Within minutes, Monica was on her way back to her cottage and her car with a batch of warm cranberry muffins. She put the package on the passenger seat and the enticing aroma drifted around her as she headed toward Beach Hollow Road.

  She was grateful to find a parking spot right in front of Book ’Em. She pulled into the space, grabbed the box of muffins and crossed the sidewalk toward the entrance.

  Greg must have seen her coming because he pushed open the door for her and took the box out of her hands.

  He inhaled deeply. “These smell delicious.”

  Monica clucked her tongue. “No touching. They’re for the café.”

  They were heading up the stairs when Wilma, Greg’s new assistant, suddenly appeared. She followed them up to the second floor.

  Monica took the box of muffins to Kit, and when she got back to Greg, she noticed Wilma was standing nearly on top of him. Poor Greg, she thought. Wilma was attached to him like Velcro. At the moment he found it amusing, but how long before it became annoying? She felt sorry for Wilma—she should be crushing on boys her own age.

  Monica was a little out of breath after coming down the spiral staircase so she paused for a moment to survey Greg’s shelf of new mysteries.

  A woman stood next to her, flipping through the latest by Harlan Coben. Monica glanced at her and realized it was Edith. She reached out and touched Edith’s arm.

  Edith startled and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh.” She blinked at Monica. “I didn’t see you there. I’m afraid I was engrossed in looking through this book.” She held it up so Monica could see the cover. “I finished the novel I brought with me to read and I thought getting something new might take my mind off of things.”

  “Violet’s death, you mean?”

  “A detective came to see me this morning.” The book trembled in her hands. “They asked so many questions.”

  “I think they’re questioning everyone. It’s normal and nothing to be worried about.”

  Monica looked at Edith as she thought back to her conversation with Beatrice. According to Beatrice, Edith had every reason to want Violet dead. But she was so tiny and frail. She looked as if she would snap in two like a spindly branch caught in a storm. And so . . . ordinary-looking. Monica found it hard to picture her as a cunning murderer. But then, she’d been surprised before when the least likely looking suspect had turned out to be the killer.

  “It was most distressing,” Edith said. She touched her hair. “They asked all sorts of questions—did I always give Violet her insulin, how long had I been her companion, what did I do before that. And on and on until I thought it would never end.”

  Edith’s face had blanched white and her lips were clamped shut into a thin, colorless line.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said, patting Edith’s arm. “But I can assure you, it’s perfectly normal.”

  Edith stiffened. “But they took some of Violet’s things. They took the syringe I used for her insulin as well as the bottle of insulin. What can they be thinking?” She looked at Monica with frightened eyes.

  “Since you had nothing to do with Violet’s death, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “True.” Edith lifted her chin. She tucked the book she’d been holding under her arm and shifted her tote bag from one hand to the other. “I do believe I’ll get the Coben. I always enjoy his books. And I feel so much better now that I’ve talked to you. Thank you, dear.” She went up to the counter.

  Monica waited until Greg had finished ringing up Edith’s purchase, then wandered over to the counter where he had started arranging a stack of books.

  “Is that for a display?” Monica said, leaning against the counter and scanning the titles.

  Greg nodded. “Yes. Only a book is missing.” He scratched his head. “I swear it was here before we went upstairs.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was that first edition Margery Allingham I picked up at that estate sale last week. I can’t imagine where it’s gone to.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. No doubt I’ll find it misfiled somewhere—tucked in with the new books perhaps. At least I hope so—it was quite an expensive purchase.”

  “I was talking to Edith Evans,” Monica said. “She said a detective—I assume it was Stevens—wanted Violet’s syringe and insulin bottle for testing. She seemed shaken up about it but I assured her it was standard procedure.”

  Greg raised an eyebrow. “You’re not getting involved in this investigation, are you?”

  “No,” Monica said, leaning across the counter to kiss him. “Sealed with a kiss,” she said as she waved goodbye.

  • • •

  Monica wasn’t surprised that the police had confiscated Violet’s insulin and syringe. They were obviously trying to trace the source of the migraine medication found in Violet’s body during the autopsy and that seemed a likely place to look. She supposed they were going to check to see if the insulin bottle had been tampered with.

  At the Fourth of July celebration, Sherry Cargill had mentioned that she got headaches. Were they migraines? Monica wondered. And had someone stolen her medication and used it to kill Violet?

  Monica was about to head back to Sassamanash Farm when she changed her mind. She pulled into the parking lot of the Pepper Pot, turned around and headed back the way she had come to the Cranberry Cove Inn. She crossed her fingers that Sherry would be in.

  The scent of suntan lotion lingered in the air of the lobby and Monica noticed several patrons with towels tucked under their arms heading toward the beach. It was a beautiful day—warm and sunny but with a slight breeze—and when she peered out the large lobby window, she saw that the stretch of sand leading down to the lake was dotted with colorful umbrellas.

  Dawn wasn’t behind the desk—a young man tapping on a computer was in her place. He looked up and smiled when Monica approached.

  “Can I help you?”

  He gave Monica Sherry’s room number and pointed toward the house phone sitting on a small table near the desk. Monica let it ring numerous times but still there was no answer. She’d have to come back another time.

