Berried Motives Read online

  Tempest returned with two delicate porcelain cups on a small tray. She held one of them out to Monica.

  “I heard about that young woman being murdered out near the farm,” Tempest said after taking a sip of her tea. “You’re not going to start investigating, are you?”

  “Well . . .” Monica paused, trying to decide what to say. “It has made me curious.”

  Tempest fingered the amulet hanging on a silk cord around her neck.

  “Don’t,” she said suddenly. “I sense danger.” Tempest snapped her fingers. “I should do a tarot reading for you.”

  Monica wasn’t sure how she felt about tarot cards, although she knew plenty of people did believe in them, and surely there was no harm in humoring Tempest.

  Monica dutifully shuffled the deck Tempest handed her then gave it back with a slight feeling of trepidation. While she didn’t entirely believe, she wasn’t ready to hear any bad news.

  Tempest pulled a card from the deck and frowned at it. She pulled another one and then another. Suddenly she gathered the cards together again and put them down on the counter. Monica noticed her hands were shaking slightly.

  “What is it?” she said, reminding herself that no matter what Tempest said the cards revealed, she didn’t necessarily have to believe it.

  Tempest leaned both her elbows on the counter. The amulet around her neck swung forward and clanged against the glass case.

  “I didn’t like what I saw,” she said. “I saw danger ahead—something dark.”

  “What does that mean?” Monica was half bemused and half anxious.

  “The cards don’t predict the future,” Tempest said, tapping the deck with her finger. “They give insight into our current path. It looks as if the cards are saying you are on a possibly dangerous course.”

  Monica couldn’t think of anything that she was doing that could be considered dangerous. Unless it was poking around gathering information that might lead to Betsy DeJong’s killer? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

  Tempest sighed and smoothed the folds of her caftan.

  “The cards also give insight into the past. Investigating murder has gotten you in trouble before. Monica”—Tempest grabbed Monica’s hands and held them between her own—“you’ve nearly been killed! Is it really wise to do it again?”

  Monica felt a bit shaken when she left Twilight. She reminded herself that she didn’t necessarily believe what Tempest had told her, but she had to admit that Tempest was right—investigating murders in the past had nearly gotten her killed. Maybe her luck had finally run out. Perhaps this time she should leave it up to Detective Stevens.

  • • •

  “What do you think?” she said to Kit when she got back to the farm kitchen and had explained about Tempest’s tarot reading. “Maybe I should drop the whole thing.”

  Kit paused with his hands on his hips. “Darling, I’m quite sure that no matter what I say, you’re going to go ahead and poke your nose into things anyway. But I do happen to believe in tarot cards. I had a reading done back when I lived in Florida and the cards told me I needed to move and that I would find happiness somewhere else.” Kit paused dramatically. “So I came here, met Sean, got this job with you and voilà, I’m happy.” He threw his hands into the air. “I think you should listen to your friend Tempest.”

  Monica laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  Kit pointed a finger at her. “You know I’m right.”

  Kit went back to his dough and Monica got two pounds of butter out of the refrigerator and put them on the counter to soften.

  And in spite of Tempest’s and Kit’s warnings, she started thinking about what she had learned from the VanVelsens about Dan Polsky and his relationship with Betsy DeJong. Soon she became lost in thought and went about mixing dough without even being fully aware of what she was doing.

  “Earth to Monica,” Kit said, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

  Monica jumped. “Sorry, I was just thinking,” she said. She hesitated for a moment.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  Monica sighed. “Jeff told me that he heard Dan Polsky, one of his crew members, arguing with Betsy DeJong the day of the filming. I found it rather odd that they would know each other—after all, they moved in different circles—but according to the VanVelsen sisters, they both grew up in Cranberry Cove and actually dated when they were in school.”

  “Now that is interesting,” Kit said. “What could have them arguing with each other after all these years? They’re not still together—she’s engaged to that guy running for the Senate, isn’t she? The one with the professionally whitened teeth?”

