“You’re a riddle.”
“Look, if anyone’s a riddle around here, it’s you. I’m as straightforward as can be. You’re impossible to figure out. One minute you’re speaking to me, and the next . . .” I exhaled loudly, unable to finish my sentence.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. He was rubbing his temples as though he were the only adult in our childish conversation, irritating me all the more.
“What do you mean what am I talking about?” I said.
“Stop answering my questions with questions.”
“I’ve done that once.”
“Today,” he said.
“James, what is your problem?”
“Me?”
“Now you’re doing it.”
“Finish your sentence,” he said. “One minute I’m what?”
Fine, then. I was going to let him have it. “One day you’re talking to me about a case—you even seem to want my opinion sometimes—and the next you’re talking to me like I’m an annoyance. Worse, a child. You act as if I knew Brigit was going to be murdered and that’s why I went to her house. Just to make your life difficult. When you arrived, you looked at me like . . . like you hardly knew me.”
“I’m the police chief, and I was on the job.”
“I didn’t ask you to kiss me at the door, did I?”
He let go with a laugh. Not the soft, deep laugh I’d grown to love, but a short, hard laugh.
“Is that it? I’m too familiar with the police chief in public?”
“That’s not what I was—”
“You don’t get to choose whether we kiss or talk or whatever. Not all the time. I have a say in this too. And you have no right to tell me I can’t find out who Wayne Gundersen was having an affair with.”
I’d said my piece. Trying a little too late for an air of cool detachment, I turned to look out the window, again pretending to search the sky. Instead I caught sight of Underhill darting across the street, just ahead of a red pickup truck. I’d have said he was making a bakery run, but Holly’s Sweets was on the police station side of the street. Seconds later, Underhill was heading back across the street, clearly trying to calm an agitated Wayne Gundersen. Underhill touched Wayne’s shoulder and Wayne elbowed Underhill in the ribs. When Wayne saw Gilroy at the window, his eyes became black coals.
A single rap on the door was followed an instant later by Turner opening it. “Chief, I think we’ve got a situation.”
“Gundersen?” Gilroy said impatiently. He hated halting, introductory words. Just say it was his creed. In that we were alike.
“Yeah, he phoned. He says he’s on his way here to kill you.”
“I see.” Gilroy told me to stay in his office before heading into the lobby—shutting the door firmly behind him—but I didn’t need to crack the door to hear Wayne. He was shouting in a very un-Juniper Grove way, and seconds after he began shouting, I heard what sounded like a wooden chair striking the front desk. When Gilroy asked Wayne if he wanted to calm down in a cell, the chair nonsense stopped. The shouting didn’t.
“This is your fault, Gilroy! You endangered Brigit, and you knew what could happen. You think she didn’t tell me what was going on? She’s my wife—of course she did! I was about to tell her to back out, which is what you should’ve done if you had any brains.”
“Mr. Gundersen—” Gilroy began.
“I know all about it. Putting her at risk like that is insane.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Underhill said.
“You stay out of this, Underhill,” Gundersen said. “No wonder they kicked you out of Fort Collins, Gilroy. You’re a menace to the public!”
“Let’s talk about this,” Gilroy said. “We’ll go back to—”
“Don’t touch me! What are you going to do, arrest me? Kill my wife then arrest me? All I’m doing is speaking the truth. Why don’t you find out who did this to Brigit and then arrest him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to do, Mr. Gundersen,” Gilroy said. “Please put the chair down.”
“Or what, huh? Do you think there’s anything worse you can do to me than what you’ve already done? What if I throw this through the window?”
“I’d have to arrest you, and despite what you think, I don’t want to do that.”
A moment later, I heard a chair clunk to the floor.
I marveled at Gilroy’s calm. Despite Wayne’s insults and basket-case behavior, Gilroy’s tone remained gentle and compassionate.
