Berried Secrets (21 page)

“Nothing was ever proven either way, but it put a cloud over Harper's head from that day on. He'd been the golden boy, on his way to class valedictorian and all that. People began to look at him funny—well, you can guess the rest. Took off for college and never came back to Cranberry Cove until a couple of years ago, when he suddenly showed up and opened that bookstore.”

Bart placed Monica's wrapped steak in a white butcher bag and handed it to her. “Anything else I can do for you today?”

Monica shook her head, thanked him and left the shop. She was so deep in thought she nearly walked straight into a no parking sign along Beach Hollow Road. Why hadn't Greg told her he was born in Cranberry Cove instead of making it sound as if he'd only just arrived there from Minneapolis? Monica already knew he had a reason to feel bitterly toward Sam Culbert because of the mayoral race, but what Bart had just told her gave him an even better reason to hate the man.

Had he hated him enough to kill him?

Monica thought some more about what Bart had told her as she drove back to Sassamanash Farm. She certainly didn't believe that Greg had been the one to set that fire in the old abandoned barn. She even found it hard to believe that Greg and Culbert had once been friends. She couldn't imagine two people who were less alike. But literature was filled with odd couples, so there were bound to be plenty of them in real life as well.

The sun was heating up in the interior of Monica's car, and she cracked the windows slightly. She took a deep breath. The air was fresh and clean, and she thought she could detect the faint tang of the lake on the breeze. Despite the murder and despite everything that was going on, she felt a lift to her spirits, and she began to whistle. Tunelessly, that was for sure, but there was no one to hear, so why not?

By the time she pulled into the driveway in front of her cozy cottage, she was singing a robust version of some pop
song whose name she had forgotten and whose lyrics were more than a bit hazy in her mind.

The cottage seemed exceptionally quiet this afternoon. Monica was looking forward to having one of Midnight's little kittens for company. She would have liked to have had a pet when she was living in Chicago, but her hours were too uncertain, and it wouldn't have been fair to anything other than a goldfish. Even her plants had been neglected.

She put the steak in the refrigerator. It had cost her a pretty penny—she hoped she could manage to cook it properly. She certainly knew her way around a kitchen, but meat could be tricky, and she was having last-minute jitters about having Greg to dinner. She also had salad fixings and was planning on baking potatoes—nothing out of the ordinary, but easy to do and something men usually liked. She'd been experimenting with a cranberry cake and planned on that for dessert.

Monica looked at the clock. She might as well get started on the cake. Lauren had offered to help out in the store since fewer people were coming to tour, so she had the afternoon to get ready. This would be the first time she'd entertained a man since Ted, and she was excited but also a little nervous.

Monica was sifting flour when her front doorbell rang. Odd. She wasn't expecting anyone—not even any deliveries. She wiped her hands on her apron and went through to the foyer.

A strange man was standing on the doorstep. He was wearing tan slacks and a sport coat and was carrying a briefcase, but his weathered skin suggested he spent a fair amount of time outdoors.

“Can I help you?” Monica said when she opened the door. At least he didn't look as if he was selling anything.

“I'm looking for Jeff Albertson? I understand he owns Sassamanash Farm?”

Was he some sort of bill collector? Monica wondered. She was quite certain they were up on almost everything. Certainly the electric company wouldn't send someone out just because payment was a few days late.

“I'm afraid he's not here,” Monica said. What would she say if the man asked her where Jeff was?

“I've been trying to get hold of him. He hasn't returned any of my calls. Do you know where I can find him?”

That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Monica thought.

“Not at the moment, but I'd be happy to take a message. I'm his sister.”

The man looked abashed. “I'm sorry. I should have introduced myself. Drew Tompkins. I'm with the cranberry cooperative. I wanted to have a word with your brother.”

Monica felt her stomach take a nosedive. Was something wrong? Everything depended on selling this crop. Without that sale, Sassamanash Farm would be finished.

