Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  Though I’d never held a knife that way in my life, if the killer had acted impulsively, I could imagine him grabbing it the wrong way around. Or maybe a left-hander would do that. Maybe. But it was one more peculiarity I wasn’t comfortable with.

  In another oversight, no one had checked to see if the knife belonged in any of the guests’ homes, but back then, an extensive search like that was beyond either Sterling’s or Juniper Grove’s budget.

  Purdy’s murder was destined from the start to go unsolved.

  I slid the report Gilroy’s way, quietly closed the door, and took Underhill’s lunch order. He was pouring his second cup of coffee as we talked, and he dug into his wallet for twenty dollars to cover lunch.

  “What do you think of Arthur Jago’s murder, Officer? Any impressions?”

  “I don’t think he was murdered in the chair.”

  “I didn’t see blood anywhere else.”

  “Hard to see blood on an oriental rug or in a dark hallway. The crime-scene guys can tell us later.”

  “I don’t think he was killed far from that armchair, though. He was an awfully big guy.”

  “Dead weight,” Underhill said, nodding. “It wouldn’t have been easy to carry or drag a man that size to the library.”

  “Downright impossible, I’d think.”

  “Unless two people killed him.”

  “Did you make anything more of the black-light smudges on his shirt?”

  “Pastry glaze, wasn’t it? He was a sloppy eater.”

  “But there were no sweeping marks, like this,” I said, brushing invisible crumbs from my jacket. “Just small spots. Sloppy eaters brush away the crumbs at some point. And anyway, it didn’t look like glaze to me, and Arthur had eclairs. They don’t glow under ultraviolet light.”

  Underhill was a sharp cop. He knew better. But at that moment, like Gilroy, he wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I headed off to Wyatt’s.

  CHAPTER 12

  After dropping off Gilroy’s and Underhill’s sandwiches at the station, I headed back up the sidewalk to see how Holly was doing after our sleepless night at the Grandview. Early afternoon was a slower time at the bakery, so Peter handled the counter as Holly and I took a break in the back. She said she had a new cream puff recipe she was trying, and the first of the new puffs were about to come out of the oven. I wasn’t about to pass that up.

  “The pastry is chocolate and the cream is almond flavored,” she said, her eye on the oven timer. “It may be overkill.” When the timer dinged, she removed a tray, set it to cool on a stainless island, left the oven door open until the temperature dropped just so, and then slid a tray of scones onto the rack. Then, in a waltz-like movement, she plucked a ceramic bowl from a refrigerator, grabbed a carton of heavy cream, and wheeled back to the island.

  “I’m surprised you’re able to function today,” I said, admiring her ability to multitask.

  “Three mugs of coffee,” she replied.

  “What else have you got baking?” I glanced about, trying to control an urge to sample one of the chocolate puffs before Holly had a chance to make the cream filling.

  “Just the scones.”

  In answer to my quizzical look, she set down the carton of cream and said, “See that triple-deck oven over there?” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s broken, and it can’t be fixed. All it’s good for is the trash heap.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Ten days ago. We’ve been told by two separate repairmen that it can’t be fixed. Thank goodness it didn’t happen over Christmas or our doors would be shut right now. That’s our main oven.”

  “Can you get a new one?”

  “We have to—we have no choice. It was only six months out of warranty. Six months.”

  “They’re expensive, aren’t they?”

  “Royally. We’ll have to go into major debt, and you know how I hate that. We had most of this equipment paid off.”

  No wonder Holly had thought of her missed opportunity when she saw Arthur’s body. A major purchase—I guessed at least ten thousand dollars—weighed on her, and with her benefactor gone, that purchase would put her in a financial predicament.

  “Holly’s Sweets is getting so popular—maybe it won’t take long to pay it off.”

  Holly’s mouth was set in a firm line. My optimism wasn’t helping. “Peter and I go shopping for a new oven next week. Our lives and our credit card in hand. We paid off the small charges on the card today and we’re waiting for the payment to show up before we can charge it again. We’ve become slaves to the bakery, and that was never my intention.”

