Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I picked up my phone again, went to the foot of the bed, and faced the headboard. “This is where I’d have to have been standing. Look.” I showed Holly the photo of Purdy on the bed. He was face down in the center of it, his head inches from the pillows and his feet and ankles off the mattress. “I’ve been stabbed, but for some reason I maneuver my way to the end of the bed and fall neatly into the center of the mattress? And then crawl half a foot closer to the pillows? Look, only his feet and ankles are off the bed.”

  Julia had left her chair, and for the first time she chanced a look at one of the crime-scene photos. “The man almost looks peaceful,” she said. “I imagined a terrible scene, but there’s hardly any blood.”

  “I would struggle,” I said, “and if I did fall on the bed, I’d be all catty-cornered, with my arms and legs at funny angles.”

  “You’re right,” Holly said. “Even if he was stabbed here—and it’s very weird to face your bed like that—he still would have twisted his body a little when he was stabbed. Or he would have grabbed at the knife and tried to take it out. He got one stab wound to the back, so I don’t think he died instantaneously. Why didn’t the killer stab him again?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself,” I said. “So was he positioned on the bed after he died? Or just before, maybe?” I whisked through the photos again until I came to one of the bed without Purdy on it. “It’s hard to tell with the funky bedspread pattern, but I don’t see anything that looks like blood on it. If he struggled with someone on or near the bed, there would have to be blood evidence.”

  “Or bedspread evidence,” Holly. “I mean, come on, there are only a couple wrinkles on that thing. He didn’t jerk around at all?”

  “Maybe he fell face down on the bed,” Julia said. “He didn’t get any blood on it that way, and someone pulled him up a few inches so he was closer to the pillows.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Julia threw her hands in the air. “I haven’t the foggiest. Was there blood on the carpet?”

  “No,” I replied. “Anyway, they tore it up looking for an escape hatch. They might have missed a drop. Can you imagine such shoddy police work?”

  “Could Purdy have been killed outside the room?” Holly asked.

  “Walking around in his PJs?” Julia said.

  “I keep coming back to him being in his pajamas,” I said. “It’s ten o’clock, he’s tired, he gets undressed—”

  “But he doesn’t turn down the bed,” Holly said.

  “No, but other than that . . .” I looked at the photos taken of the bathroom that night. Purdy’s, or the hotel’s, toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste were on the sink, along with a used washcloth. “He was ready for bed. He had no intention of leaving his room.” I flipped through the photos again. “No robe anywhere.”

  I heard a popping noise, like a dozen light switches had flicked on at once. The room’s ceiling lights went on, and the computer, audio console, surge protectors, and electronic boxes of all sorts came to life, their green and amber lights pulsing.

  “The power’s back on,” Julia said, heaving a contented sigh. “We can have some proper coffee.”

  I swiped through the photos once more, and as the three of us leaned in, concentrating on them, Dustin pushed through the door and entered the room. I clicked off my phone.

  “Hello?” A frown creased his face. With all the expensive radio equipment in the room—equipment he was responsible for—I couldn’t blame him for being irritated. “Can I help you ladies with something?”

  I decided honesty was the best policy. “I wanted to see the Purdy murder room without a dozen people in it.”

  Smiling sweetly, Julia said, “We’re trying to solve the crime.” Her silly-little-old-lady routine had disarmed many an annoyed or suspicious man.

  Dustin relaxed, the furrows between his eyes softening. His hair was still riding high on his head, I noticed. A testament to the strength of his mousse or gel. Even a fitful night on a chair hadn’t squashed it much. Noticing other people’s hair—something I did on a regular basis—always got me thinking of my own shoulder-length brown hair threaded with gray. I’d avoided mirrors since waking up, but I had no doubt my naturally limp hair was downright stringy this morning.

  “You’re going to solve a fifty-year-old murder?” Dustin asked.

  “Can it hurt to give it a go?” Julia said.