  She was heading toward the door when Beatrice walked in. She waved to Monica and began to walk toward her. She had several packages in her arms, including one from Cranberry Cove’s fancy boutique Danielle’s.

  “I’m furious,” Beatrice said without bothering to say hello. She dumped her packages on a nearby sofa. “The police refuse to let us leave while they investigate Violet’s death. Can you imagine? None of us had anything to do with it. And here we are—stuck.”

  “Hopefully it won’t be much longer,” Monica said.

  Beatrice frowned. “I certainly hope not. There’s nothing to do and frankly, I’m sick to death of the food here at the inn.”

  “There’s also the diner and the Pepper Pot . . .” Monica began.

  Beatrice waved a hand as if to chase Monica’s words away.

  “Dreadful places. Not what I’m used to at all.”

  Monica felt her face color and she opened her mouth to defend Cranberry Cove and its features but then closed it again. Nothing would be gained by arguing with Beatrice.

  “I’m sure it’s terribly distressing for you,” she said. “Especially since you and Violet were so close.”

  Beatrice swiped a finger under her eyes. “Most distressing, indeed. Just thinking about it is giving me a headache.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Speaking of headaches,” Monica said in what she hoped was an innocent voice. “Sherry suffers from headaches, doesn’t she?”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Sherry is something of a hypochondriac, I’m afraid. She does it to get attention.”

  “Could they be migraines?” Monica said.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. Simply ordinary garden-variety headaches like we all get from time to time. Leave it to Sherry to turn it into a big drama.” Beatrice glanced at her watch. “Must run. Good to see you.” She gathered up her packages.

  Monica walked back to her car. She was positive she remembered someone saying that the doctor had given Sherry medication for her headaches. Could it have been the same substance that killed Violet? If so, someone had to have switched the medications. Could it have been Edith? According to Beatrice, Violet had treated her badly. Perhaps she’d reached her limit and had snapped? But Edith was so meek and timid, Monica couldn’t seriously imagine her killing anyone.

  If Sherry was the source of the medication, it wouldn’t be that difficult for her to switch the vials. Sherry obviously had expensive taste, and if she and Ray were in Violet’s will, that might have been the incentive she needed to hasten Violet’s death.

  Now, more than ever, she needed to talk to Sherry.

  Chapter 5

  Monica was starting her car when her cell phone rang. She turned off the engine and rummaged in her purse for her phone.

  It was Gina, her stepmother, asking if Monica could stop by her store—she had something to give her.

  Monica had to admit her curiosity was piqued, although it was most likely something for the baby. Gina had already given her some bibs, a cute sweater in a neutral beige and several stuffed toys.

  Monica found a parking space on Beach Hollow Road a few doors down from Gina’s aromatherapy shop, Making Scents. The door to the Cranberry Cove Diner was open and tantalizing aromas drifted down the street. Monica looked at her watch and was surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime.

  The smell of lavender essential oil hit her as soon as she walked through the door of Gina’s shop. According to Gina, lavender was meant to be calming, so Monica took a deep breath and tried to feel whether she was more relaxed or not. Frankly, she couldn’t tell.

  Gina was at the counter wrestling with the seal on a carton while brandishing a rather wicked-looking utility knife with reckless abandon.

  “Careful with that thing,” Monica said as she approached the counter.

  Gina blew a lock of hair off her forehead and gave it one more try. This time the knife sliced through the packing tape and she ripped the top open.

  “Scented candles,” she said to Monica as she removed a smaller box and placed it on the counter. “I saw them at that trade show I went to in Chicago and decided they were just what Making Scents needed.” She swept an arm around the shop. “I’m thinking of expanding my inventory.”

  “Oh? With what?”

  “Bath oils, some pretty diffuser lockets and charms—you put a few drops of the essential oil of your choice on the felt pad.”

  “That all sounds good,” Monica said. She leaned her elbows on the counter—she had a cramp in her back.

  “Before I forget.” Gina reached under the counter and pulled out a small bottle. She showed it to Monica. “This is clary sage essential oil. It’s used to induce labor and to increase contractions.”

  Monica frowned. “I don’t know. I’d rather let nature take its course.”

  Gina put the bottle on the counter and pushed it toward Monica.

  “Take it in case you change your mind. I know I got quite impatient those last few days waiting for Jeff to arrive. I wish I’d known about clary sage back then.”

  Monica reluctantly took the bottle and tucked it into her purse.

  “How is the decorating coming along?” Gina and her boyfriend, Mickey, had recently purchased a new house.

  Gina clasped her hands together. “Wonderfully. Mickey gave me carte blanche. I’ve ordered a white leather sofa and some chairs covered in leopard print for the living room and I’m having one wall painted black.”

  Monica tried not to look surprised. She really shouldn’t be, she thought as she glanced at Gina in her zebra-print leggings, black tunic top and earrings that were large black and white discs. It was obvious Gina wasn’t going to go for something traditional like mid-century modern.

  “Everything should be arriving soon and I can’t wait to show it off. I want to hold a baby shower for you.”