Wayne’s anger puzzled me. Whatever strange thing Brigit had been up to, he had known about it for some time. So why was he only now launching into Gilroy? Earlier in the day, after learning of his wife’s death, he’d meekly left his real estate office and followed Gilroy to the squad SUV, without a hint of acrimony—at least from my point of view on the sidewalk.
It seemed to me there was a theatrical quality to Wayne’s confrontation, as though Gilroy wasn’t its real target. Somehow, it was for public consumption. Meant to sway whoever learned of it later, and perhaps even Gilroy himself. As they say, a good offense is the best defense. If Wayne had murdered Brigit, what better way to divert suspicion than by playing the insanely bereaved husband? A man driven by his grief and righteous anger to smash windows in a police station.
I wasn’t swayed.
I heard footsteps pass by the office door, and a minute later Underhill opened it. “You can come out now. Gundersen is down the hall with the chief.”
“What on earth was that about?” I said, glancing at the upended chair in the lobby.
Turner picked up the chair and made a move for the coffeemaker. “Think I should take them some coffee, Underhill? You know, warm things up, settle things down?”
“Wayne does not need caffeine,” Underhill said.
“Good point.” Turner swung back behind the desk. “So what’s with Wayne? I don’t see the big deal about their arrangement. His wife was never in any real danger.”
I stepped closer. What arrangement? What danger? I was hoping the usually garrulous Officer Underhill would spill the beans.
“Now’s not the time, Turner,” Underhill said.
What? Since when? It was always time for Underhill to get chatty about police business. I counted on it. “Was she part of some sting operation?” I asked.
“It wasn’t big enough to call it an operation,” Turner said.
Underhill silenced him with a single look.
“So maybe Wayne had nothing to do with her murder,” I said. “I could be barking up the wrong tree. What was Brigit involved in? Did it have to do with her job at Town Hall?”
Wearing a self-satisfied, ain’t-gonna-tell-you smile, Underhill shoved the rest of his donut in his mouth. With his ability to speak thus impaired, I zeroed in on Turner, who was back at his computer behind the front desk. I drew close to him, blocking his view of Underhill.
“Turner, have you met Underhill’s date for the dance on Friday? I forget her name.”
Underhill wheeled around me and threw out a hand, trying to catch Turner’s eye. Too late.
“Natalie. Sure, we met last week. What is it, Derek?”
With an exasperated, donut-choked mumble, Underhill threw back his head and glared at the ceiling.
“That’s right, Natalie,” I said.
The look Underhill gave me as I was leaving the station was priceless. It was part capitulation, part lighthearted warning that I was going to get mine, and it almost made me forget about the fight I’d just had with Gilroy. Almost.
CHAPTER 6
Back home, I fixed myself an English muffin, slathered it with blueberry jam, and washed it down with a cup of hazelnut coffee. I’d missed lunch and needed something a little less sweet than my cream puffs to tide me over until dinner, two hours away. Then I went upstairs to my office—where I was supposed to be working on my latest mystery novel—found a good article on Colorado divorce law on the Internet, and jotted down a list of suspects.
On the dri
ve home, I had mulled over Brigit’s murder, and it had occurred to me that Anika Mays and Brigit must have worked closely together at Town Hall. They both worked in the Records Section—an office the size of a large bedroom—and my guess was they were the only employees in that office.
That fact, coupled with this mysterious arrangement Brigit had brokered with the Juniper Grove Police, meant that Wayne was far from the only murder suspect. I added Anika’s name to my list. Her reaction to Brigit’s death—suggesting that her friend was an emotionally unstable woman who was aging poorly and shouldn’t have been surprised that her husband wanted to trade her in for a younger model—had set off alarm bells in my mind.
Then there was Charlie. He had reacted to news of Brigit’s murder with a strange indifference. Supposedly the two couples were friends. Friendly enough, in fact, to have dinner at Wyatt’s Bistro two or three times a month. Maybe I was judging Charlie and Anika too harshly, but if I had just learned of Julia’s or Holly’s murder, I’d be inconsolable. Charlie, on the other hand, was more concerned about his crafting capabilities.
