Berry the Hatchet (19 page)

Monica and Nora stood stock-still, staring at the bit of cloth and feathers that Monica had dropped on the floor.

“Someone must have slipped that into my apron pocket when no one was looking.”

“But why?” Nora poked at the doll with the toe of her shoe. “Who would do something like that?” She turned to Monica with a worried look on her face. “It's meant to be bad luck, isn't it?” Her eyes were huge behind her round glasses. “I've heard that people can . . . can die from the spell it casts.”

At first Monica couldn't imagine who would have done such a thing, but realization dawned on her with the force of a punch to the stomach. It had to have been the murderer. She must have touched a nerve, and he or she was trying to scare her off.

She started to shiver. “I think you have to believe in it for it to be effective.” She knew she'd read that somewhere,
and she devoutly hoped it was true. Because she didn't believe in voodoo—not one single bit.

Nora looked at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. It's the shock. I'll be fine.” She plopped down on the wooden bench by the door to the shop—a spot where bored husbands usually sat while their wives looked around. She looked at Nora. “Can you remember who stopped by today? Anyone familiar?”

Nora wrinkled her nose. “There was Brenda Hyder—her son is in my son's class.” Nora rolled her eyes. “He's something of the class troublemaker from what I've heard.” Nora took off her glasses and polished them with her apron. “One woman reeked of perfume—it made me sneeze—and she wore all these bracelets that tinkled together when she moved her arm. Then there was this terribly thin woman—she smelled of cigarettes and that was almost worse. I didn't think anyone still smoked these days.”

None of the descriptions rang a bell with Monica.

“And that couple from out of town, of course.” Nora wrinkled her forehead. “Others as well . . . but no one stands out particularly. Sorry.”

Monica waved a hand. “That's fine.”

The doll was still on the floor. Nora poked it with her toe again.

“What should we do with it?” She shuddered. “I don't even want to touch it.”

“I'm going to show it to Detective Stevens.” Monica gingerly picked the doll up by its foot.

“You think it has something to do with Preston Crowley's murder?”

“I don't know. It could be someone pulling a prank—
some kid who thought it would be funny. But I don't think that seems very likely, do you?”

Nora shook her head. “No, I'm afraid not.” She pointed at the doll. “Do you want something to wrap that in? I have a clean handkerchief in my purse.”

“I don't think the police will be able to get any fingerprints off of it,” Monica said.

“True, but I don't want you to prick yourself with that pin again.” Nora retrieved her purse from behind the counter, opened it and handed Monica a plain white handkerchief.

Monica wrapped the voodoo doll in it carefully and placed it on the counter. She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and dialed the police station. The dispatcher promised to send someone around as soon as possible.

Monica heard the sound of a car's engine and glanced out the window. The car pulled into a space, and a young couple got out.

They wandered around the shop, and Monica was pleased when, after sampling some of her jellies and salsa, they purchased several jars to take home.

They were leaving when Monica heard the sound of another car. The door opened and Detective Stevens walked in. “Long time, no see,” she said as she pulled off her gloves and blew on her chapped and reddened hands.

“I'll be glad when this winter is over,” she said unwinding her scarf and loosening her coat. “Getting the baby ready to go out in this weather takes an eternity. I can't wait until I can walk outside with him in his onesie with bare feet.” She smiled. “He definitely doesn't like socks—kicks them off every time I put them on him.”

Nora smiled back. “Try getting him a pair of soft booties with laces. Even though it will take a few minutes to get them on, he won't be able to take them off and you'll save time in the long run.”

“Thanks, I'll try that.” Stevens pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of her coat. “Do you want to show me what you found?”

Monica led her over to the counter, where the voodoo doll lay wrapped in Nora's handkerchief. She slowly peeled back the fabric and stood back so Stevens could examine the doll.

Stevens rolled the doll over with the tip of her pen. “Not much of a chance of fingerprints, but it's best to be cautious.” She pulled her camera from her other pocket and took several photographs of the doll—front and back.

She put her camera away and turned to Monica. “You found this where?”

Monica stuck her hand in her apron's pocket. “In here. I was looking for a tissue and pricked my finger on that.” She pointed to the pin protruding from the doll's chest.

“Where do you normally keep your apron?”

Monica led her over to the hook in the wall next to the counter.

