Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  “He doesn’t?”

  “If he did, would he risk his life to drive her to safety? No, he would have taken her to jail.”

  Relief flooded her face. “You’re right.”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s go make some wreaths. But I can only stay an hour. Gilroy’s going home today.”

  “Can I come?” Julia said, pretending eagerness. She knew I was up to something and wasn’t about to let me go it alone.

  “Both of you, please,” Ellen said.

  I sat once more at my kitchen table. So far, I didn’t have much of a plan. My idea was to get the wreath makers to talk about the day Micah died. To re-create that day in everyone’s mind and establish where everyone had been and what they had seen. To get someone to let slip a crucial piece of information. To see who got angry and stomped out of the Lamberts’ house. “Ellen, you do realize that one of the people in your house the day Micah died is a murderer, don’t you?” Could I have been more blunt? But Ellen needed to be brought all the way down to reality. “One of your wreath-making friends or one of the two remaining members of the Four Santas killed Micah and Farley and then tried to kill Sonya.”

  “The same person who killed Micah and Farley tried to kill Sonya?”

  “It has to be the same person.”

  She chewed on the inside of her lower lip. “I haven’t wanted to think about it.”

  Obviously, I thought.

  “But it’s not Oliver,” she added. “He loves Sonya, and Micah was his dear friend.”

  “Was Farley his friend?”

  “Farley was Farley’s friend. He wasn’t the most popular member of the group.”

  “I have an idea,” I began.

  Julia leaned forward.

  “But I need you and Julia to go along with me. Will you trust me?”

  CHAPTER 15

  The ladies of the wreath-making table did not welcome my return with open arms. No one reared back in horror when I walked with Ellen and Julia into the Lamberts’ dining room, but they acknowledged me with closed-lipped smiles and a strained silence. Ellen hadn’t said so, but I was sure she had told everyone that I had suspected her of murder and tried to turn Sonya against her. I was, in Julia’s words, persona non grata.

  We made our bundles quietly, sidelong glances shooting back and forth across the table. After a few uncomfortable minutes, I searched for something to say. Anything that would break the silence so I could steer the conversation to the day Micah died.

  “This evergreen scent is wonderful,” Julia said. “You’ll be able to smell these wreaths from every pew. I think it’s so nice of you ladies to do this every year.”

  Bless you, Julia.

  “I only wish Micah and Farley were still here,” Ellen said.

  And you too, Ellen.

  “This was their favorite time of year,” Amber said. She was wearing a pink sweater this time around, but her lips were still the same cherry red, and her nails were now painted to match.

  “It’s their first Christmas in heaven,” Julia said. “Think of it like that. It helps.”

  Amber clucked her tongue.

  “Yes?” Ellen said.

  For a long, icy moment, no one said a word. Then Amber caved. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? I don’t want to be rude.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Julia said.

  “Excuse me?” Amber said.

  “You heard me,” Julia said.

  “First Christmas in heaven?” Amber sneered. “Isn’t that a little juvenile?”

  Bonnie laid her bundle on the table and patted her ferociously permed hair. She’d already made as many bundles as the rest of us put together and could afford to take a break. “I think it’s a lovely sentiment,” she said.

  It was time for me to step in. “I know Sonya is going to miss Micah terribly,” I said. Hands stopped moving and faces shot my way.

  “Sonya has a rough time ahead of her,” Julia said, nodding sagely. “Especially since she blames herself for Micah’s death.”

  “She does?” Ellen said, bewildered by the notion.

  Sonya hadn’t expressed any feelings of guilt I’d heard, but Julia was wise enough to know that bringing her supposed guilt into the discussion was a sure way to get a reaction.

  “Why should Sonya feel guilty?” Amber asked. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “She thinks she should have spotted someone putting poison in one of the Christmas cookies,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Amber said, pointing at me with her bundle of greens. “Someone put poison in the Christmas cookies?”

  Bonnie looked at Amber as though she were an especially dense child. “Everyone knows Micah was poisoned. Where have you been?”

