Berry the Hatchet (14 page)

“I'm afraid I can't afford it.”

“But I haven't even told you the price yet.”

Jacy mentioned a number that was out of reach but not so far out that Monica immediately ruled out the purchase. If she scrimped a bit here, and cut a few corners there . . .

“I'm not in a position to buy the necklace now, but is there any chance you could hold it for me for a month or two?”

Jacy pursed her pink lips. “I don't know . . . how about if I let you know if someone else shows an interest and give you first dibs on it?”

“That sounds good.” Monica fished around in her purse and pulled out her clipping. It was already starting to get worn in the creases.

She spread the newspaper story on the counter and pointed to the picture of Roger Tripp.

“I'm trying to find someone who might have seen this man,” Monica pointed to the picture again, “in the vicinity of the village green at the time of Preston Crowley's murder.”

Jacy stared at the picture intently and finally picked up the clipping and held it under the light. She tapped the paper with her index finger, which had a large Band-Aid wrapped around it.

“This fellow does look familiar. I've seen him coming and going from the Pepper Pot while they've been working on it.”

“Can you remember if you saw him the opening night of the Winter Walk?”

Monica realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush.

“Yes, I'm quite certain I did. It was right before that sleigh came barreling down the street and scared everyone half to death.” She tapped the picture again. “He was moving quickly—almost running—with his coat flying wide open, even though it was mighty cold that day.”

Monica left Bijou feeling so exhilarated she didn't even notice that the temperature had dropped yet again and the wind off the lake had picked up even more.

She finally had a lead—a solid lead. Jacy was quite certain she'd seen Roger Tripp—running furiously—at the time of the murder. It looked as if he had been in the right place at the right time. That, combined with a strong motive for hating Crowley, made him the perfect suspect.

Monica ducked into the diner and slipped into a vacant booth. They were getting ready to close—the waitress was collecting salt and pepper shakers on a tray and giving the tables a final swipe with a cloth.

She stomped over to where Monica was sitting.

“Yeah?” She pulled her pad out of her pocket. “You want something to eat because the kitchen is about to close.”

“No, no, just a cup of coffee.”

The woman grunted and walked back behind the counter where the dregs of the day's coffee sat warming on a hot pad.

Monica wasn't interested in the coffee—she just wanted a warm, quiet place to make a phone call. She dug around in her purse and pulled out her cell phone and a dog-eared business card.

Monica was punching in the numbers when the waitress appeared with her coffee, banging it down on the table so that it sloshed over the rim of the cup and into the saucer. While Monica waited for the phone to be answered, she picked up the cup and slid a napkin underneath to soak up the drips.

Finally her call went through.

“Detective Stevens, please.”

Another interminable wait while the waitress continued to glare at Monica, and Gus, behind the grill, banged implements around as if to emphasize the point that they were waiting for her to drink her coffee so they could close.

Monica did her best to ignore them as she waited. Finally, she was rewarded when Detective Stevens's voice came over the line.

Monica identified herself and proceeded to tell Stevens what she'd discovered about Roger Tripp and how Jacy Belair claimed to have seen him running from something the afternoon of the Winter Walk.

Stevens sounded half doubtful and half amused but promised Monica she would follow up on the lead. Monica clicked off the call feeling that if Stevens had been in the room and not on the other end of the telephone line, she would have patted Monica on the head and said,
My, what a bright girl you are
.

She took a gulp of her coffee, which, as she had suspected, was bitter and burnt tasting. She pulled a couple of bills out of her wallet, tossed them on the table and got up to leave. Monica hadn't taken more than a step down the sidewalk when she heard the click of the front door of the diner being locked behind her.

She shivered as the cold wind slipped down the neck of her coat and up the sleeves. She began to walk faster, anxious to get inside her car and turn on the heat. She was almost there when she had a thought. Maybe the young man who had been tasked with keeping track of the horse that was meant to pull the sleigh had seen Tripp in the vicinity. Surely it was worth asking him.

The only problem, of course, was that Monica had no idea who he was. But she had a pretty good idea who would know—Hennie and Gerda VanVelsen. She turned on her heel, pulled her collar up around her ears and headed toward Gumdrops—she ought to be able to catch up with the sisters before they closed for the day.