  A sense of panic washed over Monica. Her mother had already told her she was going to hold the baby shower and she wasn’t going to take kindly to Gina stepping on her toes. And she’d known Gina long enough by now to know she didn’t like being told no.

  This was a disaster in the making.

  • • •

  As Monica left Gina’s shop, she realized she was starving. The smells from the diner were enticing—their chili was delicious, but that meant a certain case of heartburn. The thought of fries and a burger made her mouth water, but she’d been determined to eat healthy meals. She had all the salad fixings she needed at home—grilled chicken, lettuce and tomatoes nearly bursting with ripeness from the farm stand and an avocado for some healthy fat and a good dose of vitamins.

  Clouds were blowing in swiftly across the lake and the sky was getting darker and darker as Monica drove home. Fat raindrops began to splatter against her windshield as she turned onto the road leading to Sassamanash Farm and she flicked on her windshield wipers.

  Hercule was nearly delirious with joy when she opened the door to her cottage. He ran around and around her, his tail going like a metronome. Finally, he began to calm down and Monica was able to pet him.

  Mittens peeked around the door to the kitchen and stared at Monica for a minute before slowly approaching her. She allowed Monica to scratch under her chin before dashing off again.

  Monica hummed as she fixed her salad and mixed up some ranch dressing. She carried her plate to the kitchen table and sank gratefully into the chair.

  Her mind was still occupied with thoughts about Violet’s death. She wondered about Edith. Why did she put up with Violet’s abuse? Or had Beatrice been exaggerating the severity of the situation?

  She thought about searching for information about Edith on the computer, but Evans was such a common last name. Edith wasn’t, though, so perhaps it was worth a try.

  She finished her salad, cleaned up her dishes, fetched her computer and set it up on the kitchen table.

  She was momentarily distracted by an advertisement for mobiles for the baby’s room but finally she brought up her favorite search engine. She typed in “Edith Evans” without much hope of finding anything significant.

  The first few entries were disappointing. An Edith Evans had died in Oklahoma in 1889 and another Edith Evans had passed away in North Dakota at the age of ninety-four. She kept scrolling and the entries became less targeted, several referencing Queen Edith of the Netherlands and others advertising Edith mints. She was about to give up when she hit upon an interesting entry.

  An Edith Evans had been arrested for shoplifting at a store in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The article was from twenty years ago and the age of the Edith in question fit the age of Violet’s companion.

  Apparently, this Edith Evans had attempted to steal an expensive suede coat but had been caught by security shortly after leaving the store.

  According to a neighbor interviewed for the article, there had been extenuating circumstances but the paper didn’t elaborate on what those were.

  Monica wondered what those circumstances had been. She told herself she wasn’t investigating as she jotted down the name of Edith’s neighbor and checked the address online. What she was doing was simply research. Yes, that’s it, she decided. Research.

  There was no guarantee that Edith’s neighbor—a woman by the name of Jennifer Ashland—still lived at the address listed, but there was one way to find out. Her address was in a small town not far from Cranberry Cove and it wouldn’t take Monica more than half an hour to drive there. But first she had to check in with Mick and the crew at the farm kitchen.

  • • •

  When Monica arrived at the farm kitchen, Mick was leaning against the counter and Nancy was listening to him with rapt attention. Monica didn’t have to hear what he was saying—it was obvious by his gestures and the look in his eyes that he was flirting with Nancy.

  Not again, Monica thought. Nancy had recently had her heart broken by a younger man. Was it about to happen again?

  Janice was kneading dough—flinging it down on the counter as if she was mad at it—and occasionally glowering at Mick and Nancy.

  Was she annoyed because they weren’t working or was she jealous of the attention Mick was paying to Nancy?

  Monica was beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake hiring Mick but the baking was under control, he was always on time, didn’t complain and produced delicious products, and she was grateful for that.

  It was the perfect time to take an inventory of their supplies. Monica grabbed a clipboard off her desk, clipped a piece of paper to it and headed into the stockroom. She heard the door open while she was emailing the last order and wondered who it could be.

  She was surprised to see Lauren, Jeff’s fiancé. She’d been a huge help in planning a marketing campaign for the farm and its products.

  She was wearing a floral sundress and had her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  Mick gave her an appraising look and then, obviously liking what he saw, smiled broadly. Lauren stopped in her tracks when she saw him behind the counter, a white apron tied around his waist and flour on his hands.

  Monica noticed her cheeks had turned a becoming pink and her hands were fluttering around her face as if she was nervous. Or entranced. Was she falling under Mick’s spell as well?

  “Oh, Monica, I didn’t see you there.” Lauren’s face turned even pinker. “I have Instagram posts I want you to see.” She put her tote bag on the table and pulled out her laptop.

  “What do you think?” she said as Monica scrolled through the posts.

  Lauren had taken some stunning pictures of the farm as well as charming photos of the farm store and several close-ups of their products.

  “They’re splendid.”

  “I’ll be posting one a day,” Lauren said, closing the lid on her laptop. “That should up our social media game.”

  “I should say so,” Monica said.

  “I’ll be off then. I have an appointment in half an hour.”