Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  Although she hadn’t finished folding her pink rose, she abandoned it and grabbed a fresh sheet of white tissue. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you like it, Rachel? Before you met the chief, I mean.”

  “No, I hated it too.”

  “Sitting by the door, hoping for a card in the mail.”

  “Hoping for a bouquet you know isn’t coming, and watching everyone else get one.”

  “It’s a reminder that you’re on the outside looking in.”

  “Then why volunteer for the decorating committee?”

  Julia smiled wanly. “I thought it would help.”

  “Better than eating chocolate candy in front of the TV?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “It’s not a bad idea. But you’re still coming, aren’t you? The dance wouldn’t be the same without you. The whole town will be here.”

  “I’ve been tagged to serve punch, so I have to show up.” She tossed the white tissue aside. “Serving punch like an old lady. I don’t feel old, Rachel. And trust me, neither will you in twenty years. Everyone thinks my life is over, but I think it’s just getting started.”

  “I don’t think your life is over.” I looked her square in the eyes. She knew I meant what I said. “And I know it’s hard to be alone.”

  “Maybe I will get that box of chocolates.”

  “Or a box of raspberry scones from Holly’s Sweets.”

  “Now you’re talking. Scones beat a box of stale chocolates any day.”

  Julia returned to crafting a white rose from the tissue paper—smiling, I noticed with relief. You couldn’t keep my neighbor down for long. At heart she was an optimist—and she had a spine of steel.

  “The chief is still taking you to the dance, I hope,” she said.

  “That’s the plan. Turner watches the station while Gilroy and Underhill go to the dance.”

  “Officer Underhill?” Julia sounded dubious. “Who could he be going with?”

  “I have no idea,” I said with a laugh. “I know he’s dated since I met him, but he never dates the same woman twice, and he never talks about anyone special. I’m dying to see who he’s taking.”

  “Whoever it is, he’ll talk her ear off, and she’ll think twice about a second date.”

  We both laughed. How well we knew the man. And how fond I’d grown of Juniper Grove’s number two officer. After Gilroy was driven off the road by a lunatic driver last December, Underhill had stepped up to the plate in every way—mounting the hunt for his chief, manning the station by himself, watching over Gilroy in the hospital. He was another good man. Chatty, but good.

  “I wonder if the Gundersens will show up,” I said.

  “Do you want them to?” Julia said.

  “Maybe not. But I’m worried about Brigit. I think I saw the veins on Wayne’s neck throb when he caught her with the flyers.”

  “He’ll cool off.”

  “I’ve got an idea.” I pressed my palms to the table and stood. “I’ll take her a couple donuts and check up on her. Get her off my mind.”

  “That’s a lovely idea. She’ll appreciate that.”

  Julia wrote down the Gundersens’ address, handed me the scrap of paper, and shooed me again. “Now go. Let me get more of these flowers done so I can get out of here before dinnertime.”

  After making a quick stop for donuts at Holly’s Sweets, I drove east to 811 Songbird Lane. When I pulled in front of the Gundersen house, I had to pick my jaw off the car floor. The place was Valentine Central—decorated as though Julia and the dance committee had paid a visit: a giant red heart fastened to the front gate of the crisp white fence, smaller hearts clothes-pinned to a ribbon strung above the porch, wooden hearts on what looked like metal garden stakes stuck randomly around the front and side yards.

  Brigit had gone all out. It must have been Brigit, I thought. No man would decorate his house like this. Had she been planning a special day with Wayne before she’d learned of his infidelity? Or did she do this every year?

  I pushed through the front gate and headed up the walk to the porch. When I raised my hand to knock on the door, I noticed it was open a sliver—no doubt the result of Brigit’s intoxicated state. Underhill must have dropped her off at her gate rather than walked her to the door. “Brigit?” I called. I knocked loudly. The door creaked open another inch.

  “Brigit?” After a moment’s hesitation, and worried that she had passed out and hurt herself on the way down, I pushed open the door and called her again.

