Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2

by Karin Kaufman

  “But until two days ago you never suspected Wayne could be violent?”

  Anika gave me the proverbial deer-in-headlights stare. “Um . . . you know, I don’t think so.”

  “Surely you’d remember.”

  “Brigit was kind of private.”

  “A private drama queen?”

  Anika took a long gulp of coffee, set down her cup, and rose. “You know, Charlie’s waiting for me.”

  I peeked at my wristwatch. “You’re not going back to work? Without Brigit’s help, you must be even more backlogged.”

  Another deer-in-headlights moment.

  Without another word, Anika marched from my kitchen to my living room and straight for the front door. “Thanks so much for taking time out of your day,” she said, wrenching open the door. “I hate that I had to tell you this.”

  “Anika, wait.”

  She grabbed the doorknob and I put my hand on the door, stopping her from leaving.

  “I need to go, Rachel. I’ve said more than I should.”

  “Please talk to the police. Call them. You don’t have to go down to the station, and no one has to know you told them anything. It’ll take thirty seconds of your time.”

  “I can’t. Brigit was my friend.”

  I took my hand off the door and pleaded with her one more time to talk to the police. But as I watched her dash down my porch steps, I had no illusions that she would.

  CHAPTER 7

  Carrying our cups of decaf coffee in from the kitchen, Julia, Holly, and I settled into seats near my living-room fireplace, where a low fire crackled and glowed. February in northern Colorado was often either unusually warm or cold. This night was bitterly cold, the wind a howling wolf, and I could hear my windowpanes rattling, but the fire took the edge off the room’s chill and cheered our spirits.

  Julia was eager to start the meeting and dove right in, without preamble. “So who are our suspects?” she asked, looking from Holly to me.

  “I have four,” I said, “and I’m considering adding a fifth.”

  “Four?” Holly said. “The only one I can think of is Wayne.” She undid her bakery ponytail, letting her thick, dark hair fall, and kicked off her tennis shoes.

  “He’s number one on my list. There’s Wayne, Anika Mays, Charlie Mays.” I hesitated and took a sip of my coffee, fearing Julia’s response to my fourth name. “And Royce Putnam.”

  “What on earth?” Julia said. “That’s nonsense. Royce isn’t a murderer.”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  “Well, then take him off the list.”

  “Julia, you know how we do this,” Holly said. “We include everyone until we have reason to un-include them. We have to consider everyone and everything.”

  “No.” Julia set down her cup, crossed her arms, and pursed her lips in defiance. “I won’t consider him. It’s a waste of our time. Who’s your fifth suspect?”

  “Cassie Putnam,” I said.

  “Oh, honest to goodness,” Julia said. “That’s going too far. There’s a real killer out there, and I suggest we get down to serious business.”

  I understood Julia’s reaction. Holly did not.

  “Julia, you can’t rule people out from the beginning,” she said. “Why can’t Cassie and Royce be suspects?”

  “For the same reason your husband can’t,” Julia retorted. “Is Peter capable of murder?”

  “You know he isn’t.”

  “Neither are Cassie or Royce.”

  Holly frowned and angled in her seat to face Julia directly. “Do you know them well enough to say that for certain?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  I saw my opening. A few impertinent questions were in order. “How long have you known Royce?” I asked.

  “For years,” Julia answered. “He’s lived in Juniper Grove a long time.”

  “I don’t know him,” Holly said. “I’ve served him in the bakery, but I can’t say I know him. How long is a long time?”

  “More than ten years,” Julia replied.

  “Have you socialized with Royce outside of the decorations committee?” I said.

  “What is this?” Julia straightened her back and shooed me with a wave of her hand. She’d been doing that a lot lately. “I’m not in the mood for an interrogation, Rachel. We’re here to get serious and find a killer.”

  I’d hit a nerve. She did like him. I bit my lower lip, trying to squelch a grin.

  “I have a feeling I’ve been left out of the loop,” Holly said.

  It was no good. I had to grin. And then laugh. “Julia Foster, fess up right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said.