With reluctance, I also added Royce Putnam’s name to my list, if for no other reason than he had once headed the Records Section. Until I discovered the exact nature of Brigit’s deal with the police, I had to cast a wide net. Anyone with connections to Brigit’s former place of employment was a suspect.
But Royce? I shook my head. Though I’d only just met him, he seemed like such a nice man, and Julia clearly liked him. For a moment I let myself entertain the possibility that Royce was leading Julia on, allowing her to flirt with him, but I quickly dismissed the idea. To believe that, I would also have to believe that Julia was enjoying the inappropriate attentions of a married man, and that was not the Julia I knew. Unless . . . What if Royce was married and I was misinterpreting his and Julia’s relationship?
That settled it. Tonight I would ask Julia point-blank about Royce. Guessing was driving me crazy. Anyway, over the course of the past few months she had grilled me often enough on my interest in Chief Gilroy. Turnabout was fair play.
I examined my meager list of suspects: Wayne, Anika, Charlie, and Royce. With Gilroy in no mood to share the facts of the investigation with me, and Underhill deciding for the first time since I’d met him to clam up on a case, I wasn’t likely to add names to the list anytime soon.
But given the right circumstances, Officer Turner could be as indiscreet as Underhill. If I could catch him alone at the station, he might talk. And if I brought him a small box of donuts from Holly’s Sweets as an offering, he would almost certainly forgive my prying questions.
I was about to tack my suspect list to my office corkboard when I heard the doorbell. I jogged downstairs and opened my front door to find Anika on the porch, casting worried glances toward the street.
“Anika, what a surprise. Come—”
Before I could finish my sentence, she stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry to show up like this. I should have phoned, but I didn’t want anyone to see me make a call.”
“Why not?” I gestured for her to follow me to the kitchen. “Have a seat and tell me what’s going on. Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” Anika unzipped her coat and sank into a chair. “Maybe I’m being overly dramatic. Kinda like Brigit. Ironic, huh?”
I poured myself another cup of hazelnut coffee and sat across from her without saying another word, giving her time to tell me why she had come. I felt as though she might bolt at any second, like a frightened deer.
“So Brigit asked you to find out who Wayne was cheating with?” she asked.
“Yes, this morning. I ran into her while she was posting her flyers.”
Anika nodded. “Okay, then. That’s important.”
“But I told her no.”
“You did?”
“I didn’t want to get involved.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Getting involved isn’t something I want to do either.”
“Things are different now,” I said.
“Yes, they are.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “You must have something important to tell me.”
“Charlie says you solve murders.”
“The police solve them. I write mysteries and I’m nosy.” And for some reason, people feel drawn to tell me things they won’t tell the police, I thought. Anika wasn’t the first suspect in a murder case to show up unannounced at my house with the intent of divulging a burdensome fact or two. But I could see there was a battle going on inside of her. Should she maintain her silence or speak? Maybe Anika was more grieved by Brigit’s death than I’d given her credit for. She wet her lips with her tongue, and after a brief struggle, she relented.
“Brigit told me something two days ago, in the office,” she said. “I ignored her. I thought, there she goes again. Brigit and Wayne, all drama, all the time. Even after I heard Brigit was dead, when I thought back to what she said, I didn’t think too much of it. But after talking to Charlie, I don’t know. I was tired of her exaggerations, you know? Do you know how it is?” She looked at me, her eyes pleading for confirmation. Didn’t friends rightly ignore each other now and then? That wasn’t so awful, was it?
“It’s understandable, Anika. You wanted to keep your friendship, and in order to do that, you had to overlook the melodramatic side of her. Everyone’s done that.”
“Yes, yes. I took everything she said about Wayne or trouble in the office with a large lump of salt.”
“What sort of trouble in the office?”
