Monica Albertson moves to Cranberry Cover, Michigan to
help her brother, Jeff, with his farm. Her life in
Chicago has fallen apart and Cranberry Cover is a place
for her to re-evaluate her life.
Jeff was injured while overseas and the farm is losing
money. Monica knows that Sam Culbert, mayor and
landowner, had been managing the farm for Jeff. He was
embezzling money, leaving the farm nearly bankrupt.
When Sam is discovered dead near one of the bogs, Jeff
becomes the most likely suspect. Monica isn't happy with
the job the police are doing so she sets out to discover
the identity of the killer.
As Monica investigates, it becomes clear that there are
many people who wanted Sam dead. He had rigged the
election to become mayor. Sam collected secrets and used
them to his advantage.
With a nearly ready to deliver detective and a small town
that holds its secrets, Monica must keep the farm viable
and prevent a terrible miscarriage of justice.
Peg Cochran starts a new series with BERRIED SECRETS.
Set on a cranberry farm in western Michigan, BERRIED
SECRETS is a well-plotted cozy mystery that kept my
interest all the way through. With some fascinating
secondary characters, and the skill Ms. Cochran has in
hiding the identity of the killer until the last, it was
a series that I plan to continue reading.
It’s cranberry picking time—in an all-new mystery
series
from the national bestselling author of the Gourmet De-
Lite
Mysteries…
When Monica Albertson comes to
Cranberry Cove—a charming town on the eastern shore of
Lake
Michigan—to help her half-brother Jeff on his cranberry
farm, the last thing she expects to harvest is a dead
body.
It seems that Sam Culbert, who ran the farm
while Jeff was deployed overseas, had some juicy secrets
that soon prove fatal, and Jeff is ripe for the picking
as a
prime suspect. Forming an uneasy alliance with her
high-maintenance stepmother, Monica has her hands full
trying to save the farm while searching for a killer.
Culbert made plenty of enemies in the quaint small town…
but
which one was desperate enough to kill?
Excerpt
Monica Albertson coaxed her ancient Ford Focus up the
last hill, past the boarded-up vegetable stand, the
abandoned barn and the Shell station. As usual, she
paused at the crest. Cranberry Cove was spread out before
her--a view that still thrilled her, even though it had
been five weeks since she’d fled Chicago for this idyllic
retreat on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan.
From her vantage point, Monica could see the sparkling
blue waters of the lake and the horseshoe-shaped harbor,
where several white sails bobbed in the wind. The
Cranberry Cove Yacht Club, where wealthy summer visitors
sat on the deck sipping cold drinks, was a speck on the
horizon, and the pastel- colored shops that lined Beach
Hollow Road were bathed in a soft light by the early
morning sun.
Monica took her foot off the brake and rolled down the
hill toward town, relishing the cool breeze from her open
window and the warmth of the sun on her arms.
She drove down Beach Hollow Road, where all the shop
fronts were painted in sherbet hues of pink, lemon yellow
and melon. The streets were quiet and the sidewalks
nearly empty—it was late September, so the summer crowd
had gone back home to their everyday lives and the
carloads of tourists on autumn foliage color tours hadn’t
arrived yet. Cranberry Cove wasn’t Chicago, but Monica
found it very charming with its old-fashioned gaslights,
planters overflowing with the remains of the summer’s
flowers and the white gingerbread gazebo that graced the
middle of the small vest-pocket park.
Monica pulled the Focus into a space in front of
Gumdrops, a candy shop that was housed in a narrow
building painted the palest pink. Fancy lace curtains
hung in the window, and a ceramic Dutch couple kissing
sat out on the doorstep, which had been swept clean of
any sand borne by the winds of the most recent storm.
Miss Gerda VanVelsen came rushing forward almost before
the bell over the door finished sounding Monica’s
arrival. Or was she Miss Hennie VanVelsen? Monica could
never be sure—the VanVelsens were identical twins,
spinsters sharing the home that had belonged to their
parents. Their grandparents had been part of the wave of
immigration from Holland to western Michigan in the
1800s, and the sisters had retained many of the traits of
their ancestors—thriftiness, cleanliness and efficiency.
