Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  Shane spread his hands. “With insurance money involved, he didn’t want to make it easy on the police, so he threw red herrings at them. If they declared his death a suicide, no money.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. There’s never a payout for suicide.”

  “But even if he and his wife were divorcing, he still cared about his family, his kids,” Shane said.

  Holly threw back her head. “In fifty years no one else has figured this out?”

  “Someone else figured it out,” I said, looking to Shane. “Someone outside this room.”

  “Now hold on,” he said. “You’re talking about people I work with. Friends. Downstairs stuffing their faces with bear claws. Do they look like killers to you?”

  “One of them noticed that smudge of blood in the photo—among a dozen other weird things about the crime scene—and burned the album in the fireplace last night so no one else could see it.”

  “What about the Swansons? Aren’t they likely candidates?” Shane said.

  “Why would the Swansons put the album together, talk to everyone about it, and then burn it?”

  Shane said nothing for a moment, and it seemed to me he was searching for ways to refute my words and exonerate his crew. He liked them, and contemplating the possibility that one of them was a murderer was a painful exercise. “But think about this,” he said. “What difference does that photo album make? Purdy died fifty years ago. Why burn the photo-album proof of how he died? I don’t see what it has to do with Arthur’s murder. The worst you can say is that someone in my crew destroyed hotel property.”

  “Come with me,” I said, exiting the room.

  “Lead on,” Shane said.

  “Where are we going now?” Julia said.

  I made my way back down the service stairs, strode through the kitchen and lobby, and went back to the library. I half expected to see someone waiting for us in the lobby or hall, but there was no one. I shut the library door most of the way and directed everyone’s attention to the odd indentation I’d seen earlier. “About an inch and a half wide,” I said. “If memory serves, it’s about the width of the wood-handled knife used to stab Arthur.”

  “My, my, my,” Shane said, leaning in close. “This is not good.”

  “There may have been blood here. Cleaned up to the naked eye but still detectable to the forensics team. Results haven’t come back yet.”

  “Rachel, are you saying Arthur killed himself the same way Purdy did?” Julia asked.

  “No.”

  Shane looked up slowly.

  “I’m saying that one of Shane’s crew figured out the Purdy puzzle, lured Arthur to the library with the promise of an answer to the mystery, and demonstrated that answer to Arthur. His back was probably a couple inches from the knife. He had no idea what was about to happen.”

  Shane stood bolt straight. “They all separated when they went down to the basement. And they came back up separately.”

  “That’s the only time it could have happened,” I said. “Going down or coming back up.”

  “Well, this is a bad pickle,” Shane said, giving his chin another rub. “I’m on air in an hour. I have no choice but to work with them.” His voice dropped and took on a serious tone. “I’m literally not going to be able to turn my back on my own crew.”

  “I need to call Chief Gilroy,” I said, “and you need to talk to your station and cancel the show.” I spoke with as much certitude and authority as I could gather, hoping to convince Shane.

  “That can’t happen,” he answered. “Dead air two nights in a row—it’s not possible.”

  “Shane, you want to talk about dead air? Your life is at stake.”

  “You don’t cancel a show in this business. Advertisers are already breathing down our necks because of last night.”

  A loud voice sounded from somewhere down the hall.

  “That’s Dustin,” Shane said, taking hold of the doorknob. “He needs a sound check.”

  “Wait just a second,” I said. “You know Dustin, Maria, and Conyer better than anyone. Which one of them would have a reason to kill Arthur?”

  “None of them, for crying out loud,” Shane said, jamming his fingers into his curls. “When I think about it, none of them. That’s the thing. That’s why I think I’ll be okay doing the show. I’ll be all right. They’re good people.”

  “Arthur felt safe too,” I said. I looked into his eyes, letting that sink in before I went on. “Promise me you won’t be alone in the room with just one of them. Make sure at least two of your crew are with you at all times.”

  “That’s easy enough,” he said, relaxing his posture a bit. “It’s all hands on deck when we’re on air, and no one’s going to kill me while we’re broadcasting.”

