Berried Secrets (11 page)

As soon as she let go of Freddie, he was off again as if he'd been catapulted from a slingshot. His mother gave Monica a rueful glance as she took off in pursuit.

They caught up with Tempest, who had turned to wait for them. “I'm right over there.” She pointed to a table with three empty seats. “You go get your food, and I'll save you a place.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I don't mean to strong-arm you. If you'd rather sit somewhere else, please feel free.”

“We'd love to sit with you. Thanks for asking us.”

Monica was glad of Tempest's invitation. She had been hoping to find Greg Harper there, but she didn't see him and was disappointed. Perhaps he had changed his mind about attending.

Monica and Gina joined the line of people waiting for their meal.

“I would still have rather sent a check,” Gina whispered to Monica as they held out their plates.

A woman in an apron and a hairnet, her round face red
and perspiring, ladled a serving of spaghetti and meatballs onto each of their plates.

“Salads are over there. Help yourself.” She looked up. “Oh. You're out at Sassamanash Farm, aren't you? How are you getting on? Got the crop harvested yet?”

Once again, Monica realized that living in a small town was not unlike living in the proverbial fishbowl.

“My brother is harvesting now.”

“Got a good crop, has he?” The woman picked up a paper towel and wiped a spot of sauce off the tablecloth. She looked Gina up and down curiously. “We heard about the body.” She put her hands on her hips and blew a piece of hair that had escaped from her hairnet off her forehead. “Not surprised. Nobody around here liked Sam Culbert. Threw his weight around if you know what I mean.”

Monica nodded and smiled. “That's what I've heard.”

“Practically everyone in town had a reason to want to see him six feet under. Especially that wife of his, poor thing.”

“Really?” Monica could sense Gina's impatience to get moving, but she didn't want to lose any opportunity to learn more about Culbert.

The woman laughed. “I guess every woman would like to see her husband six feet under at some point. Still, we didn't expect Culbert to come to such an untimely end.” She gave another laugh that shook her ample belly. “That enough for you?” She gestured toward Monica and Gina's plates.

Monica looked at the generous serving. “Plenty, thank you.”

The woman nodded and reached for her spoon to serve the next person in line.

“Looks like everyone knows you already,” Gina said as they heaped salad onto their plates.

“That's small town living for you.”

A slightly worried look creased Gina's brow and was immediately gone. She probably didn't want to wrinkle her forehead, Monica thought. It was unnaturally smooth as it was, and Monica strongly suspected that Botox had been involved.

They made their way through the crowded room and back toward where Tempest was sitting.

They had just settled in with their plates when Tempest turned to Gina. “So you're opening an aromatherapy shop? It will be interesting to see what the locals make of that. I don't think a single one of them has ever darkened the doorway of Twilight. I'm sure they think I have two heads and cast spells turning men into toads.” She laughed. “Although that's not such a bad idea if you ask me.” She shook her head. “Even the yoga classes scare them, although I have a small but loyal following. I've assured the few others who have dared to ask about them that there's nothing necessarily mystical or pagan about twisting yourself into downward facing dog or triangle pose. If it were a couple of centuries ago, I'm sure they'd have burned me at the stake by now.”

“Why stay in Cranberry Cove then?” Monica put her napkin in her lap.

Tempest leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on top of the table. “It's a long story. Short version—I spent the last three years caring for my mother. When she finally passed away, I wanted something completely new and different. I liked the idea of living by the lake, the shop was available and . . .” She spread her hands open. “Here I am. And you? I've heard you've come to help your brother with the farm.”

Monica nodded.

“Do you think you'll put down roots here permanently?”

“I honestly don't know at this point.”

“And what brings you here?” Tempest turned to Gina.

Gina patted her lips with her napkin. “The usual. Divorce. Finding myself at loose ends. Wanting to be near my son.” She frowned. “I hope I've made the right decision.” Gina looked around the room. “I must say, the people here sure do help their own.”

Monica nodded. “It looks like they're going to raise a lot of money.”

“It will help. But these suppers don't really bring in all that much money. Not when you consider the work involved. I tried to tell Karla that, but she didn't want to listen.”

Tempest must have noticed the blank look on Monica's and Gina's faces.