Monica stole a glance at the name tag pinned to the
woman’s top—this was Hennie, dressed in a pastel pink
sweater and skirt that almost matched the color of the
front of the candy shop. Her gray hair was set in
elaborate curls and waves, and her pink lipstick matched
her sweater.
“Hello, dear,” Hennie said warmly. “How are you settling
in? It’s been a couple of weeks, hasn’t it? Have you got
your little cottage fixed up yet?”
Monica nodded. “Yes, I’m almost done. It’s turned out
very well.” Actually Monica adored her cottage, but from
the time she was little, her parents had discouraged
hyperbole.
“Terrible shame about your brother. We were all horrified
when we heard,” Hennie said, leaning her elbows on the
counter. “So many young men lost over there. I suppose he
can count himself lucky he came home at all.”
Monica’s half brother, Jeff, had been deployed to
Afghanistan for a year, where he had been injured in a
surprise raid. The nerves in his left arm had been
damaged, leaving it paralyzed. She had been nearly beside
herself with worry the entire year he was gone for fear
of losing him.
“So good of you to come and help him with the farm.”
Hennie smiled at Monica. “And just in time, too, with the
cranberry harvest coming up any day now.”
Guilt washed over Monica like a wave. If she’d been able
to make a go of it in Chicago, would she have been so
keen to rush to Jeff’s rescue? The small sliver of a café
she’d rather unimaginatively named Monica’s—three tiny
round tables and a glass case full of her homemade
goodies—had been put out of business when a national
chain coffee bar opened directly across the street.
Monica might have tried again in a different location but
the death of her fiancé in a swimming accident shortly
afterwards took all the steam out of her, and she was
glad to escape to Cranberry Cove.
The curtain to the stockroom was pushed aside and Gerda
VanVelsen entered the shop. She was wearing an identical
pink skirt and sweater, had her hair set the very same
way and sported the exact same shade of pink lipstick as
her twin.
Monica was tempted to rub her eyes. It was like seeing
double.
“You haven’t seen Midnight, have you?” Gerda asked with a
slight tremor in her voice.
Midnight was the sisters’ much beloved cat. She was black
from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail, and a
lot of people in town considered her bad luck, which
Monica found silly. She herself was neither superstitious
nor given to flights of fancy.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. Is she missing?”
Gerda fiddled with the strand of pearls at her neck. “Not
missing exactly, but we let her out an hour ago, and she
would normally be back by now for her breakfast. I always
worry you know.” She knitted her gnarled hands together.
“There are people who would wish her harm because of her
coloring. But she’s a sweet, gentle old thing and
wouldn’t hurt a soul.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back any minute now,” Hennie said
consolingly, putting an arm around her sister and giving
her a squeeze. “Now, dear.” She turned her attention to
Monica. “What can we get for you?”
“I’ve developed a real taste for your Wilhelmina
peppermints,” Monica said, pointing to the white box with
the red and blue ribbon and the silhouette of Queen
Wilhelmna’s profile.
While Gerda fussed about selecting the appropriately
sized white bag with Gumdrops printed on it in
varicolored letters, Monica looked around the shop. It
was as tidy and spic-and-span as the VanVelsen sisters
themselves. A large case held a dazzling assortment of
sweets—from root beer barrels to Mary Janes. The sisters
also carried an array of uniquely Dutch treats, and while
Monica had developed a taste for the peppermints, she had
yet to succumb to the appeal of the sweet and salty black
licorice so beloved by the Dutch.
Gerda rang up the purchase, and Monica handed her the
money.
Gerda gave Monica the bag. “You have a good day, dear.”
She paused. “And would you mind keeping an eye out for
Midnight?”
“I’d be glad to,” Monica reassured her as she left the
shop.
Monica strolled down Beach Hollow Road, checking in
alleys and doorways for the missing Midnight. She passed
Danielle’s Boutique, a pricey store that catered to the
summer tourists with its stock of bathing suits, cover-
ups, gauzy caftans and expensive costume jewelry. Next to
it was Twilight, a New Age shop where you could have your
palm read or your fortune told with Tarot cards.
