I tried to banish Sonya from my mind. I had phoned her a number of times, without success, and before I left home I had tacked a note on my front door telling her my back door was unlocked and she was welcome to go inside and wait for me. For now, there was nothing else I could do.
Gilroy and I were heading for the town’s Christmas tree, a modest fifteen-foot spruce two blocks east. Officials, including Gilroy and Officer Underhill, had cordoned off a six-block stretch of Main Street, freeing up the road for pedestrians, carolers, and vendors selling roasted chestnuts and hot cider. Holly and Peter were somewhere in the crowd—though I hadn’t seen them yet—handing out chocolate chip cookies and slices of cranberry roll as Christmas tokens to their customers. I was sure most of Juniper Grove’s twelve hundred residents were now on this small patch of land, and strolling down the middle of the street with Gilroy, holding his hand and saying hello to my neighbors, there was no place on earth I would rather have been.
“I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas Eve,” Gilroy said.
“And my Christmas party is tomorrow. A party I solemnly promise will end early so people can go home to their police stations and their families.”
Gilroy stopped. “Rachel, I can probably only stay an hour. I hope you understand.”
“I wasn’t expecting more than an hour, especially now that the medical examiner declared Micah’s death a murder.” I was certain I heard Gilroy give a sigh of relief, so I added, “You’re the police chief. Your time isn’t your own when there’s a murder investigation going on. I get that.”
He drained his cocoa cup and looked around for a trash can. Not seeing one, he crushed the cup and stuffed it in his coat pocket. I loved his hands. They were the hands of a working man. I loved every single thing about him. His dark eyelashes, his strong, straight nose, the dark stubble on his chin and jaw when he hadn’t had time to shave.
“You’re very quiet,” he said.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“We haven’t talked much about our pasts,” I said.
“You haven’t asked.”
“Neither have you.”
“You didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I do know you were engaged once.”
My jaw dropped. “Who was it? Julia or Holly?”
“You have two good friends who care a lot about you.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Gilroy grinned. “That’s right.”
“So what about you? I know you were married a long time ago, but you’re not now. And you don’t have kids, unless you’ve been keeping really big secrets.”
“No, we never had kids.”
“So you divorced? But when?”
“We didn’t divorce. I don’t believe in divorce.”
I heard a shout behind me and looked over my shoulder to see Bonnie Eskew and Amber de Witte waving at me and hurrying my way. Before I could say hello or wish them a merry Christmas, Bonnie said, “Have you seen Ellen? Did you hear about Sonya?”
I tensed. “No. What?”
“She’s fine,” Bonnie said. “She went back to the Lamberts. She’s here with them tonight to see the carolers. Ellen said you were worried and I should tell you right away if I saw you before she did.”
“Where did Sonya go?”
“Until I spoke to Ellen just now, I didn’t know she was missing.”
Of course. Only Gilroy, Ellen, and I knew about Sonya’s first disappearing act from the Lamberts’ house and second disappearing act from mine.
“Hello, Chief Gilroy,” said Amber, attempting to toss her mane of auburn hair. Not an easy task considering she was wearing a close-fitting winter cap.
“Hello, Miss de Witte.”
“Craig is caroling tonight,” Bonnie said, suddenly changing tack. “His last time.”
“The Four Santas?” I asked.
“It’s the Three Santas,” Bonnie said sadly. “We asked your Officer Underhill if he’d step in for Micah Schultz, Chief Gilroy, but he said he doesn’t sing.”
“I can vouch for that,” Gilroy said.
“How do you sing four-part harmony with only three singers?” Amber asked.
“It’s not complicated,” Bonnie answered. “You leave one of the parts out.”
Amber giggled and glanced at Gilroy. He’s forty-eight, I wanted to say. Old enough to be your . . . uncle. But the way Amber was gazing at him, it wouldn’t have made a difference.
“Does Craig still intend to quit the group?” I asked Bonnie.