  “Then watch yourself before and after you’re on the air.”

  As Shane hurried down the hall to finish preparations for his show, I phoned Gilroy from the hotel’s land line, which thankfully was working again. He wasn’t happy when he learned where I was.

  CHAPTER 15

  Gilroy instructed me in no uncertain terms to leave the Grandview in Holly’s SUV. Now. We weren’t to wait for him to arrive. The tone of his voice seesawed between angry and anxious, tending toward the angry end of the scale. I had a feeling that after a long respite, I was about to hear the word “meddling” again.

  The three of us walked out of the Grandview, climbed into the SUV, and locked the doors. But when Holly put her key in the ignition to get the heat going, nothing happened. No sputtering, no clicking, nothing. There were lights on the dashboard, but no life in the engine.

  “It can’t be the battery,” I said. “It wouldn’t just die like that.”

  Holly agreed. “The battery was fine when we got here, and it’s only been fifteen minutes.”

  “I wonder if someone tampered with it,” I said.

  “Thank you very much for bringing up that possibility,” Julia said, leaning forward from the back seat. “It hadn’t crossed my mind until this moment.”

  “Pop open the hood lock so I can take a look,” I said.

  When I lifted the hood, even I could tell what the problem was. We were in trouble. I let the hood fall and climbed back into my seat. “Someone opened your fuse box. The top is missing and it looks like a few fuses were yanked out.”

  Holly’s jaw dropped. “Why? What reason would they have for making sure we can’t leave?”

  “Maybe it was just malicious,” I said, grasping at straws. It was a ridiculous answer, but I wanted to say something calming. Our cell phones didn’t work and it wasn’t smart to try to walk out of the foothills on a January night. We were stuck. Julia, who was certain we’d be attacked from behind at any moment, kept glancing out the rear window, making me even more nervous.

  “Gilroy will be here any minute now,” I said.

  “I have half a mind to march in there and tell them all what-for,” Julia said. “Scaring us like this. And Holly brings them free pastries—two nights in a row, mind you—and how do they reward her? By vandalizing her car.”

  “Someone wants us to stay here,” Holly said. “That’s what scares me.”

  “I spent too much time on the Purdy case,” I said. “I just had to prove I could solve the unsolvable puzzle. But I haven’t got the first clue why Arthur was murdered. And now we’re . . . we’re . . .”

  “Sitting ducks?” Holly offered.

  “I was going to say in trouble. And so is Shane.”

  Julia leaned forward again. “Solving the Purdy case helped with Arthur’s murder. Now we know how he died and why the photo album was burned. Instead of bemoaning our situation, let’s put our heads together, shall we? I plan on living a little longer.”

  I had to grin. “Who are you, and what have you done with Julia?” Though sometimes easily spooked, my sweet neighbor also, paradoxically, had a knack for cutting to the heart of things—and at times she possessed a fearlessness I envied.

  “Nonsense,” Julia
said, poking me in the shoulder. “Now what do we know about the case?”

  “Arthur was killed by someone going down to or coming out of the basement in search of that noise,” I said. “And I think, though I can’t prove it, that the killer was showing Arthur how Purdy died. I think Arthur was lured to the library with the promise that he would finally learn the secret to Purdy’s so-called murder.”

  “That means the killer set up a meeting before Connie and Ian started banging away on that third-floor fireplace,” Holly said.

  “Arthur did rush out of the room,” Julia said. “Thinking back on it, he was very excited.”

  “So . . .” I closed my eyes, imagining the scene in the library. “Arthur went to the library. Maybe the killer was already waiting for him. The door might have been shut. I don’t remember if it was, and I don’t think anyone else noticed.”

  “I didn’t,” Holly said.

  “The killer tells Arthur he has to show him, not tell him, how Purdy died,” I continued.

  “And Arthur is very excited and willing,” Holly said. “He’s been trying to work out this mystery since he was a twelve-year-old boy.”