The door to the Cranberry Cove Diner was propped open,
and the seductive smell of bacon frying drifted out to
the sidewalk. It was a gathering spot for the locals, who
gave the evil eye to any tourists who dared to darken its
interior—which Monica suspected hadn’t changed in the
last forty years.
Book ‘Em, a bookstore specializing in mysteries, was
tucked in next door. Monica was in need of a new book,
having finished the one she’d brought with her from
Chicago. She hadn’t liked it very much, which had made
for rather rough sledding, but she never allowed herself
to put a book down without finishing it. To her, that
smacked of being a quitter.
This was Monica’s first visit to the small, untidy and
rather dark, shop, She stood on the threshold and took a
deep sniff. She loved the scent of books. The store
itself was quite a mess, with volumes spilling off the
shelves and piled haphazardly in every nook and cranny,
and a narrow spiral staircase leading to an upper
balcony. Monica’s fingers itched to bring some order to
the place.
She noticed a man with his back to her—he had dark hair,
was slightly taller than Monica and was humming softly
under his breath. He had a stack of books in his arms
that he appeared to be shelving, although there was
hardly any room on the already overcrowded stands.
Monica strolled over to the paperback section and began
browsing. Books were six deep in the racks, and the book
in front was not necessarily the same as the one behind
it or the ones in the middle. It was like a treasure hunt
—Monica had no idea what she would find tucked away in
the chaos.
She found a classic Agatha Christie and picked it up. It
was one of the mysteries she remembered reading in high
school--The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. She scanned the back
blurb, trying to remember the plot. Perhaps she’d buy it
and read it again.
“Ah, the famous, or should I say infamous, unreliable
narrator.” The fellow who was stocking books came up
behind Monica and pointed at the paperback in her hand.
The lines around his eyes suggested he might be a few
years older than her, but his rather shaggy hair and worn
corduroys and crewneck sweater made him look appealingly
boyish.
Monica smiled. “I was trying to remember this particular
book—it’s been ages since I read it, but now it’s coming
back to me.”
“One of Dame Agatha’s best, don’t you think?” He ran a
hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled.
“Everyone knows Murder on the Orient Express or And Then
There Were None—at least that’s what it was titled here
in America—but Roger Ackroyd is far more clever if you
ask me.” He looked at Monica, his head tilted to one
side. “Are you a Hercule Poirot fan or a Miss Marple
fan?”
Monica thought for a moment. “Both, actually. And a Miss
Silver fan as well,” she threw out to see if he was
really as up as all that on his English mysteries.
“Ah, Patricia Wentworth’s redoubtable heroine.”
Monica smiled, feeling absurdly pleased that he’d
understood the reference.
He extended his hand. “I’m Greg Harper, Book ’Em’s owner,
manager and general dogsbody “
He had a firm handshake, which Monica returned. “Monica
Albertson.” She hated to admit it, but she was almost
disappointed when he let go of her hand.
“How are you liking Cranberry Cove? I heard you’ve come
to help your brother with his farm.”
Monica was startled, and seeing the expression on her
face made Greg laugh. “This is a small town. Everyone
knows everyone else’s business.”
Monica wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She was used
to the anonymity of the big city.
She ended up buying the Christie book—she wanted to see
if she agreed with Greg about its being one of Dame
Agatha’s best works. She’d also picked up the newest
Peter Robinson—a current favorite author—but then put it
back down. It would give her an excuse to come back again
later in the month to purchase it.
Monica rather reluctantly left Book ’Em and headed next
door to Bart’s Butcher—the type of old-fashioned place
where they had sawdust on the floor and tied your package
in paper fastened with string.
She planned to pick up a steak. She’d invited Jeff to
have dinner with her—he was looking entirely too thin for
Monica’s tastes. She suspected he subsisted on takeout
and microwave dinners, neither of which was particularly
high in nutritional value. That, combined with his worry
about the farm, had turned him from lean and muscular to
almost scrawny.