“That’s what he says, but I’m working on changing his mind. The truth is, from August to January, he’d be lost without them. He’d be bored to tears and he’d let me know all about it.”
“If Craig quits, it will be the Two Santas,” Amber said. “A caroling duo.” She suddenly wrinkled her nose and sniffed as if she were smelling something pungent and thoroughly unpleasant. She turned her face and sneezed into her red gloves. “Shoot,” she said, pulling a rumpled tissue from her coat and touching it to the end of her nose. “I think I’m getting a cold.”
“Don’t give it to me,” Bonnie said. “I’ll give it to Craig and he won’t be able to sing.”
“I thought people were lining up to be part of the quartet,” I said.
Bonnie nodded. “Farley Brewer said two men had already expressed an interest in taking Micah’s spot, but he didn’t like either of them. Not that he has the final word.” She leaned closer, her eyes alight, her tone conspiratorial. “I’m sure there are a dozen men waiting to pounce, but Micah’s only been dead nine or ten hours. They’re trying to appear respectful.”
“Should we head for the tree?” Amber said. “The carolers are starting soon.”
We went off, the four of us—not the evening with Gilroy I had envisioned—and gathered with others about the town’s spruce tree. It may have been on the short side as far as most such trees went, but it was a wide and perfect pyramid, and its simple decorations—a sprinkling of silver ornaments and hundreds of white lights, which shone like tiny stars in the branches—made it beautiful in my eyes.
The teenage carolers from Juniper Grove High had gathered closest to the tree, and to their right I spotted two of the Santas, Oliver and Craig. I judged Craig the better Santa, with his high cheekbones and fuller lips. Oliver had gotten sloppy with his costume, forgetting to glue his Santa eyebrows over his own grayer and thinner brows.
I looped my arm through Gilroy’s, took a sip of cocoa, and lifted my eyes to the starry sky. An instant later, I heard a gut-wrenching scream for help.
Behind me, someone shoved forward, knocking my cup from my hand. Gilroy shot ahead, pushing his way through the crowd, and I followed him, edging sideways, sliding between people until I found him twenty feet behind the tree, standing over the body of yet another Santa. Farley Brewer.
I inched forward. Farley was face up in the snow and beyond a doubt dead. Oliver and Craig, still in their Santa hats, stood nearby, gaping in horror at their friend.
“What’s going on?” Oliver said, his voice heartbreakingly childlike. “I don’t understand why someone would do this. What is happening?”
Breaking through the crowd, Bonnie Eskew flew to her husband and hugged him ferociously.
“Everyone step back,” Gilroy said, thrusting out his arms. “Step back now, please. Well back.” He crouched and touched his fingers to Farley’s neck. Then he called Underhill and told him to bring Turner with him and notify the coroner.
“Someone is killing Santas,” I heard a woman say. It sounded ridiculous, and I wanted to turn and scowl at her, but she had a point. On the ground before us was the second dead Santa in less than twenty-four hours.
“I have to call my wife,” Oliver said, backing away from the scene.
“Make the call from here, please,” Gilroy said. “No one leaves.” He stood, loudly repeated his order that no one leave, and told one of the adults with the high school carolers to move the kids
well away from the scene. Now.
I scanned the crowd. Amber was standing not far from Bonnie, her gloved hand over her mouth, and Ellen Lambert and a man I presumed was her husband were a few feet from Amber. Ellen was clinging to her husband for dear life. But where was Sonya? I hoped she was far back in the crowd. Maybe she had been drawn to a shop window’s decorations and was unaware of what had happened. I was glad, too, that Julia was at home. Curled in front of her fireplace, I hoped.
I felt a tug on my sleeve and turned back to see Holly and Peter. We looked at one another and didn’t say a word.
“Chief, can’t you cover him?” Oliver pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, but I have to wait for the coroner. You can help by backing everyone up. They’re still too close.”
“Yes, yes,” Oliver said, taking consolation in action.