The fellow cleared his throat. “There have been rumors that a body was found in one of the cranberry bogs.” He cleared his throat again and fiddled with the button on his jacket. Monica couldn't help noticing it was slightly loose already. “I just wanted to clarify things for the cooperative. I don't suppose you know anything about . . .”

“Why don't you come in?” Monica held the door wider.

“I don't want to trouble you.”

“It's no trouble,” Monica said, glad that she hadn't put the cake in the oven yet.

Tompkins perched on the edge of one of the chairs, his briefcase balanced on his lap, his hands folded on top of it.

Monica sat down opposite him. She thought of offering him something to drink, but she wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“So
was
there a body?” Tompkins's Adam's apple bobbed up and down over the collar of his shirt, and Monica found herself staring at it, fascinated.

“Yes, there was,” she admitted reluctantly. No way to keep the news under wraps now.

“What we really need to know is . . .” Tompkins hesitated. “Were those cranberries disposed of? There's no precedent for this sort of thing, you see. Plenty of insects and more than a few wild animals have found their way into the bogs as you can imagine. But a human body . . . we're quite certain this is a first.”

“I understand.”

“It's quite possible that the cleaning process would . . . would render the berries perfectly safe, but we don't know that for sure. I hope you can understand that.”

“Absolutely,” Monica said, but her mind was elsewhere—back to the conversation she'd had with Jeff about getting rid of those potentially contaminated berries. She remembered that at the time he'd sounded evasive. He had gotten rid of them, hadn't he? Of course she was hardly going to reveal her doubts to Tompkins.

Tompkins still had his hands clasped on top of his briefcase. He was twirling his thumbs around and around each other.

“So you don't know how I can reach Jeff?” He glanced at his watch quickly.

“I'm afraid not. He must be out somewhere.” Monica made a vague gesture with her hands.

Tompkins nodded curtly. “I understand.” He sighed. “I guess I'll continue to try the telephone number I have for him. Can you tell me if I have the right one?”

He flipped open the clasps on his briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper. He glanced at it briefly before passing it to Monica.

Monica took it and checked the number. She handed the paper back. “Yes, that's Jeff's cell phone.”

Tompkins rubbed his hands together. “Great. That's great. I'll keep on trying him then.” He put the paper back in his briefcase, closed the lid, snapped the locks shut and put the case beside him. He stood up and held out his hand. He was tall and thin and put Monica in mind of a loosely jointed skeleton.

She shook his hand, showed him to the door, closed it and leaned against it. Only then did she realize that she was shaking. She took a deep breath, pushed away from the door and headed back to the kitchen.

Monica was pouring the cake batter into a pan when she heard her cell phone ringing. Fortunately, she'd put it out on the counter and didn't have to dig through her purse. She wiped her hands and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Monica?” The voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Jeff! Where are you? We've been so worried.”

“I'm sorry. I never meant for you to be worried. I'm fine. Perfectly fine.”

“But where are you?” Monica grabbed the sponge next to the sink and began wiping down the counter. She had to do something or she would scream.

“Like I told you before, if you don't know where I am, you can't tell the police if they ask.”

“But I wouldn't—”

“Let's face it, Monica. You're lousy at lying.”

Monica couldn't deny that. She wrung out the sponge and put it back in its place.

“How is Mom? Is she okay?”

“She's worried half to death, but you know Gina, she keeps on going.”

“That's for sure.” Monica could hear the smile in Jeff's voice. He paused for a moment. “Do you know anything about the police investigation? Are they any closer to finding out who killed Culbert?”

“No,” Monica admitted. “If they are, they haven't told me anything.”

Jeff sighed. “I can't stay in hiding forever. I've got to finish the harvest.”

Monica was about to open her mouth to tell him about the visit from Tompkins from the cranberry cooperative, but changed her mind. Jeff already had enough on his plate. “You were out checking the temperature sensors the night Culbert was murdered. Can you think of anything, anything at all, that might tell the police something or give them some clue? Did you see any cars or sense that someone else was out and about?”

