Berried Grievances, page 1
Berried Grievances
The Fourth of July always means endless celebrations in Cranberry Cove, and this year Monica and Greg have the added pleasure of spending it with Monica’s college roommate, Kelly Cargill. When they join Kelly and her family to watch the fireworks, it’s all very exciting—until the elderly matriarch of the family dies on the spot. Then evidence comes to light that she was poisoned, and Monica promises to do what she can to catch the culprit.
Just about everyone in Kelly’s family wanted to get their hands on what was sure to be a sizable inheritance. But Monica also discovers that one of them was trying to hide a messy love affair the older woman had discovered, and that the victim’s caretaker may have wanted revenge for enduring years of mistreatment. And just as more secrets surface and the clues begin to fall into place, Monica realizes that as she’s closing in on the killer, the killer is closing in on her . . .
Title Page

Copyright
Berried Grievances
Peg Cochran
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2023 by Peg Cochran
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-960511-22-5
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Recipe
Books by Peg Cochran
About the Author
Chapter 1
Monica Albertson buzzed down the window of her husband Greg’s Volvo station wagon—which was nearly old enough to be considered vintage—and breathed deeply as cool, fresh air blew in and ruffled her hair. They were approaching downtown Cranberry Cove and dusk was hovering on the horizon. Greg flicked on his headlights.
The sun was hanging low over Lake Michigan and the shadows were deepening.
The breeze whipped the waves rolling in on the lake and created tiny bubbles that floated like foam on top of the water.
Cranberry Cove had gone all out for the Fourth of July. Flags hung from every building, bunting was stretched across Beach Hollow Road from one side to the other, and red and white geraniums bloomed in the baskets hanging from the streetlamps.
The road was dotted with colorful bits of confetti flung here and there during the parade that morning when children scrambled for the candy thrown by Miss Cranberry Cove Fourth of July and her attendants as they rode past in a bright white convertible.
Monica and Greg passed the traveling carnival that had come to town and had been set up in an empty field. The shouts of the barkers and the tinny music from the carousel drifted on the air. Monica sniffed. She smelled something frying—funnel cakes most likely. She used to beg for those when her parents took her to county fairs, although for a long time—after she’d eaten too many and had been sick—she had shied away from them.
They were headed to the Cranberry Cove Inn, set on a bluff above the lake, to join Monica’s college roommate, Kelly Cargill, who was staying there with her family. She’d invited Monica and Greg to join them on the terrace for drinks and the Fourth of July fireworks show.
The parking lot was nearly full when they arrived. Greg squeezed into a space between a Ford Explorer and a Toyota. Two cars down from theirs was a bright blue sports car.
Greg walked over to it and whistled appreciatively. “Look at this baby. Isn’t she a beauty?”
Monica wondered why, like with boats, all cars were assumed to be female?
“What kind of car is it?” Monica said. Her knowledge of cars was limited to the ones that were easily recognizable, like VW Beetles and MINI Coopers.
“You don’t usually see these around here—in Beverly Hills maybe but not Cranberry Cove. “It’s a Lamborghini,” Greg said, his eyes round with awe.
“Yes.” A man came up behind them, startling Monica. “It’s a Lamborghini Aventador. Max speed of three hundred fifty-five kilometers per hour.”
“She’s a real beauty,” Greg said as he took Monica’s arm and began to lead her to the entrance to the inn.
The lobby was bustling with groups of people scattered around the huge stone fireplace, chatting, drinks in hand. The occasional peal of laughter mingling with the tinkling of ice against glasses echoed off the high beamed ceiling.
Monica waved to Dawn Dykema, who was manning the front desk. Her husband Bart owned Bart’s Butcher Shop in town, which he’d taken over from his father and was a Cranberry Cove fixture.
Greg put a hand on the small of Monica’s back and guided her gently across the room toward the door to the terrace.
She was nearly waddling, Monica thought as they made their way through the crowd—now that the baby was only a few weeks off. She hadn’t put on a lot of weight but what she had gained was all out in front, which Janice, her new helper at the farm kitchen, had insisted meant she was carrying a boy.
She felt as lumbering as an elephant, although Greg had assured her that wasn’t the case. The baby protested, giving Monica a sharp jab in the ribs, and she had to stop for a moment to catch her breath.
“Are you okay? Is it time?” Greg asked anxiously, his brows raised in alarm. “It’s still a bit early, isn’t it?”
He had been asking her that for the past two weeks and Monica tried to remain patient as she reassured him that she would let him know the minute her labor started.
