Berried Secrets (14 page)

Monica gathered up the remnants of her dinner with Gina. She threw the containers in the trash, tied the plastic bag closed and opened the back door to take it out to the garbage can. A strong breeze caught the edge of the open door and nearly yanked it from Monica's hand. She hesitated, feeling the chill wind. Should she get her jacket? The can was only a few yards outside the back door. She would brave it.

By the time Monica got back inside, she was shivering. The sharp edge of the wind had cut straight through her sweater and turtleneck. It wasn't particularly late, but the thought of crawling into bed with the news magazine that had just come in the mail was too enticing to resist.

The second floor of the cottage was noticeably chillier than the first floor.
Wasn't heat supposed to rise?
Monica thought. She opened the hall closet and pulled out a second down comforter and spread it out on the bed. She washed her
face, brushed her teeth and filled the hot water bottle she kept for nights like these. She tucked it into the bed to warm the sheets while she changed into a pair of flannel pajamas.

Monica didn't last long. The soothing warmth from the hot water bottle and the coziness of her bed had her eyes closing before she knew it. She tossed her magazine onto the bedside table and turned out the light.

She woke abruptly several hours later. She glanced at her alarm clock—it was one a.m. Had she heard something? Or had the noise been part of a dream? She could hear the wind whistling and rattling the old cottage's windows but otherwise it was quiet.

She put her head back on the pillow and burrowed deeper under the covers. It must have been a dream. She'd barely finished the thought when she heard a noise again. This time it was obvious someone was pounding on her door.

Who on earth . . . ?

Monica grabbed her robe and quickly tied the belt around her waist. She turned the hall light on and was nearly blinded as she made her way down the stairs. The knocking was coming from the back door. Monica felt her way through the darkened kitchen. She stubbed her toe against a chair leg and winced but kept on going as the knocking intensified.

“Who is it?” she called when she was within earshot of the door.

“It's Jeff. I need your help.”

Jeff?
Monica's heart began to pound. Was something wrong with him? She pulled open the door, and the wind tried to snatch it from her hand, as if they were playing some sort of game.

“What's the matter—” Monica began but Jeff was already talking.

“There's been a frost warning. I know it's a lot to ask, but I can't rouse any of the crew, and I need help checking the sensors in the bogs that we haven't harvested yet.”

“Of course,” Monica said, even though she dreaded the thought of going out on such a bitter night. “I'll be dressed in a minute.”

“Here.” Jeff thrust a battery-operated lantern at her. “Take this with you. You know where the pump house is?”

Monica nodded.

“Meet me there, and I'll show you where to go.”

Monica was about to shut the door when Jeff stopped her. “And bring your cell, okay?”

Monica went back upstairs and began pulling on her warmest clothing—thermal undershirt, turtleneck, heavy wool sweater and socks, corduroy pants. She shivered as she listened to the wind knocking at the windows and felt the draft working its way around the edges of the old, ill-fitting panes.

She pulled on a pair of boots, her down jacket, a fleece hat and a pair of gloves and stood hesitating by the back door. She really didn't want to go out there—her bed had been so warm and cozy—but Jeff needed her help. She resolutely pulled open the door and flinched as the cold air hit her. It certainly felt as if a frost was imminent. She hoped they were in time to save the berries.

The moon was bright and lit the dirt path quite well, but when a cloud floated across it, obliterating the light, Monica turned on her lantern. The ground was uneven and slightly spongy beneath her feet, and she had to move slowly to avoid tripping. She thought she saw a glint of light from the corner of her eye. It came through the trees over toward the rutted dirt road that led past the farm. But who would be out at such
an hour? It was probably just the moon flickering through the trees.

Finally, Monica could see the pump house looming like a grotesque shadow in the distance. The old boards were weather-beaten and peeling. Monica knew that giving the structure a fresh coat of white paint was on Jeff's summer agenda.

Jeff came around the side of the pump house and called out. “Over here.”

Monica aimed her flashlight in the direction of Jeff's voice and could just make out his face.

“I can't thank you enough—” Jeff began when Monica got there, but she waved him to silence.

“Just tell me what to do. It feels as if the temperature has dropped just while I've been walking here.”

“Remember I showed you where the sensors are in each of the bogs?”

Monica nodded, hoping she'd be able to find them in the dark.

“Just check the temps on the three bogs that haven't been harvested yet, then call me with the numbers. I'll turn on the sprinklers if they're needed.” He gave a wan smile. “And be sure to get out of the way first. I don't want you getting soaked.”

Monica shivered at the thought. Her teeth were already on the verge of chattering.

She headed in the direction Jeff had indicated, down a path with the bog on one side and the irrigation ditch on the other. Even with her lantern, it was rough going. A thick cloud had obscured the moon, and although it was slowly drifting past, it would be a while before it had moved enough for the moonlight to shine through and light the way.

Monica tripped on a tangled root that was embedded in the dirt and forcing its way to the surface. She thought she was going to go down but caught herself in time. She bit her lip. She would so much rather be back at her cozy cottage, tucked up warm in bed clutching her hot water bottle. But, she reminded herself, if Jeff didn't get the berries protected they would freeze, which would turn them mushy and worthless. Sassamanash Farm was already in debt enough as it was. They needed every single berry from this year's crop to survive.

The moon peeked out for a brief moment and shone on the murky waters of the irrigation ditch to Monica's right. Water on the farm was used and reused—moved from one bog to another through a series of canals that depended on rainwater for replenishment. It was very important to protect the wetlands that the farm stood on, as well as the adjacent water sources—several small lakes and ponds that bordered the farm.