  When I’d first met Holly, I thought she possessed a naturally cheerful spirit. I thought she was one of those lucky souls to whom happiness came naturally. Later, I realized she had to work at her cheerfulness—like most of us. And she did work at it. To see her so uncommonly dejected disturbed me. I resolved to call Shane at the Grandview as soon as I got home. He was going to rave about Holly’s Sweets like he’d never raved about anything else or I’d pay him an unpleasant visit at the hotel.

  “How about coffee at my house after you and Peter eat dinner?” I said. “I’m inviting Julia. A nice fire in the fireplace, relaxing small talk, friends waiting on you hand and foot?”

  “I’d prefer a meeting of the Juniper Grove Mystery Gang.”

  “Are you up to it?”

  “Absolutely, I am. It’ll take my mind off this . . . this . . . everything going wrong at once. As a matter of fact,” she said, anxiously twisting her wedding ring, “I was thinking of dropping pastries off at the Grandview in two or three hours. Feel like going with me?”

  I hesitated, but only out of surprise. I was sure Holly never wanted to see the inside of the Grandview again. But it wasn’t a bad idea—bringing the crew more scrumptious pastries—and it would give me a chance to examine the library without feeling rushed or intrusive.

  “Sure, I’ll go with you. Then we can head back to my place for coffee.”

  Holly smiled. “It’ll be late for me. How about cocoa instead of coffee?”

  “You got it.”

  “Now help me make the almond-flavored filling. You’re my guinea pig.”

  AFTER I GAVE MY official seal of approval to the new cream puff—by eating an entire one—I headed back to my car, but along the way, I glanced through the window of Wyatt’s Bistro and saw Shane and his crew chatting over a late lunch. Actually, Shane was doing the chatting. His crew looked as morose as Holly had a few minutes earlier, and the three of them sat silently, chewing like tired and unhappy cows. Now was my chance to talk to Shane about Holly’s pastries.

  I pasted a smile on my face as I strode to their table. “I didn’t expect to see you all down here.”

  “Well, hey there,” Shane said. “We thought we’d take a break, and that police officer—I forget his name. Tall, grumbling guy who came with the chief.”

  “Underhill.”

  “Underhill said Wyatt’s was tasty. Pull up a chair.”

  Conyer shot a sidelong look at Maria. I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t welcome.

  “So you’re spending another night at the Grandview,” I said. Not a brilliant observation, but it was a conversational starting point.

  “We’re wondering if Purdy’s ghost walks the halls the day after his murder,” Shane said.

  “It doesn’t bother you to stay there another night, with all that’s happened?” I said.

  “Yeesss,” Maria said, elongating the word as though fools like me needed to have the obvious made plain. She wore the same blue headband she had at the hotel, and in her anticipation of another miserable night at the Grandview, she tugged at it as she had in the basement.

  Conyer peered at me over the top of his glasses. “For all we know, we’re safer tonight than we were last night.”

  “Ouch,” Shane said. “Manners.”

  Conyer’s remark called for bluntness. “Chances are, you’re in every bit as much danger t
onight as last night,” I said. “Probably more.”

  Maria frowned and pulled in her chin. “You mean Ian and Connie Swanson? Tell me that’s what you mean, ’cause the four of us have been working together almost a year, and I trust everybody at this table.”

  Intrigued, Shane leaned my way and crossed his arms on the table. “You’re the detective, Rachel. Should we be worried about each other?”

  If you’re not worried now, you never will be, I wanted to say. Instead, I shrugged. “Someone killed Arthur, and the police haven’t arrested a suspect. I think you should be careful. Arthur was taken by surprise. He trusted whoever killed him.”

  “How do you know?” Shane said.

  “He was a big guy. If he’d known he was about to be killed, he would have fought back, and no one at this table is strong enough to have taken him head on. Whoever killed Arthur trapped him in some way, and he died shortly after, unable to fight back.”