Monica selected a prime looking T-bone, and Bart Dykema,
a round barrel of a man, pulled a sheet of paper from the
roll on the counter and placed the steak on it. He
gestured toward Monica’s package with his chin.
“See you bought something in that shop next door.” Monica
nodded.?“Nice guy, Greg Harper.” He measured out a piece
of string from the roller attached to the counter and cut
it. “Ran for mayor last year but was defeated by Sam
Culbert, who’s holding the office now. Harper’s widowed,
you know.” He wrapped the string around the neat bundle
he’d created. “Not seeing anyone so far as I can tell.”
Monica felt her face getting red. Was Bart insinuating
that she and Greg . . .
“How’s your brother doing?” Bart said, suddenly changing
the subject. “Got a good crop of cranberries going? I
imagine he’ll be harvesting any day now.”
“He’s managing,” Monica said, although in reality, the
farm was bleeding money, and Monica hoped she’d be able
to help Jeff staunch the flow. Sam Culbert, who was the
farm’s former owner in addition to being the mayor, had
managed the farm for Jeff while he was overseas, and Jeff
had returned to find the place in near financial ruin.
Monica took her package, bid Bart a good day and headed
toward the farmer’s market at the end of Beach Hollow
Road. She picked up salad fixings—tender lettuce, a
cucumber and tomatoes still warm from the sun. Her
shopping completed, Monica headed back toward the farm.
On her return trip to Sassamanash Farm—so named because
it was the word for cranberry in the Algonquin Indian
language—Monica stopped at the crest of the hill again.
This time she could see the farm in the distance. It
looked like a carpet of green dotted with the brilliant
fire engine red of the ripe cranberries. The berries had
been pale pink when Monica had arrived at Sassamanash
Farm, but as the weather had become cooler, they had
turned their characteristic ruby color.
If she squinted, she could see the dollhouse sized
cottage she was in the process of renovating, the stretch
of black macadam where tourists parked when they came to
watch the harvest, and the dot of white that was the
clapboard building that housed the small store where they
sold baked goods made with cranberries, and kitchen items
decorated with the fruit, such as tea towels, napkins and
pot holders.
Monica continued down the hill toward the farm. She
parked in front of the little cottage she now called
home. She had seen its inherent potential the minute she
arrived from Chicago. It had dormer windows, a gabled
roof and a trellis with the remains of summer’s climbing
roses. It had taken a month of painting, scrubbing and
sheer elbow grease to make it habitable, but Monica was
pleased with how it had turned out.
She stowed the steak she’d purchased at Bart’s in the
refrigerator along with the salad fixings. The cottage
still smelled of sugar and spice from the goodies she’d
baked early that morning—cranberry muffins, cranberry
scones dusted with sugar and a cranberry salsa she was
still experimenting with to get the right balance of
flavors—both sweet and hot—with accents of lime, cilantro
and jalapeno. Monica packed everything in a basket and
headed back out the door.
Darlene Polk was behind the counter of the Sassamanash
Farm store when Monica arrived. She was taller than
Monica’s five foot eight—almost six feet—with a lot more
meat on her bones. Her nondescript light brown hair was
gathered into a ponytail, and her bangs were curling in
the humidity.
She glanced up when she heard Monica enter. Her face bore
its usual resentful expression, her lower lip stuck out
as if she was continually pouting. Monica had tried to
become friends with her, but Darlene preferred to keep to
herself.
Monica put down her basket and turned to Darlene, who was
leaning against the counter reading one of those
magazines that grocery stores sell by the checkout lane.
“Can you help me put these out?”
Darlene stared at her blankly for a moment before
shuffling over, the sulky expression on her face
intensifying with each step.
“I don’t see what was wrong with the stuff we carried
before,” Darlene whined. “It sold, didn’t it?” She glared
at Monica challengingly.
When Monica had arrived at Sassamanash Farm, she’d
discovered that the shop was selling mass produced
cranberry products—muffins preserved in plastic wrap,
scones filled with trans fats to keep them fresh, and
preserves that Darlene had slapped a Sassamanash Farm
label on. Having made all the baked goods for her own
little café, Monica got to work creating fresh products
for the store.
