Berried Motives Page 6

  Her trip certainly hadn’t been in vain, Monica thought as she turned onto the road that led to Sassamanash Farm. She didn’t have any answers yet, but she had plenty of new avenues to explore.

  Chapter 5

  Monica left her car at the cottage and was on her way to the farm kitchen when she ran into Jeff. He had been in one of the bogs helping with the boom and she noticed that his pants were wet up to the knees.

  “Looks like your waders sprang a leak,” Monica said when she caught up with him.

  Jeff scowled. “No, it wasn’t that. My foot caught on one of the vines, and when I tried to keep myself from falling, I managed to slosh water down my waders.” He laughed briefly. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

  “You look tired,” Monica said. She knew that the harvest was always a lot of work and that Jeff and his crew would all need a rest when it was over, but Jeff looked even more tired than usual. The circles under his eyes had deepened until they looked like bruises and his face was slack with fatigue.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “The frost alarms went off last night at three o’clock in the morning and I had to race down to the pump house to turn on the water to flood the last two bogs. I couldn’t get back to sleep afterward.” He smiled again. “All part of the job.”

  Monica still found it puzzling that the way to keep the berries from being ruined by the frost was to actually freeze them in water.

  “I hope you can sleep tonight.” She put a hand on Jeff’s arm.

  “It’s not just that.” Jeff frowned and looked off into the distance. “I’m worried about Dan and I don’t know what to do. He said he didn’t tell the police about his argument with Betsy DeJong the day she was killed. He won’t even tell me what it was about or how he knows her.” He looked at Monica and his scowl deepened. “I don’t know whether I should go to the police and tell them myself or not.” He kicked at a clod of dirt with the toe of his boot. “Dan’s my buddy and a darn good crew member. I don’t want to land him in it if it isn’t necessary.”

  A loon spread its wings and took off from the banks of the bog, the sun reflecting off its glossy feathers. It gave a raucous cry that startled them both.

  Jeff gave Monica a pleading look. “Is there any chance you could talk to Dan? You’re good at that sort of stuff.”

  “You mean worm the truth out of him?” Monica asked with the hint of a smile.

  Jeff nodded. “People talk to you. They tell you things. Maybe Dan will, too.”

  Monica wished she was as optimistic as Jeff about the possibility of Dan opening up to her. Jeff was putting too much stock in her capabilities. But she was willing to give it a try.

  • • •

  Monica hadn’t expected to encounter Dan so quickly. She’d been hoping to spend some time thinking about her approach, but when she saw him sitting on a log by the side of the bog eating an apple, she decided she might as well get it over with. She really felt like turning tail and running, but she’d promised Jeff.

  The ground was muddy where water from the bog had splashed up onto the surrounding area. Monica stepped carefully—it was slippery.

  Dan stood up and threw the core of his apple into the field beyond. He was about to walk away when Monica caught up with him.

  “Good throw,” she said.

  “The animals can feast on the core.” Dan sat down again and Monica joined him on the log.

  She thought he looked nervous. He was still wearing his waders and was fiddling with the buckles. He was clearly under some strain—it showed in the way the skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones and in the way the furrow between his brows had deepened.

  “You must have been surprised when Betsy DeJong showed up the other day,” Monica said. “I hear the two of you dated in high school.”

  Dan scowled and picked at a piece of loose bark on the log. “That was a long time ago.”

  “It must be strange seeing her on television now.”

  “I’m happy for her. I guess it’s what she wanted.” He shrugged.

  Monica didn’t think he sounded happy.

  She took a deep breath. “Jeff is concerned about you.”

  Dan’s hand jerked. “Why? What is he concerned about? If it’s my work, then he’d better speak to me himself and not send someone else to do his dirty work.”

  “No, it’s not that,” Monica hastened to say. “He heard you arguing with Betsy. He’s afraid the police will find that suspicious.”

  “He’s not going to tell them, is he?” Dan’s expression was resigned.

  Monica avoided the question. “I guess he found it strange. You haven’t seen Betsy in years and yet you found something to argue about immediately.”

  “It wasn’t anything,” Dan said, starting to get up. “And it’s certainly none of your business.”

  He walked toward the bog and plunged into the water

  • • •

  Monica spent the afternoon at the farm kitchen working with Kit on a batch of cranberry salsa. Orders had increased and they had to work hard to keep up. Monica was also testing a recipe for cranberry compote that they hoped to sell in the farm store at Thanksgiving.

  The pot with the cranberries, orange zest, sugar and spices was bubbling on the stove, filling the air with its delicious aroma.

  Kit stopped and sniffed. “It smells like Christmas in here,” he said as he filled containers with the first batch of salsa.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Monica peered into the pot, where the cranberries were popping and bursting. “I think this is about ready.”

  She grabbed the handle of the pot and screamed, pulling her hand away as quickly as possible.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” Kit rushed over to her.

  “I’ve burned my hand,” Monica admitted ruefully. “I forgot the handle was going to be hot.”

  “Let’s get your hand under some cold water,” Kit said as he led Monica over to the sink and turned on the tap. He gave her a suspicious look. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been looking a little peaked lately.”