  “But why would one of us kill him? I liked the guy.”

  I couldn’t help but notice how swiftly Shane had segued from us to I, leaving the others without alibis based on affection. “Did you know him before you started doing remotes at the Grandview?”

  “I met him a few months before our first remote, a little over five years ago. He was a fan of the show. We struck up a conversation, and he suggested doing a show at the hotel on Purdy’s anniversary. The station thought it was a super idea, and since I’m a ghost buff, I did too.”

  “Are you all ghost buffs?” I asked, looking from Dustin to Conyer and Maria.

  “I hate ghosts,” Maria said. “They’re idiotic.”

  “You wound me, Maria,” Shane said, clutching his chest.

  “They’re a way for unscrupulous people to make money off of gullible people.”

  Shane made an exaggerated gasping sound.

  “And thanks to ghosts, I had to creep around a dank basement in the dark.”

  “Speaking of basements,” I said. I had them all together. It was time for a little investigating, even if they took offense at my questions. And they would. “Where was everyone when we went down there to check out the banging noise?”

  “Searching for the source,” Dustin said. “I followed one of the ducts from near the stairs to a wall on the other side of the building. What a fraud that turned out to be.”

  “I only saw Maria and Shane down there,” I said. “Where were you, Conyer?”

  Conyer gave his sliding glasses a shove up his nose. “I was the first one down there—by myself, since Maria had to have a flashlight.”

  “I was right to wait for a flashlight,” Maria said. “I could’ve broken my neck on the stairs or walked into a wall.”

  “I made it down all right,” Conyer said. “And carrying a recorder too. It wasn’t totally black. There were a few bulbs in the ceiling.”

  “No, Maria’s right,” Dustin argued. “I wish I’d taken a flashlight. I tripped over—I don’t know what it was—when I was down there. I couldn’t see. And what a smell.”

  “I thought I’d gag,” Maria said. “It stunk like an old sock.”

  “Believe me, I’ve smelled better socks,” Conyer said with a laugh.

  While his crew talked, Shane watched them, his head cocked, his eyes flitting from one co-worker to another. Something was troubling him. A new and disturbing thought had risen to the surface of his mind. I saw it in his expression. Did his memories of that night differ?

  Shane turned to me. “Herbert Purdy was taken by surprise too, wasn’t he?”

  “And just like that, we’re back on Purdy,” Dustin said. Maria and Conyer chuckled.

  “That’s my guess,” I replied.

  “But by definition, anyone stabbed in the back has been taken by surprise,” Dustin said.

  Shane’s eye narrowed. “Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird that both Herbert Purdy and Arthur Jago were stabbed in the back on the same date? That’s too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Conyer said. “I pointed that out. Remember? We were—”

  Dustin cut him off. “All you said was there were similarities.”

  “Why is it a coincidence?” Maria asked. “Death by knife is common.”

  “True,” Conyer said. “Otherwise you’re saying any knife murder where the victim is stabbed in the back is connected to the Purdy murder.”

  I shook my head. “It’s more than the knife. It’s the location, it’s the date, it’s the apparent lack of struggle and blood evidence at the murder scenes—so much so that we’re not really sure of the exact places Purdy and Arthur were killed.”

  Shane gaped, and I realized I’d said too much.

  “Wait a minute,” he argued. “Purdy was killed in room 108. That’s why we do the remote there every year.”

  I rushed to reassure him that his knowledge of the case wasn’t completely illusory. “He was probably killed somewhere in the room. But I’m not convinced he was attacked on or near the bed.”

  “Didn’t they check the room for blood?” he said.

  “Not very carefully, in my opinion.”

  “Are you saying he was killed, say, in the bathroom or the hall?”

  “He might have been stabbed the second he turned his back after opening the door.” I omitted mention of the red smudge above the doorknob and the ear-witness’s report of a loud sigh coming from the hall.

  Her lips pursed in agitation, Maria said, “But Arthur was killed in the library. Connie found him.”