“Karla organized the whole affair. She's Debbie's oldest friend. They met in the womb, or so they would like you to believe, and haven't been apart since. Organizing is what Karla does best. She'd organize the leaves falling off the trees in the fall if it were possible.” She shrugged. “At least it looks as if we're making an effort to help, and I suppose that's what counts.” She speared the last meatball on her plate, then glanced up at Monica and Gina. “I hope it isn't all in vain.”

Monica stopped with a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“They had to rush Debbie to the hospital the other night. I was still at the shop putting out some new stock when I heard the ambulance go screaming past. Charlie's beat-up old van wasn't far behind.”

Monica was very still. “When was this?”

“Oh.” Tempest blew out a puff of air. “It was the night before Culbert's body was found. I remember thinking about
that old saying that things come in threes. I couldn't help but wonder what would be next.”

“Do you remember what time it was?”

“Around ten o'clock maybe?” Tempest pushed her empty plate away. “I live above the shop—it isn't fancy but it sure is convenient. It was after midnight when I heard Charlie on her way home. That old rattletrap she drives makes a heck of a noise. I'd just turned off the television and was getting ready for bed when I heard it clanking and screeching down the street loud enough to wake the dead.”

Monica and Gina exchanged glances. If what Tempest said was true, and Charlie was at the hospital with her mother that night, then Mauricio didn't have an alibi. Who was to say he didn't sober up long enough to leave Primrose Cottage, drive out to Sassamanash Farm and murder Culbert?

Monica and Gina lingered at the table even after Tempest had excused herself and left for home. The noise level in the room had diminished slightly and people were sitting with their empty plates pushed away from them, their elbows on the table, enjoying quiet conversation with those around them. It was obvious no one was in any hurry to leave. Monica had the sense that they were waiting for something.

Gina turned to Monica. “How do you suppose Mauricio knew that Sam Culbert was going to be out at the farm?”

“He didn't have to. Mauricio could have called Culbert himself and told him he had something important to discuss with him and could they meet out at Sassamanash.”

Gina pursed her lips. “I suppose it's possible. It seems like a strange place to meet someone at night.” She shivered. “It would certainly creep me out.”

“But not the two of them. They were both familiar with
the farm, and they knew no one would see them there. Mauricio wouldn't want anybody to know about their meeting. Especially if he planned on killing Culbert. You've already seen how nosy a small town can be.”

Gina straightened the collar on her silk blouse. “That's for sure.”

A clanking noise came from the far corner of the room, and they both turned in that direction. The huge pots of spaghetti had been cleared from the table, and a very tall and robust-looking gray-haired woman was setting up a couple of deep fryers in their place.

“What do you suppose those are for?” Gina wrinkled her nose.

Monica shrugged. “I have no idea, but I suppose we'll find out soon enough.” She smiled. “This has been fun, don't you think?”

“I suppose so. The pasta couldn't hold a candle to the farfalle with Bolognese sauce at La Traviata though.”

Monica laughed. “I don't imagine it could. But I like the feeling of community. It's nice after being anonymous for so long in Chicago. Even the people who came to Monica's on a regular basis rarely ever acknowledged that we recognized each other.”

Someone got up from one of the tables—a man with a very broad back in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Monica peered through the gap his absence had created.

“Oh, there're the VanVelsen sisters.”

“The who?” Gina looked in the direction Monica was pointing.

“The VanVelsen twins. They own Gumdrops, the candy shop on Beach Hollow Road.”

Gina squinted into the distance. “My goodness, the two of them look exactly alike!”

“They're identical twins.”

“I thought I was seeing double,” Gina said, echoing the reaction that Monica had had on her first visit to Gumdrops.

“I'm going to go over and say hello. Do you want to—”

Gina was already shaking her head. “I'll wait for you here. To be honest with you, I'm starting to get a headache.”

“I'm sorry. Should we—”

Gina shook her head again. “No, no, I'll be fine. I'll pop a couple of aspirin while you go talk to your friends.”

Monica felt a little guilty about leaving Gina behind at the table, but if she was going to fit into the community at Cranberry Cove, she had to take every opportunity to cement friendships.