  “Poisoned, yeah, but not poisoned by a cookie,” Amber said. “Do you mean the cookies we were all eating?”

  “Yes, those cookies,” Julia said before Bonnie could answer. “You might have nibbled on one. How did you feel when you went home?”

  “Now that I think of it, not that good.”

  I gave Julia a gentle kick under the table. “Farley Brewer was poisoned by a cookie too,” I said.

  “How do you inject poison in a cookie?” Amber said.

  Ellen’s head jerked. “Who’s talking about injecting?”

  “Not me,” Bonnie said. “Amber, what are you talking about?”

  “The medical examiner couldn’t tell how the poison got in the food,” I said, quickly jumping in. “All he could say for certain, or almost for certain, was that he’d eaten poison in a cookie.”

  Amber stared open-mouthed at me. “How do you know all this?”

  Bonnie cleared her throat. “I have a better question, Rachel. What makes you think Ellen or Oliver killed Micah and Farley?”

  “Wow,” Amber said, dropping her hands to the table.

  “I don’t think Ellen killed anyone,” I said, my eyes traveling around the room, looking for guilty expressions or telling facial tics.

  “And what about Oliver and Farley?” Bonnie said. “I notice you left them out.”

  I shrugged. I was sitting across the table from Amber, and for a few seconds I foolishly thought she might let me off Bonnie’s hook by admitting that she was the one who had all but said Oliver was the killer by telling me he’d tampered with Farley’s murder scene. But she stayed quiet, layering with precision her latest bundle of greens.

  “And I have another question,” Bonnie said, growing increasingly testy. “Why are you involved in any of this, Rachel?”

  “Because Micah asked for my help.”

  “You knew him?”

  “He asked me for help when the Four Santas came to carol the other day.”

  Bonnie frowned in disbelief. “Are you telling me he knew he was going to be murdered? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ellen said, breaking in, “what if we tried to remember what happened that day? We were all here. Let’s put our heads together and remember where we were and what we saw. It might help the police.”

  “I saw bundles and wreaths,” Amber said. “And Sonya eating five hundred cookies.”

  “For instance,” Ellen went on, “did all the Santas come into the kitchen at the same time? Or did some of them mill around in the living room?”

  Impatient for results, Ellen had pushed the issue too soon, and Bonnie, who was somewhat sharper than Amber, understood what she was really saying. “You want to work out which one of us killed Micah?” she said, her nose in the air, her nimble fingers continuing to spin wire at warp speed around her evergreen bundle.

  “Bonnie, I just want to know what happened in my own house,” Ellen said. “I don’t think any of you killed Micah, but if we could go over what happened that day, maybe we would remember something important. Isn’t it worth a try?”

  Ellen may have believed that Amber and Bonnie weren’t killers, but I wasn’t so sure. It was either one of them or Craig Eskew, Bonnie’s husband, who had kil
led Micah and Farley. While wrapping bundles, I had permanently scratched Oliver off my list of suspects.

  “Let me think,” Amber said. “I’m trying to remember.”

  So which one of them was it? I wondered as I watched them work. Bonnie was the most reluctant to talk about the killings, which was a red flag for me. Sit for hours at a table making wreaths and not talk about what the whole town was discussing? Hardly likely. On the other end of the scale, Amber had driven to my house late at night to tell me about Oliver’s activities at Farley’s murder scene. Was she trying to point the finger of guilt so no one would look her way?

  Statistically, poison was a woman’s choice of murder weapons. But a man who knew murder statistics could use them to his advantage, couldn’t he? And Craig Eskew had another strike against him. He ran Juniper Charities during its possibly shady past, and I was convinced that Juniper Charities played a part in the murders.

  “We were all sitting here at the table when I heard the Four Santas singing next door,” Bonnie said.

  Amber nodded. “Then I heard them. Then Bonnie grabbed Ellen’s cookies and high-tailed it to the door.”

  “They sang for a minute, we let them in, and we all had cookies and coffee,” Bonnie said, glaring at Amber. “How do the police know the poison wasn’t in the coffee?”