  Nothing. I stepped inside. “Brigit, it’s me, Rachel Stowe. Please answer. Your front door was open.”

  I shut the door behind me, set the donut box on an end table, and took another few steps inside the house. Looking ahead, past the living room and into the open kitchen, I saw a pair of red high-heeled shoes strewn carelessly across the tile floor.

  “Brigit?” Had she fallen? I dashed forward.

  Two strides into the kitchen, I saw her face down on the floor, a patch of red the size of a fist in her blonde hair.

  I stepped carefully to her, bent low, and touched my fingers to her neck. She was gone.

  Pulling my phone from my coat pocket, I dialed the police station. Underhill answered. He told me the obvious—don’t touch anything—and asked me to wait for him and Gilroy.

  Sickened at the sight of Brigit’s body, I walked back to where the living room met the kitchen. I’d seen bodies before, but this was brutal. What happened here? Think. Look. There was no blood on the counters, so she hadn’t tripped and hit her head. I committed every detail to memory: no visible weapon, no visible defense wounds on Brigit’s hands, nothing unusually out of place except for the red shoes.

  To my right was a plate with half-eaten toast on the kitchen table. Across the kitchen, a half-full carafe of coffee next to the coffeemaker. To my left, a torn Valentine on the counter next to the refrigerator. Someone had ripped the card in half and then, in setting the halves down, joined them together again. Was the tearing an impulsive act and the joining an act of regret?

  I sidestepped to the counter. Using my phone, I lifted the top flap on the torn bottom half of the card and peeked at the signature: “All my love forever, Wayne.”

  Turning back, I studied every inch of the living room. It was weirdly spotless, like a show home. Aside from two magazines on the coffee table, the only other objects in the room were two couches in an L-shaped layout and two end tables, each topped with a lamp. Even the throw pillows on the couches were set neatly into the corners, as if Brigit had been expecting someone she was eager to impress. It didn’t look lived in—or enjoyed.

  I heard footsteps clomp up the porch steps and shot a look out the living-room window. Gilroy and Underhill were at the door. Aware that I’d already had my hands all over the doorknob, I stood back and let Gilroy enter.

  “Rachel?” he said, a frown creasing his face. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. Brigit is in the kitchen.”

  As he moved for the kitchen, Underhill shut the door with a gloved hand. “Miss Stowe,” he said, “you do have a talent for finding bodies.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gilroy called the forensics team, told Underhill to watch the house, and then took my statement in his SUV. Before I left to get into my car, I told Gilroy that the box of donuts on one of the end tables wasn’t part of the crime scene and that he and Underhill were welcome to them.

  “We’ll pass on those,” Gilroy said. He slipped his notebook back into his jacket and laid a hand on my arm, stopping me from leaving. “Why were you here, Rachel?”

  “I ran into Brigit while she was putting up flyers on Main Street. Did Underhill tell you?”

  “He did.”

  “I wanted to check on her. Donuts seemed a good reason to show up.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Someone hit h
er hard. I think with something sharp. The back of her head . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if neighbors saw a stranger nosing around the house.”

  “We’ll soon find out. Right now, I need to contact Mr. Gundersen.”

  “Of course.” Was I imagining things, or had the gray hairs at his temples grown more numerous in the past month? He looked so weary. I popped open the door. “That’s an awful job.”

  “It is.”

  “He works downtown.”

  “I know.”

  Of course he did. Gilroy had lived in Juniper Grove for more than seven years. I was the newbie, not him. “You sound tired.”

  “I am.”

  His answers were terse, even by Gilroy standards. I waited a moment, hoping he’d say more. When he didn’t, I said goodbye and headed for my Forester.

  Gilroy was used to working crime scenes. Before coming to Juniper Grove, he’d been a detective in Fort Collins, the big city compared to our little town, and had dealt with not only crimes of every stripe but also corruption in high offices—including the office of mayor. Corruption that, seven years ago, conspired to drive him from Fort Collins. No, it was something other than Brigit Gundersen, and having to inform Wayne of her death, that was eating at him.