The VanVelsen sisters were in their usual pastel-colored matching outfits—pale lavender tonight. Although, for the first time since Monica had met them, their faces didn't look exactly alike: Hennie looked much the same as usual but there were lines of fatigue on Gerda's face that hadn't been there before. It made her appear slightly older than her twin.

“Any news about Midnight?” Monica asked when she reached their table.

Gerda's mouth turned down. “I'm afraid not. I think we have to prepare ourselves for the worst.” She retrieved a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed at her eyes. She turned to look at her sister. “You don't think that someone from that Twilight shop might have taken her? For some sort of black magic?” She shuddered.

“I've met the owner, and she's very nice. I don't believe for a minute that she would do something like that.” Monica
smiled gently. “Besides, I don't think they're practicing black magic at Twilight. Just doing yoga and reading tarot cards and the like.”

Gerda looked doubtful. “Mother would have said that those sorts of things are the work of the devil, designed to lead us astray.”

Hennie nodded her head.

Monica realized it was pointless to try to persuade them that that was not the case. Their beliefs were too ingrained and long held to be changed at this point. But she had to defend Tempest against cat-napping.

“Don't you suppose that Midnight has simply wandered off to have an adventure?” Monica said.

Gerda shook her head and her permed curls quivered. “Midnight has never done that before. I hope that dreadful boy who likes to tease her hasn't stolen her.” Her lower lip trembled.

“Billy Johnson?” her sister asked.

Gerda nodded. “He tied a can to her tail once. Poor little thing was nearly going crazy when I found her. I gave him a real talking-to, I can tell you that. He thought the whole thing was a joke. That boy is incorrigible. You mark my words.” She shook her finger at Monica. “He's going to cause big trouble someday if a stop isn't put to his mischief now.”

“You know what they say. Small children, small problems. Big children, big problems,” Hennie said sagely. “Although I really doubt he's had anything to do with Midnight's disappearance, I'll have a word with his mother.” She put a hand over her sister's. “Everything will turn out. I just have a feeling.”

Gerda nodded but didn't look convinced.

Monica decided it would be best to change the subject. She pointed to the table where the deep fryers had been set up. The
scent of hot oil and something sweet was beginning to fill the air. It reminded Monica of the smell at fairs and carnivals.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

A look passed between Hennie and Gerda. They were much too polite and well-bred to smirk, but their smiles suggested that Monica's question had been naïve or even downright humorous.

“They're making oliebollen for dessert, of course.”

Oliebollen?
It sounded like some sort of old-fashioned game. Monica pictured hoops and girls in crinolines and boys in short pants.

“What are oliebollen?”

Again that look passed between the two sisters.

“Well, oliebollen means
oil ball
in English, but that certainly doesn't sound very appetizing, does it?” Hennie laughed. “They're a sort of doughnut. But without the hole in the middle. The early Dutch settlers brought them here to the new world.”

Gerda nodded. “And now you have your Dunkin' Donuts and your Krispy Kremes, all because of the influence of the Dutch and their oliebollen.”

“They're normally eaten at New Year's and are a huge treat,” Hennie confided. “Mother certainly never made them at any other time of year, but I imagine the organizers wanted to give everyone something special tonight. You'll like them. They're delicious.”

Monica could hear the fat sizzling as the large woman with gray hair dropped balls of dough into the fryers. The smell was tantalizing. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the twins.

Hennie leaned toward Monica. “They'll dust them with powdered sugar after they've been fried.” She rolled her eyes
upward. “Heavenly.” She tapped Monica on the arm. “The trick is to be sure the oil is hot enough, or they'll be greasy and tough.”

Gerda had a worried look on her face. She was pleating the fabric of her skirt, running it between her thumb and forefinger. “I do hope Rieka checked the temperature of the oil before she started the frying.”

Hennie patted her sister on the arm. “I'm sure she did. Rieka has been making oliebollen for years. It's going to be fine. You worry too much,” she admonished. She turned toward Monica. “Sometimes they put currants or raisins inside.” She sniffed. “Frankly, I prefer mine plain.”

Monica had a sudden thought. Could she make oliebollen with cranberries mixed in? Probably not. It would be impossible to keep them fresh enough. By the time she got them from her kitchen to the store, they'd most likely be a sodden mess.

