Berried Grievances, page 12
Monica’s breath quickened. LouAnn at the inn had said she thought someone had been in Sherry’s room that night and that it had been around six o’clock.
“What time was this? Do you remember?”
Lauren raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask why Monica wanted to know and Monica was grateful because she didn’t know what she’d say.
“The two men—Aston and that fellow—were already there drinking when Jeff and I arrived. I had the impression those weren’t their first beers either. Jeff had knocked off early that afternoon so we’d gotten there about four o’clock.”
“What time did you leave?”
Lauren lowered her brows. “Around eight o’clock, I think? We got caught up in looking at wedding invitations and ended up ordering a couple of appetizers. The inn does great Buffalo wings and the nachos aren’t bad either.”
“So everything’s on track for the wedding?”
Lauren gave her a quizzical look. “Sure.”
“That’s great.” Obviously, Jeff hadn’t said anything to Lauren about Mick. “Had Aston already left by then?”
“No. He was still there having another beer and nursing his knuckles while we paid the tab.”
Well, that was that, Monica thought. It wasn’t an iron-clad alibi—nothing that would necessarily convince the police of Aston’s innocence or that would hold up in a court of law in front of a determined prosecutor—but it strongly suggested he was at the bar the entire evening that Sherry’s medication went missing.
• • •
By the time Monica had finished at the farm kitchen and had said goodbye to Nancy, Janice and Mick, she was bushed. She couldn’t wait to get back to her cottage, grab a cold drink and put up her feet, which had been swelling all afternoon.
Hercule greeted her with his usual enthusiasm. Mittens was relaxing in the sunbeam coming through the kitchen window and shining across the floor and merely swished her tail in acknowledgment.
“Come on, buddy.” Monica leashed up Hercule and went out the door.
It was still hot but not oppressive and there was a cool breeze that made it very pleasant. Monica breathed in the sweet scent of the honeysuckle vines climbing up the trellis along the walkway to her back door.
Hercule was more interested in the scent of the small animals that scurried around the area and his nose was pressed firmly to the ground.
Even though she’d been on her feet most of the day, walking actually felt good and she let Hercule follow his nose down the path.
Her mind was whirling as she walked along. She told herself to relax and forget about Violet’s murder for a while, but that was as successful as telling someone not to think about pink elephants.
She’d been going around and around in her head trying to figure out why Sherry was giving her ex-husband money. Did she owe it to him? It hadn’t looked like someone simply paying a debt. It had looked . . . clandestine . . . which spoke to blackmail. But what did Chuck possibly have to hold over her?
Finally, she lured Hercule back inside with the promise of a treat. Mittens was still stretched out in the sun and barely looked up.
An idea came to her as she was retrieving the pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. She poured herself a glass and carried it and her laptop into the living room.
She sighed as she sank onto the sofa and put her feet up on the ottoman. Heaven. It was sheer heaven. She took a sip of her lemonade as she powered up her laptop.
First, she looked up Sherry’s ex’s name—Chuck Krauss. A long list of entries popped up and she began reading them one by one. Several were obituaries but Krauss was obviously still very much alive. There were links to profiles on LinkedIn, listings on company boards and websites listing cell phone numbers. There was even a Chuck Krauss running for county property appraiser.
She was about to give up when she came upon a link to the police blotter of a small town in Ohio. A Chuck Krauss had been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct and that Chuck Krauss was the operator of a carnival. It had to be Sherry’s ex. It was too much of a coincidence.
But that wasn’t going to get her any nearer to the answer to the question she’d been repeatedly asking herself. She was about to shut down her computer when she had an idea.
It required a bit of searching, but she finally found a link to the correct site—the public divorce records. What if Sherry and Chuck had never formally divorced? That would invalidate Sherry’s marriage to Ray. If that was the case, what was to stop Ray from ditching Sherry just when he was on the cusp of inheriting Violet’s fortune? Surely it would invalidate any prenuptial agreement the two of them might have signed. Sherry would be left empty-handed. She’d have to fend for herself and it certainly looked as if she’d gotten used to the life of luxury that Ray provided.
Monica pulled up the records and begin searching through the alphabetized list. No Chuck Krausses were listed. Nor were there any Charles Krausses.
It wasn’t definitive proof but it seemed quite likely that Chuck and Sherry had never dissolved their marriage. And that would certainly give Chuck ammunition for blackmail.
She refilled her glass of lemonade. Besides, she’d already suspected that Violet knew about Sherry’s affair and had threatened to tell Ray about it.
If Ray threw Sherry out, and Monica suspected he would do exactly that—every time she saw them together, they were arguing or Ray was criticizing Sherry—her money would dry up and so would her payments to Chuck. Had she told Chuck about it and he’d been the one to switch the vials of medicine so that instead of being injected with insulin, Violet had been injected with the drug that had eventually killed her?
Chapter 15
Monica had stretched out on the sofa and was dozing when Greg arrived home half an hour later. She sensed his presence before she even opened her eyes.
“You looked so peaceful. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Greg bent and kissed Monica’s cheek.