  Instead of driving straight home, I made a stop at Town Hall to see Julia, but the boardroom was empty. On a hunch, I walked to Holly’s Sweets. There she was, talking at the counter with Holly, holding on to a pink box. With half a dozen raspberry scones in it, I was betting. I pushed through the door.

  “Rachel, have you heard?” she called out before I reached the counter.

  “About Brigit?” I said. Feeling a sudden weariness, I leaned against the counter.

  Holly planted her hands on her hips. “Oh, no. Tell me no. You did not.”

  “I did, I’m afraid. I found her.”

  “I was so hoping you hadn’t gone over there yet,” Julia said. “Was it terrible?”

  “Someone hit her on the head,” I answered. “Hard. How did you two know about it? It just happened.”

  “Officer Turner was in here when he got a call from Gilroy,” Holly said. “All he said was forensics were heading to the Gundersen house. We didn’t know if it was Brigit or Wayne.”

  When two women breezed through the door, we drew closer and lowered our voices. “You were right,” Julia said, her fingers to her lips. “Something sinister did happen.”

  “Do you think Wayne did it?” Holly said.

  I shook my head. “Would he kill her after that public display this morning?”

  “That would make him the prime suspect,” Holly said, “and he’d have to be very foolish.”

  “Unless that’s just what he wants people to think,” Julia whispered. “No one would guess he killed Brigit after he tore down all her flyers. It’s great cover. He finally had it, and he snapped.”

  “What’s he got to snap about?” I said. “He’s the one who had an affair.”

  “What was she hit with?” Holly asked, drawing her long, dark ponytail over one shoulder.

  I glanced to my right, making sure the customers’ eyes were on the pastries and not me. “I couldn’t find a weapon, but it must have been something sharp. Her head . . .” I touched the back of my own head and shuddered. I’d looked away quickly, and blood had somewhat obscured the wound, but I recalled that the center of it, no more than an inch wide, was dark and deep. I thought of a claw hammer or a tire iron. “Have you seen Wayne?”

  “No, but I didn’t see him tearing down the flyers, either,” Holly said. “It’s been such a royal madhouse this morning I’ve hardly looked up. Speaking of which . . .”

  “Go, go,” I said, waving her off.

  “If Wayne left work, or disappeared, then he did it,” Julia said firmly. “No one else knew Brigit was at home.”

  “I think a lot of people knew Underhill was driving her home,” I countered. “There were twenty or more people on the sidewalk watching her and reading her flyers when I told him she needed a ride.”

  “We should have a gang meeting.”

  “My place? Coffee at six thirty?” The Juniper Grove Mystery Gang, so christened last September by Holly, was our oddball group of amateur detectives—me, a single writer in her forties; Holly, a married bakery owner in her late thirties; and Julia, a widow in her sixties. An unlikely bunch, but when we put our minds together, the three of us, all neighbors on Finch Hill Road, were good at digging up and deciphering clues.

  Julia raised her chin and called out to Holly. “The gang is meeting at Rachel’s house at six thirty.”

  “I’ll be there,” Holly called back.

  Julia and I exited the bakery and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, Julia debating the wisdom of going back to Town Hall to finish the decorating. “No one showed up,” she said. “It was just me.”

  “Don’t go back, then,” I said. “You still have two days before Valentine’s Day. There’s time to finish the decorations when the other committee members are there.”

  “There’s Wayne Gundersen,” Julia said, poking my arm.

  Half a block ahead, Wayne was following Gilroy from his real estate office to the squad SUV. At that distance I couldn’t read his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. He shuffled rather than walked, his shoulders drooped, his arms dangled at his sides.

  “The poor man,” Julia said.

  “I thought he was your number one suspect.”

  “Perhaps I was rushing to judgment. What if the killer was the woman Wayne was having an affair with?”

  “The dark-haired woman,” I said, latching on to Julia’s arm and pulling her toward the curb to avoid creating a pedestrian logjam in front of the bakery.

  “You never said who it was.”