  “You like him.”

  “Royce?” Holly said with a chuckle. “Julia, do you?”

  “Stop it, the both of you.”

  “Oh, no, no,” I said, wagging my finger. “How many times did you harass me over Gilroy before we went out on our first date? And even after that you pestered me. It’s your turn now.”

  Holly let loose with a laugh and slapped her hands together. “How perfect, Julia! Valentine’s Day is coming up! Come on, tell us.”

  “I do not like the man,” Julia said.

  My neighbor was trying for the look and sound of adamant denial, but I wasn’t buying it. “I saw how you were with him in the boardroom at Town Hall. You played with your hair.”

  “So?”

  “I’m a woman, Julia. I know the secret handshake.”

  “Oh do you?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You are not right.”

  With some effort, and an elbow in the arm from Julia, Holly managed to stop laughing. “We’re not making fun, Julia,” she said. “Honestly, we’re not.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “We’re not, are we, Rachel?”

  I wiped every last trace of a smile from my lips. “We’re not. Furthermore, I think you and Royce would make a great couple.” I set my coffee cup on an end table and leaned forward in my armchair. “He’s not married, is he?”

  Julia’s eyes popped wide. “Oh, now really. How can you ask me such a question?”

  “It’s just that, when I met him at Town Hall, he was wearing a wedding band.”

  “For your information, his wife died two years ago. And let me tell you something. It was months before I could take my wedding ring off, and that’s after George deserted me. Royce’s wife had cancer—an altogether different situation. I happen to think his ring is a sign of a decent man who doesn’t forget love very easily.”

  Julia’s tone had shifted from mildly offended to seriously indignant. I’d crossed a line with her.

  “And let me tell you something else, you two.” Her eyes shot from mine to Holly’s. “Royce Putnam is taken, and not by me. He’s going to the dance with another woman.”

  “As a date?” I said.

  “Of course as a date,” Julia said. “And she’s a younger woman.”

  “You’re younger,” Holly said.

  Julia rolled her eyes. “By a mere five years. Royce is beginning to show an interest in dating for the first time since his wife died, and in Juniper Grove, that makes him a very valuable commodity. He can pick and choose, and he’s chosen Andrea Miller.”

  “She’s in her mid-fifties, isn’t she?” Holly said.

  “Fifty-six.”

  Holly made a face. “And Royce is—”

  “Sixty-nine in April,” Julia finished. “That’s the way of the world. And Rachel, now you know why I didn’t want to go to the dance, even to serve punch. I’ll have to serve those two. With a smile glued to my face because that’s the only way it will stay on.”

  “Maybe he won’t like her,” I said.

  “If he didn’t like her, he wouldn’t be taking her,” Julia said.

  “Oh, Julia, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t go all wobbly on me, Rachel.” Julia smiled—she wouldn’t stand for pity—but I saw pain behind
that smile, well hidden through years of practice but still apparent to anyone who cared to really look. How lonely she must have been in the seven-plus years since George Foster had left her. First his desertion, then his death, and now this. Royce, the first man she’d dared to have any affection for, belonged to someone else. And a younger woman at that, adding cruel insult to injury.

  What was Royce thinking? There wasn’t that much difference between Andrea’s age and Julia’s, and though I was biased in Julia’s favor, I could say categorically that she was the better woman. Even if I’d never met Andrea. There was no doubt in my mind.

  Holly shook her head. “Julia, I don’t know why Royce would date such a . . . well, I want to be kind, so I’ll just say a fluffy woman.”

  “Do you know her?” Julia asked.

  “No, but she has to be fluffy. Or a little flaky, like my croissants.”

  “Don’t give up on Royce,” I added. “He’ll come to his senses. Remember, Gilroy dated other women after meeting me. It took more than two months for the slowpoke to kiss me.”

  “Chief Gilroy was immediately attracted to you,” Julia countered. “I know. I was there. He didn’t kiss you because he didn’t think you liked him.”

  “Does Royce know you like him?” I asked.

  Julia pondered my question for a moment. “You knew.”