The thick cloud covering the moon shifted again and light shone on the path, but then it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. Monica thought she heard a noise behind her, and she whirled around. She felt slightly foolish. The dark night, the oily waters of the irrigation ditch and the black hole of the bog were working overtime on her imagination. She had walked the streets of Chicago alone late at night plenty of times with only the sound of her own footsteps for company. But this was different. In Chicago there had been street lamps every few feet to illuminate the sidewalk, the occasional group of tipsy people spilling out of the bars just before closing and the odd store owner pulling down the metal grate over his window for the night. Here she was truly all alone.

She reminded herself that there was nothing to be frightened
of. No wild, predatory animals roamed the farm, nor were there any serial killers on the loose and certainly not any boogeymen. Of course there
was
a murderer at large in Cranberry Cove, but whoever it was was unlikely to be out at the farm on such an inhospitable evening. Given her druthers, Monica would certainly have been tucked up in bed herself instead of out in the cold searching for a temperature sensor.

Silence descended again, and she assumed the noise had been a figment of her imagination. She slowed her steps—she thought she was approaching the area where she would find the first sensor. She was about to head into the bog when there was another noise.

Before Monica could even spin around to determine the source of the sound, a searing pain shot through her head and blackness darker than any night she had ever experienced enveloped her.

•   •   •

Monica heard someone frantically calling her name, but it seemed to be coming from a long distance away. It was far more tempting to settle back into the warm, delicious oblivion that was calling her, beckoning her like the sirens beckoned Odysseus. Someone shook her by the shoulders, and she wanted to tell them to stop—that she preferred to return to that state of unconsciousness that had been deeper and more satisfying than sleep.

But whoever it was would not give up, and eventually Monica roused, breaking through to reality like a swimmer breaking through the surface of the water.

“What?” she mumbled. Her lips felt thick and were difficult to move.

“Are you alright?” Jeff was leaning over her, his face creased with concern.

“Of course,” Monica said, half of her still in the dreamlike state that had been caused by the blow to her head.

She stretched out an arm and was surprised to find herself lying on the ground. “What am I doing here?” she asked as she rubbed a hand across her forehead.

“I don't know.” Jeff frowned. “Did you fall?”

“I don't think so.” Monica tried to think, but everything was enveloped in a thick fog. What else could have happened? “I guess I must have.” She ran a hand through her hair and was shocked to discover a huge bump on her head.

“No!” she blurted out suddenly. “I heard a noise behind me and the next thing I knew there was a terrible pain in my head.” She rubbed the sore spot again and her hand came away with blood on it. “There's a big lump.”

“Where is it?” Jeff held out his hand, and Monica grasped it and guided it toward the goose egg rising from the crown of her head.

Jeff snatched his hand back. “You didn't fall.” His expression was grim. “Someone hit you over the head.”

Monica struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. The damp was slowly penetrating her jacket, sweater and turtleneck, and she could feel her teeth beginning to chatter.

“We've got to get you to the hospital.”

“No! I'll be fine. We need to see to the cranberries.”

“The cranberries aren't important,” Jeff said shaking his head. “You are.”

“I'm fine,” Monica insisted. “Go check the temperature in the bog and then do what you have to do. I'll head back to the cottage.”

She began to struggle to her feet.

Jeff hesitated.

“Go on!”

He stuck out a hand and pulled Monica to her feet. She swayed briefly. Jeff still didn't move, and Monica gave him a gentle shove. He nodded curtly and plunged into the bog.

As Monica made her unsteady way back home she heard the hiss of the sprinklers coming on. She crossed her fingers. Hopefully Jeff had been in time to save the last of the crop.

By the time Monica reached her cottage, her head was pounding. She went into the tiny powder room off the kitchen and flicked on the light. She was shocked when she saw that blood had trickled down the right side of her face and was matted in her hair.

She opened the medicine chest, shook two ibuprofen out of the bottle and went into the kitchen for a glass of water.

She was swallowing the two pills when a thought occurred to her. The night Culbert was killed, Jeff had said there'd been a frost scare. Monica remembered him saying how tired he was because he'd been out checking the sensors. He could have easily lured Culbert to the farm somehow and then hit him over the head. And who else knew she would be out alone tonight . . . ? Monica shook herself. The blow to her head was obviously affecting her thinking. Jeff wouldn't harm her, and as mad as he'd been at Culbert, he wouldn't have harmed him, either.

Monica had just sat down at the kitchen table when the back door opened and Jeff walked in. He had his cell phone in his hand.

“I've called the police.”

“What? Why?” Monica half rose from her seat.

“Someone tried to hurt you. They hit you over the head and could have killed you. If you had fallen unconscious into the irrigation ditch . . .” The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

“If I was attacked, do you think it's related to Culbert's murder?” Monica watched as Jeff retrieved a bag of frozen vegetables from her freezer.

“Here. Put this on your head.” He handed her the bag of peas. “You've been going around asking questions. Someone saw or heard you and got spooked. They wanted to be sure you couldn't do any more snooping.”

“But how would they know I'd be out on the farm at one o'clock in the morning instead of in bed where any sane person would be?”

“I don't know. Either they were here for some reason—to break into the farm store or steal equipment maybe—and it was just their luck to find you wandering alone in the dark. Or,” Jeff opened a cupboard and got out two mugs, “they knew that with a frost in the forecast, we'd have to turn on the sprinklers. And maybe they took their chances that you would be out helping me.”