  “Brigit didn’t know. She wanted me to find out. All she told me was she suspected Wayne of cheating when she found lipstick and dark hairs.”

  Julia nodded and said simply, “This is a small town.”

  “Someone knows. Maybe a lot of people know.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “With Brigit’s friends. Who would you say was closest to her?”

  “I often saw the Gundersens with Anika and Charlie Mays. They ate together at Wyatt’s Bistro two, three times a month.”

  “That’s where we start.”

  “Then you need me to break the ice. Anika is a clerk at Town Hall, running the Records Section. Brigit worked there part time.”

  Julia shot down the sidewalk, her pastry box swinging. She was her old self. A gentle soul despite her sometimes gruff exterior, Julia was filled with horror at the idea of murder, but trying to solve one—before Gilroy could—gave her a sense of purpose, invigorating her and taking her out of herself.

  I caught up with her inside Town Hall’s front door. She led me down a brightly lit hallway to a door marked Records and, wasting no time, introduced me seconds later to Anika Mays, a rail-thin forty-something woman with light brown hair and one of those perfect little noses fit for a porcelain doll.

  “Anika, have you got a moment?” Julia asked.

  Curiosity flared in her green eyes. “Is this about Brigit Gundersen?”

  “You know already?” I said.

  “We usually know when the police are called to a scene, almost from the moment it happens,” she said. “But this time we heard from Royce. He was here a few minutes ago. He got a call from someone at Mountain Real Estate saying Chief Gilroy had broken the news to Wayne. It’s a small town.”

  “So I hear,” I said.

  She rose and circled around her desk. “I can hardly believe it,” she exclaimed. Although she was the only employee in the Records Section, she leaned our way and spoke softly, scanning the smallish office as if looking for intruders. “Brigit! Who would want to do this to her? She never hurt anyone.”

  I asked her if she’d heard about the kerfuffle on Main Street earlier in the day, and when she said she had, I plunged
ahead. “Brigit asked me to find out who her husband was having an affair with.”

  Anika stared.

  “She told me Wayne admitted to the affair,” I added, “and that she had her suspicions about who the woman is.”

  Anika cleared her throat. “Brigit never said anything to me about it. I wonder why not. We talked about everything.”

  “My guess is she wanted to keep the affair secret because she was embarrassed by it, but after a while she became desperate to know.”

  “So in a way you’re fulfilling her last request?” Anika asked.

  “Yes, in a sense,” Julia said, giving me a guilty sidelong glance. We were stretching the truth.

  “Let me start by saying that you have to take Brigit’s flyer with a grain of salt,” Anika said. “We were friends, but to be fair, she sometimes went off the deep end. Drama-wise, I mean. Wayne was devoted to her, in spite of her eccentricities.”

  “But he admitted to cheating,” Julia said.

  “So Brigit said. Like I told you, she could go off the deep end.”

  “Why would she lie about something so specific?” I asked. “She even said she found lipstick and dark hairs from another woman.”

  Anika shrugged. “She may have—and the lipstick and hairs may have an innocent explanation. See, Brigit saw real things, but then she blew them out of proportion. She liked drama in her life. It made her feel alive and young. Mostly young, I think. That was important to her.”

  “She was young,” Julia said. “In her mid-forties, wasn’t she?”

  “Could be that wasn’t young enough for Wayne,” Anika said.

  “But he’s older than she is!” Julia said, flinging her arm in the air and nearly sending her pastry box airborne. “And he’s no prize in the looks department, let me tell you.”

  Anika quickly backed off. “I’m only guessing, Julia. You know how men are, and, well, Wayne is a man.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “Brigit had her forty-sixth birthday last month, so she was closer to fifty than forty for the first time. I think it was getting to her.”

  It seemed to me that Anika knew a lot more than she was willing to say. She’d started by throwing doubt on Brigit’s belief that Wayne was a cheater, but now she was edging in that direction, suggesting that maybe he had a taste for younger women. And if Anika knew that, she probably knew, or had heard through the grapevine, who Wayne had cheated with.