Monica sat up and rubbed her eyes. “That’s okay. I’m getting hungry actually. I should start dinner.”
“I’ll do it. What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve been craving pasta alfredo,” Monica said sheepishly.
Greg smiled. “Pasta alfredo it is.”
Monica struggled off the couch and took her empty glass of lemonade out to the kitchen.
“Did you ever find that missing book?” she said as she rinsed out the glass and put it in the dishwasher.
“The Margery Allingham? Crime at Black Dudley. It was the first in her Albert Campion series. I paid a pretty penny for it.” He shook his head. “No, I haven’t found it. Wilma combed the shelves and so did I. I’ve come to the conclusion someone stole it.”
“How dreadful!”
Greg filled a pot with water and put it on the stove to boil. “I know I’m pretty lax with security but it’s never happened before. I don’t want customers to feel like their every move is being scrutinized. That’s not the atmosphere I’m trying to create. I want customers to be able to relax and browse in peace. They’re more likely to buy something that way.”
Greg began grating Parmesan cheese for the sauce.
“I ran into Danielle Dubois, who owns that fancy boutique next to Tempest’s shop, and she said she had caught someone trying to shoplift a sweater a couple of days ago. She also told me that the VanVelsens had noticed that a large tin of fancy chocolates had gone missing. This has never been a problem before in Cranberry Cove. At least not that I know of.” He stroked his chin. “I guess I’d better be more vigilant in the future.”
“Perhaps a glass case for your first editions?”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Greg slapped his thighs. “Now, how about that pasta?”
Monica tore lettuce for a salad while Greg prepared the pasta. He insisted she sit down while she was doing it and she wasn’t about to argue.
“You look tired,” Greg said as they were finishing up their meal. “Early bed?”
“I’m fine. I don’t think I could fall asleep while it’s still light out.”
As soon as the dishes were done, they moved to the living room, where Monica stretched out on the sofa with the book she was reading. Suddenly she gave a little cry—more like a squeak.
Greg smiled. “Did the baby kick you?” He looked at Monica and his tone changed and became more serious. “Is something wrong?” He half rose from his chair.
“Not wrong. But I felt . . . something and it definitely wasn’t the baby.” Her eyes widened. “I think it was a contraction.”
“Should we head to the hospital?” Greg sounded slightly panicked as he swung his legs off the ottoman and jumped up.
“Not yet. Remember in our birthing classes, the instructor said to wait until the contractions were coming at regular intervals.”
“I’ll get a pad and pencil so we can keep track.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary . . .” Monica began but Greg was already in the kitchen rummaging through the junk drawer.
He came back with a sheet of paper and a pencil, sat down, looked at his watch and immediately made a note.
Monica went back to her book and was turning the page when she felt a sharp pain.
“Was that another contraction?” Greg held his pencil poised above the piece of paper.
It took Monica a couple of seconds to catch her breath. “Yes. How long has it been?”
Greg glanced at his notes. “Twenty minutes.”
Monica tried to concentrate on her book. She’d finished another chapter when she felt the same sharp pain in her abdomen.
“That was another one,” she said to Greg when the contraction had passed.
“Maybe this is it,” Greg said, his voice rising excitedly as he made a note tracking the time.
Hercule seemed to sense Greg’s excitement and leapt to his feet, wagging his tail furiously.
“It’s not a game, silly,” Monica said, reaching out to pet him.
“Have you packed your bag?” Greg said. He frowned. “I suppose I can bring you whatever you need afterward.”
“Not yet. But I think we should wait a bit longer. It could be false labor and the contractions might peter out if we give it some more time.”
Greg’s face fell.
Monica laughed. “Don’t worry. The baby will be here eventually.”
“I feel like it’s taking forever.” Greg leaned back in his armchair. “I can only imagine how it must be for you.”
“I’m excited, yes. But I think we should also savor this time before our lives completely change.”
“In other words, stay in the moment.”
“That sounds a bit like a saying on a plaque in a yoga studio, but yes, that does describe it.”
“We might not have a choice. Right now, it’s in Mother Nature’s hands.”
Chapter 16
Janice pounced the minute Monica arrived at the farm kitchen the next morning.
“You look like you’re about to burst.” She pointed at Monica’s stomach.
Monica rolled her eyes. “I certainly feel like it. I feel like a giant balloon. Someone pop me, please.”
“I really thought by now . . .” Nancy’s voice trailed off. “I’m anxious to meet my granddaughter or grandson.”
“So am I. Believe me.”
“Have you had any false labor?” Nancy’s brow puckered. “That usually means real labor can’t be far off.”
“I did have some contractions last night,” Monica said as she pulled out a chair and sank into it. “But they didn’t last.”
“I hope you have your bag packed,” Janice said.
“Not yet. Maybe tonight.”
“You’d better do it right away. There’s a big storm predicted for later tonight. The barometer is falling and low barometric pressure is known to bring on labor.”
Nancy shot Janice a look. “Did you make that up? Or is it one of your old wives’ tales?”
Janice raised her chin. “I’ll have you know, it’s a proven scientific fact.”
Nancy didn’t look convinced. She shrugged. “For once, I hope you’re right.”