  “That’s because I’m a woman. We all know the signals. Men don’t.”

  “They’re clueless,” Holly said, nodding in agreement.

  Watching Julia just then, it seemed to me she had never considered that Royce hadn’t picked up on what to him must have been subatomic-level expressions of interest. Which was funny, because knowing Julia, she probably thought her hair twirling and compliments on his paper flowers had been more than obvious. Even over the top. As she contemplated this new possibility—that Royce simply didn’t know she was falling for him—her eyes wandered unfocused over my living room. “Well, I suppose . . . It just might be . . . It’s possible . . .”

  “I think you should spruce yourself up like never before for this dance,” Holly said.

  Julia snapped back to attention. “Do I need sprucing up? I’m not a shrub to be pruned.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “Fight for him and get him,” I said. “He’ll soon get bored with this fluffy woman.”

  “Flaky woman,” Holly said.

  “Younger woman,” Julia corrected. “It doesn’t matter how fluffy or flaky she is, as you well know. What matters is her age, and she’s considerably younger than I am.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. If Royce was that kind of man, he would take fluffy in the package of a fifty-something woman over my wonderful friend in her sixties. The unfairness and stupidity of it made me angry.

  And yet . . . true, I was younger than James Gilroy—forty-three to his forty-eight—but Gilroy was not like Royce. Gilroy had chosen me, with my pointy chin, my twenty-five surplus pounds, and my limp, dark, and graying hair. Me, with a weird cowlick at the back of my head that looked like a bald spot, with my preference for hiking boots over high heels and my obsession with cream puffs. He’d looked past all that to see me. What if Royce was also a good man? What if Andrea had asked him to the dance, not the other way around? Somehow I had to find out.

  “Are we here to discuss our suspects or not?” Julia asked.

  “Yes, absolutely,” I said, instantly changing gears. “What do you think about Anika Mays? I thought her response to news of Brigit’s death was a little underwhelming.”

  Julia took up her coffee cup again and cradled it in her hands. “She wasn’t heartbroken, I’ll say that, and she made sure we thought Brigit was imagining things when it came to Wayne. But then a minute later, she hinted that he was cheating on her. Which means Brigit was right.”

  “She gave us a mixed message,” I said. “Do you know if she and Charlie have kids?”

  “I don’t think so,” Julia said. “I’ve never seen or heard of any.”

  “Anika giving you a mixed message doesn’t mean she was lying,” Holly said. “Maybe Brigit was right about Wayne and she was the kind of person who imagines things.”

  “Oh, she was right about Wayne,” I said. “Anika and Charlie confirmed that in their own ways. Then Anika went a step further.” I explained that Anika had shown up at my door to tell me that Brigit had feared Wayne was becoming violent—whatever that meant in concrete terms—and that Cassie Putnam had supposedly blown a fuse in the Records Section two days ago over what she saw as a slow response to her request for copies of her birth certificate.

  “Anika’s lying about Cassie,” Julia said.

  That uncharacteristically harsh statement from my no-nonsense but kind neighbor took me aback. “Anika wasn’t in the office at the time, Julia. She was reporting what Brigit told her.”

  “There you go, then,” Julia said. “That should tell you something. Nothing but exaggeration and outright lies from Brigit. Let’s focus on our real suspect—Wayne. Only he had a motive to kill his wife.”

  “It seems to me Brigit had a motive to kill Wayne, not the other way around,” Holly said. “Unless Wayne’s affair was serious and he intended to leave Brigit. Think of the alimony. Think of him losing his house.”

  “That’s what I thought, but Colorado is a no-fault divorce state,” I said. “I looked it up. A judge might have granted Wayne a divorce without assigning specific blame to him. Then he and Brigit might have split their assets.”

  “That’s not fair,” Julia said. “He was cheating!”

  “On the other hand,” I continued, “if Wayne cheated on Brigit and then abandoned her, he’d lose half his assets and his name would be mud in Juniper Grove. And it’s possible at least some of his real estate business would vanish and he’d be forced to move to make a living.”

