Berried Motives, page 20
“Dress shoes?” Monica raised her eyebrows.
“Yes. Odd, right? Cordovan wingtips, no less. They looked expensive. Definitely real leather.” Kit tapped his chin with his index finger. “Now, why would someone dress in jeans and a baseball cap but then put on a pair of fancy shoes?”
“And walk down a dirt road in them,” Monica said. “My sneakers are always dusty by the time I get here.” She paused. “Besides, that road only leads to the farm. And it’s the long way around. Much easier to take the road farther down, which takes you right to the farm store. We almost never see any cars other than mine, Greg’s and Jeff’s on that stretch.”
“It doesn’t make sense.” Kit shook his head. “It’s not like he was making some kind of fashion statement.”
“Was he tall?” Monica asked, thinking of Visser’s six-foot-plus frame.
“No. He was rather short actually.” Kit waved his hands around. “And a bit on the stocky side.” He giggled. “Just the type I go for.” Kit suddenly gasped and clapped a hand to his mouth. “Do you think he was the murderer?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that wasn’t Dan. He was wearing boots that day. And a sweatshirt. He was helping Jeff with the cranberry harvest. And Visser is tall and lean, not short and stocky.”
“Who does that leave?” Kit cocked his head to the side.
“Not Heidi, obviously. Although I think she had a strong motive.” Monica shook her head. “No, the only one left who was at the filming that day was Todd Lipton, the producer.”
“Turned anchorman,” Kit said, flapping his hand. “Now that I think of it, he’s about the right size and build. He definitely could have been the man I saw.”
“He left the filming early.” Monica sliced open a carton of glass jars and lined them up on the counter, ready for the compote. “He could have changed his clothes and come back.”
“And obviously forgot to bring another pair of shoes,” Kit said. “Very poor planning if he’s our killer.”
“Yes.” Monica paused. “But he said he was having lunch at the Pepper Pot when the murder occurred. He even had the receipt.”
“He could easily be lying. Did you actually see the receipt?”
“No, but he said he showed it to Detective Stevens. The date and time are stamped on it.”
Kit shrugged. “Maybe he picked it up out of the garbage or found it lying on the floor and figured it would come in handy.”
“I know the owner of the Pepper Pot. He’s dating my stepmother, Gina. I can ask him if he remembers seeing Todd that day.”
“There you go,” Kit said with satisfaction. “Case solved.”
• • •
Monica filled the last jar with cranberry compote and screwed on the lid just before the noon whistle blew.
“I’m going to run out for a bit,” she said to Kit, who was prying open a crate of cranberries.
“See you later.”
Monica took a moment to brush the flour off her jeans and run her fingers through her hair. She really ought to powder her nose but she didn’t want to waste time.
It only took her a few minutes to walk back to her cottage and get her car. As she drove down the dirt road she tried to picture where Todd’s car might have been parked. She noticed some flattened grass as she rounded a curve and she imagined that was where he had lain in wait for Betsy.
Betsy had been sitting in her car talking on her cell phone. Had Todd called her on some pretext to delay her until after Jasmine left in the news van and the coast was clear?
The drive into town didn’t take long and soon Monica was pulling into the parking lot of the Pepper Pot. The lot was full and they appeared to be doing a brisk business. The Pepper Pot was the newest restaurant in town and its atmosphere was more casual than the Cranberry Cove Inn. It attracted quite a crowd at lunchtime—people who had expense accounts or who could afford a lunch that didn’t come from the Cranberry Cove Diner or a fast-food restaurant.
The sound of clattering dishes and enthusiastic chatter greeted Monica when she pushed open the door. The hostess was behind the desk, a telephone receiver clamped to her ear and a pencil in her hand hovering over a reservation book. A couple in expensive casual attire was trying to get her attention.
“We’ve been waiting for five minutes,” the woman said, her tone accusatory, as she fingered the gold necklace around her neck.
The hostess put a hand over the telephone receiver. “I’ll be right with you.” She gave them a bright, insincere smile. Finally she put down the phone and turned to the couple who had been standing there impatiently.
Monica let her eyes wander around the restaurant at the lunch crowd until the hostess returned to her position at the front of the restaurant.
“Hello. Can I help you?” she said. “Do you have a reservation?” She glanced down at her book.
“No. I’m not planning on eating. I’m here to see Mickey Welch. Is he in?”
“I’ll check.” She picked up the telephone, spoke briefly and then turned to Monica. “He’s in his office. Go through the door at the back of the dining room, then take a left. Second door on your right.”
“Thanks.”
Monica made her way through the crowded restaurant to the door the hostess had indicated. She turned left and headed down the hall. The walls were lined with framed photographs from the annual Cranberry Cove yacht race from Michigan to Chicago. She found Welch’s office easily enough, knocked briefly on the doorjamb and walked in.
He was sitting behind his desk, which, although good-sized, appeared dwarfed by his bulk. He looked up and smiled, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.
