Berry the Hatchet (10 page)

“That's ridiculous!”

Nancy shrugged.

“Besides,” Monica blurted out, “the police found that the weapon used to kill Preston was an athame—”

“What on earth is that?” Nancy sat up straighter at the table and glared at Monica.

“It's a sort of dagger that Wiccans use in their ceremonies. The police think it came from Tempest's shop.”

“Isn't that the woman Gina has become friends with? Two peas in a pod, if you ask me.” Nancy lifted her chin.

“Yes. But I don't believe for a minute that Tempest had anything to do with the murder.”

Nancy snorted. “Of course not. It's obvious what happened. Gina took advantage of her friendship with Tempest to steal that . . . that . . . thing—whatever you said it's called. And then she used it to kill Preston.”

Monica couldn't believe that her mother really thought Gina might have been involved in Preston's death. They'd seemed to be getting along quite well—perhaps it had been the bottle of shared wine that had lubricated things and not any real desire to bury the hatchet and let go of the past.

Monica was relieved when her mother announced that she was going out. Nancy insisted that she would take care of dinner so that Monica could put her feet up and rest. Monica had given her directions to Fresh Gourmet just outside of town, where she trusted her mother would find the ingredients she needed for the tarragon chicken in white wine sauce she planned to make.

Monica heard the churn of gravel as Nancy's car backed out of the driveway, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She sat for a moment with her cooling mug of tea and savored
the silence broken only by the soft breathing of Mittens, who had jumped onto one of the chairs and fallen asleep curled into a tight ball, her long tail wrapped protectively around her.

Monica's own head was nodding when there was a peremptory knock on the back door, and Jeff stuck his head into the kitchen.

Monica jumped up and banged her knee against the kitchen table. She winced and put a hand over the sore spot.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I was falling asleep, I'm afraid.”

“You've been working hard, sis,” Jeff said as he kicked off his mud-caked work boots and tossed them onto the old rug Monica kept by the back door. “I hope you know how much I appreciate your help.”

Monica smiled at her younger brother. Despite having different mothers, there was a strong resemblance between them—they had the same curly auburn hair, similar noses and the height they'd both gotten from their father.

“You're working awfully hard yourself.” Monica regarded the lines of weariness on Jeff's face that made him look older than his twenty-five years. “Today's Sunday. Do you ever take a day off?”

Jeff laughed. “There's no such thing when you're a farmer.” He ran a hand over his face. “But I don't mind. I'm determined to make Sassamanash Farm a success.”

Jeff pulled open the refrigerator door. He looked over his shoulder at his sister and grinned. “Is it too early for a beer?”

“Not at all. Did you know that early American settlers drank beer instead of water? Water was often polluted and unsafe for drinking.”

“Must not have been too bad back then.” Jeff grinned, and Monica playfully cuffed his ear.

He popped the top off his bottle and sat down opposite Monica. Mittens stood up, stretched and jumped into his lap. He put his beer down on the table and stroked the kitten's glossy fur.

“Did you finish your sanding?” Monica drank the bit of tea left in her mug. It had gone cold, and she made a face.

“Just about. There's one spot on that bog closest to the road—do you know which one I mean?”

Monica nodded.

“The sun hits the far end of it when it's at its peak and despite the cold temperatures, there are places where it's still too slushy to chance using the spreaders.” Jeff sighed. “We're going to have to do it by hand.” He took a pull on his beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Fortunately you only have to sand every three years or so.”

Jeff's cell phone went off, playing the sonorous notes of Beethoven's Fifth. Jeff grinned at Monica and shrugged. “Gina,” he said as he put the phone to his ear. “I thought that piece suited her.”

Gina seemed to do most of the talking in the conversation, with Jeff mumbling the occasional
yes
or
no
or
not yet
. Several minutes later he punched off the call and scowled at Monica.

“What's the matter?”

“She got me to agree to having dinner with her tonight.” He sighed and slumped down in his chair. “I was looking forward to a hot shower, another beer, take-out pizza and television. Now I have to get dressed for the Cranberry Cove Inn.” He ran a finger around the collar of his open-necked shirt.

“How is Gina doing? Do you think she's okay? It's hard for me to tell.”

Jeff wiped a streak of condensation off the beer bottle with his thumb. “It's ridiculous.” Jeff half turned away. “Promise you won't get upset.”

Monica was taken aback. “I'll try.”