Anika leaned back and shoved her bone-thin hands in her coat pockets. “We were overworked, you know. As soon as Royce retired, about six months ago, our work load increased. I was promoted to section head, but the Board of Trustees didn’t hire another full-timer to take my place. Budget cuts, you know. That’s why Royce stayed on past sixty-seven and cut his hours. So it was just Brigit and me, and she only worked part-time. After he retired, Royce came in a few times to help out—he knew the Town Hall ropes better than me—but we still fell behind. I wasn’t allowed to work overtime, so some of our business took longer than usual. We didn’t think it was such a big deal. None of the work we fell behind on was vital. If it had been, we would have taken care of it.”
“Were there complaints?”
“Mostly from the trustees. But last week, Cassie Putnam threw a fit.”
“Royce’s daughter-in-law?”
“That’s the one. She needed copies of her birth certificate. She was born at Juniper Grove Community Hospital, and since not many people were, she figured her request should take a day at most. After a week, she threw a screaming hissy fit at Brigit while I was on lunch break.”
“Literally screaming? Did Brigit say that?”
Anika knew what I was really asking. Had Cassie thrown a fit or had Brigit exaggerated again? The trouble with drama lovers was you never knew when or how far to trust them.
“Yeah, I hear you. It’s hard to believe. Cassie isn’t crazy or mean, and no one else in Town Hall said they heard a woman screeching.” Anika pulled her hands from her pockets. “Maybe I will have that coffee?”
“You bet.” I spooned coffee into a filter, started the coffeemaker, and went back to the table. My question about trouble at the office had derailed Anika just as she’d been about to tell me what Brigit had said that troubled her. I needed to get the woman back on track. “You said Brigit told you something two days ago, and it sounds like it has you concerned.”
A weak sigh escaped her lips. “In light of her murder, yeah.”
I waited.
“She said Wayne was becoming a different person. Scary different.”
“Scary? How?”
“Well, you know, that was Brigit’s word, so . . .”
The coffeemaker sputtered as the last of the water dribbled into the filter. Worried that Anika would change her mind about talking to me—her voice was becoming more hesitant by the second—I decided to
play it cool. “Of course. Take it with a lump of salt,” I said, rising from the table. I poured Anika a cup, handed it to her, and returned to my seat with a totally put-on casualness. I wanted to shake Anika by the shoulders and tell her to spit it out, now. “I know Brigit could be overly dramatic. I saw that for myself this morning. But still, with that in mind, it would be helpful to know everything she said. You never know. There could be a grain of truth in it.”
“As long as you realize that she was angry at Wayne. She’d suspected his cheating for a while.”
“I understand she wanted to bad-mouth him. Just like she wanted to humiliate him with the flyers.”
“Now you’ve got it.”
Anika paused to sip slowly at her coffee. I was beginning to wonder if she’d ever get to the point.
“How was Wayne changing?” I asked. “And what made it scary?”
In a flat, matter-of-fact tone, Anika said, “Brigit said she worried he was becoming violent.”
Having dropped that bombshell, she paused for another sip of her coffee. I was going to have to drag the rest out of her. “Did she mean violent with her? Was he never violent before?”
Anika lifted a shoulder. “Not that I know of. She never said.”
“Was she afraid of him?”
“She said she was getting that way.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I don’t want to get Wayne in trouble. He’s suffered enough.”
“Anika, this is serious. Brigit was murdered. It’s not a time to worry if the facts will inconvenience someone.” Anika’s passivity bothered me, but more troubling than that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wanted me to know just so much and no more. This supposedly overworked Town Hall clerk had left work early to plant a seed of doubt about Wayne’s potential for violence—without giving me details or rock-hard facts. Why? “How long have you and Charlie known the Gundersens?”
The sudden shift in my questioning threw Anika off balance. “Um . . . I guess, well, about ten or twelve years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“A long friendship, yeah.”
Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2 Page 29