“Monica! What can I do for you?” He ran his hands through his shock of silver hair. “I have to tell you that my customers are eating up our new dessert featuring your cranberry compote. Pun intended,” he added with a laugh.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Monica cleared her throat, which had suddenly gone dry. “I have a question for you.”
Welch leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. “Go ahead. Shoot.”
“Do you know the new anchor of the evening news on WZZZ? Todd Lipton. He also hosts that program What’s Up West Michigan.”
“I don’t really know him, but I do know who he is. Back when I first opened the Pepper Pot, he produced a feature on the restaurant. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“Monday, the day Betsy DeJong was killed, he claims to have been here at the restaurant having lunch. I wondered if you remembered seeing him?”
“Monday?” Welch’s chair shot upright and he put his hands down on the desk. “He couldn’t have been. He must be mistaken. We’re closed on Mondays. Ever since the summer season ended.” Welch frowned. “What’s your interest in this?”
“A member of Jeff’s crew has been accused of the murder. Neither of us believes he did it. I’m trying to prove that he’s innocent.”
“And you think this news guy might have done it?”
Monica shrugged. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Ah. Good luck.” Mickey shook his finger at her. “And do be careful.”
Monica smiled. “Believe me, I will.”
So Todd’s alibi had been false, Monica thought as she walked back through the crowded restaurant. Had Stevens also checked with the Pepper Pot? Or had it been put on the back burner while she chased other leads?
Monica was mulling over the possibilities as she left the restaurant. She wasn’t looking and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Todd Lipton, who was on his way into the restaurant.
She could feel her face coloring and she felt as if the word guilty was stamped on her forehead. She tried to smile but knew it probably looked strained.
Todd frowned and was studying her face intently, making Monica feel even more uncomfortable.
“Did you have a good lunch?” he said.
The tone of his voice was menacing and Monica felt a chill, as if a cold breeze had suddenly blown past.
“Y-yes,” she said quickly, trying to walk around him.
He blocked her way. “What do you recommend?”
Monica knew he was playing with her. Like a cat toying with its prey. And he was obviously enjoying her discomfort.
Monica wracked her brain for a dish that was likely to be on the Pepper Pot’s menu at lunchtime. She remembered smelling the aroma of sizzling meat and frying potatoes when she’d walked into the restaurant.
“I had the hamburger and fries,” she said, trying to make her voice sound normal. “It was excellent.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Todd sneered at her.
Monica started to walk past him when her stomach suddenly growled. She prayed Todd hadn’t heard it. Far from having just eaten, she was actually starving.
• • •
Monica was planning to spend the afternoon at home balancing the farm’s books. She had a better head for numbers than Jeff and had agreed to take on that task. She rather enjoyed the challenge. So far she had managed to pull the farm out of a hole and into the black, if just barely.
She was unlocking the back door when she heard scratching noises. Hercule? She opened the door and the dog bounded at her, its tail wagging furiously.
“What are you doing here, boy?” she said, reaching down to scratch his head. “Why aren’t you with Greg at the bookstore?”
Hercule was so excited to see her that he began to race around the kitchen in circles while Mittens looked on disdainfully, daintily grooming her paws.
A note was propped against the saltshaker on the counter. It was from Greg, saying that he was going to an estate sale and had dropped Hercule off at home in the meantime. He had added a string of Xs for kisses and Monica smiled.
She checked the animals’ food and water bowls and then began to think about her own lunch. She pulled some sliced turkey from the refrigerator along with the remains of some cranberry sauce and made herself a sandwich.
Hercule stood by her side the entire time she was eating, staring at her with his big brown eyes and sweeping the floor with his tail. Monica saved him a tiny corner of her sandwich, which she put in his dish. He swallowed it in one bite.
She took care of the dishes and then set up her laptop on the kitchen table. She powered it on and brought up the financial program she was using for the farm’s accounts.
She was checking the balances on her books against the bank’s when she thought she heard a car in the distance. Maybe Greg had finished early and was coming home? But half an hour went by and there was no sign of him. It must have been someone else. She hadn’t heard the car pass the cottage, so perhaps the driver had realized they’d made a wrong turn and had gone back the way they’d come.
She was adding up some figures when Hercule, who had been sleeping peacefully by her side, suddenly jumped to his feet. He trotted over to the back door and began sniffing it while emitting a low growl.
“What is it, boy?”
Monica got up and looked out the window. She didn’t see anyone. It was probably a small animal—a mouse or a chipmunk—attracted by the warmth that the cottage emitted that had set him growling.
She sat back down and forced herself to concentrate but it was hard to focus. She yawned and her eyes watered, blurring the figures on the computer screen in front of her.
She couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled over her. Hercule was now lying down by the back door, occasionally sniffing or growling softly.
She wished that whatever small creature had taken up residence outside would go away. Hercule was making her nervous. She forced herself to go back to the task at hand. She got up from the table, retrieved a stack of bills from a basket on the kitchen counter and began sorting through them, putting them in separate piles.