  He strode for the desk and yanked open a drawer. “There’s no evidence left. You may as well create a version of this room at home.” He stopped fiddling in the drawer and looked at me. “Is that what you’re doing? Re-creating the murder? Shane said you were good at stuff like that.”

  “He did?”

  “He’s read about you in the Juniper Grove paper.”

  “Don’t believe what you read.”

  Dustin retrieved a set of keys from the drawer, pushed it shut, and flashed a grin. “Radio people know that better than anyone.”

  “How many remotes have you done at the Grandview with Shane?” I asked.

  “This is my fifth.”

  I sat on the bed. “So what do you think about the Purdy murder?”

  Dustin arched a brow. It seemed to me he’d never been asked his opinion before. “I always thought someone made sure it wasn’t solved. What was the difficulty? You have an isolated hotel, a victim, and a limited number of suspects.”

  “Like with Arthur,” Holly said.

  “I guess, yeah. Anyway, it couldn’t have been that hard to work out who had it in for Purdy. It had to be one of the guests.”

  “But how would Purdy and his killer happen to meet at an isolated hotel?” I asked.

  “Purdy had a reservation, and his wife knew he’d be staying here overnight.”

  “But unless one of the guests made a last-minute reservation after finding out Purdy would be—”

  “His wife knew,” Dustin repeated. “The Purdy family went to Craig every January about the same time. She may have known weeks ahead of time the exact day her husband would be here. Plenty of time to hire someone.”

  Five trips with Shane to the Grandview had made Dustin a fount of information. “You think his wife hired a hit man?”

  Dustin sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. “Every year we go over and over the facts. Shane has a folder of old newspaper articles, and I’ve read every single one of them multiple times. Not that I believe everything in them. But I don’t see another option. One of the guests was a killer for hire.”

  “What about one of the staff?” Holly asked.

  “Everyone on the staff had worked for the Grandview for three years minimum,” Dustin said. “Some of them for a decade.”

  “And killers for hire don’t have stable day jobs,” I said.

  Dustin nodded.

  “How long were Purdy and his wife married?”

  “Twenty-six years.”

  “After all that time, why would she want him dead?” I asked.

  “Word was they were having money troubles and Mrs. Purdy saw herself losing the upper-middle-class life she’d grown to expect. If she divorced him before he lost everything, including his job and house—both of which he was about to lose—she’d get half. If Purdy declared bankruptcy, she’d get nothing. Her kids were adults, so his money would go to her first.”

  I heard a knock and saw Maria standing just outside the door. “I was sent to ask about the pastries,” she said. “Were you storing them in here?”

  “We got carried away talking,” Holly said, making her way to the door.

  “Also, Chief Gilroy says the coroner, the forensics team, and the power company are here,” Maria added. “That means the road is passable.”

  Dustin threw back his head. “It’s about time.”

  “Before you go, Maria,” I said, “what do you think about the Purdy murder?”

  “You mean the ghost?”

  “No, the actual murder.”

  “All I know is
what I’ve heard Shane say.”

  “Didn’t Shane give you and Conyer a copy of his folder on the case?” Dustin said.

  Maria shot a glance down the hall and then looked back to Dustin. “Yeah, but I didn’t read it.”

  “You mean you were ill informed?”

  Maria smiled wryly. “Did it make a difference?”

  Dustin snorted. “Let’s get out of here.”

  It struck me that Maria’s fear of Purdy and his ghost, which had been so evident in the basement, had all but evaporated. She was eager to leave the hotel, but she was no longer quaking in fear.

  Then again, neither was Julia. Daylight had made all the difference.

  “Maria, do you still have that folder?” I asked. “I’d love to take a look at it.”

  “You can have it,” she said. “If I never see the name Purdy again, I’ll be a happy woman.”

  I heard heavy footsteps along the hall floor and a voice call out, “Stop packing, guys.”

  Maria stared open-mouthed at Dustin.

  “Don’t pack,” Shane said, racing into the room and heading straight for the computer.

  Conyer was right behind him, a sour expression on his face. “Shane wants to contact the station,” he said.

