Death Trap

by Karin Kaufman

  I said yes. And then I realized that no one had seen the pin before Turner pointed it out. I felt sick to my stomach. “It was up against a leg of the display case, and Turner was the one bagging the scene,” I said, feebly casting about for reasons why Gilroy and the ME hadn’t caught sight of it. “Another thing. Mayor McDermott said it was a woman who called him to tell him about Turner finding the pin.”

  “McDermott’s a lying crook,” Julia said.

  “And if he isn’t lying, remember Turner has a girlfriend,” Holly said. “We saw her at the Valentine’s dance. She could have called McDermott.”

  “I just . . .”

  “You like Turner,” Julia said.

  “I’d like to trust my instincts on him,” I said halfheartedly. “Not that I want to turn a blind eye to any evidence to the contrary.”

  “Gilroy needs to know about Turner,” Royce said for the second time.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. “I’ll drive over there tonight.”

  “Tell him we’re all thinking of him,” Julia said.

  “And that we’re going to catch the killer, no matter what it takes,” Holly said.

  “Thanks, guys. I’ll tell him everything.”

  “You should hear my customers,” Holly said. “Most of them are as angry as I am. They like Gilroy a whole lot more than they like McDermott, and if it comes to a contest between the two, it’s McDermott who’s out of a job.”

  “What do you mean ‘most’?” Julia asked. “Doesn’t everyone support him?”

  “There are always a few grumblers,” Holly said. “Never mind them.”

  Julia angled in her seat, shooting Holly a look of disgust. “What are the grumblers saying?”

  “Same thing they said last fall,” she replied weakly. “That Gilroy’s crooked, he’s an embarrassment to the town.”

  “Show me to them!” Julia said. “I’ll set them right.”

  “This is so unfair,” I said. As if acknowledging the injustice of the situation could change a thing. It was time to dig like I’d never dug before. Start fresh, examine all the facts anew.

  As intriguing as Royce’s information was, it was sketchy. It lacked real substance—something Underhill could act on. I felt as though we’d hit a brick wall, and I feared that McDermott, coward that he was, might fire Gilroy at any moment, just to erase the possibility of future trouble.

  Instincts. They had served me before, and I was hoping they would serve me again. It was time to change my course of action. “I want to know why Stuart invited a whole lot of people he disliked to Lesley’s party.”

  “How are you going find out?” Julia asked.

  “I’ll ask them, straight out. You’d be surprised how often that works. It’s after work hours, and they’ll probably be at home. I’ve already got Kip’s address. I’ll get the others from Underhill.”

  “I’ve got to run,” Holly said, laying her hand on the door handle. “Give Gilroy our best.”

  My baker friend, who had to rise at four o’clock in the morning, was usually in bed by eight. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning, Holly. I promised Underhill and Turner I’d bring donuts.” Glancing at the station door, I added, “Has anyone seen Turner come back?”

  “Not yet,” Royce said. “I’ve been watching.”

  I knew what I had to do, as unpleasant as it was. “I’ll tell Underhill about Jova and Maurice,” I said. “And he needs to hear about Turner and his dad, just in case. I’m not saying Turner did anything, but it’s always best to know the facts.”

  “Maybe Turner has already told him,” Royce said hopefully.

  “Maybe,” I said. But I doubted it.

  CHAPTER 13

  I headed back into the station and hurriedly told Underhill about Edward Turner’s connection to Mayor Wick. Poor Underhill was stunned.

  “This doesn’t mean he did anything wrong,” I said. “It doesn’t even mean his father did something wrong. And anyway, both Jova Dillman and Maurice Salaway also had a connection to the former mayor.”

  But Underhill was focused on Turner, a man he trusted—had to trust—with his life. “So why didn’t Turner say something? He acted like he hardly knew about the case, and what he knew about it was wrong. That guff about the chief wanting to leave Fort Collins.”

  “Don’t say anything to him,” I advised. “Just be aware.”

  “You trust him, don’t you?”

  “Mostly. Not completely.”

  “The chief has to know about this.”

  “I’ll tell him tonight.”