  “I am rather tired. I can’t imagine why—I went to bed early enough last night and slept well.”

  “Everything is going fine here. Nurse Tanner prescribes a nap. Stat.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I can handle things. The salsa is almost done and I’ll put that compote in the refrigerator. We can do a taste test tomorrow.”

  Monica felt a wave of fatigue wash over her. “Maybe I will take your advice, nurse.” She smiled.

  “That’s a good girl. Run along now.” Kit made a shooing motion toward the door.

  Monica couldn’t imagine what was making her so tired—perhaps it was the stress of Betsy DeJong’s murder and the subsequent investigation. One thing she did know, though, Kit was right—a good nap was probably all she needed.

  Mittens was waiting by the back door of the cottage when Monica opened it. The cat meowed loudly and arched her back as Monica scratched under her chin and behind her ears.

  Mittens was right on Monica’s heels as she made her way upstairs. She paused briefly outside the spare bedroom and looked in. She and Greg had talked about its becoming a baby’s room—possibly . . . maybe . . . eventually.

  In her mind she’d sometimes imagined the room painted blue and sometimes pink with a crib all done up in Winnie-the-Pooh bedding. The idea filled her with longing at times and fear at other times.

  The prospect was scary, but then she supposed everyone felt that way at first. Her own mother had been somewhat cold and distant, although Monica knew that she had done the best she could, especially after her father left her for another woman. Some good had come of that in the end—her half brother, Jeff. And Monica had subsequently become quite fond of Gina, the “other woman,” especially since Gina had moved to Cranberry Cove to be near her son.

  Monica took a last look at the spare room. Would they be using it eventually? There was no guarantee. They had to be patient.

  • • •

  Monica woke from her nap an hour later. She yawned and stretched. She definitely felt better, she decided, as she headed downstairs to start on dinner. She looked at her watch. Greg would be home soon.

  She turned the television on in the living room and turned up the volume so she could hear the news in the kitchen.

  She was scrubbing some of the last of the zucchini from the farmers market when the name Bob Visser caught her ear. She walked into the living room, rubbing her wet hands on her jeans to dry them.

  Bob Visser was on the screen, smiling widely at the camera. He had taken off his suit jacket and had it slung over his shoulder. His tie was loosened and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up.

  It was a studied casualness that Monica had no doubt he had practiced many times in the mirror.

  The reporter, Benjamin Dowd, was from a national network. His appearance was as calculated as Visser’s with his carefully tailored suit, silk tie and expensive haircut.

  He lowered his voice and expressed his sympathies over the death of Betsy DeJong, Visser’s fiancée.

  Visser assumed a suitably mournful expression and bowed his head briefly.

  “It’s been a terrible blow,” he said. “A real tragedy. We had a wonderful life together planned out and now it’s been snatched away by a vicious killer. But I want to thank everyone for their kind thoughts and prayers at this difficult time. Their kindness has been a ray of sunshine during this period of darkness.” He bowed his head briefly.

  Dowd then moved on to a few questions about Visser’s Senate race and his proposal to fight for greater environmental protections, particularly for the Great Lakes. Visser answered the questions smoothly, but at the same time he managed to keep his replies from sounding slick or canned. Monica had to admit that he was good on camera.

  Dowd’s voice then took on a different tone—more challenging and almost menacing.

  Visser must have noticed because his expression became less open and more guarded. His stance changed as well. It was almost as if he was bracing himself for a blow.

  “You’ve certainly had your share of tragedy, Mr. Visser. I understand your first wife also died.”

  Visser scowled and gave a curt nod. It was clear he didn’t like the turn the questioning had taken.

  “Your first wife died under unusual circumstances, did she not?” Dowd said, looking straight at the camera.

  Visser gave another curt nod. He looked around as if he hoped to be rescued.

  “I understand it was a scuba diving accident that killed your wife?”

  “That’s right,” Visser said, tight-lipped. “It happened while we were on vacation in Cozumel. A terrible tragedy.”

  “I also understand that there was some question at the time about the accident, isn’t that right, Mr. Visser?”

  Visser looked visibly startled. “I don’t know what you mean. It was ruled an accident. There was no question about it.”

  “But weren’t you detained by the authorities in Mexico and questioned in regard to the accident?” Dowd appeared to shove the microphone closer to Visser’s face.

  “Of course I was. Standard procedure. I was with her when the accident occurred. She had an unfortunate heart issue that hadn’t been diagnosed. There was an opening—a flap—in her heart that should have closed up before birth but didn’t.”

  “But didn’t the authorities suspect her death wasn’t an accident at all but was actually murder? And you were the prime suspect.”

  Dowd seemed to be taking great delight in provoking Visser. He held the microphone out to Visser, but instead of answering, Visser abruptly turned on his heel and walked away.

  Dowd smirked. “I guess that’s one question that Mr. Visser doesn’t want to answer.”

  The cameraman then panned the crowd that had gathered to listen to the interview. Visser was walking away, with his back to the camera, when a woman went up to him and took his arm.

  Monica recognized her from her picture. It was Heidi DeJong.

