Berried Motives, page 9
Monica pulled the cranberry muffins from the oven and placed them on the counter. Melinda pulled Monica’s red-and-white-checked dish towel from the rack and spread it under the tin of muffins and smoothed it out carefully. She then angled the tin just so before putting the camera to her eye.
Monica wondered if Melinda knew anything about what was going on between Jeff and Lauren.
“Something seems to be troubling Lauren,” she said while Melinda snapped pictures. “Has she confided in you at all? Do you have any idea what’s bothering her?”
The shutter clicked as Melinda snapped the photograph. She lowered the camera and looked at Monica.
“I think you’d better ask Lauren about it,” she said before putting the camera to her eye again.
• • •
Monica spent the next several hours producing cranberry bread, cranberry walnut chocolate chunk cookies and several batches of cranberry scones. Suddenly she realized she was hungry—her stomach was actually growling in protest.
She still had some leftover soup in the refrigerator, which she heated up in the microwave and carried over to the table. She pulled out a chair and sat down with a sigh. Her back was beginning to ache.
She reached for her phone. She thought she ought to check out the farm’s Instagram account and see what Melinda was doing.
It took her several minutes but she managed to download the Instagram app and log in. It didn’t take long to find the farm account. Monica’s breath caught in her throat—Melinda’s pictures were lovely. She was truly a talented photographer. She scrolled through them—images of the bog, ruby red with the bobbing cranberries, water caught splashing up from the beater, a loon taking off from the water.
Monica realized she hadn’t checked the farm’s Facebook page in a long time—she left that up to Lauren. They used it to announce events at the farm like the cranberry harvesting tours and new products that they were introducing in the farm store. Lauren had tried to encourage Monica to write a blog, but so far she hadn’t found the time to start. She did share recipes occasionally. That would have to do for the moment.
Monica brought up the farm’s Facebook page. It had been several days since anything new had been posted. She wondered if Betsy DeJong had a Facebook page. It would probably be good publicity for someone in the media.
She glanced at the clock quickly—she could spare a few minutes to check. She typed Betsy DeJong’s name in the search bar and hit Enter. There were several people with the same name but it was obvious from the profile pictures which one was the Betsy she was interested in.
Monica clicked on the name and was taken to Betsy’s page. Her profile picture had obviously been taken professionally. Betsy’s hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup slightly exaggerated but carefully done, and her smile as wide and bright as ever. Monica felt a moment of sadness that her life had been cut short so horribly. It wasn’t fair.
Betsy’s page was filled with pictures of her smiling at the camera—photos of her interviewing people, sitting behind the news desk, spending her leisure time hiking or kayaking or playing tennis.
Monica scrolled through some of the entries, reading the various comments people had left. There was one picture of a younger Betsy in a cap and gown in front of a sign that read Grand Valley State University. One of the comments underneath the picture caught Monica’s eye.
Hey girl, glad you made it at last. I thought we’d be starting our freshman year together and graduating together—what happened?
That was curious, Monica thought. What on earth did it mean? She checked the name on the comment—Kristen Huizinga. She clicked on the name and went to Kristen’s page. There were wedding pictures, pictures of her daughter’s first birthday, a photograph of Kristen at a staff Christmas party at the accounting firm where she worked, and pictures of Kristen when she was younger. Monica scrolled through them, stopping when she came to one of Kristen in a cap and gown standing with another girl in front of Cranberry Cove High School. The other girl was Betsy DeJong. It appeared as if Betsy and her friend Kristen had graduated high school at the same time but not college. Did that mean Betsy had taken a gap year, as they were calling it?
Was any of this even relevant? Monica wondered. But she realized that while she had learned a fair amount about Betsy’s professional life, she knew next to nothing about her personal life. Maybe it was time to gather some more information. There might be a clue of some sort that would lead to solving the case.
Monica thought it would be helpful to talk to this Kristen Huizinga. Maybe she could shed some light on Betsy’s life. Would she talk to Monica? Monica had no idea but she’d have to try.
• • •
Monica worked hard all afternoon. She missed Kit—not only his help but also his witty banter, which always cheered her up and made the day seem to fly by. By the time four o’clock rolled around, Monica’s back was aching in earnest, her hands felt stiff from rolling out dough and even her feet, despite her comfortable sneakers, were starting to complain.
For once she was glad to turn the lights out, close the door on the kitchen and head back to her cottage.
The air felt fresh and cool against her face after the blasting heat from the kitchen oven. She made her way along the path, passing the bog Jeff had been working on the other day. The cranberries had all been harvested and the water drained and siphoned through canals to the next bog.
As she neared her cottage, Monica sensed some sort of activity in the distance—someone’s voice carrying on the breeze, a car engine but no sign of a car. She continued walking, going past her cottage and down the road.
As she neared the site where Betsy had been murdered, she saw several people huddled in the road, cameras to their eyes. As Monica watched, another car came along and parked, disgorging several more people who had obviously also come to gawk at the murder site.