  Shane typed briefly on the keyboard and then hit Send. “I should hear back right away.”

  Legs planted, hands on her hips, Maria scowled. “I thought we were done. We can’t help it if the electricity went out last night.”

  A minute later, Shane received his answer. “We’re staying, folks. They want us on tonight. Live from the Grandview.”

  CHAPTER 11

  On the way home from the Grandview, with Holly at the wheel of her SUV, I sat in the back seat and went over the Purdy folder Maria had given me and browsed my photos of the library—taken after the coroner had removed Arthur’s body. Gilroy had allowed me inside, and I’d snapped a quick two dozen photos. The floor, the ceiling, the door, the shelves—every nook and cranny of the place.

  I knew from experience that Gilroy didn’t like untidy endings. An unsolved murder and all his suspects spending another night at the Grandview? I think if it had been in his power, he would have canceled the remote broadcast set for later. But Connie and Ian had approved it, and with Arthur dead, they acted as the hotel’s sole authority.

  I was still convinced that the two murders, though fifty years apart, were connected, which was why I had my nose in Maria’s Purdy folder on that glittering, cloudless drive out of the foothills. My only proof of a connection, if you could call it proof, was my mistrust of coincidence. I didn’t believe in it.

  But then, there was also the Purdy photo album, which glowed with the same smudge marks as Arthur’s sweater. Someone, perceiving it as a threat, had destroyed its photos in the fireplace. And as Julia had pointed out, Purdy was the reason all of us were at the Grandview. Now I needed to justify my belief that Arthur’s death was related to Purdy’s with some hard facts.

  “Dustin was right about the Purdys’ rocky marriage,” I said. “If you believe the papers, that is. They were on the verge of a divorce, and the trip to Craig was supposed to be a last-ditch effort to patch up their marriage. Though I don’t know why they would bring their adult children along on such a trip.”

  “Maybe to act as a buffer in case the patch didn’t take,” Holly said. “I’ve known couples who have done that.”

  “Where would Mrs. Purdy hire a hit man?” I said. “A businessman’s housewife, born and raised in little Sterling, Colorado. How would she know where to start?”

  Julia twisted back to face me. “That’s a very good question. I wouldn’t know where to hire one, and I’ve had sufficient reason in my life.”

  I heard Holly chuckle.

  “The town was so small back then, any inquiry along those lines—even as a joke—would have raised eyebrows,” I said.

  “What if she already knew someone who could do the job?” Holly said. “I’d look into her extended family.”

  “I need my computer and the Juniper Grove Library.” I shut the folder and rested my head on the back of the seat, taking the pressure off my cramped neck muscles. It was one of those Colorado winter days that natives don’t like to tell tourists about for fear they would visit, and often. Sky the color of turquoise, the sun outlandishly warm, the air sweet and clear.

  “I’m sorry Shane didn’t mention your pastries on the radio,” I said to Holly, “but maybe he will tonight.”

  “Are you going to listen?” Holly said.

  “I might learn something.”

  Holly slowed and turned onto Finch Hill Road. I had a date with my computer and corkboard—the same one I used to plot my mysteries. I knew if I could get organized and lay everything out before me, I might see what was niggling at the back of my mind about the two Grandview murders.

  Holly pulled in front of Julia’s house, and despite her protestations, I helped my next-door neighbor up her walk and porch steps, pulling her luggage behind me. The town hadn’t received as much snow as the foothills, but there were still a few unshoveled and cold-crusty inches on the sidewalks and steps. Holly went to her house across the street. My friend had missed out on a golden opportunity at the Grandview. I was tempted to call Shane and ask him to mention her bakery on his show tonight. He and his crew had eaten enough free pastries—it would only be fair.

  I got a pot of coffee going, unpacked, and turned on the computer in my office. Next I downloaded the photos from my phone and spread the newspaper articles on the Purdy murder across my desk. I needed to nail down any facts I’d missed.