“Gina is convinced that Nancy killed Preston. Her logic,” he gave a strained laugh, “is that Nancy is getting back at Gina for stealing Dad away by taking Preston from Gina.”

“By killing him? Seriously?”

Jeff took another swallow of beer and rolled the liquid around in his mouth. “Like I said—ridiculous.”

“What's funny—or maybe I should say ironic—is that Nancy thinks Gina killed Preston.”

Jeff choked on his beer. “Gina? Why on earth would she kill Preston? She was falling in love with him.”

“I have no idea. Personally I think they both need their heads examined.”

“You can say that again.” Jeff tilted his chair back on two legs.

“Instead of knocking heads, they need to put them together and help figure out who
did
murder Preston before Stevens zeroes in on one of them as the killer.” Monica frowned.

They were both quiet, listening to the tick of the kitchen clock as the hands moved forward. Jeff opened his mouth and then shut it.

“Out with it,” Monica said when he did it a second time.

Jeff looked down at his hands.

“Come on. Tell big sister what's wrong.”

Jeff let his chair fall back into place. “It's something Gina said.”

Monica tried not to roll her eyes.

“You know Lauren is graduating from college this spring, right?”

“Yes.”

“Gina thinks that Lauren isn't going to be content to stay in Cranberry Cove once she graduates. She's been commuting back and forth to Davenport University for her classes and once she has her degree in business, what kind of a job is she going to find here?”

Monica wasn't sure what to say. “If she's commuting now, what's going to stop her from continuing to commute once she has a job? Lots of people do it.”

“It's not just that.” Jeff chipped away at the label on the beer bottle with his thumbnail, shredding it into long, thin strips of paper. “She hasn't had a chance to see much of the world yet. Would it be fair of me to try to keep her here in Cranberry Cove just because that's what I want?”

“Lots of people are born here, grow up here and then stay here. And are perfectly happy.”

“But Lauren's smart. She deserves a chance at a career, at experiences, at . . . I don't know . . . life.”

“What about you?” Monica leaned forward in her chair. “Are you going to be content in Cranberry Cove forever? Here on Sassamanash Farm?”

“Me?” Jeff pointed at himself. “I've seen enough of the world to know it can be a horrible place. Even with Preston's murder, and Sam Culbert's before that, Cranberry Cove is freaking idyllic compared to the things I've seen.”

That afternoon was the end of the Winter Walk. Shops were staying open until seven o'clock—even those that never opened on Sundays, like Bart's Butcher Shop and the hardware store. The Cranberry Cove Diner had expanded its hours, too—it normally only served lunch on Sundays but had put up a crudely lettered sign indicating that it would be open for dinner as well. Monica found that amusing, since the diner was hardly known for throwing its doors open to tourists, and they would be the ones strolling Beach Hollow Road tonight.

Tempest was alone in the store when Monica passed Twilight, and on impulse she pushed open the door and went in. The strain of recent events was showing on Tempest's face—the lines between her nose and mouth and across her forehead were deepening and there were bluish shadows under her eyes.

Monica put her baskets down by the door and went up to the counter.

“Something smells delicious,” Tempest said, attempting a quick smile.

Monica jerked her head in the direction of the baskets. “Cranberry banana bread with streusel topping, scones and cranberry coffee cake.”

“It smells heavenly, although I have to confess I've lost my appetite lately.”

“Are the police still bothering you?”

“Detective Stevens has been around a number of times asking the same questions but in different ways. I suspect she's trying to trip me up in a lie or something. Like they do on those police shows on television.” Tempest fiddled with the corded silk ties that hung from her patchwork jacket. “I don't have an alibi and can't prove I didn't kill Preston.”

She picked a piece of paper up off the counter and began pleating it as if she was doing Origami. “And of course they found my prints on the weapon since I'd handled the athame when I put it in the case—I had to go down to the police station and have my fingerprints taken.” Tempest shivered. “Never in my life did I think . . .” She shook her head. “Afterward I scrubbed and scrubbed to get the ink off—the black blobs were like . . . like some sort of stigmata. Unfortunately that rules out the possibility that the killer purchased the athame somewhere else and brought it to Cranberry Cove.”

“So it had to be someone local?”

“Tourists were coming into the shop even before the Walk officially started. And I didn't notice whether or not the athame was missing. I was being run off my feet as it
was. Unfortunately I can't afford to hire any help. If I need to leave the shop for any reason I lock the door and hang a
closed
sign out front.” Tempest tossed the piece of paper she'd been playing with back onto the counter, where it began to unfold like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. “Of course my fingerprints being on the weapon only adds to the case against me.”

