Berry the Hatchet by Peg Cochran Page B

on Beach Hollow Road.” Hennie fiddled with the glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. She looked around the shop. “I wonder what this place would be worth?”
    Gerda got a panicked look on her face, and Hennie put a hand on her arm.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’m not thinking we should sell. I’m only curious.”
    Gerda looked relieved.
    Monica looked at her watch. “If I’m going to visit Edith, I’d better get going so I don’t interrupt her dinner.” Monica peered into the glass candy case. “I wanted to pick up something for my mother.”
    â€œDoes she like chocolate?” Hennie asked.
    Monica wrinkled her nose. “Not so much.”
    â€œI know.” Hennie went behind the counter, opened thecase and pulled out a package. “Katjes winegums. I’m sure she will like these.”
    â€œI’ll take them,” Monica said, digging around in her purse for her wallet.
    Hennie waved a hand at her. “Never mind. Our treat. To welcome your mother to Cranberry Cove. You must bring her by someday.”
    Monica promised she would as she took her leave and plunged back into the cold and crowded night.
    The hardware store was at the other end of the block from Gumdrops. Monica stepped off the curb and into the street, where it was slightly less crowded. Chatter filled the air around her—it was impossible to believe that someone had been murdered here only the day before.
    Monica arrived at the entrance to the hardware store, and then took a few steps back—she’d gone too far. Off to the side was another door, red with a brass doorbell alongside it. Monica pressed the button. She heard the buzzer ringing inside and waited.
    Monica was about to turn away—perhaps the VanVelsen sisters were wrong and Edith had decided to go out—when the door opened a crack.
    â€œYes?” A woman’s voice came through the small opening.
    â€œEdith? I’m Monica Albertson. I live out at Sassamanash Farm. The VanVelsen sisters told me you lived here. Could I possibly come in and ask you a few questions?”
    â€œAre you a reporter? Because I don’t want my name in the paper. My mother always said the only time a lady should have her name in the paper is when she’s born, when she’s married and when she dies.”
    â€œNo, no. I’m not a reporter.”
    â€œI suppose it’s okay.” Edith pulled open the door.
    She was wearing an old silk peignoir ensemble, the sort actresses wore in movies made in the thirties and forties, although Edith’s set was frayed at the hem and cuffs and sported several tiny holes. Her thin hair was dyed a red that bordered on fuchsia, and her lips were extravagantly colored with bright orange lipstick.
    Whatever Monica had been subconsciously expecting, this certainly wasn’t it.
    Monica followed Edith up a set of bare wooden stairs that ended in a small landing. The door to the landing was propped open with a rolled-up newspaper. Edith kicked it aside as they entered the apartment.
    The apartment itself looked as if time had stood still. The sofa and chairs were Victorian era with antimacassars draped over their backs and knickknacks—porcelain ladies in stiff petticoats and gentlemen in knee breeches—were scattered everywhere. A Victrola stood on a tabletop in the corner.
    From the living room, Monica could see a small kitchen and the door to what looked like a bedroom. Noise from the street—the rise and fall of voices and far-off horns—drifted in through the closed windows. Edith had a chair pulled up next to one of them—Monica suspected she sat there and watched life go by downstairs.
    â€œIt’s so nice of you to visit me. I don’t get many visitors.” Edith sat down opposite Monica and crossed her ankles primly, her hands folded in her lap. Suddenly she struggled to her feet. “I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like