  I opened my eyes. “The killer puts the knife in the door, positions Arthur close to it, and pushes.”

  “Oh, dear,” Julia said. “The poor man.”

  “No wonder he had that look on his face,” Holly said.

  “Maybe the killer put his hands—no, his fingers—on Arthur’s chest before he pushed. Gently. Just his fingers so Arthur wouldn’t be frightened.” My thoughts were racing. The scene played over and over in my mind. “Arthur was a big man, and he if he’d known he was about to be pushed into a knife, he would have fought back. Successfully. But the knife was sharp, and Arthur wasn’t worried until it was too late.”

  “What is it?” Holly asked. “I recognize that look on your face. You’ve figured something out.”

  I brought my hand to my chest. “The spots on Arthur’s sweater. The ones that glowed in the ultraviolet light.”

  “Speaking of lights,” Julia said, tapping on her window. “The lights in that wretched hotel just went out again.”

  I twisted back to look out my passenger side window. “There’s nothing wrong with those lights. That was done deliberately.”

  “Yes it was,” Holly breathed.

  “What if more than one of them is a murderer?” I said.

  “What if they come out here?” Julia said. “We’re defenseless.”

  “There’s a shovel in the cargo area,” Holly said, checking the door locks.

  “Can you really see me hitting someone with a shovel?” Julia said.

  “As a matter of fact, I can, yes,” Holly said. “What’s taking Chief Gilroy so long?”

  “He thinks we drove home,” I said. “He doesn’t know we’re trapped up here. Try your radio. It might work.”

  Holly punched a button on the dash. “How can that be?” she asked in amazement as music burst forth.

  “They didn’t take the radio fuse, I guess,” I said. “Modern cars are a mass of relays and fuses. I thought it might work when I saw the dashboard light up. Can you turn to Shane’s station?”

  Holly pushed another button.

  “We seem to have lost contact once more with the Grandview Hotel,” a host was saying. “For the second night in a row. I’m telling you, people, they say there are no ghosts, but there’s something unnatural going on in the foothills above Juniper Grove. Someone—or something—doesn’t want us to broadcast.”

  “Claptrap,” Julia said.

  “We’ll keep trying,” the host went on, “but in the meantime, we have someone in the studio who may be able to shed light on the Grandview’s haunted past. Raymond Jago, the brother of Arthur Jago, who died tragically and inexplicably yesterday.”

  “It wasn’t inexplicable, it was murder,” I shouted at the radio.

  “Welcome, Raymond. You have our deepest condolences. Let me start by asking you this: Have you ever seen a ghost at the Grandview?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Raymond replied. “Last year—and not for the first time. And I’m not the only one who’s seen them. Many guests have. Guests from all over the world. It’s almost expected that if you stay at the Grandview, you’ll experience the paranormal. For some it’s exciting, for others it’s a little too much. Unfortunately, my brother may have been a victim of the paranormal, one way or another.”

  “He’s trying to profit from his brother’s death,” Julia said, her voice filled with revulsion.

  “Sadly, the hotel has two unexplained murders now,” the host continued. “I understand a TV show is interested in broadcasting live from the Grandview. America’s Most Haunted Hotels will be setting up shop in February, and they’ll be bringing some pretty advanced equipment with them to detect paranormal activity. Thermographic cameras, infrared thermometers, night-vision cameras, and so on. The show has a reputation for finding ghosts if they’re there.”

  “That’s correct,” Raymond said. “The show has an excellent track record of documenting the ghost phenomenon. And I’d like to extend an invitation to this radio station, which has been at the forefront of work at the Grandview, to join the TV folks in February.”

  “What bunk,” Julia said.

  “That’s a generous offer, and I can tell you now, we will accept,” the host said, growing deferential at the thought of the increased ad revenue.

  “They’re conveniently leaving out the fact that Raymond owns half the station,” I said. As I listened to the two men talk, I angled my head for a better look at all three floors of the Grandview. There wasn’t a single light in any window. Where were the crew’s flashlights? I was beginning to fear for Shane’s safety and growing more frustrated by the minute that I couldn’t enter the hotel, question a suspect, or even examine my corkboard for clues I might have missed.