  “That does it for me,” Holly said. “I think we’ve found our suspect.”

  “That was easy,” Julia said, sounding immensely satisfied.

  “What is it they say?” Holly said. “The simplest explanation is usually the right one?”

  But I wasn’t convinced. Sure, Wayne seemed the obvious choice, but I’d only begun to analyze the facts of the case. Gilroy, too, was in the early stages of his investigation. Maybe it was my love of intricate mystery plots, but I had a feeling that the simple, obvious solution to Brigit’s murder was the wrong one.

  CHAPTER 8

  After a restless night, I woke late the next morning, and while I ate my eggs and toast at the kitchen table, I deliberately set aside what I knew and what I thought I knew about the murder of Brigit Gundersen and vowed to approach the case with fresh eyes. I downed a cup of coffee to get me through the first hour or two of what was bound to be a long day, then headed out the back door to my detached garage.

  I planned to visit Town Hall—I knew Julia, Royce, and probably Cassie were working on the dance decorations—but my first stop would be the bakery for donuts and another cream puff. Then the police station. The donuts were a peace offering. I hadn’t talked to Gilroy since yesterday afternoon, when we’d gotten into a silly argument in his office.

  But as I drove Main Street, I caught sight of Royce Putnam coming out of Grove Coffee, a tall cup and a pastry bag in his hands. He looked like he was making his way to Town Hall, so I grabbed a parking spot half a block ahead, dashed back down the sidewalk, and intercepted him. Lucky for me, he didn’t seem to think I was impertinent. In fact, he stopped in his tracks, smiled broadly, and said a cheerful good morning.

  “Rachel, is it?” He switched the pastry bag to his right hand, freeing his left, and pushed his sliding glasses up on his nose. His wedding band sparkled in the bright sun.

  “Yes, Julia’s friend.”

  “Are you still trying to discover the identity of Wayne Gundersen’s mystery woman?”

  I smiled—a little sheepishly, I think—and said yes.

  “Need any help?” he asked.

  I was taken aback
. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I have some questions you might be able to help me with.”

  “Fantastic. Let’s head back to Grove Coffee, shall we?”

  Normally people ran from me the moment I revealed my investigatory intentions, but not Royce. He made a sharp pivot on the sidewalk and strode eagerly for the coffee shop, holding the door for me when I got there. I ordered a caramel macchiato, we grabbed a corner table, and I wasted no time in getting to my questions.

  “Royce, if you had to guess, who do you think this mystery woman is?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” He opened his pastry bag. “Mind if I eat while we talk?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Well, then, it seems to me that our woman does exist. She’s not a figment of Brigit’s imagination, which is a possibility I entertained until I found out about the dark hairs on her husband’s suits.” He took a bite of his powdered donut and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “How do you know where she found the hairs? Did she tell you?”

  Royce shook his head. “Charlie told me yesterday, after Julia and Cassie went home. He said Wayne had a talk with him two days ago. It was probably a heads-up in case Brigit talked to Anika. Charlie’s his friend, so Wayne wanted to get his side out. He did the same thing when he and Brigit had rip-roaring fights. Wayne talked to Charlie, and Brigit talked to Anika. And vice versa.”

  I leaned back in my chair, sipping my coffee and mulling things over. One second I considered Wayne a suspect, and the next I didn’t. I needed less supposition and more solid facts.

  “You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Royce said.

  “Which is?”

  “That Wayne wouldn’t tell Charlie that Brigit found hairs on his suit if he intended to kill her. It makes him look undeniably guilty, and I mean for more than the affair. For her murder.”

  “That’s right.” Then again, by the sound of it, the Gundersens’ marriage had been a volatile one. “But we only have Charlie’s word for it that Wayne said anything to him.”

  Royce nodded and took another, decidedly larger, bite of donut.

  “Then again,” I went on, “it would be foolish of Charlie to lie about that. All we’d have to do is ask Wayne what he said to him. I bet the police have already asked Charlie what he knows about the affair.”