  I drank a cup of strong hazelnut coffee while I clicked through the Purdy crime-scene photos on my monitor. The photo of Herbert Purdy’s body, lying neatly in the center of the bed, was a sham. But who had altered the scene? The cops? The killer, trying to protect Mrs. Purdy?

  The last newspaper article in the folder hinted that Helena Purdy had something to do with her husband’s death. It was a claim she vehemently denied, and the paper was never able to prove a connection between Helena and any of the hotel’s guests. Or even her adult children and the guests. All this despite Helena collecting a hefty insurance payout after Purdy died.

  A legend was born when a Denver newspaper gave up on the case and called Purdy’s death the “Mystery Murder at the Grandview.” At the same time, the nonsense about it being a locked-door killing began. For the journalists involved, drama beat honestly investigating a baffling case.

  For the third or fourth time, I studied the Purdy photos. When I came to one of the doorframe—the closeup to show the lock hadn’t been jimmied—I saw something new. A neat little blotch of red about a foot above the doorknob. It wasn’t a smear, and it didn’t have a drip pattern like a spray of blood might. Had any of the wizards at the scene even noticed it? Had they tested it for a fingerprint? My confidence in the Purdy investigation was now so low that I sincerely doubted it.

  Hoping Gilroy had made it back to town, I phoned the police station. Travis Turner, the department’s newly hired officer from the town of Windsor, Colorado, answered. He expected Gilroy and Underhill soon. When I told him to pass along a question—was it possible for me to get a look at the official report on the Herbert Purdy murder?—Turner surprised me by saying Gilroy had ordered the report from county records this morning. It had been faxed to him from Fort Collins and was sitting on his desk.

  I hopped in my car, thinking I’d make it to the station on Main Street about the time Gilroy did, but I had to wait ten nail-biting minutes for him to show up. When he did, he wasn’t surprised to see me, and neither was Underhill. Gilroy asked me to follow him, and I shut the door to his office behind me.

  “You’re here for the Purdy report, aren’t you?” he said, sinking into his chair.

  He looked so bone weary, I felt guilty. “How did you know?”

  “I saw the look on your face when I was turning the pages in the Purdy photo album.”

  “Turner sa
id you ordered the report. I know you haven’t had a chance to see it yet.”

  “That’s fine. It’s an old case,” he said, scanning the papers atop his desk. He found the report and slid it toward me. “I hadn’t given much credence to the idea that the two murders were connected until you found what was left of the photo album in the fireplace.”

  Not wanting to put Gilroy in a sticky situation, I didn’t even ask to take photos of the five-page report. An official police report, even a very old one, wasn’t on the same level as a hotel’s photo album and had no business on my personal phone. I read the first page and then glanced up. Gilroy’s eyes were closed, his chin was in his hands. I excused myself, poured him a cup of coffee in the lobby, and returned.

  “You need this,” I said, setting the cup on his desk. “Have you had lunch?”

  “Not yet. Thanks.” He blew across the cup and took a sip.

  “I’m going to pick up something for you and Underhill at Wyatt’s Bistro.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t. What do you think of the radio crew spending another night at the hotel?”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  He shut his eyes again and I made quick work of the rest of the report.

  The thing was full of holes. The police had taken some fingerprints from around the room, but the report made no mention of the smudge above the doorknob. A hotel room was a tricky thing—was a blotch or a smear a clue or simply a result of shoddy housekeeping?—but even I could tell the police had made a halfhearted effort to analyze the scene. They had likely thought they would solve the case through interviews alone. Even so, nothing in the report acknowledged the odd nature of the scene, particularly Purdy’s tranquil body position.

  A hotel guest across the hall from room 108 had reported hearing a groan just before he heard another sound—a door shutting—but the guest was in bed reading at the time and didn’t feel the need to look out his peephole. He thought nothing more of the matter until Purdy’s body was found.

  The report included a photo of the murder weapon: an everyday, wood-handled kitchen knife, a bit beat-up looking. But no such knife—or any knife at all—was discovered missing from the Grandview’s kitchen. Strangely, Purdy had been stabbed with the cutting edge of the knife pointing upward.