  “Connie found his body,” I corrected.

  “Thus the library is not necessarily the murder scene,” Shane said. “But as you said, Arthur was a big guy. Who could move him?”

  “Maybe he moved himself.”

  Shane was gaping again. “He walked?”

  And again I shrugged. Suddenly I wanted the conversation to end. Shane had a fascination for the Purdy case that wasn’t wholly healthy, and it dawned on me that I was telling four murder suspects too much about Arthur’s death. I was becoming as gabby as Officer Underhill, and no good could come from that.

  I rose and pushed my chair under the table. “Shane, would you mind talking about Holly’s pastries tonight? She missed out last night. Arthur was her business angel and, well, she’s in a bit of a bind now. Her main and very expensive oven died.”

  “Sure thing. Those were some of the best bear claws I’ve ever had, and I’ve traveled a lot. Was she paid for all those pastries?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe part of the payment was going to be the on-air promotion.”

  “That’s not fair, is it?” Shane said. “I’ll make it up. Promise.”

  “Best cinnamon-honey rolls ever,” Conyer said. He nudged Maria. “Miss Vitamin here missed out.”

  “Hey, I had a chocolate croissant, remember? Man, it was good. Tell Holly I said that, okay?”

  “You just tell her to listen tonight,” Shane said. “She’s in for a pleasant surprise.”

  “We’re spending another night at Murder Hotel,” Conyer said. “I have a feeling we’re all in for a surprise.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Any one of Shane’s colleagues could have killed Arthur. They’d all had the opportunity. As I left Wyatt’s Bistro, I wondered if Shane had come to that realization as he listened to his crew talk about their adventures in the hotel’s basement. Did he suspect, as I did, that one of them was a killer?

  Not that I’d totally dismissed Shane from my list of suspects. His affable nature aside, he was an ambitious man who put his work first. If Arthur had suggested they end the Purdy broadcasts, how would he have reacted? The Swansons claimed they had tried to talk Arthur into rebranding the hotel as a pleasant mountain getaway. What if they had succeeded?

  All I knew about Shane’s crew was what I had observed at the hotel. They seemed incapable of murder. They were unwilling participants in a remote broadcast from a creepy hotel. But more than that, none of them seemed to have a motive
.

  But someone did have a motive. It was more important than ever to find out why Arthur was killed.

  I climbed into my Forester and rang the Swansons on my cell. A minute later, I had a new piece of the puzzle. In his will, Arthur Jago had left the hotel to his brother, Raymond. He’d told the Swansons about the will last fall. He wanted them to rest assured that if something happened to him, they were to be kept on as managers for at least one year after his death. After that, Raymond could do what he wished, including sell the hotel.

  It was Raymond who had introduced Arthur to Shane Rooney and put a bug in Arthur’s ear about a remote broadcast, Connie said. Raymond, a wealthy businessman who lived in Denver, owned half the Fort Collins radio station where Shane worked and had an interest in the Purdy mystery going unsolved. At least once a year, during the Purdy remote, advertisers were willing to pay exorbitant rates for commercials.

  I drove home for a late lunch and a quick visit with Julia. I thought someone should know Holly and I intended to take more pastries to the radio crew, and I wasn’t about to tell Gilroy. Julia poured me a cup of boiling water, plopped a teabag in it, and led me into her living room, where we seated ourselves in her favorite chairs, one on either side of the large window overlooking her front porch. It was the sentry spot from which she observed the neighborhood goings-on.

  “I can’t believe you’re going back to that awful place after all that happened,” she said. “You know what Chief Gilroy would say.”

  How often did she use that one me? What would Chief Gilroy say? “Listen, Julia, it makes good sense for Holly to drop off pastries. She’s going to go whether or not I do, and I’d rather she didn’t go alone.” When I told Julia about Holly’s very broken and very expensive triple-deck oven, and reminded her that last night was a financial loss for her, she relented.

  “But once you two have dropped off the food, turn around and get out of there pronto.”