Stevens looked around. “So if someone wanted to access your apron, they wouldn't have to go behind the counter.” She looked from Nora to Monica. “If someone went behind the counter, I'm sure you would have noticed.”

Nora turned slightly red. “I did leave the counter for a moment.” She glanced at Monica apologetically. “To use the
ladies' room
.” She whispered the last two words.

Stevens looked surprised. “You were alone in the shop?”

“We don't worry too much about shoplifting,” Monica explained. “It's never been a real problem.”

Stevens nodded. “Fortunately for all of us, Cranberry Cove is hardly a hotbed of crime.” She made a face. “Except for these murders, of course. And the one last fall. Let's hope that doesn't become a pattern. Was anyone in the shop when you came back out of the ladies' room?”

Nora squeezed her eyes shut. “I think so. A couple of people maybe.”

“Can you remember what they looked like?”

“I think there was a couple wearing fancy parkas . . . no, wait, that was later.” She shrugged. “People come and go all day. I'm afraid I don't pay much attention—except to provide customer service, of course.”

Stevens gave one last look at the doll, touching the pin with the tip of her ballpoint. “Do you have any idea why someone would put this in your apron pocket?”

Monica hesitated. “I don't know. My first thought was that it was a prank of some sort.”

“And your second thought?” Stevens asked with a wry smile.

“That someone is trying to scare me.”

Stevens tilted her head. “Do you have any idea why someone would do that—try to scare you?”

“I don't know,” Monica said. “Maybe they think I know something . . . something I don't even realize I know.”

Stevens tapped her pen against the counter. “I don't like this.” She shook her head. “If someone is trying to scare you, who's to say they'll stop at this?” She nudged the doll.

Suddenly the import of what had happened hit Monica full force. What would the killer do next?

Stevens scratched her head. “Where would you get a voodoo doll anyway?” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe that shop—Twilight. The one Tempest Storm owns. That knife was from her shop, too.”

“I don't think Tempest would carry something like a voodoo doll. That's not the sort of thing she's into at all. Besides, there are other people who had a reason to hate Preston. Roger Tripp, for instance. Preston held up the permit on his restaurant so it couldn't open in time for the Winter Walk. Preston didn't want any competition for his restaurant at the Cranberry Cove Inn. Or . . . or Jacy Belair. Greg Harper saw her and Preston arguing quite heatedly.”

Stevens looked doubtful. “Still I'll send someone around to check.”

She folded the handkerchief back around the doll and carefully slipped it into a plastic evidence bag she pulled from her purse. She turned to Monica, her expression serious. “If anything suspicious happens—anything at all—call nine-one-one immediately. If it turns out to be nothing—great. But if it doesn't, I want someone on the spot as quickly as possible.”

Stevens placed the evidence bag with the doll in her purse and began to do up her coat again and rewind her scarf.

She had her hand on the door when she turned around suddenly. “Please be careful. Don't be a hero, okay?”

•   •   •

Stevens left, and after checking that Nora could handle things, Monica went home. She spent several long minutes sitting on the couch in her living room, staring at the wall. She had to admit she was scared—the voodoo doll had
frightened her, but Stevens's words had scared her even more. The killer must have gotten wind of her snooping and obviously suspected she knew something—but what?

“You must be starving.” Nancy's voice startled her, and she spun around. Monica hadn't heard her come down the stairs. “Or did you get lunch in town?”

Monica shook her head. She was starving, she realized suddenly. She followed her mother out to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents. Nothing appealed to her. She closed the door, turned around and noticed the cranberry raisin and pecan bread she'd made that morning but hadn't yet sampled. She'd toast a piece of that and have it along with a dab of cranberry orange preserves and a boiled egg.

“Would you like to try a piece of bread? It's a new recipe I've concocted.”

“Thank you, dear, that would be lovely.”

Monica put a pan of water on the stove to boil and retrieved an egg from the refrigerator. She'd been looking into keeping a few chickens and thought she might start when summer came. They could sell the fresh eggs at the farm store.

While Monica waited for the bread to toast and her egg to cook, she thought of telling her mother about the voodoo doll but decided against it. Nancy would worry and what good would that do?

Monica put a slice of bread on each of two plates and set them on the table, then got the butter dish and a jar of cranberry orange preserves from the fridge.

She took a bite of the bread before buttering it and rolled it around in her mouth, testing the flavor and texture. It was quite good. The sweetness of the raisins counteracted the
tartness of the cranberries and the pecans added a nice crunch.