“I’m sure it was all very fine,” Monica said soothingly.
“But customers today want fresh, homemade tasting
goodies. They can get mass produced products anywhere. We
need to sell something that’s special.”
Monica carried the containers of salsa over to the cooler
where they kept bottled water and pop for the tourists.
“What happened to the salsa I brought over yesterday?”
“Sold it.” Darlene cracked her gum and stared at Monica
from under her bangs, the ends of which were caught under
her smudged glasses.
“You sold all of it?” Monica couldn’t believe it.
Although locals occasionally frequented the shop, most of
their sales were from tourists stopping by the farm to
get a firsthand look at the cranberry bogs. The store
didn’t exactly do a brisk business, except during the
harvest.
Darlene was already back at the counter, flipping through
the pages of her magazine. “Some guy came in and bought
them all. Said he was from the Cranberry Cove Inn. Said
it was the best salsa he’d ever tasted, and he wanted to
put it on the menu.”
Monica’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps she’d found the
perfect balance for the salsa after all. And if the
Cranberry Cove Inn wanted to buy it, there might be
others as well. She chewed on a ragged cuticle. Goodness
knows, they needed as much cash as they could get to keep
the farm running. Jeff had sunk his life’s savings into
it, and she wasn’t going to let him lose it if she could
help it.
Monica arranged the fresh muffins in a basket lined with
a red-and-white gingham napkin and placed the scones in
an orderly row on an antique silver platter she had found
at an estate sale.
She felt Darlene’s beady eyes on her as she went about
tidying the shop—dusting the jars of preserves she’d made
herself and creating a display with the cranberry
decorated tea towels and napkins a local woman sewed for
them.
There was a noise outside, and Darlene looked up. She
made her ponderous way to the window and peered out. She
turned around, her scowl deepening.
“It’s that Sam Culbert. I thought we’d seen the last of
him around here. He sold the farm to your brother, didn’t
he?”
“Yes, but I imagine there may still be some things they
need to discuss.”
Monica watched as Jeff and Culbert said good-bye.
Culbert was broad shouldered with thick gray hair and
slightly bowed legs. Monica was surprised to see him get
into a dark, late model Lexus.
“That’s quite the car,” she said to Darlene. “I didn’t
realize there was so much money in cranberries.”
Darlene snorted. “About a penny a berry—and only the
unblemished ones. The rest are worthless. The Culberts
own a lot more than Sassamanash Farm. They have real
estate all over the county, own half the buildings in
town and have a huge house with a view of the lake. You
should see the place. I clean it for Mrs. Culbert once a
week.” Darlene scowled again. “Must be nice. I grew up in
a double wide with secondhand furniture and hand-me-down
clothes. Of course my mother, bless her soul, did the
best she could seeing as how I didn’t have no daddy.”
Monica made comforting noises to the best of her ability.
Darlene would complain about the deprivation of her
upbringing out of one side of her mouth while out the
other side she would insist that despite their lack of
means, her childhood had been nearly idyllic.
Monica brushed some dust off her sweatshirt. “I guess
I’ll be going now.”
Darlene gave her a sour look.
Jeff only kept Darlene on because it was hard to get
anyone to work in the store when they could make more
money waitressing or clerking at one of the shops in
town.
Monica walked back to her cottage, where she planned to
spend the afternoon reviewing the farm’s accounts. Jeff
had just borrowed a considerable sum from the bank to
keep things afloat. Monica had learned a little something
about business while running her café, and she hoped that
she would be able to straighten things out for Jeff. She
set up her laptop on the kitchen table and plugged in the
flash drive that held the data from Jeff’s computer.
Going over the accounts for Sassamanash Farm was a long
and tedious process, but Monica had plenty of patience.
By the time she finished examining the pages and pages of
Excel spreadsheets, and all the statements from the bank,
she had the answer to why Sassamanash Farm was failing to
produce a profit.
But how was she going to break the news to Jeff?