  Kit threw his hands in the air. “What am I doing? I shouldn’t be encouraging you.” He giggled. “But never mind what I said about not investigating. This is getting juicy!” He placed a finger on his chin. “Now, who do you think is guilty? Do you think Dan did it?”

  “I don’t know. There’s not enough to go on at the moment. Jeff seems to think very highly of Dan. He’s a good worker. Reliable, careful . . .”

  Kit furrowed his brow. “Maybe it was the fiancé, the one who’s a Senate candidate. He looks rather smarmy to me. Have you seen those campaign ads of his?” Kit shuddered. “Or perhaps it was that poor beleaguered camerawoman you told me about.”

  “Jasmine?” Monica began kneading the lump of dough on the counter, pushing it forward with the heels of her hands. “She certainly took enough abuse from Betsy, the poor thing. She’s pretty laid-back though. She doesn’t seem like the homicidal type.”

  “Well, neither did Ted Bundy, darling, or so they say. And he murdered dozens of women.”

  • • •

  Monica knew Kit was right. She thought about it as she held her hands under the tap washing the flour off her hands. She wasn’t going to be able to rest until she did a little more investigating. Surely asking a few questions here and there couldn’t be all that dangerous.

  She was turning out the lights in the kitchen when there was a tentative knock on the door.

  Monica yelled, “Come in,” and the door opened slowly.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Lauren stuck her head around the edge of the door.

  “Not at all. I’ve finished for the day and Kit has taken all the goodies down to the farm store for me.”

  Lauren’s normally bright face was drawn and even her blond hair looked lank. Something was obviously bothering her.

  “Why don’t I make us some coffee,” Monica said, heading toward the coffee machine. “And I have some cookies that I snatched from the batch Kit was delivering.”

  Monica was quiet as the coffee machine gurgled and slowly dripped hot coffee into the carafe. She filled two mugs and put them on the table and then went back for a plate of cranberry walnut chocolate chunk cookies.

  Monica took a sip of coffee and nibbled the end off one of the cookies and Lauren still hadn’t spoken.

  “Is something wrong?” she finally asked as gently as possible.

  Lauren was looking down, her long blond hair creating a curtain around her face. Her head shot up suddenly.

  “It’s Mel. Melinda Leigh. I’m worried about her.”

  Monica cocked her head. “Okay,” she said. “Is there a particular reason why?”

  Lauren gave a long shuddering sigh. “Detective Stevens went around to the apartment she’s renting with some other girls. She’s living over the pharmacy on Beach Hollow Road.”

  “I imagine Detective Stevens is talking to everyone who was at the filming that day.”

  “That’s what I told her. She wasn’t here when Stevens went around talking to everyone so Stevens went to her apartment. I told her not to worry but she wouldn’t listen to me.” Lauren ran her finger around the edge of her coffee mug. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something that makes her think she might be a suspect. Something she doesn’t want to tell me about.”

  “We probably all have a secret we’d be ashamed to admit to anyone. People cheat on their taxes, have affairs, hit a car in the parking lot and drive away. If Melinda is hiding something, it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with Betsy DeJong’s murder. It could be as innocent as having shoplifted a pack of gum when she was in elementary school. Being questioned by the police sometimes has that effect on people.”

  Lauren picked a piece off her cookie and crumbled it between her fingers. “You’re probably right. Still.” She looked up at Monica. “Is there any chance you could . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Investigate?” Monica said with a smile.

  Lauren let out a relieved breath. “You’ve done it before.”

  And almost gotten myself killed, Monica said to herself.

  She smiled at Lauren. “Sure. I can ask a few questions and see what I can find out.”

  Monica had been about to ask Lauren if everything else was okay—she kept picturing how Lauren had stomped off when Betsy began her rather flirtatious interview with Jeff—but she thought it best not to pry.

  Whatever was wrong between them, they would have to work it out themselves.