  Suddenly Turner whipped through the front door, Maurice Salaway in tow.

  Underhill’s reaction was almost microscopic. “Interview room,” he said tersely.

  Turner looked pleased with himself, having nabbed another suspect for questioning, and didn’t seem to notice Underhill’s brusque manner.

  I waited until Turner disappeared down the hall. “Just because his dad was friends with Wick . . .”

  “I know, I know. I won’t say a word. For now.”

  “Can I have Jova Dillman’s address?” I asked.

  Underhill didn’t bat an eye. He opened his pocket notebook, jotted down her address on a Post-it, and handed it to me. He didn’t even ask me what I was going to talk to her about. We were all in this together. And we were all aware that we faced an unspoken deadline. McDermott had no intention of letting Gilroy resume his job when the dust cleared. Gilroy had to be absolved of any wrongdoing, and soon.

  I drove to Plum Street on the northeast side of town and found Jova’s house, another faux Victorian, like mine. It was far too new to be real. But her house, unlike mine, was in sterling shape—freshly painted and multicolored, with updated windows and gutters, and a spruced-up landscaping that was springing to life: purple and yellow crocuses, columbines about to bloom, rich daffodil leaves hinting at flowers to come.

  I saw Jova through her front window as I made my way up the walk, and she turned toward me just before I reached the door. I knocked anyway, and despite her somewhat annoyed expression, she invited me inside.

  “I never meet you, and then all of a sudden I see you two days in a row,” she said, motioning for me to follow her to her kitchen. She was wearing another flowing tunic, this time navy blue, and a pair of open sandals. I wondered at the choice. We were barely into April, the weather was teetering between winter and spring, and I was still wearing slippers in my house and lighting fires at night.

  Once in the kitchen, she spun back to me—her stiff helmet of gray hair didn’t move an inch—and directed my attention to a small, round table. “Sit. What can I do for you?”

  “Have you heard about Chief Gilroy?”

  “That he’s off the force? Oh, yes I certainly have.”

  “He’s not off the force, he’s off the case. Because of Stuart Hunter.”

  “Rachel, we all heard what Lesley said. ‘James. No.’ It was hard to miss.” She filled an electric kettle with water and plugged it in. “I’m making herbal tea.”

  Oddly, she didn’t ask me if I wanted any. She simply announced that she was making it.

  “Jova, at Stuart’s house you said you didn’t hear Lesley. I remember that very clearly.”

  “I was in the restroom, if you remember. Hiding out from Stuart’s wretched party, to tell the truth. Restrooms are great for that. But once I thought about it, I realized I had heard Lesley.” She threw me a glance over her shoulder, challenging me to counter her.

  “Well, what Lesley said makes little difference.”

  “Is that so?”

  “She and Gilroy were old friends. She was calling for help. Besides, as I keep telling everyone, he was with me at the time.”

  “If you say so.” Folding her arms, she leaned against the counter. “Is that what you came for?”

  “No.” Out with it. Just say it. She’s being blunt—you be blunt. “I wanted to know why Stuart disliked his guests, you included.”

  Jova looked as
though I’d slapped her, and when she unfolded her athletic arms and took half a step forward, I thought she was about to slap me. “What on earth? Stuart Hunter did not dislike me. We’ve been friends for a decade. More than a decade.”

  “When Gilroy and I arrived at the party, Stuart said something rather unkind about all of you. We were shocked.”

  “Oh, well.” She swung a hand in front of her face as if she were swatting a fly. “Stuart’s just crusty like that. It’s his personality.”

  I shook my head. “No, Jova. This wasn’t crustiness or eccentricity. This was Stuart deliberately telling us what he disliked about all of you.”

  Jova moved for the table. “What did he say about me?”

  Had she not heard what Stuart said to her during the card game? Not sensed his antipathy toward her?

  Sometimes, rarely, there was a need to gossip. This was one of those times. “He said you’re convinced of your rightness in everything, and that he might have called you a warrior years ago, but not now.”

  She sat, contemplating Stuart’s assessment. “I see. It’s not an endorsement, but then again, it’s hardly the harshest of reviews.”