Jeff groaned. “You mean like rustling in the bushes? I wish there was something. At the time I was quite certain I was alone. I didn't hear anything, but I wasn't listening for anything, either. I was focused on what I was doing.”

“If only there was something . . .”

“Wait,” Jeff blurted out. “I do remember seeing a van. It was coming down the road that borders the farm. I didn't think anything of it at the time, and frankly, I'd forgotten all about it until now.”

“Could you see what the van looked like?” Monica held her breath.

“It was white with some red lettering on the side.”

“Could you see what it said?”

“I wish. No, it went by too fast, and anyway, I wasn't really paying attention. Like I said—I was focused on what I was doing.”

Monica sighed. Well, it was something at least, although she suspected she was grasping at straws.

It wasn't until she'd hung up that she remembered Greg Harper had a van. White, with red lettering on the side. And he had every reason to hate Sam Culbert enough to kill him.

•   •   •

Monica's dinner got off to a bad start. She was worried and distracted when Greg arrived. She couldn't stop thinking about Jeff and on top of that, she was growing more and more suspicious of Greg. Had she invited a murderer to dinner?

When Monica opened the door at Greg's ring, he stood on her doorstep holding a paper-wrapped bundle of chrysanthemums in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Looking at him with his boyishly rumpled hair, blue pullover sweater that almost matched his eyes and slightly wrinkled khakis, she couldn't really believe he could commit murder. Surely it was a coincidence that someone in a white van with red lettering had been passing the farm the night Culbert was murdered?

Somehow Monica managed to overcook the steak and, although Greg protested to the contrary, she could see how he was struggling to cut the meat. Conversation was equally awkward—bouncing from topic to topic with nothing quite
taking hold. The ease with which they'd conversed in Greg's shop had dissipated into thin air. Monica searched for something to say.

“I didn't realize you grew up in Cranberry Cove,” she said finally. “You never mentioned it.”

“I guess I thought everyone knew.” Greg smiled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I keep forgetting you're not a local. So who spilled the beans on me?”

Monica was embarrassed. “Bart from the butcher shop.”

“Bart sure loves to talk. Especially to the ladies.” He smiled at Monica, and his eyes twinkled. “What else has Bart been saying about me?”

Monica's embarrassment intensified. Should she tell him the truth?

“Come on, out with it.” Greg laughed and pushed his plate away.

Jeff was right, Monica thought. She was no good at lying. “He told me that you and Culbert had been friends and that—”

“That Culbert had implicated me in the fire that had been set in that old abandoned barn out on Porter Road. Was that it?”

“Yes, actually, it was.”

Greg's mouth set in a grim line. “I had hoped that by now I would be able to put that behind me, but I guess not. People in Cranberry Cove have good memories.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“It's not your fault.” Greg reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. “Unfortunately I can just imagine what people are saying. Everyone knows that I was furious with Culbert for cheating in the mayoral race. I had plans for this town. Ideas. But I couldn't compete with someone who bought votes.” He took a big drink of his wine. “And then everyone in
Cranberry Cove still remembers the incident with the fire, and they're more than willing to remind anyone who doesn't.” He held his wrists out in front of him. “I'm surprised they haven't come and put the cuffs on me yet.” He smiled at Monica as if to show he was joking, but she could see the concern in his eyes.

“But if you have an alibi for the murder . . .” Monica hoped Greg wouldn't realize she was probing.

Greg shrugged. “I was home alone. Reading the new Dick Francis. Although they're actually written by his son Felix now.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. I've always been a fan. I'm glad his son is continuing the franchise.”

Suddenly the conversation veered onto the topic of books—specifically mysteries—and the talk began to flow more smoothly and naturally. Monica was shocked to note that an hour later they were still sitting at the table, surrounded by the detritus of their dinner.