Berry the Hatchet (11 page)

An icy drizzle was falling—the temperatures had reached a few degrees above freezing for the first time in a long time—and Monica was grateful that she was able to get a parking space close by.

She locked the Focus and dashed to the front door of the town hall, her face stinging from the frozen drops of rain that were pelting her cheeks and bouncing off her jacket. Monica pushed open the door gratefully and stepped inside. The warmth of the lobby felt stifling after the frigid outdoor temperatures, and Monica hastily unzipped her jacket, shoved her gloves in her pocket and yanked off her knit hat.

She had no doubt that her hair was standing up around
her head in a halo of frizz thanks to the static electricity created by her wool cap, but she didn't care. She was bound and determined to talk to Edith's friend Rieka to learn more about the owner of the Pepper Pot and his failed quest for a permit to open his restaurant.

She couldn't believe Preston Crowley hadn't had a hand in delaying the permit. He must have been furious with Roger Tripp for stealing from him. Monica had only met Preston a couple of times, but she got the impression that he didn't allow anyone to make a fool of him. At least not gladly.

The lobby floor was wet and slippery and Monica almost fell several times, despite the rubber soles of her boots. She was grateful when she reached the receptionist. Her modern computer appeared incongruous sitting on her old-fashioned wooden desk—a manual typewriter and a stack of carbon paper would have looked much more at home. She gave Monica a distracted smile as she approached.

“Can I help you?” she asked with one eye on the papers she was going through.

“I'd like to speak to Rieka, please. I understand she works here?”

“Rieka?” The woman looked up from what she was doing.

The way she said it made Monica wonder if she'd gotten the name wrong—or the place. Edith had seemed lucid enough, but perhaps she was a bit . . . forgetful?

“Yes, Rieka. I believe she works here,” Monica said with slightly less conviction, her voice rising toward the end of the sentence like she was asking a question.

“She does,” the woman said with no elaboration as she continued shuffling through her papers.

“Can I see her, please?” Monica attempted to arrange her face into pleasant lines even though she was feeling far from pleasant toward the receptionist who was using her position to be a bully.

The receptionist sighed, picked up her telephone, gave Monica an irritated look and finally spoke briefly.

She listened with one hand over the mouthpiece and said finally, “She'll be right out.” She glared at Monica, and returned to her paperwork once more.

Monica sidled away from the reception desk and went to look at a group of framed photographs on the wall. They were black-and-white pictures of Cranberry Cove from two centuries ago, complete with horse-drawn carriages and women in long dresses.

“Are you the person who's looking for me?”

Monica spun around at the sound of the woman's voice. The speaker was short and stocky with broad shoulders and a thick head of short gray hair. Monica recognized her from a spaghetti supper she'd gone to last September. Rieka had been in charge of making the oliebollen—a Dutch version of doughnuts that are fried and then rolled in powdered sugar.

“I'm Monica Albertson.” Monica held out her hand.

“From out at Sassamanash Farm.” It was a statement, not a question.

Once again Monica marveled at how quickly and how far news traveled in a small, close-knit community.

The woman looked Monica up and down. “Come back to my office. I'm sure you could use a cup of hot tea. You look frozen half to death.”

Monica didn't argue. Her fingers were still like ice, despite the heat being pumped into the building.

She followed Rieka down the hall, the older woman's black, lace-up, rubber-soled shoes making no noise on the stained linoleum floor.

The term
office
was too grand to describe the space allotted to Rieka—it was little more than a large cubbyhole with a desk crammed into one end and a chair opposite at the other. The desk was covered in neat stacks of papers precisely aligned with each other.

Rieka retrieved a mug from her desk drawer and filled it from a thermos. She handed it to Monica.

“I hope you don't mind a spoonful or two of sugar. I've got the tea already made up the way I like it.”

“That's fine.” Monica put both hands around the warm mug and let the steam bathe her face.

Rieka took the battered wooden chair behind the desk and placed her folded hands on top of an ancient, stained green blotter. “So?”

Monica felt her mouth go dry. She hated asking questions and poking her nose where most people would argue it didn't belong. But she'd promised Tempest, so she'd have to buck up and just do it.

“I talked to your friend Edith—”

“Edith from down the hall?” Rieka jerked her head to the left.