  Was Heidi simply showing sisterly sympathy or was there more to it than that?

  Chapter 6

  Monica kept picturing Visser’s interview on the news and how Heidi had taken his arm as he was walking away. There had been an air of possession about the gesture. Or was she simply imagining it?

  Was there anything between the two of them—anything romantic? No one had mentioned it, Monica thought. Jasmine worked quite closely with Betsy and she hadn’t said anything about it. Nor had Josh the receptionist.

  Maybe someone at Visser Motors would know more? Heidi and Visser might have felt more confident meeting there, away from WZZZ and prying eyes. Monica decided she would pay them a visit soon. She could pretend she was in the market for a new car.

  She had a sudden vision of herself, dressed in her faded jeans, stretched-out sweater and worn fleece, showing up at a luxury car dealership in her ancient Taurus with the muffler belching smoke and making rude noises. They wouldn’t buy her story for a minute. She bit her lip. What to do?

  The solution came to her as she was falling asleep that night. She’d take her stepmother, Gina, with her. Gina knew her way around an expensive car, having owned several Mercedes models herself. Besides, Gina would know how to look the part.

  Monica would call her first thing in the morning and arrange it.

  • • •

  Kit seemed slightly miffed the next morning when Monica told him she had to leave to run an errand and she didn’t know when she’d be back.

  “Fine, darling,” he said, his lower lip stuck out petulantly. “Leave it all to me, your almighty slave. I’ll be fine.”

  Monica couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. Was he in one of his moods that would descend without warning and disappear as quickly as a passing cloud? She started to say something but bit her lip. She’d stay extra late tonight so she could give Kit the afternoon off tomorrow.

  Gina had been more than enthusiastic when Monica had broached the idea of her plan to her. They’d agreed to meet that morning at Gina’s aromatherapy shop, Making Scents. They would take Gina’s car, which, although it wasn’t the latest model Mercedes, would still give a much better impression than Monica’s beat-up old Taurus.

  Monica still felt slightly guilty about leaving Kit to do all the work as she headed into town, but the magnificent color of the changing leaves and the deep blue of Lake Michigan as the sun sparkled on it lifted her mood.

  She parked along Beach Hollow Road and looked at her watch. She was a bit early—the part-time helper who was going to mind the shop while Gina was away wouldn’t arrive for another twenty minutes. Plenty of time to pop into the Cranberry Cove Diner for a cup of coffee.

  It was midmorning and the diner wasn’t terribly busy. Gus, the owner and short-order cook, gave Monica a brief smile when she entered, which was a sign that she had truly been accepted as a resident of Cranberry Cove. It was a step up from a nod, which was what new residents got, and a scowl, which was intended to frighten tourists and summer visitors away.

  Gus was flipping burgers with one hand and eggs with the other. Obviously the diner’s patrons were mixed today—those just now eating breakfast and those who had already moved on to the lunch menu.

  Monica stood at the counter and waited while a waitress poured her a cup of steaming coffee. She was about to perch on a stool when she saw someone waving her over to a booth. It was Detective Stevens.

  She was nursing a cup of coffee and had pushed away a plate that was empty but for a couple of toast crusts and a smear of egg yolk.

  “Good morning,” she said when Monica took the seat opposite. “This is lucky. I was going to come and see you.”

  “Oh?”

  Stevens nodded. “I have a few questions for you. How long have you known Melinda Leigh? She confirmed she’d been hired to take photographs of the farm for your Instagram account.”

  “Melinda? I met her for the first time the day of the film shoot. She seems like a nice girl. Why?”

  Stevens shrugged but didn’t answer.

  Monica reached for the pitcher of cream and stirred some into her coffee.

  “Has there been any progress on the case?” she asked as she stirred in the cream.

  Stevens gave a bitter laugh. “Only that the killer was right-handed. Not much to go on, I’m afraid. And no luck finding the rock the killer used so we could get a DNA sample. You’ll no doubt hear about it on the news tonight.”

  Monica had a sudden vision of Jasmine stabbing her desk chair in fury. Had she used her right or her left hand?

  Stevens glanced at her watch and began to gather her things together.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go,” she said as she slid out of the booth.

  “I wish I could have been more help.”

  Stevens smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Monica didn’t stay much longer. She drained the last of her coffee, paid the check and left, heading down the street to Making Scents.

  As soon as Monica opened the door of Gina’s shop, the calming scents of lavender and bergamot drifted out. She immediately felt her shoulders relax and some of the tension leave her neck.

  She had suggested that Gina dress to look rich enough to afford a Mercedes, and Gina had obviously taken that to heart. Monica stopped dead when she saw her.

  She had enough initials on her to make up the alphabet, from the double C for Chanel on her necklace, the G for Gucci on her belt, a handbag printed with LV for Louis Vuitton, and sling-back pumps in leather embossed with FF for Fendi.

  Her hair, which she went to Chicago regularly to have highlighted, was in an elaborate updo, and rings—both real and costume—graced several of her fingers.

  “What do you think?” Gina did a spin in the middle of her shop. “Do I look expensive enough?”

  Monica gulped. There were no words so she just nodded.