“But that doesn't mean anything. You'd have had to handle it at some point—getting it out of the box, placing it on the counter . . .”

“I probably touched it half a dozen times in all innocence, but try to convince Stevens of that. They're making a big deal out of Preston's petition to stop my Imbolc ceremony, thinking that gave me a motive for murder.”

Monica shook her head. “I can't believe that.”

Tempest's shoulders stiffened. “There are a lot of narrow-minded people here who don't like me, or at least don't like what they think I stand for. I wouldn't put it past them to be making more of that petition than there was. I had nothing against Preston before that, and even then . . . certainly it infuriated me, but I would hardly kill a man over something like that.”

Tempest had her hand in her pocket and was fiddling with some object. She pulled it out and Monica saw that it was a large, ornate cut crystal button in the shape of a flower ringed by dark red stones. Tempest put it on the counter.

“What's that?”

“That?” Tempest pointed at the button. “I found it on the floor when I was cleaning up. It got stuck in the vacuum cleaner and I had the devil of a time getting it out. I only saved it in case someone came looking for it. It's not
your ordinary black or tortoise plastic button. I don't imagine it would be easy to replace.”

Monica glanced at it again. “It's pretty.”

“Yes. It could almost be a piece of jewelry.” Tempest held the button up to her ear like an earring.

“Please don't worry too much. I'm sure the police will find the real killer.” Monica put a hand on Tempest's arm.

Tempest's shoulders sagged. “I suppose you're right. It's the waiting that's so horrible. It's all I think about . . . and dream about.”

After offering a few more comforting words, Monica said good-bye to Tempest, left Twilight and continued down Beach Hollow Road. She glanced in the window of Bijou across the street, where Jacy Belair was waiting on a young couple. Monica wondered if they were looking at engagement rings. The girl kept glancing at the boy and smiling at him. She passed Danielle's and stopped briefly to admire a sweater in the window. It looked hand knit—cream-colored wool in an intricate pattern that Monica had never seen before. She stared at it wistfully for a moment and almost went inside to ask the price when common sense took over. If the garment was in Danielle's window, then she certainly couldn't afford it.

She wondered briefly if she could learn to knit, but then thought better of it. When would she find the time? She spent all her spare hours baking, and in the evenings she generally fell asleep in front of the television before the program was even half over.

Monica was grateful when she reached her makeshift farm booth and could put her baskets down. Before she'd even finished setting out all her freshly baked goods, a couple stopped and bought a dozen cranberry muffins and
a container of salsa. They'd driven over to Cranberry Cove from Kalamazoo just for the Winter Walk.

Monica packed their purchase in the new Sassamanash Farm bags she'd ordered and stuffed the cash into her pocket. She was rearranging her stock when she heard a noise coming from down the street. It sounded like chanting. Heads were turning in the direction of the voices.

Monica stepped out of her booth and strained to see what was going on. It sounded like some sort of protest, but what was there to protest about the Cranberry Cove Winter Walk?

With a last backward glance at her stall, Monica made her way past Danielle's, through the people who had gathered there on the sidewalk, toward Twilight. She managed to get to the front of the crowd where she stopped abruptly. Her hand flew to her mouth in dismay. The sidewalk in front of Tempest's store was filled with people shouldering placards that read
Murderer
,
Witch
and
Black Magic
. They marched in a loop in front of Twilight shouting “Arrest the murderer now!”

Monica was horrified. Tempest must be frightened half to death. She scanned the group of protesters. She thought she recognized the stock boy from the hardware store and a couple of ladies who occasionally stopped by the farm store. What had gotten into them?

Monica felt a tap on her shoulder and spun around. It was Greg.

“News must have gotten out about the murder weapon being from Tempest's shop.”

“So many people are already distrustful of Tempest. It's ridiculous—she's perfectly harmless and actually quite nice. And normal,” Monica added almost as an
afterthought. She looked back at the group parading in front of Tempest's shop door. She caught a glimpse of Tempest's horrified face through the window and felt her anger rise. “I wish there was something we could do.”

“I think it's being taken care of,” Greg said, pointing to two uniformed patrolmen hustling down the sidewalk.

“Break it up, folks. Break it up,” they could hear the officers saying to the protesters.