Hennie leaned closer to Monica. “Has there been any word about . . . you know?”

Monica had been afraid of that—people asking questions about the investigation. She almost hadn't come tonight because of it. Was the word around town still that Jeff was the culprit? She couldn't bear it if it was.

She shook her head and looked down at her hands. Surely she could bring up some topic that would steer the conversation in another direction.

“Oh, look. Cora is here,” Gerda said. “I'm glad she could get away. That poor woman needs a break.”

“Who is Cora?” Monica asked feeling at sea once again.

“She's a waitress at the Cranberry Cove Diner,” Hennie said, her tone clearly indicating she was incredulous that Monica didn't already know that.

“She used to own a beauty parlor in town,” Gerda confided. “She was one of the few hairdressers around who still knew how to do a marcel wave.”

“Why did she close her salon?” Monica thought it was far preferable to run a hairdressing salon than being run off your feet all day at the Cranberry Cove Diner.

“It was such a shame.” Gerda shook her head and her silver curls quivered again.

“Yes,” Hennie agreed. “All because of greed.” She looked at Monica. “How much money does one man need? Money is the root of all evil, they say.”

“I don't understand—”

“It was all Sam Culbert's fault,” Hennie said in a tone that suggested that
that was that.

“He used to be such a nice boy,” Gerda said. “He delivered our paper.” She turned to her sister. “Do you remember, Hennie?”

Hennie nodded. “Yes. And he was quite the star on the Cranberry Cove High School football team, if I remember correctly. Don't know why he turned out the way he did.”

Monica was busy trying to make a connection between Cora's beauty parlor and Sam Culbert.

“And she wasn't the only one.” Hennie took a sip of her water. “There was the fishmonger George—what was his name?”

Gerda wrinkled her brow. “Kuipers, wasn't it? I wonder what happened to him?”

“He moved away, I think.”

“I know Cora even went to Sam Culbert and begged him to reconsider.”

“But what did Sam Culbert do—” Monica started to ask.

“He raised the rent,” Hennie said in a tone that suggested everyone ought to know that. “He owns half the buildings on Beach Hollow Road. He put poor Cora's beauty salon out of business. The fishmonger, too. Don't know what happened to George, but Cora made the best of things by taking a job at the Cranberry Cove Diner.”

“She didn't want to leave Cranberry Cove. Her mother is still alive, and Cora looks in on her every day,” Gerda explained.

“She resented Sam Culbert something fierce.”

Hennie nodded. “That's for sure. I don't imagine she's going to waste any tears over Sam's death.”

But did Cora resent Sam Culbert enough to kill him? Monica wondered as she made her way back to where Gina was sitting. A gentleman was relaxing in the chair Monica had recently vacated. He was handsome with thick, wavy gray hair and a sharply chiseled profile. He was wearing a sport coat with suede patches on the elbows and a pair of expensive-looking leather driving shoes.

“Excuse me,” he said, jumping to his feet as Monica approached. “I'm afraid I've taken your place.” He turned to Gina. “It was lovely talking to you. I am sure we'll see each other again.”

“Who was that?” Monica asked after he had left. She plopped into the chair. Gina was looking considerably brighter, she noticed.

“That's Preston Crowley. He's the owner of the Cranberry Cove Inn. He just stopped by to drop off a check for Debbie's fund.”

“I guess Sam Culbert didn't own everything in town then.” Monica looked over her shoulder at Gina's companion, who was making his way toward the exit. “He looks very nice.”

“He is. He said he would take me sailing one of these days. He has a boat docked here in the marina.” Gina smiled. “Things are looking up in Cranberry Cove, that's for sure.”

Monica was about to ask Gina if she wanted to try some of the oliebollen—the smell had been tempting Monica long enough—when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned around. It was Lauren—the girl Jeff had been dating. Her face was drawn and she looked as if she might cry at any moment.

“Is Jeff here with you?” she asked. “I'd hoped to see him tonight.”

“I'm afraid he was too tired to come with us. He just wanted to put his feet up in front of the television and eat one of those dreadful microwave dinners he subsists on.”

Lauren gave a fleeting smile. She glanced at Gina then back at Monica. “Could I talk to you for a moment, please?”