Monica decided the best thing to do was to get busy and stop thinking about it. The baby had its own timetable and she wasn’t going to interfere with it.
Mick had already started on that morning’s baking and Janice and Nancy had joined him.
Monica decided to take the time to straighten up the storeroom. It had been a while since she’d taken inventory of her supplies and she didn’t want them to run out of something while she was on maternity leave.
She grabbed her checklist and began to go through it. When she was finished, she tidied the shelves—lining everything up in neat rows and dusting between them.
Nancy walked into the storeroom as Monica was finishing. She smiled.
“You’re nesting,” she said.
Monica turned around. She raised her eyebrows. “Nesting?”
“Yes. It’s common for women who are about to begin labor to start getting their home ready for the baby. Preparing the nest, in other words.”
“Is that another one of Janice’s myths?”
“No, no. It’s a well-known fact that women about to begin labor are suddenly motivated to nest.”
“Does straightening the storeroom really count as nesting?”
Monica thought her mother was clutching at straws. She knew she was anxious for the birth of her grandchild but this sounded ridiculous.
“I think it might count.”
“I guess between this and the falling barometric pressure from that predicted storm, I’d better get my bag ready,” Monica said dryly.
It wasn’t long before there were enough muffins, scones and other baked goods to take to the farm store. Mick loaded up the cart, and Monica offered to wheel it down.
The wind had picked up and it whipped Monica’s hair across her face as she went out the door. She glanced at the sky. It had turned an ominous-looking gray with thick clouds blocking the sun. The air had an electric feel to it. She didn’t doubt that the predicted storm was on its way.
A lone customer was in the store when Monica arrived. An umbrella was hooked over her arm and she had a number of jars of cranberry salsa and cranberry sauce on the counter in front of her. Nora was in the process of filling a bag with cranberry oatmeal sandwich cookies. She nodded at Monica.
Monica began transferring the items on her cart to the baskets and platters in the glass bakery case. Her back was to the door when she heard it open.
Two women entered and waited at the counter while Nora rang up the previous sale.
“What can I get for you?” Nora said when the other customer had left.
The woman in the pink and white gingham checked trousers and matching pink blouse ordered two coffees, a cranberry scone and a slice of cranberry walnut bread.
“Coming right up,” Nora said.
The ladies were taking a seat at one of the tables when the door opened again.
“Monica!” Kelly exclaimed. “Edith told me I had to try your delicious cranberry muffins. I’ve always been a sucker for a good muffin.” She looked at Edith, who walked in behind her.
Edith was carrying a canvas tote bag that had Books and Stuff printed on it in black script.
Kelly gave Monica a quick squeeze. “How are you feeling?”
“Perfectly fine.” She was going to be glad when the baby was born so people would focus on it and not her, Monica thought. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a cranberry muffin, of course. Edith, how about you?”
“Just a coffee for me.” She patted her stomach. “Must keep the weight in check or my doctor will be after me about it.”
Kelly began to pull out her wallet but Monica stopped her. “Please. It’s on the house.”
Kelly and Edith took a seat while Monica picked out the plumpest cranberry muffin in the case and put it on a plate.
Kelly took a bite. “Edith’s right. These are delicious.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Can you join us for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Monica let out a sigh as she eased herself into the chair. She glanced at Kelly. There were dark shadows under her eyes. “How are you holding up? This must be so difficult for you.”
Kelly made a face. “Okay, I guess. I’m still finding it hard to believe someone murdered Aunt Violet. Aunt Beatrice is beside herself.”
Monica thought Beatrice was more upset about being detained in Cranberry Cove than over her sister’s death, but she didn’t say anything.
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new?” Kelly broke off a piece of her muffin.
“I haven’t spoken to Detective Stevens recently so it’s possible the case is moving forward and we just don’t know it.”
“I simply can’t believe one of us murdered Violet.” Edith crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s unthinkable. I believe the police will find they’ve made a mistake and it was an accident.”
Kelly frowned. “But how did Violet’s insulin get replaced with the medication that supposedly caused her heart attack? I don’t see how that could have been an accident.”
Edith’s face flushed. “I hope you’re not blaming me for what happened. I was always very careful with Violet’s insulin. I remember that morning clearly. There was nothing suspicious about it. How was I to know the vial had been tampered with?”
Kelly put her hand over Edith’s. “No one’s blaming you, Edith. You did a wonderful job of caring for Aunt Violet.”
Edith’s brow slowly cleared.
“Unfortunately, no one has an alibi for the time period when the medication went missing from Sherry’s room.”
Edith shot Kelly a look. “That’s not true. I have an alibi.”
“You do.”
Both Monica and Kelly looked at Edith expectantly.
A flush of red crept up Edith’s neck to her cheeks. “I do,” she said emphatically. “I’ll share it with the police if I’m asked to but that’s it.” She folded her arms across her chest.
What on earth was Edith’s alibi? Monica wondered. Certainly, she couldn’t imagine Edith doing anything inappropriate like visiting a strip club or partaking in an illegal poker game. The very thought nearly made her laugh.