Slowly the group dispersed, their placards hanging down as if they'd been defeated. Some shouted “murderer!” over their shoulder one last time as they were ushered away. Monica found herself trembling with fury.

She gave a glance back toward her stand. “I'd better see if Tempest is okay.”

“Go on,” Greg said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I've got someone minding the shop if you want me to stand guard over your booth.”

“Thanks. I'd appreciate that.”

Monica made her way through the milling crowd to Twilight, where she found Tempest as upset as she had expected.

“I feel like I've fallen down a rabbit hole—it's the sixteen hundreds again in Salem, Massachusetts and I'm on trial for witchcraft,” Tempest said, pacing back and forth.

She stood erect with her shoulders braced, but Monica could hear the quaver in her voice and see her hands trembling.

“The police are bound to find the real culprit soon.”

“I hope so.” Tempest looked around the shop. “I've started thinking that perhaps I should close up. Move somewhere else.”

“No!” Monica put out a hand as if to stop Tempest. “I've
had a couple of ideas. “I'm going to be following up on them soon.”

“Please hurry,” Tempest said. “I don't know how much longer I can take this.”

•   •   •

Nancy was in the kitchen when Monica got back to her cottage. Ambrosial scents filled the air, and she inhaled deeply as she opened the back door, her mouth watering immediately. Chicken was sautéing in a pan on the stove, and Nancy was chopping tarragon leaves, releasing their fresh anise-like aroma into the air.

Nancy looked up, her knife poised in the air. “What's wrong? You look dreadful.”

Monica told her about the protest outside of Tempest's shop.

Nancy shook her head and went back to chopping. “Small towns, small minds, you know.”

Monica felt herself bristle. “That's not entirely true. Most of the people I've met here in Cranberry Cove have been interesting and open-minded.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

Monica barely registered the delicious dinner Nancy had made. Her mind was so occupied with trying to fit together the various puzzle pieces of Preston's murder—Tempest's athame as the murder weapon, the killer striking right before the start of the Winter Walk, the various people who had turned out to have grudges against Preston. She wondered about the timing of the attack. How had the killer known that Preston would be alone in the sled and that the young man taking care of the horse would wander off? He had to have done, or else he would have
seen the murder. Had the killer gotten lucky or were they so diabolical that they had planned the whole thing out in cold blood?

After dinner, Monica and her mother retreated to the living room, where Monica stretched out on the sofa, snuggled under a knitted mohair throw. Her mother got comfortable in the armchair, her feet propped on the matching ottoman. She, too, had an afghan wrapped around her. The wind had picked up and now it was rattling the loose panes in the windows and knocking at the door.

They turned on the television and watched a game show followed by a police show where the crime was handily wrapped up in an hour—even less if you considered the time taken up by the commercials. Monica watched the closing credits and stifled a yawn. Wouldn't it be nice if the solution to Preston's murder was as tidy?

By the time Monica and her mother started up the stairs to bed, the temperature in the cottage had dropped considerably. Monica had a moment of panic thinking that the furnace might have gone out, but then she heard the ancient piece of equipment rumble on and felt a blast of warm air issuing from the vents.

It had been quite the day. First, brunch with Greg—who she was now
dating
, she reminded herself. She gave a spontaneous smile and saw her mother look at her strangely. And then her talk with Jeff, and finally the incident in front of Tempest's shop. She felt tired down to her bones and couldn't wait to slide beneath the covers, spend a few moments with the book she was reading and then turn out the light as sleep blissfully descended.

But in the end she couldn't fall asleep. Monica crawled out of bed, perched on the bench under the window,
pushed aside the lace curtain and looked out. Sleep was as elusive as the thin wisps of clouds passing over the moon in the dark night sky. She dropped the window curtain into place, climbed back into bed and burrowed under the covers, praying that oblivion would eventually descend.

•   •   •

Downtown Cranberry Cove was quiet the following day as Monica drove down Beach Hollow Road toward the village green and the town's city hall. The tourists had obviously pulled up stakes and headed back toward home. There was even a vacancy sign swinging outside the Cranberry Cove Inn—something they hadn't seen in days. It had been nice while it lasted, Monica thought. The next big bump in tourism would come during the tulip festival, when thousands of the bright flowers popped up all over Cranberry Cove.

The town hall was a serviceable brick building whose only imaginative feature was a large, ornate clock above the front door. The locals couldn't remember back far enough to when the clock had actually been functional.