“Yes. She told me you'd be the one to ask about restaurant permits.”

“Opening a restaurant, are you?” Rieka opened a drawer and pulled out a form.

“No, no,” Monica hastened to correct her.

Rieka looked puzzled, her rather doughy face reflecting her confusion. “Then what do you want a permit for?”

“I don't,” Monica hastened to assure her. “I want to ask about someone else who applied for a permit.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Rieka knitted her rather thick gray brows together.

Things were not going the way Monica had hoped. She wet her lips. What could she say? That she was curious? Looking at Rieka's stern expression, Monica didn't think that would fly—not for a minute. Finally she decided that her best course of action was to pretend that she was letting Rieka in on some secret investigation. Appeal to her love of gossip and desire to be in the center of what was going on. Monica was pretty sure that those two things were on the universal hierarchy of needs. In her experience humans lived for gossip and yearned to be in the thick of things.

“It's for a . . . an investigation.”

Monica could hear Rieka's indrawn breath. Rieka leaned forward farther in her seat and lowered her voice.

“Are you a private investigator?”

Monica squirmed in her seat. “Sort of.” Her hand almost flew to her face to see if her nose had grown like Pinocchio's.

“So what is it you want to know?”

“It's about the permit for the new restaurant in town—the Pepper Pot. Do you remember it?”

“Sure I do. We're all wondering if it's going to be the sort of place we can afford.” She gave a slightly bitter laugh. “Not like the Cranberry Cove Inn. Only rich tourists can afford those prices.”

“Do you know the owner of the Pepper Pot?”

“Roger Tripp? I only know him by way of him coming
in here all the time to check on the permit he applied for. Seemed like a nice young man—at least till the last time.”

“The last time?”

Rieka leaned even farther forward in her seat and put a finger to her lips as if cautioning Monica not to tell. “He came in and asked if the permit was ready—he wanted to open the restaurant at the beginning of the Winter Walk. He'd already been taking reservations for a month, and from the sound of things, none of the tables were going to go empty.”

“Did something happen to the permit? I noticed that he didn't open in the end.” Monica felt her stomach tightening. She might be on to something at last.

Rieka leaned back in her chair, and it gave a loud groan. She crossed her arms over her broad chest. “I'm not supposed to tell anyone.” She began picking at a spot on her gray wool sweater.

Monica felt as if frustration was grabbing her by the throat and shaking her. She had to convince Rieka to talk.

The printer behind Rieka's desk suddenly sprang to life and after much clicking and groaning, spat out a piece of paper.

Monica heard a noise and glanced at the door to see a young man lingering there.

“Sorry to interrupt. I've sent something to your printer. The one in the workroom needs toner.” He rolled his eyes.

“I heard you asking about the permit for the Pepper Pot restaurant,” he said to Monica as he leaned across Rieka's desk and retrieved his document. “Roger Tripp did apply for one more than a month ago. The last step was the on-site visit by the health inspector, but someone,” he rolled his eyes again, “cancelled the appointment.”

Monica looked from him to Rieka. Rieka was stony faced.

The young man seemed oblivious to Rieka's censure as he continued. “I think we all know who's responsible for that.”

“Who?” Monica said without thinking.

“Let me put it this way,” the young man said, “our mayor doesn't like competition.”

“Do you mean Preston Crowley deliberately—”

The young man put a hand over his mouth. “Did I say that?” He gave a high-pitched laugh. “I'm not naming names, but I'm sure you know what I mean.”

Before Monica could say another word, he was gone.

Rieka's face had gone even more sour. “Young people!” She blew out a puff of air and her short bangs fluttered as if in a breeze. “They don't understand the word
confidential
. They're always gossiping and putting stuff on the computer that they shouldn't and then acting surprised when everyone knows their business.”

Monica thought it prudent to stay quiet and let Rieka vent. Finally Rieka wound to a halt and slumped in her chair, as if the effort had leached the air out of her.

Monica decided it was best not to ask for confirmation that Crowley had been the one to engineer the delay of the permit—that young man had certainly made it clear enough that that was the case. Monica had another question to ask and she sat in silence for a moment, debating how best to phrase it to keep from alarming Rieka.

