her name?”

  “Of course, dear. She hosts that program that comes on before the evening news. Gerda and I always enjoy it while we have our dinner.”

  “That’s right,” Gerda said. “What’s Up West Michigan.”

  “Her name is Betsy DeJong,” Hennie added.

  Chapter 4

  Monica was passing Twilight on her way back to her car when Tempest stepped out of the open door and motioned to her.

  “I’ve just made some tea,” she said. “Come have a cup. It’s third eye chakra tea—meant to open the third eye energy center and provide intuition and focus.”

  “Okay,” Monica said somewhat hesitantly. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted her third eye opened. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t even sure what her third eye was.

  “Your third eye is located between the eyebrows,” Tempest said, as if she had read Monica’s mind. She tapped her forehead. “Here.”

  The shop was quiet with only the tinkling sound of a small tabletop water fountain filling the air.

  Tempest pushed aside the beaded curtain and bustled into the back room, her blood red velvet caftan swirling around her ankles. Monica looked around the shop while she waited, admiring the jewelry in the display case—various amulets strung on leather cords and silver and quartz pendants, as well as crystals in various colors and shapes.