Monica felt her anger build and she was sure her face was turning red. The dirt road was private property. Residents of Cranberry Cove and even tourists had always respected that and Jeff had never found it necessary to put a chain across the entrance to the road. Monica didn’t mind the occasional person who drove down it out of curiosity and a desire to see where the road led or in hopes of catching a glimpse of the bogs, but she resented all these people gawking at the site where a real, live person had been murdered. It was grotesque.
She decided she would head back to her cottage and call the local police department. Maybe they would send someone around to chase the voyeurs away, at least for the time being.
• • •
A policeman was standing near where Betsy DeJong had been killed when Monica left the cottage the next morning. She waved to him and he gave a brief salute. She was glad to see that the sightseers would be chased away. They’d soon tire of the story and move on to something else.
Kit looked quite rested when Monica arrived at the farm kitchen.
“You’re looking good today,” she said as she hung up her jacket.
“Nothing like a day off to put a person back together.” Kit stretched, reaching his arms overhead. “By the way, what’s that policeman doing on the road leading to your cottage?”
Monica explained about the people coming to see the murder scene.
“Did you unearth any delicious information yesterday?” Kit rubbed his hands together with relish.
Monica gave him a shortened version of everything she had learned.
“I’m trying to think of an excuse to talk to this Kristen Huizinga who was in school with Betsy,” Monica said as she got some eggs out of the refrigerator.
Kit wagged a finger at Monica and then put his hands on his hips.
“Girl, you have to get creative.” He put a finger on his chin. “Now, let me see . . . I suppose you could say you were with the police?” He regarded Monica critically. “Although I’m afraid you don’t look tough enough for that role.”
Monica laughed. “Thank goodness. I know I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
“How about you’re with WZZZ and want to do an interview?”
“With what? A fake microphone? And looking like this?” Monica gestured to her curly brown hair, which was almost always in disarray.
“You have a point. Hmmm . . . how about saying you’re a reporter then? For the local paper or that magazine Michigan Today. And you’re writing a bio of the dearly departed Betsy DeJong.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at lying. I tend to turn red, and that usually gives the show away.”
“Who says you have to lie? All you have to do is imply.” Kit clapped his hands together. “Goodness, that rhymes, doesn’t it?” He twirled around in a circle. “I can see that embroidered on tea towels. What do you think? A new product for Sassamanash Farm?”
Monica laughed but she was thinking about what Kit said. He was right. She didn’t have to actually come out and say she was a reporter. She only had to hint at it and hope that Kristen took the bait. With any luck she would be the talkative type.
Monica practiced various scenarios for approaching Kristen Huizinga in her head as she mixed dough and rolled it out. In the end, she had nearly talked herself into a bad case of stage fright. She’d have to pull up her socks, as her grandmother always used to say, and just do it.
She worked through the morning making cranberry salsa for another order from the Pepper Pot restaurant and several batches of cookies for their afternoon patrons who liked to take them home for dessert.
Kit turned to her suddenly, pointing his rolling pin at her.
“Well, aren’t you going to go play reporter and interview that woman?”
“I hate to leave you alone again . . .”
Kit flapped a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got my mojo back and I can handle things just fine by myself.”
Great, Monica thought. Now she had no excuse not to try to speak to Kristen.
She glanced at the clock. It was noon, so perhaps she’d catch Kristen coming or going from lunch.
Monica cleaned herself up as much as possible, basically brushing the flour off her clothes and running her fingers through her hair. She collected her jacket and her purse, said goodbye to Kit and headed out the door.
She walked back to her cottage for her car and then headed out. She’d looked up the accounting firm that Kristen worked for and was pleased to see it wasn’t far. It was located in a small office park sandwiched between an insurance company and a nail salon. It didn’t take her long to find it.
She parked as close to the front door as she could. The parking lot was nearly empty—she assumed everyone had gone out for lunch. She’d checked Kristen’s Facebook page again to make sure she knew what Kristen looked like.
It wasn’t long before cars began to trickle back into the lot. Most of the drivers and their passengers heading toward the front door of the building were carrying bags from various fast-food restaurants.
A yellow Volkswagen Beetle with flower decals on the front doors pulled into the lot and zipped into a parking space. A young woman got out carrying a bag from the Cranberry Cove Diner. She had blond hair, and from a distance she looked like the pictures of Kristen on Facebook.
Monica jumped out of her car and went over to her.
Kristen jumped and backed away. “Yes?” she said in a tremulous voice.
Monica held up a hand to show she meant no harm.
“Are you Kristen Huizinga?”
“Yes.” She sounded hesitant.
“I wanted to talk to you about Betsy DeJong. I gather you were at school together?” Monica brandished the notebook she’d brought along with her.
“Oh! You’re doing a story on Betsy. Of course I’d be glad to help. What do you want to know?”
That was easy, Monica thought. Kit was right. Kristen had just assumed Monica was a reporter.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Monica said.
“Sure.” Kristen tilted her head toward the door of the building. “I’m on my lunch break.” She held up the paper bag, where a grease stain was slowly spreading. “We can sit in the break room. No one goes in there except to get coffee.”