  “They tested the mugs,” I replied.

  “Sounds like you have inside knowledge,” Amber said, flashing me a grin. “You and the police chief looked very comfortable together at the caroling festival. He hardly looked at me.”

  I lifted my head, my eyes going from my improperly layered bundle to Bonnie and Amber. “You know what’s interesting to me? No one has asked why someone would kill Micah and Farley.”

  “No one knows,” Bonnie said nonchalantly. “Two harmless guys. Neither one of them had an enemy.”

  “Two of the Four Santas are murdered and no one at this table has a clue as to why?” I retorted.

  “You seem to have more information than we do,” Bonnie said, “so what do you think?”

  Julia leaped in. “But they were your friends, Bonnie. More than that, they were part of the same caroling group your husband is in. You must have an idea.”

  “Are you blaming Craig now as well as Oliver?” Bonnie said.

  Ellen jumped in before I could reply. “The police are clearly interested in everyone who was at my house two days ago,” she said. “That includes me. So if I’m included, why should Craig be excluded?”

  “Wow,” Amber said. “We really are suspects.”

  Bonnie stared at Amber.

  “No, I mean we really are, Bonnie. All of us, including the Santas. No one else could have killed Micah. One of us is a murderer.”

  “Are you only now realizing this?” Bonnie said.

  “I guess I am. We could be making Christmas wreaths with a murderer.”

  “You mean unless my Craig did it,” Bonnie said in a flat voice. She sniffed and went back to her wrapping. “We have eighteen more wreaths to make before I can go home and get my own Christmas started. It’s long overdue.”

  Moving slowly, deliberately, Amber snipped the extra wire from her bundle. “Bonnie, you told me that—”

  “Can we get on with the wreaths?” Bonnie said.

  “Bonnie,” Amber said sternly. She waited until Bonnie stopped fiddling with her bundle and looked her in the eye. “You said Farley was digging around in people’s coats in the coat closet. You said he went off by himself while everyone else was in the kitchen and you followed him and saw him putting his hands in other people’s coat pockets.”

  “Yes, I did,” Bonnie answered.

  Amber turned to me. “I had to check my pockets to see if my phone was still there.”

  “Was it?” I asked.

  “By some miracle.”

  “Bonnie?” Ellen said. “Why didn’t you say something to me or the police? That’s the sort of thing Chief Gilroy asked us about. He wanted to know if we saw anyone separate from the group at any time.”

  Bonnie let out a sigh. “Farley had a problem. He kept it to himself mostly, though he told me about it last Christmas.”

  “Was he a kleptomaniac?” Amber asked with a laugh. “Like in the movies? Someone who can’t help stealing?”

  Bonnie cut her off. “It’s no joke. It’s a real condition, and Farley suffered from it.”

  The atmosphere in the room shifted. The smile faded from Amber’s face.

  “What on earth?” Ellen’s eyes darkened. “Farley Brewer has been in my house stealing things from my guests and you and Craig didn’t think to tell me?”

  “That’s why I followed him,” Bonnie said. “So I wouldn’t have to tell you. I kept an eye on him and put back anything he took. Which by the way, Amber, included your phone.”

  “That rat,” Amber said. “He took my phone?”

  “Why did he tell you about his secret . . . problem?” Julia asked. I knew her well enough to recognize that tone. Problem, my foot, she was thinking.

  “Because I caught him rifling through coat pockets at a party last Christmas. There? Are we satisfied now? Can we get back to the wreaths?”

  Gilroy. I checked my watch. I was much too agitated to listen to any more nonsense from Bonnie and Amber. My plan, such as it was, had been a flop. I stood abruptly and excused myself, saying I had a pie to deliver to a very brave man. I nudged Julia and slipped on my coat, but before I exited the dining room, I spun back at Bonnie. “Did Farley always take things from coat pockets? Or did he sometimes put things into them?”