Kelly was waiting for them outside. The flagstone terrace sat up high and offered an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan a short distance beyond. Several barges were anchored offshore as the fireworks crew waited for the sun to go down to begin the show.
Numerous round tables were arranged around the terrace, their bright blue umbrellas closed now like morning glories at the end of the day. A waiter circulated among them with a tray laden with various drinks.
Kelly jumped up from her seat when she saw Monica and Greg approach, her hands extended.
“Monica!” she exclaimed, taking Monica’s hands in hers. “And this must be Greg.” She motioned toward the empty chairs around the table. “The rest of the family should be along any minute now.” She turned to Monica. “Do you remember my aunt Violet Cargill? She visited me at school once during our freshman year.”
“Vaguely,” Monica said, trying to conjure up an image of Kelly’s aunt.
Kelly jumped up from her seat again. “Here she is now.”
Monica turned toward the door. An elderly, frail-looking woman was making her way toward their table. She was leaning on the arm of another woman who looked to be slightly younger although well past middle age. Violet had silver hair shaped into a twist and piercing blue eyes that Monica couldn’t help but noticing even at this distance.
She was wearing flowing linen pants and a tunic-length top in the same fabric, which Monica recognized as being from a designer whose clothes had a particularly high price tag. A heavy gold chain with a diamond and carnelian pendant hanging from it was around her neck.
Unbidden, a waiter bustled over with a padded chaise longue that he pulled up close to the table. Violet’s companion helped her onto it and tucked her in with the light blanket she’d been carrying over her arm.
Kelly introduced the woman as Edith Evans, a longtime friend of her aunt who served as her companion. Unlike Violet, Edith was the sort who went unnoticed in a group—hair halfway between blond and brown, hazel eyes and a pale complexion.
“My aunt suffers from diabetes and a heart condition,” Kelly whispered to Monica and Greg as Violet got settled and Edith sat down beside her watching over her protectively.
“We’re here,” a voice called as the door to the terrace opened.
A young man hurr ied over to Violet, bent and kissed her on the cheek. It was the fellow they’d met in the parking lot who owned the Lamborghini.
“My grandson, Aston Cargill.” Violet beamed, taking hold of Aston’s hand.
“Hey.” He looked at Monica and Greg and nodded in recognition.
He was good-looking and Monica suspected he knew it. He was tall, had blond hair streaked white from the sun and a deep tan. He’d popped the collar on his navy blue polo shirt, which was tucked into distressed white jeans.
Monica almost didn’t notice the woman who had followed behind him and had silently joined their table. She was in her forties but obviously trying to look younger. Her hair was dyed red, her eyelashes were false and her forehead was so smooth, Monica strongly suspected she’d had work done. The huge emerald-cut diamond on her finger was blinding and extended nearly to her knuckle.
“Oh, and this is Sherry Cargill,” Kelly said. She smiled apologetically at Sherry. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there for a minute.” She turned back to Monica. “She’s my uncle Ray’s wife.” She leaned closer to Monica and whispered, “Second wife.”
“Late to the party as always,” Violet said as another woman took a seat on the other side of her. “My sister Beatrice.” She waved a languid hand weighed down by heavy gold rings toward the woman.
Beatrice had the same patrician features as her sister but her slumped posture made the effect less impressive. She nodded at everyone with a pained smile.
“Here’s Uncle Ray,” Kelly said, motioning toward a man headed in their direction.
He grunted a greeting as he pulled out an empty chair and collapsed into it.
His hairline was receding, leaving an expanse of shiny scalp visible and his chin was sagging over the collar of his shirt, but it was still possible to see that he’d been quite handsome in his youth. He was wearing khaki trousers, a brown polo shirt and a well-worn pair of boat shoes.
“Uncle Ray owns Cargill Newspapers,” Kelly said to Monica and Greg. “They publish papers all over the country—even your Cranberry Cove Chronicle.
“He must do quite well,” Greg whispered to Monica. “Did you notice his wife’s engagement ring?”
Monica widened her eyes. “You can’t miss it.”
Ray snapped his fingers for the waiter, who sprinted to their table, his empty tray tucked under his arm.
They ordered drinks all around—a vodka on the rocks for Ray, a white Russian for Sherry, beers for Aston and Greg and flavored seltzer for the rest.
The waiter left and Ray turned to Aston. “All set for the race tomorrow? Who’s crewing for you?”
Aston tipped his chair onto its back legs. “Ned Stevens. You don’t know him.”
“Is he good? Do you trust him?”
“Yeah.” Aston let his chair fall back into place. “He’s a good guy.”
Violet reached for Aston’s hand again. “I’m sure you’re going to take home the trophy or whatever it is you get when you win a regatta.”