  Most of all, I needed to ask Gilroy about the crime-scene report for Arthur’s murder. Had blood been found between the doorframe and hinge side of the library door? Would he tell me if it had? He was angry with me, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Instead of keeping Juniper Grove safe tonight, he was on his way to the Grandview. He didn’t know it, but he was about to rescue me and my friends from ourselves again.

  I recalled Gilroy scanning Arthur’s sweater with the ultraviolet flashlight, and Holly explaining how honey and maple syrup glowed under ultraviolet. The bear claws and the honey-cinnamon rolls, she’d said, were the only pastries that would glow like that.

  Conyer had devoured one roll after another. But then Shane had eaten bear claws, and I thought I remembered Dustin doing the same. Maria had given in to the call of pastries and eaten a chocolate croissant, but Holly’s croissants didn’t contain honey or maple syrup. Then again, maybe Maria’s virtuous eating habits were for show only and she had eaten a bear claw while the lights were out.

  My gaze dropped from the third floor to the hotel’s door. Someone was pushing it open, stumbling out.

  “That’s Maria,” I said. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Her mouth wide, her hands stretched out as though she were racing ahead, desperate to cling to the invisible thing that lay before her, Maria staggered toward Holly’s SUV.

  I popped open my door and ran to her. She collapsed on her side in front of me and clutched wildly at her back.

  “Maria, what happened?” I said.

  “Knife, knife,” she repeated beseechingly.

  I felt the knife in her back and pulled my hand away. “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know!” she cried. “It’s dark. I didn’t see. Why?”

  Holly and Julia were at my side, doing their best to comfort Maria.

  “Chief Gilroy we’ll be here any second,” I said. “I’m going to call an ambulance from the hotel.”

  “The phones,” Maria closed her eyes. “The phones are out again. Why? Who’s doing this? I’m scared.”

  “Don’t move her,” I instructed, taking off my coat an
d wrapping it about her, trying to avoid touching the knife and thereby doing more damage. Holly removed her scarf, folded it, and carefully set it under Maria’s head.

  In the dark I couldn’t judge where the blade had entered and if it had struck anything vital, but Maria was still breathing, though shallowly, and I knew from research for my mystery novels that knife wounds ranged from the instantly fatal to the relatively minor—those that left the victim with nothing more than a few stitches.

  In the pitch black of the hotel, Maria’s attacker couldn’t have been sure of a precise strike, and I prayed that imprecision would save her life.

  “Headlights,” Holly said, pointing off to her left. “It’s Gilroy.”

  CHAPTER 16

  With the hotel phones out and the police cruiser’s radio and cell phones out of range, we had to risk moving Maria. Gilroy told Underhill to put her, along with the three of us, in his cruiser and head out of the foothills. As soon as his radio could make contact, he was to call an ambulance and wait for it.

  Julia sat in the front of the cruiser, and Holly and I perched on the edge of the back seat, holding Maria as still as possible on the drive to Juniper Hills. She lay on her side, her stomach pressed to the back of the seat, the knife facing outward. Every fifteen seconds I checked to see that she was still breathing, and every fifteen seconds, miraculously, she was.

  I’d hated watching Gilroy enter the Grandview by himself, hobbling in his fracture boot, especially now that he was without the cruiser or Underhill as backup, but there was no other solution. Maria needed medical attention, and Gilroy had ordered Holly, Julia, and I to leave.

  Near the base of the foothills road, Underhill slowed gently, stopped, and tried his radio. He made contact.

  The ambulance arrived in ten minutes—a short time that felt like an eternity. We all got out of the cruiser while the paramedics transferred Maria, who thankfully was still conscious. I said a prayer for her, we all got back into the cruiser, and I turned to Underhill. “Drop us off at the head of Finch Hill Road, and then go back to the Grandview, please. Gilroy needs your help.”