“Twenty feet,” Gilroy said. “Start with the kids. Get them back forty feet.”
“Yes, sir.” Oliver began to corral the high school carolers. I saw one of them pull out his phone to take a photo and screeched at him to put it back in his pocket. Gilroy spun around, took one look at the kid’s phone, and seconded me.
The Kavanaghs and I backed up, too, and we pulled others in the crowd with us. Gilroy crouched again, his eyes running over the body and the snow around it. I stood still. Something on Farley’s chest, near his beard, caught his eye. He removed a pen from inside his coat and waited, pen hovering. Underhill and Turner arrived an instant later, both of them breathless from running.
“Evidence bag,” Gilroy said, his voice carrying in the now-quiet street.
Underhill fetched a plastic bag from his coat pocket and handed it to Gilroy. Using his pen, Gilroy nudged several tiny objects into the bag and gave it back to Underhill.
“Are those cookie crumbs?” Turner said.
Gilroy gave him a sharp look, silencing him. “Another evidence bag.” This time he nudged a paper cup into a bag, trying, I noticed, to keep from spilling the small puddle of liquid inside it.
“Turns out the coroner was at a party a few miles from here,” Underhill said. “He’ll be here soon.”
Gilroy rose and told the crowd to stay on Main Street and talk to his officers before they went home. It was a hopeless crime scene. Chaotic, trampled on, people coming and going with no way to control or monitor them. No one would remember who was where before they heard the scream, or worse, people would think they remembered what they saw and offer conflicting eyewitness reports.
Had Farley, like Micah, been killed by a poison cookie? Like almost everyone else downtown tonight, he had probably eaten far too many cookies, and that would make finding the baker of the poisoned cookie impossible. Worse, the baker wasn’t necessarily the poisoner.
“Who screamed for help?” I asked Holly. “Did you see?”
“I don’t know. Peter and I were half a block away. Whoever it was sounded terrified.”
“I’ll bet Farley looked like he was having a heart attack,” I said. “And like Micah, by the time he hit the ground, he was dead.”
“Those were cookie crumbs Gilroy was putting in that bag,” Holly said.
“Crumbs,” I mumbled. “That’s what we need.” I heaved a sigh and looked away. Random, motiveless murders were hard to solve. Murders of opportunity could also prove difficult because they sometimes lacked a crumb trail—a history of animosity or physical fights, for example. But these murders weren’t impulsive. They were well planned. And behind them, I was sure, was a clear crumb trail of spiteful intent.
CHAPTER 7
Gilroy had driven me to the caroling festival in his private vehicle, so after Holly and Peter talked to Officer Underhill, they dropped me off at my house. I figured Gilroy and his men had hours of work ahead of them, so there was no sense in me hanging around and getting in the way.
The first thing I did was tear the note I’d left Sonya from my front door. She was safe at Ellen’s house, thank goodness. Then I locked the back door. I had barely taken off my coat when the doorbell rang. Julia. My friend didn’t often stand sentry at her living-room window this time of night—that was more of a morning and afternoon thing with her—but if she had heard about Farley Brewer’s death from another neighbor, she had been watching for my arrival.
“Are you tired? Am I here too late?” she asked, wavering just outside the door, a Holly’s Sweets box in her hands.
“It’s only nine, and I can’t sleep right now. I’d really like the company.”
I let her in, and after making a pot of decaf coffee and telling her what I knew of the night’s awful events, we went to the living room and settled into my couches. Julia pointed at the bakery box on the coffee table and told me to dig in.
“Your tree is so pretty,” she said.
“I hope I can get around to decorating it. How’s yours?”
“Bare but beautiful. Is it awful to be talking about trees after another murder?”
I shook my head. Hard. “No, it’s Christmas. We’re going to talk about trees and wreaths and good food.”
“Right you are.” She grabbed a sugar cookie from the box.
“Is it awful to be so hungry after tonight?” I asked her, reaching in for a gingersnap.
“It’s Christmas.”