“What do you think?” Monica asked Nancy as she added butter and preserves to the rest of her slice.

Nancy nibbled on the end, closing her eyes as she analyzed the taste.

“Delicious,” she said finally, opening her eyes. “Really excellent. You've turned into a spectacular baker!” She tapped her plate with her index finger. “People are going to come to Cranberry Cove just to get a taste of your wonderful treats.”

Monica tried to hide the glow of satisfaction she felt. She was proud of her baking skills. Now if only her sleuthing skills were as good.

As Monica cleared away the dishes after they'd finished their bread, she thought about Crowley's murder. She wished there was someone she could bounce ideas off of—sort of like a modern day Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Although she suspected she was more Watson than Sherlock.

She was wiping down the counter when the thought came to her—she'd talk to Greg. He was smart, observant, analytical, and he knew his way around a mystery.

Monica finished cleaning up the kitchen, called to her mother that she was going out and quickly headed back into town. The roads were slipperier than they had been earlier, and Monica mentally crossed her fingers as the Focus churned its way up the hill between Sassamanash Farm and Cranberry Cove.

The downside of the hill was a bit like an amusement ride, with her little car skidding and slipping and sliding.
But ultimately she made it to the bottom of the hill and back onto flat ground.

Beach Hollow Road was nearly deserted when Monica got there. There were two cars parked in front of the diner—one in front of the drugstore, one in front of the hardware store—and the rest of the spaces were empty. She pulled into a spot right in front of Book 'Em, grateful that she didn't have to brave the snow and wind, both of which had picked up in the last hour, for more than a few feet.

Book 'Em was empty when Monica pushed open the door, but Greg soon came out from the back room, drying his hands on a paper towel.

“What a pleasant surprise. I was considering closing since all my customers seem to have been frightened away by the snow.” He squeezed Monica's arm and gave her a light kiss. “What brings you out in such foul weather? Of course I always suspected you were the intrepid sort.”

“It's Crowley's murder.”

“Have there been some new developments?” Greg tossed his paper towel into a nearby trashcan.

“Yes, and I'd like your thoughts on what I've learned so far.”

“You're playing at being Miss Marple, aren't you?” Greg teased. “Although you're far too young and pretty for that part . . . Nora Charles, maybe?” He grinned. “I hope that means I get to play Nick.”

Monica did her best to stem the blush she could feel rising from her neck to her face. Sadly, her attempt was an abysmal failure, and she knew she was as red as one of the cherry lollipops the VanVelsens sold in Gumdrops.

“Come on. Let's make ourselves a cup of tea.” Greg stopped. “Or, would you prefer coffee?”

“Tea would be wonderful.”

Monica followed him into the back room. While he fiddled with the tea things, she tried to organize her thoughts so she could present everything in as logical a fashion as possible.

Greg heated water in two mugs in the microwave and dug tea bags out of a very cluttered cupboard. When the microwave dinged, he retrieved the cups and plopped in the tea bags. He handed one of the mugs to Monica and stirred some sugar into the other one for himself.

“Let's go sit down.”

He led Monica to the corner of the bookshop and a worn brown corduroy sofa that was sagging in the middle. Monica sat down and suddenly felt as if she were falling down a hole—the ancient cushions having been reduced to little more than bare springs.

“One minute,” Greg said, jumping up and heading toward the cashier's desk, where he retrieved a yellow legal pad and a pen. “We can make a list of everything that's relevant,” he said as he plunked down on the opposite side of the sofa, sending a tidal wave of undulating cushions over to where Monica was sitting.

He put his mug on the floor, then held his pen poised above the pad. “Okay, what do we already know?”

Monica thought for a moment. “Ryan was lured away from the horse and sleigh with a note from his former girlfriend, Candy. She wanted him to meet her in the gazebo.”

“And why is that significant?” Greg raised his rather shaggy eyebrows.

“Her landlady said that Candy suddenly came into money but at the same time she began acting as if she was frightened of something . . . or someone.”

Greg scribbled some notes on his pad. “Could someone have paid Candy to lure Ryan from the scene?”

“Yes, I think that's possible—probable even, given that she came into some money. And she was scared. I gather Candy wasn't all that smart but she must have had enough native intelligence—or survival instinct—to realize that she was in danger from the killer, given what she knew.”