She had finally immersed herself in the farm’s accounts again when she thought she heard a noise outside the window. It was just nerves, she reassured herself. She had no idea why she was feeling so on edge. It wasn’t like her.
Maybe it had been her encounter with Todd that afternoon that had set her off. She had had the distinct feeling that he had known exactly what she was up to when she visited the Pepper Pot.
She got up and peered out the window again, trying to convince herself that she was imagining things. As she suspected, there was no one there. Hercule, meanwhile, had stopped growling and sniffing and was asleep in front of the back door.
It was only a few minutes later when Monica heard a noise by the door. This time she was positive it wasn’t her imagination and that she’d actually heard something. There had been a shuffling sound, although perhaps that had simply been some dried leaves being blown across the mat by the wind? But what if someone was out there? She felt goose bumps pricking the skin on her arms and legs.
She would call Greg, she decided. She wasn’t normally so needy and dependent but today her anxiety was getting the best of her. She picked up her cell phone and was about to ring him to find out how much longer he’d be when Hercule opened his eyes, jumped to his feet and began barking in earnest.
It had to be Greg, Monica thought. Relief washed over her. But why was Hercule barking at him? His normal greeting was to whine and scratch frantically at the back door until it was opened.
There was a knock on the door and Hercule’s barking intensified. Monica pushed the curtain aside and looked out the window but didn’t see anyone. Had she imagined the knock? Was she losing her mind?
She let the curtain drop back into place. She was about to sit down when someone knocked again. Monica jumped up from her seat, banging her knee against the table in the process.
She went to the door and hesitated but then reached for the knob. Her hands were shaking as she turned it and finally opened the door.
Chapter 19
“What do you want?” Monica said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
Todd Lipton put the flat of his hand against the door and pushed it roughly. It sent Monica reeling backward. She hit her hip against the edge of the kitchen table and winced. Before she could regain her balance, Todd had stepped over the threshold and into her kitchen.
She felt her heartbeat ratchet up like a plane’s engine revving for takeoff. She told herself she could talk her way out of this but her mind suspected that wasn’t going to be possible.
Hercule had stopped barking, but he must have sensed Monica’s fear because he kept up a low, guttural growl, his eyes focused on Todd.
“What do you want?” Monica said again, the words sticking in her dry throat. “Do you want to film at the farm?”
Todd’s upper lip lifted at the corner, curling into a sneer. “I think you know why I’m here. You’ve been asking questions about me. I heard that you’ve done that before. I can’t take the chance that you’ll go running to your pal Detective Stevens with the information.”
“But I wouldn’t,” Monica said. She knew Todd wouldn’t believe her, but if she managed to stall Todd long enough, perhaps Greg would get home. “Detective Stevens wouldn’t take me seriously anyway.”
“I can’t take that chance,” Todd said. He seemed nervous, his eyes darting around the kitchen and his hands moving restlessly.
Monica wet her lips and looked at the clock. “My husband will be home soon.” Despite her efforts her voice shook and she knew she sounded far from convincing.
Todd laughed. “So what? This will all be finished by then.” He looked around the kitchen.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Monica said, hoping to stall as long as possible.
Todd grinned. “Sure. Why not.”
Monica put the kettle on the stove and turned the gas on low so that it would take an eternity for the water to boil. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard. Her hands shook and it clanged against another cup. The sound made her flinch.
Finally, she could delay no longer. The kettle whistled and steam streamed from its spout. She poured the water into the mug, added a tea bag and plunked it down on the table in front of Todd, who had taken a seat.
“Have a seat,” he said, motioning Monica to a chair.
Monica felt too restless to sit but she thought she’d better do what Todd said. So far he hadn’t brandished a weapon, but his very presence felt threatening, and it was possible he had a gun or knife in the pocket of his raincoat.
Todd took a sip of his tea and grimaced. “Hot,” he said, blowing on the cup and sending the tea rippling into eddies.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each ticktock making Monica wonder how much longer it would be before Todd made his move. Because she had no doubt that he was here to silence her. Forever.
“How did you know?” Todd said, looking up at Monica.
“Know what?” Monica played dumb.
“You know perfectly well what I mean. How did you know I killed Betsy? It was written all over your face when we ran into each other earlier today. What tipped you off? I thought I was so careful.”
Keep him talking, Monica said to herself. Play for time and maybe Greg will arrive. The thought that Todd might try to harm Greg made her gasp.
“You must know,” she said, leveling her gaze at Todd. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
“You found out that the Pepper Pot is closed on Mondays so my alibi didn’t hold water. So what? What else?”
“You kept insisting that you didn’t want the anchor position at WZZZ, but that wasn’t the truth. Quite the contrary. You all but had the position sewn up when Betsy came along, slept with someone in power and then snatched the job right out from under your nose. That must have stung.” Monica thought she might as well twist the knife while she was at it.
Todd’s face turned a dusky red color. Monica was surprised steam didn’t come pouring out his ears like the steam that had streamed out of the spout on the kettle.