Hennie was about to lock the front door to the shop when Monica pushed it open. The older woman was holding a large ring dripping with keys that made her look like the chatelaine of an old castle.

“Hello, dear,” Hennie greeted Monica warmly. “We were about to close, but if there's something you need . . .”

The curtain to the back room rattled, was pushed aside and Gerda entered the shop. “I heard voices, Hennie. Is there someone—” She stopped short when she saw Monica. “Oh, hello, dear.”

The shop smelled of sugar and spice. Monica took a deep breath. Entering Gumdrops was a bit like entering a magical kingdom made of candy. The VanVelsen twins
contributed to the illusion, looking as if they had just stepped out of a Disney movie.

“Is it some of the Wilhelmina peppermints you're after?” Hennie's hand hovered over a tin of the mints.

“Yes,” Monica blurted out. “I'll definitely take some peppermints.” It didn't seem right not to buy something when she was holding the sisters up. No doubt they had a pot of erwtensoep—Dutch pea soup—waiting on the stove for their dinner.

“Have you learned anything new about Crowley's murder?” Hennie asked as she slid Monica's purchase into a white paper bag with
Gumdrops
on the front in candy-colored letters.

Monica handed her a bill and took the package in exchange.

“I do have a lead. I've been showing a picture of Roger Tripp, the owner of the Pepper Pot, around town. He had good reason to dislike Crowley, and Jacy Belair, who owns Bijou, claims to have seen him running furiously right before the sleigh with Crowley's body came flying down the street.”

“Well!” Hennie exclaimed, and Gerda nodded her head in agreement.

Hennie leaned across the counter. “It sounds like you're making progress. What do the police think—have you heard?”

Monica scowled. “I passed the information on to Detective Stevens, but I don't think she was terribly impressed with my detective skills.”

“But surely she'll check it out?”

“I hope so.”

Hennie shook her head. “That Belair woman seems a
bit flighty to me. I understand she's from down South somewhere. I don't know how good of a witness she'd make.”

Gerda frowned at her sister. “Don't forget that our dear mother's second cousin once removed on her father's side was from Charleston.”

Hennie snorted. “I don't know that that exactly makes us Southerners. The connection is terribly remote.”

“That's true.” Gerda fiddled with the strand of pearls around her neck.

“Still, the police might take the information more seriously if it can be corroborated by someone else,” Monica said. “That's why I thought I would talk to the boy who was responsible for looking after the horse and sleigh. Perhaps he also saw Tripp in the area that afternoon.”

Gerda and Hennie looked at each other.

“That's Penny Kuiper's oldest boy—Ryan,” Hennie said. “He gets his red hair from his great-grandmother.”

Gerda nodded. “Penny's grandmother—Ryan's great-grandmother—was in our class at Cranberry Cove High. Viola was good at languages, as I recall.” Gerda laughed. “I'm afraid I have a tin ear myself.”

“Me, too. Although we did learn Dutch from our parents,” Hennie said. “Viola's daughter was a bit of a disappointment. Married twice, then ran off a third time with a Fuller Brush salesman.” Hennie shook her head. “Penny grew up with her father—he was the second husband, mind you. She didn't have any children with the first husband. If I recall, that marriage lasted less than a year.”

Monica wondered how she could bring the subject back to the present generation and Ryan Kuiper.

Hennie clapped her hands together. “But I don't suppose
you're interested in all that. When you get to be our age, memories are all you have.” She smiled at Monica.

“Do you happen to know where I can find Ryan Kuiper?”

“He used to work at the drugstore here in town—after school and on weekends. Rode his bike into town every day—the Kuipers live way out near Old Bridge Road. I suppose he still works there?” Hennie looked at Gerda, and she nodded.

“He was there just the other day when I went in to pick up my prescription. Dr. Vredevoodg gave me something for my acid stomach.”

Monica glanced at her watch. “What time does the drugstore close?”

“Not until nine o'clock, dear. You've plenty of time.”

•   •   •

Once outside Gumdrops, Monica hesitated. It was getting late, and she had no idea what time her mother had planned dinner for. Of course, the drugstore was on her way to the car—surely she ought to see if she could speak to Ryan now? It wouldn't take that long to show him the newspaper clipping and see if he recognized Roger Tripp.