Monica followed Kristen through the door, past the reception area and a large space filled with cubicles, into a windowless room lined with kitchen cupboards. A coffee maker sat on the chipped and scarred counter, the smell of burnt coffee wafting from it. Every couple of seconds it made a gurgling noise like someone gargling.
Folding chairs were pulled up to a long table. “Please, sit down,” Kristen said. “Do you mind if I eat my lunch?”
“No, go ahead.” Monica put her notebook down on the table next to her.
Kristen reached into the paper bag and pulled out a container of chili.
Chili wasn’t actually on the diner’s menu, but longtime Cranberry Cove residents knew that Gus kept a pot of it simmering on the stove at all times.
“So, what do you want to know?” Kristen said, spooning up a bite of chili.
“What was Betsy like?”
Kristen wrinkled her brow. “She was very determined. She knew what she wanted from the get-go.” She put down her spoon. “I knew what I wanted, too, and I think that’s why we became friends.”
“What was it you wanted?” Monica said.
“To get out of the trailer park,” Kristen said with a laugh. “I got my degree in accounting. I have a good job and my husband and I bought a nice house. And we go on vacations—all the things my parents didn’t have.”
“And Betsy? How did she grow up?”
“Her parents weren’t at all like mine. They went to the Reformed Church over by the library every Sunday and Wednesday nights. Betsy was in the youth group there. She joined a sorority in college, too.”
“Are her parents still alive?”
Kristen shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Was Betsy popular?”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “With the boys for sure. Not so much with other girls, which is why I was surprised she joined a sorority. She was a cheerleader and was elected Snow Ball queen.” Kristen frowned. “She didn’t make prom queen though, and that really made her mad. She’d had her heart set on it.”
“Did she get good grades?”
“Yeah, although she didn’t work very hard. Not like me. I had to put in the hours to get even a B.”
“So the two of you went on to college together?” Monica said, finally asking the real question she wanted an answer to.
Kristen frowned. “No, we didn’t. It was really strange.” She put her spoon down and looked at Monica. “She sort of disappeared over the summer. She’d already been accepted into college—Grand Valley State, where I was going—but when the first day of the semester came around, she wasn’t there.”
“Do you know where she went?”
Kristen shook her head. “No one does. I tried to talk to her parents but they refused to tell me anything. They all but shut the door in my face.”
“Did she do drugs? Could she have been sent to rehab?”
Kristen shrugged. “It’s possible. I don’t know.”
“Did you ever ask her where she went?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t say. Just acted all mysterious about it. We weren’t close by then. She had her friends in the sorority and I’d made new friends of my own.” Kristen took a bite of her chili. “Anyway, I ended up graduating before Betsy did. Although she did okay in the end, being on television and all. That was always her dream.” She frowned. “She did okay. Except for being killed, of course.”
Kristen wiped her lips with her napkin. “Am I going to be in the paper?” she said eagerly.
“Errrr, yes, probably,” Monica fibbed.
“I’d better spell my last name for you then.”
Monica was relieved when she said goodbye to Kristen and finally got back to her car. She was afraid her reporter act was beginning to wear a little thin. Hopefully Kristen wouldn’t be too disappointed when an article never appeared in the paper with her name in it.
Well, she knew more about Betsy DeJong now, Monica thought as she started her car and headed out of the parking lot. She wondered if Betsy’s parents were still alive. If so, it might be worth talking to them.
Because she still didn’t know the one thing she’d been after—why had Betsy disappeared for part of a year and what had she been doing?
Chapter 9
Somebody had to know where Betsy had disappeared to that summer after high school. Monica wondered if she’d confided in anyone at the station. Of course, Heidi probably knew, but Monica doubted that she would reveal anything about her sister.
She could drop by the station again and chat up Josh or Patty, but under what pretext? She could hardly pretend to be a reporter again. Anyone at the station who had seen the segment filmed at the farm would know that wasn’t true.
Jasmine suddenly came to mind. Monica still wanted to know if Jasmine was right- or left-handed. She tried to remember which hand Jasmine had used to reach for the muffin Nora had given her when they were filming in the farm store, but she couldn’t quite bring the picture to mind.
Muffins! That was an idea. She’d get together a couple of cranberry muffins, cookies and some scones and take them to Jasmine. It was a thin excuse but she thought it would work.
She headed back toward the farm and turned down the road that led to the farm store. She was pleased to see that the small parking lot was quite full. Hopefully Nora hadn’t run out of anything.
Several people were sitting at the small café tables Monica had recently installed in the store, sipping coffee and nibbling on muffins and scones. A soft level of chatter filled the air.
Nora was putting cookies in a bag for a customer when Monica slipped behind the counter. She checked the display—they seemed to have an adequate amount of everything. Kit was going to be making several batches of cookies for the afternoon crowd.
“I need some muffins, scones and cookies,” Monica said to Nora when the customer had departed. Nora handed her a paper bag and Monica began to fill it with half a dozen items. “I’m taking these to someone,” she said when Nora looked at her questioningly.