  “Actually, Stuart was kinder toward you than the others.”

  As I thought it would, that got her attention. “Yes? How so? What did he say about Brynne?”

  “He called her a deeply silly woman and said she was nearly as pompous as Maurice.”

  Jova snickered. “That appears to be the honest truth about Mrs. French Language. I knew Stuart didn’t like Brynne. Why on earth he invited her is beyond me. Lesley had even less reason to like her. They both criticized her, moaned and moaned about her. I learned to dislike her before I met her.”

  On hearing the kettle boil, Jova headed for the counter and took a box of teabags and a cup from her cabinet.

  “Why didn’t Lesley like Brynne?”

  “Because she was cruel. Stuart may say pompous, but I say cruel, and she’s way too young to have grown so cruel. She’ll be a monster in twenty years. To think she teaches our kids.”

  Jova plopped a teabag in a cup, poured boiling water over it, and retook her seat at the table.

  “How was she cruel?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Jova said, dipping her teabag like a yo-yo. “Lesley and Stuart planned to go to France, so they decided to take adult French classes after hours at the high school. They made it through one class.” Jova’s index finger rocketed into the air. “Brynne mocked them mercilessly, especially Lesley. She said she had no skill for foreign languages and might slow the progress of others in the class if she stayed.”

  “That’s insane. She’s a teacher. It’s her job to teach.”

  Jova nodded as if to say, No kidding. “Brynne didn’t want to be bothered with her. After the class, she made terrible fun of Lesley in the restroom in front of another teacher, and guess who was in one of the stalls, quietly listening?”

  “Lesley.”

  “Right you are. Stuart told me Lesley was in tears. Humiliated. They never went back.”

  “This was about six months ago?”

  “Yes, how do you know?”

  I mumbled a few noncommittal words.

  Jova rested her forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Why did he invite her? Why did he invite Maurice Salaway, of all the people in town?” Though Jova had adhered to Maurice’s Mor-ris rule at the party, she now called him Mau-reese. Perhaps it was her little rebellion against a man she plainly did not like, even after such a brief acquaintance.

  “I take it Maurice and Stuart had a run-in too?” I asked.

  “Maurice and Lesley. The Hunters told me they hired Maurice to develop a website for Lesley. A blog.”

  “When was this?”

  “Less than a year ago. Maybe ten, eleven months. I told Lesley to use one of those free website things they have, where it’s all done for you. They’re very nice looking and more than enough for a blog, but she wanted to do it up fancy, and since Stuart knew Maurice—they met when Maurice had dental work done—they thought they could trust him.” Jova took a careful sip of her steaming tea.

  “What did Maurice do?”

  “He and Lesley got into a fight. No, I take it back. Lesley was never the fighting kind, sadly for her. She should have been. She took criticism to heart, and it hurt her throughout her life. If she only could have been tougher. But anyway, Maurice got into a fight with Stuart.”

  “Over a website?”

  “A blog, yes. Lesley had definite ideas on what it should look like. I think she had a fair sense of design and color. You’d think a developer would cater to his clients, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you expect that?”

  “If I’m paying, yes.”

  “But Maurice didn’t cater. I’ve never met such a snob. It’s one thing to be a snob with reason, but his snobbishness seems unmerited. I mean, really, Mor-ris. And that slang he peppers his conversation with. Toff. Everyone but him is a toff because he’s authentically living in an apartment, not a house. Though I’m sure Kip said he lived in an apartment. Anyway, Maurice called me a toff at the party. Do the English even use that slang anymore? He was born and raised in Colorado, so he told me. Not Hackney. Next thing you know, he’s going to start using a fake English accent.” She rolled her eyes. “Imagine the awful parties.”

  I suppressed the urge to shout, “Just tell me!” Jova, it seemed, enjoyed the sound of her own voice, and if I was going to get the information I needed from her, I’d have to wade through her long pronouncements on people’s character flaws.

  “Maurice looks like a marshmallow, doesn’t he?” she said.

  “But what did he fight with Stuart about?”