“I hope the Pepper Pot will open eventually. It looks like a nice place. I saw the menu in the window—”

Rieka snorted. “Yes, for once an ordinary person can not only pronounce everything on the menu, but recognize
what it is as well. The husband and I made a trip to Chicago for our anniversary and went out to dinner at one of them fancy French places. Didn't understand a word on the menu. Turns out the dish I'd ordered was just a plain old roast chicken, so why couldn't they just say so?”

“I guess since Roger Tripp is from Cranberry Cove, he understands what we like.”

Monica felt a little funny using the word
we
since she knew perfectly well that she would have to live in the town for a couple more decades before being considered anything close to a local.

“There's the thing,” Rieka said as she leaned back, causing her old-fashioned wooden swivel chair to groan audibly again. “Roger Tripp isn't from Cranberry Cove. At least not originally. By my account he's only been here a few years.”

“I imagine he must still live here somewhere if he's going to be running his restaurant,” Monica said, trying to maintain an innocent look on her face.

“I should guess so.”

“Maybe he's rooming somewhere like Primrose Cottage.” Monica twirled a piece of hair around her finger. Primrose Cottage was only open part of the year so that was unlikely, but she wanted to throw something out to see if Rieka would take the bait.

“I don't think so. I heard he bought a place for himself.”

“In that new development going up outside of town? I heard it's quite pricey. He must be expecting the restaurant to do well.”

Rieka shook her head. “No, not there. An older place.” Rieka laughed. “He said he didn't know why he bothered
to buy at all since he was practically sleeping at the restaurant.”

Monica's ears perked up. Maybe Roger Tripp would be at the Pepper Pot right now. It would be easy enough to check. If she played her cards right, he might even invite her in for a tour.

And then she could ask him some questions. In all innocence, of course.

By the time Monica left the Cranberry Cove town hall, the icy drizzle that had been falling earlier had turned to snow. It was a slippery combination—ice hidden under a thin blanket of powder. She nearly fell as she made her way to the car, and breathed a sigh of relief when she was safely inside.

There were only a handful of parking places along Beach Hollow Road. Monica pulled into a space in front of the hardware store and got out. She paused briefly to pull her hat from her jacket pocket and put it on.

The snow was coming down more heavily now as Monica carefully made her way down the sidewalk past the butcher shop. She was approaching Book 'Em when she hit a patch of ice and started to slip. She threw her arms out in an attempt to regain her balance, and her purse went flying.

“Steady there.” She felt a hand on her arm, grabbing her just before she went down.

She turned around to see it was Bart from the butcher shop. He had a parka on over his white apron. He made sure Monica was steady on her feet and then went to retrieve her handbag.

“You ought to get yourself a pair of these.” Bart lifted up his foot so Monica could see the bottom of his boot. It was covered in coils of metal that reminded Monica of the chains cars used to use on their tires in the winter.

“The hardware store carries them.” Bart jerked his head toward the shop front Monica had just passed. “The metal coils grip the ice and keep you from falling. You can slip them on over your boots or even an ordinary pair of shoes.”

“Very clever. I'll have to get myself some.”

“I'll walk with you. I'm headed toward the diner for something to eat.”

“A late breakfast or an early lunch?” Monica asked. It was ten o'clock in the morning.

“It's lunchtime for me,” Bart said. “My day starts long before I hang up the open sign at nine o'clock. The daily shipment of meat needs to be prepared, but first I have to sterilize the butcher block and surrounding areas. I don't want any bacteria getting into the fresh meat and making my customers sick.

“When the meat comes in it doesn't look anything like the finished product you see in my display case or in the grocery store. I have to carve it up and make it look attractive first. Then I separate out the prime pieces from the rest and arrange everything on trays. Then it's the little
touches I know my customers appreciate—like the paper frills on the ends of the crown roast of pork, and the bits of curly parsley I use to brighten things up.”

“I didn't realize there was so much to it,” Monica said when they stopped in front of the diner.

Bart chuckled. “I'm at the shop by six o'clock every morning. Of course I'm falling asleep in my chair in front of the television by nine o'clock, much to the dismay of my missus.” He laughed again. “By ten o'clock in the morning, I'm more than ready for some lunch.”