I took a bite of gingersnap and reached for my coffee. My mouth was so dry, I had to wash it down with a large gulp. “One good thing I can tell you. Sonya is back with the Lamberts.”
“I’m glad,” Julia said. “I hope she has the sense to stay there. Though she seems lacking in sense, if you ask me.”
I was about to tell Julia what Oliver had told me about Sonya, that she had challenges in her life, but I thought better of it. “I could be wrong, but from what I’ve gathered, Sonya will do all right without Micah. She has some good friends, like Oliver Morris. And I’ll bet Micah left her money. There was no one else he could leave it to.”
“That’s good to know. I was wondering how she would get along without him.”
“There’s still the matter of the threats she was receiving. That knife in her door was no joke, Julia.”
“Do you think the threats are connected to the murders?”
“One murder and one unconfirmed murder. But yes, they may be connected.” My position from the start had been that the threats, which I had at first suspected might be in Sonya’s mind, were a separate matter. Now I was seeing connections beyond the obvious one—that Micah, the first victim, was Sonya’s uncle. “Today I found out that Sonya works for Juniper Charities, and her boss is one of the Four Santas, Oliver Morris. That’s too much of a coincidence for me.”
Intrigued by this snippet of information, Julia asked me to repeat myself. Had she heard right? Juniper Charities?
“I was there earlier today,” I said. “At their office in a building on Orchard Street.”
“Those thieves! I thought they’d gone away. They’re still running a so-called charity?” She set down her coffee cup, freeing up her agitated hands, and launched into a tirade on the organization. “We had a flood almost ten years ago, and hardly a penny of the money that group took in—and there was plenty of it—went to the flood victims or the cleanup. A few hundred dollars was all the town ever saw, and not many people had flood insurance. There was mud four inches deep along Main Street. Do you know how we cleaned it up without a penny from anyone? Two hundred men with shovels, wheelbarrows, and garden hoses. I’ll never forget it. It was a glorious sight.”
“That sounds like a happy outcome.”
“There was an investigation, of course, but how do you prove what happened to cash donations?”
“That would be very—”
“The answer is, you can’t. And no one ever did. But I heard from dozens of people who said they donated after the flood, and let me tell you, if even half of them were telling the truth, money disappeared into the pockets of Juniper Charities. They have the nerve to call themselves a charity. There’s nothing worse than taking money
from good, hard-working people on false pretenses.”
“Oliver Morris doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would steal donations.”
“Oliver wasn’t part of it back then. Craig Eskew ran it.”
“Craig?” I finished off the rest of my gingersnap. “That’s another coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I.”
“Was Micah Schultz part of it?”
“No. Not then, anyway.”
“So we have two deaths related to the Four Santas, and at least two of the Santas have or used to have a connection to Juniper Charities. And then there’s Sonya, who works for the organization.” I had an odd feeling—almost a physical sensation—that the answer was just beyond my fingertips. If only I could see it all clearly and put the pieces of the puzzle in the right places.
“I think we should call a meeting of the Juniper Grove Mystery Gang tomorrow,” Julia said.
“Yes,” I said absentmindedly. I sipped my coffee slowly, both my hands around the cup, trying to warm them. There was a chill in the house that I hadn’t felt on first coming home. “What do you know about Craig Eskew? Aside from him being a thief.”
“Not much. I haven’t wanted to know him.” Suddenly she nodded, remembering. “I think his and Bonnie’s children live out of state. He used to work in Fort Collins, but he’s retired now. Or he was retired. Are you cold?”
“I am a little.”
“It’s the stress.” Julia scooted to the edge of the couch. “Time for me to go. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
She took her coffee cup to the kitchen, and I followed, handing her the bakery box. “For goodness’ sake, don’t forget your cookies. I’ve got a box of my own, and Holly’s bringing loads of cookies and pies tomorrow. I’ll be drowning in sugar.”
“I can hardly wait for your party.”
“I need another week to get ready.”
Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2 Page 5