  “The blog. He refused to set it up the way Lesley wanted it. He said his sense of style wouldn’t allow him such a travesty. Imagine! He told Lesley he needed to be proud of his work because it was on the web for all to see. It was his calling card. And he’d be embarrassed to put his name to the ‘mucky mess’—his words—she wanted him to make.”

  “He didn’t make the blog for her?”

  “Not a page of it. He insulted her, told her she could hire someone else if she wanted, but she was blowing her chance at a beautiful blog designed by the best in the business. And then he charged her for his home visit.” Jova chuckled.

  “I’m sensing a pattern here,” I said.

  “No wonder his businesses are failing. The man has no sense of serving the customer. Have you seen his bookstore? It’s not long for this world. Stuart told me he painted the walls purple.”

  Apparently, my comment about a pattern had gone over her head. “Why were Stuart and Lesley angry with Kip?”

  She pushed back her chair and crossed her long legs. “That’s simple. Stuart said Kip accidentally dumped beef stroganoff in Lesley’s lap when they were dining at Wyatt’s. Lesley was in tears over that too, Stuart said. I liked Lesley, but she needed to grow a backbone.”

  “But it was an accident?”

  “Maybe so, but it seems Kip laughed about it with a waitress and busboy. They were like little kids in the corner, making fun of her. Lesley was wearing a brand-new dress she’d bought for her anniversary. Kip told her not to worry, she smelled delicious. And at the party he said he was in training to be assistant manager. That will be a disaster.”

  “Good grief. There really is a pattern, Jova. Don’t you see?”

  “Things happen,” she said flippantly. “Bad things, sometimes. Don’t tell me the Hunters held a grudge over nonsense like beef in a lap and a woman who couldn’t teach French to a Frenchman.”

  Her levity was telling. And forced. She was hiding her own run-in with Lesley Hunter. “Why was Lesley angry with you, Jova?”

  “I’ve told you they weren’t. I’ve been friends with them for a long time, unlike the others.”

  “But something happened recently to jeopardize that friendship.” I didn’t ask—I stated. And then I waited for her to cough it up.

  CHAPTER 14 />
  I drove for Gilroy’s house, wet snow pelting the windshield. We were in for one of those April storms Colorado was famous for.

  Jova had finally fessed up, telling me she’d argued with Lesley, having had enough of Lesley’s “weak-kneed, spineless” response to Brynne’s bullying months earlier. Jova claimed to have been sympathetic at first, but when Lesley brought the subject up three months ago, she’d had enough. She had told Lesley to be quiet. To be a “warrior woman.”

  “Was that what Stuart meant when he called me a warrior?” Jova had asked me.

  Gilroy was waiting, door open, as I headed up his walk. “Hungry?” he asked, giving me a kiss.

  “Starving.”

  We’d always been careful about meeting at night, except in a public space like a restaurant. We weren’t married, and he was old-fashioned. One of the many things I loved about him. But desperate times called for somewhat dangerous measures. Still, aware of the danger, he had taken precautions in the form of a homemade meal. No wine or candles. We’d have something to do besides talk and gaze at each other in the glow of his roaring fire, which frankly, was all I wanted to do at that point. My bones hurt, I was so exhausted.

  “Haven’t you eaten yet?” I asked, taking in the sight of a fully set kitchen table and the aromas of baked chicken, roasted root vegetables, and bread rolls.

  “You said you’d be coming back, so I waited.”

  I gave him a judicious peck on the cheek and slipped out of my jacket. “I’ve got news for you. Underhill questioned Kip and got him to admit to stealing the cross I found in the chest of drawers.”

  “Good for him. I wish I could’ve seen that.”

  “Kip was crestfallen. He thought the cross was worth more than it was.”

  “I wonder where he planned to sell it. It couldn’t have been in Juniper Grove, or even northern Colorado. Sit down, rest.” He pointed at his table. “I’ve got this.”

  Despite the dread I felt, knowing I’d soon have to tell Gilroy about Turner and his dad, I sank into a chair, relaxing for the first time in hours. Gilroy took the chicken and vegetables from the warm oven, plated them, and then slid the rolls from a cookie sheet into a basket.