“I can understand why,” Monica said.

Bart pulled open the door to the diner, releasing a cloud of air fragrant with the smell of frying bacon and browning potatoes.

Monica said good-bye and continued down the street, even more carefully this time, toward the Pepper Pot.

The menu was still taped to the window of the restaurant, although the edges were curling a bit now, and the writing had faded slightly. Monica put her hands around her eyes and peered through the glass.

A light was on somewhere in the back of the restaurant, which was a good sign. All the tables were draped in white tablecloths and set with plates, silverware and unlit candles.

Monica tried the door and was surprised when it opened. She stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.

“Anyone here?” she called. “Your front door is open.”

She heard footsteps coming from the direction of the light she'd noticed, and a man appeared around the corner. He had a stocky build with powerful-looking
shoulders and a shock of blond hair. He was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover. It was cold inside the restaurant—the heat must have been turned down or even off.

“Can I help you?” he asked, running a hand through his hair and sweeping his bangs off his forehead.

“Are you Roger Tripp? The owner?”

“One and the same.” He smiled at Monica.

He wasn't handsome but he had a pleasant, open face, which surprised Monica. Based on the stories she'd heard about him, she had expected someone more sinister.

“What can I do for you?” He gestured around the empty restaurant. “As you can see, we're closed.”

“I didn't mean to bother you, but the door was open.” Monica pointed to the entrance.

“I usually come in the back way, but this time I didn't, and I guess I forgot to lock the door behind me. Fortunately most of the citizens of Cranberry Cove are law-abiding.”

“Except for one,” Monica said.

Tripp tilted his head.

“Someone murdered Preston Crowley.”

Tripp looked taken aback. “True,” he conceded finally with a sharp exhale.

“When do you plan to open the restaurant? Everyone expected a grand opening for the Winter Walk.”

“So did I,” Tripp said. “But there was a mix-up about the permit.” His smile was bitter. “It's all been taken care of, and the health inspector is making his final round on Thursday.”

“Rumor has it that Preston Crowley was behind the delayed permit.”

Tripp's eyes narrowed. “The rumors are correct. Preston
never admitted it, but I know he did it.” A dusky flush crept up Tripp's neck to his face. “It's not enough that he's gone around town telling tales about me that aren't true and ruining my reputation—he had to destroy my business as well.”

Monica noticed that Tripp's hands were clenched into fists and there was a steely glint in his eyes. His friendly, open face had become so cold and calculating that without thinking, she took a step backward.

“I'm sorry,” Monica said, at a loss for words.

Suddenly Tripp's shoulders sagged, and the expression on his face eased so that he once again looked like the very approachable man she'd thought him to be.

But it was too late. Monica had seen the other side of Roger Tripp, and she could now easily picture him as a murderer.

•   •   •

As Monica drove back to the farm she thought about her encounter with Roger Tripp. He certainly had a motive for killing Crowley. He must have been furious when Crowley unjustly accused him of stealing . . . and then the trouble with the permit coming on top of that. That would stir up murderous feelings in almost anybody. The question, though, was had Tripp done anything about it?

Was he even around during the Winter Walk? Monica wondered if there was someone who could put him at the scene—but how would she find out?

Monica pulled into the parking lot of the Sassamanash Farm store, pleased to see that a number of the spaces were already taken and three people were waiting in line
with baskets full of baked goods when she entered the shop.

Nora ran a hand through her curly dark hair as she punched some numbers into the register. Monica cleared her throat and she looked up and smiled.

“Are you managing okay?” Monica slipped behind the counter and held out her hand for the cranberry-printed towels the next woman in line was buying.

“No problem.” Nora pushed her glasses up her nose with her index finger. “There's been a steady stream, but nothing I can't handle.”

“There are a few things I need to do . . . if you're sure you can manage?”

“You go ahead. I'll be fine.”

Monica finished the transaction, left the store and headed back to her cottage. Nancy was dressed when she got there and looked as if she was going out. She was wearing the same gray wool slacks but with a white cashmere pullover this time, and a silk scarf tied just so around her neck.

“Are you going out?” Monica dropped her purse on the floor by the table and slung her jacket over the back of a kitchen chair.