“What else?” Greg retrieved his mug from the floor and took a sip.

“The killer is female. Unless they hatched some incredibly complicated plan to throw everyone off the track.”

“And what makes you think that?” Greg held his pen poised above his pad.

“Tempest found a very unique button on the floor of her shop. It obviously came from a woman's garment.” Monica ticked the items off on her fingers. “And a coat—again, a woman's—was found buried in the sand pile at Sassamanash Farms. The police have sent it to be analyzed, but it looked as if there was blood on the front of it.”

“I didn't know that,” Greg said as he scribbled more notes.

“And the buttons on the coat matched the one found in Tempest's shop. I think the killer lost it when she stole the athame from Twilight.”

Greg tapped his pen against the pad. “Quite likely,” he murmured.

The cushions on the worn and rickety old sofa canted toward the center, and Monica eventually found herself thigh-to-thigh with Greg. The warmth was very pleasing, and she found herself relaxing for the first time in a long time.

“Anything else?”

Monica hesitated. She hadn't told her mother about the voodoo doll. Should she tell Greg? But Greg wasn't her mother—he was grounded, down-to-earth and not likely to panic.

“Today at the farm store I found a voodoo doll had been put in the pocket of my apron.”

“What?” Greg bolted upright, sending shock waves through the worn sofa cushions. “I don't like that. I don't like that one bit.” He turned to Monica and took her hands in his. “Promise me you'll be careful? We're dealing with a murderer who has killed twice already. She won't hesitate to kill again if she feels threatened.”

Monica felt a chill wash over her despite the warmth of Greg's hands. He was right. What Monica was doing could be dangerous—very dangerous indeed.

She would just have to be more careful from now on.

•   •   •

Monica was headed toward her car when she noticed Jacy summoning her from the window of Bijou. Monica crossed the street and entered the shop.

“Hi, there,” Jacy said. “I was wondering about those amber beads. I can't get over how good they looked on you.” She smiled, reached into the counter and pulled out the necklace.

Monica looked at it longingly. “I do love them,” she admitted. “And maybe soon . . .”

“Sure.” Jacy replaced the beads. She glanced out the window. “Cold out there?”

“Yes, although the snow has stopped. I don't know about you, but I'm ready for spring.”

“Heavens, yes,” Jacy said. “And me without a winter
coat—just this old corduroy jacket that's nowhere near warm enough. I suppose I'm going to have to find the time to make a trip to that mall over near Grand Rapids. The good news is all the winter things will be on sale.” She frowned. “I'd love to get my hands on the thief who took off with my coat.”

“Your coat was stolen?”

“Yes. Can you believe it? I was dying to get out of the shop so I went down to the diner for a bite to eat. You know those hooks by the front door where everyone hangs their coats and things?”

Monica nodded.

“I hung my coat on one of those. The only seat available was a stool at the counter so I could hardly keep my coat with me. When I went to get it, it was . . . gone.” Jacy snapped her fingers. “I thought maybe somebody put their coat over mine, but no, it was missing—someone had taken it.” She let out an explosive sigh. “I gave the staff a piece of my mind, believe me.”

“Maybe someone mistook it for their coat. . . .”

Jacy shook her head. “Not likely. I've never seen anyone in town with one like it. It was cream colored with these really pretty buttons.”

Monica felt her heart speed up. “Buttons?”

“Yes. They were really unique—crystal, in the shape of a flower with dark red stones all around.”

Monica felt her jaw drop and quickly shut her mouth. The coat Jacy was describing was the one found in the sand pile out at the farm—the one with blood on it that Crowley's killer apparently wore.

If Jacy was telling the truth and her coat had been stolen, that meant the killer could have been anybody . . . including a man. Including Roger Tripp.

•   •   •

Monica nearly collided with a fellow in work boots and a heavy parka as she left Bijou.

“Sorry.”

He grunted in return.

Monica was thinking furiously. Was Jacy telling the truth? Or was she trying to cover up for the fact that she was the killer? As far as Monica knew, Jacy had no reason to hate Crowley. Greg had seen them arguing, but that didn't mean it was anything serious. People argued all the time without resorting to killing each other.

Monica was headed toward her car when she turned on her heel and began walking toward the diner. If someone could corroborate Jacy's story, that would put her in the clear. And if, as Jacy had said, she'd given the staff a piece of her mind, everyone at the diner was bound to remember it.