  • • •

  WZZZ was located outside of Cranberry Cove, a short distance off the highway that led north to Grand Rapids. Monica spotted the building as soon as she exited the highway. It was painted the station’s colors of red and white and had an enormous satellite dish out front.

  Monica had told Greg that she was going to pick up a tape of the filming WZZZ had done at Sassamanash Farm so Lauren could put it on their website. He had rather dryly pointed out that everything was done digitally these days and surely they could simply email her the link to it. Monica had been forced to admit that she had an ulterior motive in visiting the station. Greg had merely sm
iled knowingly. Monica had to admit, it irritated her slightly that he found her so transparent.

  Monica pulled into the station parking lot and found a spot next to one of the red-and-white WZZZ news vans.

  She locked the car and walked to the entrance. The macadam in the parking lot was buckled and weeds grew in the cracks. The door squeaked as she pulled it open.

  The reception area of the station had a black-and-white tile floor with several uncomfortable-looking red chairs scattered haphazardly about. Seated behind the curved particleboard reception desk was a young man in a blinding neon green shirt. His carrot red hair was shaved close to his scalp and he had a Bluetooth telephone headset wrapped around his ear.

  Monica was walking toward him when a young woman with a clipboard whizzed past in front of her, nearly causing a collision.

  Monica took a breath and continued toward the desk. She waited patiently until the receptionist had stopped talking into his headset then she asked to speak to Jasmine Talcott.

  The young man pushed some buttons on his telephone console. “Visitor for Jasmine Talcott,” he said and hung up. He looked at Monica. “It’ll just be a minute. If you’d like to wait.” He swept a hand toward the chairs.

  “Thank you.”

  Monica chose one of the chairs and sat down. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. While she waited, she looked around. Framed portraits of station executives were lined up on one of the walls. One of them was slightly crooked and she itched to get up and straighten it but she managed to restrain herself.

  A woman came through a door on the far side of the lobby and headed toward Monica. It wasn’t Jasmine, but an older woman with long hair that was neither blond nor brown but something in between, a face etched with deep lines and a rumbling smoker’s cough that forced her to stop briefly halfway across the floor. She was wearing a long paisley-print maxi skirt and ankle boots.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when she reached Monica. “Jasmine is off on a shoot and won’t be back until this afternoon. Can I help you with something?” She paused. “I’m Patty, by the way.”

  “I’m Monica Albertson.” Monica stood up. “I was hoping to get a copy of the segment you did on Sassamanash Farm the other day.”

  Patty smiled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “No problem. I can put it on a flash drive for you. Will that do?”

  “Perfectly,” Monica said.

  She followed Patty across the tiled floor, through a door and into a warren of cramped cubicles. Patty’s was at the end of a row. Unlike some of the others, her desk was very tidy—the piles of papers stacked on it perfectly aligned. She had a Beatles poster on the wall and a framed photograph of an older woman with tightly curled gray hair on her desk. Her mother? Monica wondered.

  Patty shook her computer mouse and her computer sprang to life, her screen saver—a colorful shot of the Las Vegas strip—coming into view.

  “Jasmine did a wonderful job filming the segment out at our cranberry farm,” Monica began. “Although Betsy DeJong didn’t seem too pleased with it for some reason.”

  Patty spun around in her chair. She rolled her eyes.

  “Poor Jasmine. I feel sorry for her. Betsy was never pleased with anything she did. And Jasmine was a perfectly competent camerawoman. She’s even won a couple of awards.” Patty lowered her voice. “Betsy went so far as to try to get Jasmine fired.”

  “No! Really?” Monica feigned surprise.

  Patty nodded her head. “She used to march upstairs to management at least once a week to insist that they get rid of Jasmine. Management had to walk a tightrope to keep Betsy happy while not giving in to all of her demands. Somehow they always seemed to find some way to humor her.” Patty jiggled her mouse. “I think they should have gotten rid of Betsy. Frankly, I think she was more trouble than she was worth. Sue in human resources says she has a drawer completely full of applicants who would like to take Betsy’s place and would be a sight more grateful for the opportunity.”