“I was hoping you'd join me for lunch.” Nancy tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “My treat.”

Monica felt her stomach growl and glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it really was already lunchtime.

“The diner makes an excellent chili—”

Nancy wrinkled her nose. “I thought we'd go to the Cranberry Cove Inn and have a nice lunch. Just the two of us.”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to freshen up?” Nancy asked. looking Monica up and down.

Monica sighed and dutifully headed up the stairs. She changed into a pair of tweed slacks and a green sweater that picked up the color of one of the threads in the pants.

Mittens sat on the bed, her tail swishing back and forth, watching as Monica changed.

Monica scratched the kitten under her chin and Mittens meowed and immediately rolled over onto her back for a tummy rub. Monica obliged for a couple of minutes.

“Now I've got to get ready,” she said to Mittens as she dashed into the bathroom.

She splashed some water on her face, powdered her nose and added a touch of lip gloss.
That ought to be good enough for the Cranberry Cove Inn
, she thought.

Nancy was wearing her coat and stood with her leather gloves in her hand as Monica came down the stairs.

“Let's take my car,” Nancy said. “There's more room.”

Monica had no objection to saving the gas and happily got into Nancy's silver Sonata.

Nancy drove smoothly and competently toward town. Monica enjoyed being a passenger for a change so she could enjoy the scenery. The snow had stopped and the sun was now peeking out from behind a cloud.
If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes,
Monica thought. It was an old Michigan expression that had proven true on numerous occasions.

A handful of cars were in the parking lot next to the Cranberry Cove Inn.

“It doesn't look as if we'll have trouble getting a table,” Nancy said as she locked the car doors with a beep.

The roaring fire in the lobby looked exceptionally inviting, but today no one was sitting in front of it when they entered. The receptionist was leaning her elbows on the counter, engrossed in a word search puzzle, and a gaggle of bellhops stood off to one side chatting with each other.

The maître d' glided forward to greet them at the entrance to the dining room.

“Right this way, ladies, please.” He grabbed two leather-bound menus from the stack and led them toward a table for two in the corner.

“We'd rather sit by the window, if you don't mind,” Nancy said, indicating a vacant table for four that commanded a spectacular view of Lake Michigan.

“Certainly.” The maître d' led them to the table Nancy had requested and pulled out a chair. He handed them their menus with a flourish. “The waitress will be right with you to take your order.”

They scanned their menus, and Nancy snapped hers shut decisively. Just then the waitress appeared.

“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” she asked with her pencil poised above her pad.

“I'll have a glass of the La Cruz Chardonnay, please.”

The waitress turned to Monica.

“A diet cola for me, please.”

The waitress glanced at Nancy's closed menu. “Do you ladies know what you want?”

“Yes.” Nancy handed back the menu. “I'll have the salad of baby greens with walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette, and a slice of the quiche Lorraine.”

“And you?” The waitress turned to Monica.

“I'll have the croque monsieur, please.”

The waitress laughed as she made a note on her pad. “Pretty fancy name for a grilled ham and cheese, don't you think?”

As the waitress walked back toward the kitchen, Monica thought about what Rieka had said—how the Pepper Pot was going to serve food they could both pronounce and recognize. She had a feeling the restaurant was going to do well when it opened.

“So,” Nancy said when their drinks arrived and she'd taken a sip of her wine, “what are your plans? You haven't said.”

“Plans?”

“Yes. For the future. Are you going to stay here in Cranberry Cove?”

Monica was taken aback. She hadn't thought much beyond the next year or two and helping Jeff get Sassamanash Farm out of the red.

“I don't know,” Monica answered as an idea crossed her mind—something that had never occurred to her before. Perhaps she could open a small café in downtown Cranberry Cove—like the one she'd had in Chicago—good coffee and baked goods. Nothing fancy. And if people liked her coffee cakes and muffins, she could direct them to the store at Sassamanash Farm so they could take some home.

“Monica!” Nancy said sharply.

Monica jumped. “What?”

“You've been a million miles away. I was asking you about the gentleman who took you to brunch yesterday.”

“Greg?”

“Is that his name? You didn't say.” Nancy leaned back
as the waitress put her salad and quiche in front of her. “Are you dating?”