  CHAPTER 16

  I dropped Julia at her house, picked up my pumpkin pie, and drove for Gilroy’s house on the east side of Juniper Grove. Underhill had said he would leave an extra key for me under the welcome mat—not very original, or safe—so Gilroy wouldn’t have to get off the couch and hobble for the door when I arrived. I had hoped my strange visit to Ellen’s home would unearth a few clues I could share with him, but Amber’s recollections and Bonnie’s revelation about Farley’s questionable kleptomania had only muddied the waters.

  All the way home Julia had scoffed at the idea that Farley was the victim of some insatiable urge that could only be satisfied by stealing from his friends. I joined in, but I scoffed for another reason altogether. I found Bonnie’s story preposterous. And convenient.

  I headed up the flagstone walk to Gilroy’s modest ranch-style home, found his spare key, and knocked a couple times before I entered. “It’s just me,” I called out. I heard a sleepy grunt coming from one of the couches. Gilroy propped himself up on his elbows and smiled.

  I shut the door behind me and wiped my feet on the inside mat. “I’m sorry to wake you. I’ll bet you’re glad to be home.”

  “You have no idea.” He settled back on his pillows.

  “I come bearing a pumpkin pie.” I sat on the arm of his couch, my emotions welling up inside of me again, like they had in the hospital. His black eyes were even worse now, and the bruise on his left temple, along with the nasty stitches there, told me how hard his head had hit either the driver’s side window or the door frame. His lower left leg was encased in something that looked like a ski boot, and his whole leg was resting on a large, puffy pillow that Underhill had probably put there.

  “Do I look that bad?” he asked, smiling wryly.

  “You look wonderful.”

  “Then?”

  “I want to throttle the person who did this to you.”

  “That’s my job. I’m taking one more day off, and then I’m heading to work. The day after Christmas.”

  “Will you be ready?”

  “More than.”

  “But your ankle,” I protested.

  “I only broke one bone. It won’t be long before I can walk on it, as long as I wear this boot.”

  I stood, ready for action. “Did you have lunch? What about dinner? What do you need?”

  “Underhill brought lunch, and Turner’s bringing dinner.”

  �
�Do you want a piece of pie? It’s hours before dinner.”

  “Rachel, sit down.”

  I laid the pie on an end table. “You don’t need to refrigerate this. Just so you know.” I sat once more on the arm of the couch.

  “Thanks for coming to see me in the hospital. Underhill said you were there for hours, but I guess I slept through most of it.”

  “Of course I came.”

  “It wasn’t the night we planned, was it? Your party.”

  “Never mind about my party. Sonya said someone shot at you, too. What if they hadn’t missed?”

  “What-ifs don’t count.”

  “But what if you’d been shot?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You scared me to death.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s not like it was your fault.”

  “Rachel, this is my life. Police work is dull most of the time, but I have to be prepared. You have to be prepared. Bad things can happen. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Think seriously about becoming involved with me. That’s what he was saying. If this isn’t the life you want, back out now while you still can. But I was falling in love with him—and love did not come easy to me. I wasn’t some teenager who had two crushes a year, I was a forty-three-year-old woman who hadn’t loved a man in twelve years.

  “James, I’m not a fool. You’re a police chief. Your hours are lousy, especially when you’re working a case. You can be called away at any time, day or night. And criminals are going to take shots at you and try to run you off the road. It’s the life you’ve chosen, and it’s a good, honorable life.” I moved from the couch arm to the couch, balancing myself on the edge of a cushion.

  He shifted his weight toward the couch back, making room for me, and grimaced slightly with the effort. “Bruised ribs.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t move.” I bent down and kissed him softly. “I understand what I’m getting into. The question is, do you understand what you’re getting into?”

  He laughed and put his hand behind my neck, drawing me closer, and we kissed again.

  I could have stayed there all day, sitting at the edge of the couch or baking Christmas cookies for him—“fussing,” he would have called it. But he needed his rest, and I had some investigating to do. I was still hoping to give him a clean plate when he went back to work. I put his pumpkin pie in the kitchen, and when I came back out to the living room, he was asleep. I pocketed his key, made sure the deadbolt on his door was set, and shut it behind me.