  “That must have made things really tough for Jasmine—having to work with someone who was creating such a hostile atmosphere.”

  Monica thought back to the day of the filming. She’d been astonished at how well Jasmine had kept her cool. She wasn’t at all sure she would have been able to do the same thing herself under those circumstances.

  Patty pulled the flash drive out of the USB port on her computer and handed it to Monica.

  “That should work for you.” She reached for her mouse and clicked the file closed. “Jasmine usually took it in her stride, but the last time it happened I heard she really lost it.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows in inquiry. “Oh? She did?”

  Patty nodded. “I heard one of the gals talking about it in the break room at lunch. Apparently Jasmine walked back to her desk as calmly as you please, picked up a pair of scissors and plunged them over and over again into her desk chair. They said that when she was done, half the stuffing was spilling out.”

  Monica thanked Patty, put the flash drive in her purse and wended her way back through the tightly packed cubicles. So Jasmine wasn’t as unaffected by Betsy’s taunting as she pretended to be. Monica couldn’t imagine savagely attacking a chair with a pair of scissors, but then she couldn’t imagine murdering someone either. There was obviously more to Jasmine than met the eye.

  She opened the door that led to the lobby. As she crossed the lobby floor, she happened to glance to her right and once again she noticed the crooked picture on the wall. No one seemed to be looking so she headed over to it.

  She was tapping the right corner of the ornate gilt frame to level it when another picture caught her eye—a blond woman in a dark blue suit and white silk blouse posed against the usual anonymous corporate background provided by the photographer. Out of curiosity, she checked the small gold nameplate attached to the frame. It read Heidi DeJong, Senior Executive Producer.

  Any relation to Betsy DeJong? Monica wondered. The area was heavily populated by the Dutch, so DeJong was hardly an unusual surname.

  Monica looked toward the reception desk. The receptionist was staring at his computer screen and didn’t appear to be on the telephone. She went over to him and waited until he noticed her presence.

  He looked up. “Can I help you?” He fiddled with the collar of his shirt.

  “I was wondering . . .” Monica gestured toward the photographs on the wall. “Is Heidi DeJong any relation to the late Betsy DeJong, the host of What’s Up West Michigan?”

  He bobbed his head up and down repeatedly like a bobble head doll. “They most certainly were related. Heidi and Betsy were sisters,” he said.

  Monica was grateful he didn’t ask why she was interested. “How nice that they could work together,” she said.

  “I don’t know that I’d call it working together,” he said and giggled. “Or nice, either, for that matter.”

  “Oh? Didn’t they get along?”

  He stood up and leaned his elbows on the desk. “My name’s Josh, by the way.”

  “Monica.”

  “If there’s one thing a television station reveres, it’s the talent. But if you want to go into the whole corporate hierarchy thing, Heidi was technically Betsy’s boss and should have had the upper hand. And that didn’t go over very well with Betsy. She was the older sister and she felt that ought to give her some sort of privilege. When the two were together, fur would literally fly.”

  Well, that was interesting, Monica thought as she thanked Josh and headed out to her car. The wind had picked up, sending grit and loose gravel swirling across the parking lot. Monica quickly buttoned her jacket and turned up her collar.

  So Betsy and Heidi didn’t get along. Heidi might not have been at the filming at the farm, but if Monica remembered correctly, Bob Visser had said that Heidi had been the one to tell him where Betsy was that afternoon. And that meant that Heidi knew exactly where to find Betsy if she’d had murder on her mind.

  What motive could Heidi have had for killing her sister? Monica wondered as she headed back toward Cranberry Cove. The fact that the sisters regularly squabbled didn’t necessarily make Heidi a murderer. There had to be more to it than that.