The Cranberry Cove Drugstore was ready for St. Valentine's Day with red, white and pink hearts liberally sprinkled throughout. The row of Christmas cards that had been going for half price had been replaced with a selection of Valentine's Day cards and a smattering of St. Patrick's Day cards. The owners of the Cranberry Cove Drugstore believed in looking ahead.

The store was quiet, with one customer waiting at the
prescription desk and a father and his two children at the soda counter digging into hot chocolate topped with a swirling mound of whipped cream. Monica went up and down the empty aisles until she came to a young man with a shock of red hair stocking the shelves in the grocery aisle. Along with the usual drugstore fare, the store stocked canned goods like soup and tuna, cleaning products and frozen dinners, ice cream and pizza.

Monica approached him quietly, pretending to study the array of room deodorizers on the shelf in front of her. She glanced at Ryan out of the corner of her eye. He was tall and gangly, with a mop of hair that fell over his forehead and a crop of angry-looking acne on his chin.

He was putting out the last packages of toilet paper from the carton on the dolly next to him when Monica turned to him.

“Are you Ryan Kuiper by any chance?”

He looked startled, and for a minute, Monica thought he would deny it. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down a few times before he answered.

“Yeah.” It was more of a grunt than an actual word.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question? I'm Monica Albertson, by the way.”

He looked around as if he was scoping out an avenue of escape.

Monica held out her hand, and he stared at it for a moment before switching the roll of toilet paper he was holding to the other hand and shaking hers.

His hand was clammy. Monica got the impression that he was scared. But of what?

“You were in charge of the horse and sleigh the afternoon of the opening of the Winter Walk, is that right?”
Monica made it sound more like a statement than a question.

“Yes. Jingle Bells.”

“Pardon?”

“The horse. Her name is Jingle Bells. She lives on the farm down the road. I used to ride her when I was a kid. That was why Mr. Crowley asked me.”

“To watch out for her?”

“Yeah.” He stuck his finger in the roll of toilet paper and spun it around and around.

“Where did you stay with the horse while you waited for Miss Winter Walk?”

“Near the village green. They brought the sled over on a truck on account of there wasn't any snow yet. Jingle Bells came in her trailer, like she normally would.”

“Were you with Jingle Bells the whole time?”

Ryan picked at the bit of acne on his chin. “The police already asked me that,” he said, his eyes sliding away from Monica's.

“So you never left Jingle Bells and went off somewhere to . . . to meet someone or do something?”

“Why should I?” Ryan replied in a voice that would have sounded challenging if it hadn't cracked halfway through the sentence.

“I don't know,” Monica said. She stuck a hand in her purse and pulled out the now rather worn clipping from the newspaper. She unfolded it and held it in front of Ryan. “Do you recognize this man?”

He brushed the hair away from his eyes and stared at the picture. “I don't know his name.”

“That's okay. I'm wondering if he looks familiar and if you might have seen him around the horse or sleigh.”

“Maybe.” Ryan picked at his chin again. “I might have.” He shook his head and his bangs flopped up and down. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did.”

He looked at Monica, but again his eyes didn't meet hers. It wasn't exactly the corroboration she was looking for.

“One more thing.” Monica smiled at Ryan reassuringly.

“Okay.”

“You never left the horse or the sleigh, right?”

He nodded and twirled the roll of toilet paper around his finger again.

“But if you didn't leave the horse at any time for any reason, how did Mayor Crowley's body get in the sleigh? You would have to have seen something.”

A panicky look crossed Ryan's face, and he turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Boss wants me,” he said before taking off at a trot.

Funny, Monica thought, she hadn't heard anyone calling him.

•   •   •

Monica headed toward home, hoping that she wasn't going to be late for dinner. Even so, it had been worth it. Like Jacy, Ryan thought he'd seen Tripp around the murder scene. And even though he swore to the contrary, Ryan was obviously lying about never having left the horse and sleigh alone.

Monica was surprised to see Gina's car when she pulled into the driveway. Had the traffic accident caused Nancy and Gina to bury the hatchet for real this time?