Free Berry the Hatchet by Peg Cochran Page A

approaching, and the door opened and two more women came in. One was Eleanor Mason, a retired schoolteacher who always made Monica think of Miss Marple. Today she had on a quilted sweatshirt with a snowman applique on the front. With her was Phyllis Bouma, the local librarian. She was almost as much of an authority on mysteries as Greg.
    The two women poured themselves coffee and slid two pieces of Monica’s coffee cake onto the paper plates Greg had put out. Eleanor sank into one of the armchairs with a loud
ouf
, and Phyllis sat next to her on a worn leather office chair.
    Phyllis brandished her copy of
Dangerous to Know
. “It’s hard to believe there’s been another murder in our midst,” she said. “Just like out of a book.”
    Grace gave a loud sniff. “Except we know the victim. Or at least I do.” She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. She tucked it back into her cuff and fingered the thin gold chain around her neck. She gaveanother loud sniff. “Preston gave me this for my twentieth anniversary with him.”
    â€œIt’s lovely,” everyone chorused dutifully.
    â€œHe bought it in that new shop here in town—Bijou. Preston always did believe in patronizing the local stores.”
    â€œIt must be odd for that Jacy Belair woman who runs Bijou to be on the other side of the fence now—or should I say
counter
.” Phyllis drummed her fingers on the book in her lap.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Grace looked at her quizzically.
    â€œShe used to be one of the rich summer tourists buying fancy clothes in Danielle’s, and now she’s behind the counter at a jewelry store.”
    â€œShe owns the store, doesn’t she?” Eleanor asked. “At least that’s what I heard.”
    â€œAs far as I know.” Phyllis raised an eyebrow. “Still, it’s a bit of a comedown having to work for a living, don’t you think?”
    â€œBut if she was one of the rich summer tourists, as you put it . . .” Monica said.
    Phyllis snorted. “Easy come, easy go, as they say. I heard that husband of hers left her quite well off but she got caught up in some sort of scheme and lost it all. She even had to sell her house down south or wherever it was they came from.”
    Eleanor glanced at Grace, who was dabbing her eyes again.
    â€œI’m sorry, dear,” she said. “All this must be very upsetting for you.”
    Grace nodded. “I just hope they find out who did it.”
    â€œWe should investigate ourselves,” Phyllis declared.
    â€œYes. Just like in the books—like Miss Silver or Jessica Fletcher,” Eleanor chimed in.
    â€œDo you really think . . .” Gerda started.
    â€œIt may not be wise. It may be . . . dangerous,” Hennie added, “to get mixed up in murder.”
    â€œNonsense,” Phyllis said briskly. “But we do need some clues.”
    Greg, Monica noticed, was listening to the conversation with an amused look on his face.
    â€œWhat kind of clues?” Grace lifted her head, and for a moment her face became almost animated.
    â€œI don’t know,” Phyllis said in exasperation. “Maybe like who hated him or who stands to benefit—things like that.”
    â€œHe had a huge argument with someone the day he died,” Grace said with the air of someone presenting a gift. “It was right before he left the office to go to the Winter Walk. They were shouting so loudly I could hear them clear out to my desk, even though the door was shut.”
    The rest of the women leaned forward eagerly in their seats.
    â€œWho was he arguing with?” Eleanor asked.
    â€œI don’t exactly know,” Grace admitted, her bony shoulders sagging.
    â€œGerda and I know almost everyone in Cranberry Cove, right, Gerda?” Hennie turned to her sister. “Perhaps if you describe the person, we can figure out who it