Aston patted Violet’s hand before pulling his own away.
The waiter appeared with their drinks and passed them around. Ray immediately took a large gulp of his vodka like a man dying of thirst. Edith fussed around setting Violet’s seltzer on the table where she could reach it.
“What did you get up to this afternoon?” Violet looked at Sherry. “Shopping, I presume.”
Sherry’s hand tightened around her drink, whitening her knuckles. Her gaze briefly flickered to Ray but then she lowered her eyes and stared into her drink.
“I was lying down. I had one of my headaches.” She massaged her temples.
“Don’t you have something for that?” Violet said. “I seem to recall you went to some pricey specialist who prescribed something.”
“I’m out of it. I thought I had another vial but it was empty.” Sherry’s voice trailed off.
Ray had already finished his drink and was signaling to the waiter for another. He fiddled with his cocktail napkin, slowly peeling off strips and crumpling them between his fingers. He jumped when the waiter put his fresh drink on the table.
The beach in front of the inn was slowly filling up with people spreading out their blankets or anchoring their lawn chairs in the sand. The sun had finally disappeared below the horizon and a pale moon hung in the blue-black sky.
A murmur rippled through the crowd and everyone turned their attention toward the lake.
The first firework was modest—a spray of red sparkles against the night sky. They increased in intensity until the finale, when the sky lit up with red, white and blue bursts. The sound nearly shook the ground and a chorus of oohs and aahs rose from the crowd.
The lights on the terrace, which had been turned off during the show, were now raised and chatter burst out among the guests.
Aston yawned and as he stretched, the sleeve on his polo shirt rose up revealing a tattoo of a sailboat. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” he said as he pushed back his chair. “See you all in the morning.”
The others began to rise from their seats as well.
“Time to get you to bed,” Edith said to Violet as she pulled her cardigan sweater around her shoulders. She turned to the others. “Looks like the poor dear has fallen asleep.”
“Mother,” Ray said sharply. “It’s time to go.”
By now the waiter was swooping down on the quickly emptying tables, piling the used glasses and crumpled napkins on his tray.
“Mother,” Ray said again more loudly. “Give her a shake,” he said to Edith.
Edith gently rocked Violet’s shoulder. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I hate to wake her. Violet,” she said in a soft voice.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Ray exhaled loudly. “Mother, get up.” He grabbed Violet’s shoulder and shook it briskly.
Violet’s head lolled limply to one side.
Ray’s breath caught in his throat. “Mother, are you okay?” He glanced accusingly at Edith. “Did she have her insulin shot before dinner?”
Edith’s chin quivered. “Yes, of course. Right on schedule.”
Beatrice was white-faced. “Feel for a pulse.”
Ray leaned over the chaise and put his fingers on Violet’s neck. His face sagged. “There’s no pulse.”
He turned toward the rest of the group. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Chapter 2
The words were barely out of Ray’s mouth before Beatrice collapsed into a chair, weeping and moaning.
Edith hovered uncertainly over Violet’s body. “Should we perform CPR?” She knitted her hands together. “I’m afraid I don’t know how.” She looked at the others.
Ray cleared his throat. “I fear it’s too late for that.”
A waiter came rushing over to them, his face white and his expression grave.
“We’ve called nine-one-one. The ambulance should be here any minute.” He looked at Violet and began to back away. “Is she dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Ray said in somber tones.
“Oh.” The waiter looked nervous. He gestured over his shoulder. “I’d best be getting back. Lots to do,” he mumbled as he moved toward the door.
“Do we have to stay?” Sherry said, sitting down again. She rubbed her temples.
Ray shot her a look. “You could at least pretend to care about Mother. You’ll be happy enough when the money comes through.”
Sherry crossed her arms over her chest and stared into the darkness beyond the terrace.
Greg nudged Monica. “Maybe we should say good night?”
But before Monica could reply, they heard a siren in the distance.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Kelly whispered to Monica. “This is just terrible.” She sniffed loudly. “Poor Aunt Violet.”
“We’ll stay as long as you need us.” Monica squeezed Kelly’s arm. She looked at Greg.
“Yes, of course. Anything we can do to help . . .”
Moments later they heard the clack of a gurney’s wheels on the stone floor of the lobby. Edith had pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and was winding it between her fingers. Beatrice was still sagged in her chair, her arms clasped over her chest, rocking back and forth as if to comfort herself.
There was a soft thud as the EMT crew maneuvered the gurney down the step from the lobby to the terrace. They bustled with efficiency, their moves smooth and practiced.
