Cozy Mystery Box Set: Murder Mysteries in the Mountains

by Liz Turner

  “Someone had an extra key, obviously,” Victoria said. “That has to be it.”

  “That would make things simple too, wouldn’t it?” Corporal Jager said. “Unfortunately, no. Boyd lived in his ancestral house and refused to move out. This particular house has only two ways to get in; the back door and the front door. Boyd had recently talked with the locksmith to have the backdoor lock replaced; it has been jammed for about a month. The front door had two and only two keys. I know because John the locksmith made them both himself. Both keys were found inside Boyd’s house.”

  “Maybe… maybe Boyd’s front door is self-locking?” Victoria asked.

  “It isn’t.” The Corporal assured her.

  “Wow.” Victoria tried to take it all in. “That’s… that’s weird isn’t it?”

  Corporal Jager was tapping on the desk in front of him as if trying to make up his mind about something. He looked up at Victoria, and said, “What have you heard about the other… incidents that have occurred around town lately?”

  “Other incidents?” Victoria remembered Boyd again; that expression on his face as he’d assured her there were no crimes in Larch.

  “The dolls.” Corporal Jager said. “What have you heard about them?”

  “Not a thing,” Victoria said.

  “Surprising.” Corporal Jager said. “Then again, I guess you’re not from this part of the world.”

  “I’ve heard whispers about unexplained phenomena.” Victoria remembered Byron now. Remembering the way the girl at the car rental had paled when she heard they were headed to Larch. She felt a shiver wander over her.

  “You’re a writer, aren’t you?” Corporal Jager asked. “You’ve written a few true crime novels in collaboration with Mike Pelletier. Good ones at that, though lately you’ve turned to fiction.”

  “Lately, I’ve done nothing at all,” Victoria said. “I haven’t written in three years.”

  “I see.” Corporal Jager looked like he did see. “Would this dry spell coincide with your husband’s diagnosis?”

  “We were talking about dolls,” Victoria said, a little coldly.

  “It’s nonsense, really.” Corporal Jager said. “Utter nonsense. Still. Five different people have complained about it.”

  “Complained about what?”

  “Finding a doll in their house. Always in an unusual spot. One was inside a locked safe; with all the money intact. A second one inside a shower stall. The third time, inside an oven…” Corporal Jager shook his head, “All found inside locked houses. It’s inexplicable. Just like this murder.”

  “Are you saying…” Victoria took a deep breath. “That a ghost committed this murder? A ghost who’s fond of dolls?”

  “It sounds ridiculous.” Corporal Jager said, and sighed. “Goodness knows it does. But there it is. The town is terrified, to be honest.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Victoria said, standing up. “Utterly ridiculous.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Corporal Jager said. “Karen certainly doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of the dolls was found in your cafeteria; after it had been locked for the night.”

  Chapter 7

  Victoria walked out into the sunlight, feeling as if she’d emerged from some dark cave that had fogged her mind. Jager’s face kept floating before her, as did his words, “The Dolls.”

  It was ridiculous, of course. Superstitious nonsense, best dismissed.

  In her life as a true crime novelist with Michael, she’d spent many years researching, talking to inmates, talking to the judges and the cops who’d handled cases. By and large, she knew, murders were easy crimes. Most times crimes of passion are easily detected. Crimes of greed are a little harder to solve, but still showed a fairly direct link between the person who profited most from the murder, and the murder itself. The essence of solving a crime, then, was to look hard at the facts and then draw a straight line between motive, means, and opportunity.

  That’s what Jager should be doing instead of wasting time on dolls. Victoria fumed internally. Instead of ascribing all sorts of nonsensical superstitions to the case, he should be going through a list all the people who might have wanted Boyd dead and crossing them off until he reaches the criminal.

  Regardless of the means, there was some solution as to how the murder occurred inside the locked room. There was one man who was a very obvious suspect in her eyes.

  That man stood leaning against his car now, smoking casually. Angus Boyd, nephew and only surviving relative of Jeffrey Boyd.

  “Angus.” She strolled to him, making every effort to be casual. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

  Angus looked up, startled, dropping the cigarette from his hand. His eyes roamed up and down her body for a few seconds, then stopped at her eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “We were in school together.”

  “Were we?” Angus was looking down again. “Can’t say I remember.”

  “You used to pour ink over my books all the time,” Victoria said.

  Angus squinted. “Still, can’t say I’m sure who I’m talking to. I was a prankster. Dumping ink was just one of the many ways I passed the time.”

  What he had been, was a bully. Pranksters required some semblance of wit, which had been sorely lacking from Angus Boyd. Even now, he was the same bull of a man. His face melted away indistinguishably into a thick neck. Meaty hands hung low on his body and thick tree-trunk like legs that he always planted wide apart.

  “I’m Karen’s sister. Victoria.”

  “Oooh. Her sister.” Angus gave her a smile that made her wince. “Well well. Heard you got pregnant and ran away.”

  Victoria’s lips thinned. “That’s not true.”

  “What? That you ran away or that you were pregnant when you did?”

  “Both,” She said.

  “Heh. Wouldn’t be my business anyhow.” He stomped on the cigarette he’d dropped, and ground it. “My business is going to be the business I inherit now. A sulky, grumpy old man was Uncle Boyd; but a rich one, too. There was no love between us. So maybe the town expects me to cry at his funeral. Rubbish. I’m a blunt man, just so you know. There’s no need to come up with this fake sympathy when all the while you’re just counting the dollars in your head.”

  “If you can’t take what’s offered to you, I’ll just have to take it back,” Victoria said, anger welling up in her. “I suppose it’s Mr. Boyd to whom I’ll have to say sorry. He’d have been unhappy to know the kind of man he’s left his life’s fruits to.”

  “Oh, he knew me well enough.” Angus laughed. “Had a bit of beef with me too. Maybe on account of the two years, I spent locked up in the P.A. Penitentiary. Look, Victoria. He knew what I was, and he hated me for it. But family’s family, isn’t it? He had no kids of his own, and I don’t have any kids of my own. But unlike him, I’m going to make sure there’s not a penny for any distant nephew who comes hopping around once I’ve died.” Angus gave another whooping laugh. “I’m going to dedicate myself to spending that cash, I tell ya. I heard the news just this morning, and all I’ve been doing since is coming up with plans. The kind of cash we’re talking about takes some serious effort to spend. It won’t just flow away in a bar.”

  “Speaking of bars, where were you last night?” Victoria asked.

  “Not murdering Uncle, that’s for sure,” Angus said. “I suppose I should thank the man who did, and goodness knows we all know his name.”

  “You think you know who the murderer is?” Victoria asked.

  “Oh, the whole town does, darling.” Angus laughed. “His name starts with A and ends with 20 million dollars. His business starts with land and ends with politics.”

  “You’re talking about Mr. Hanson Johannsen?”

  “Ol’ Handsome himself.” Angus laughed. “Got to be him, right? No one else would profit. Hanson was drinking up a storm at Marley’s Bar that night. Seven shots, he had. Maybe he got drunk, and angry, and
decided that it was time to do Boyd in. Like I said, no one would profit from Boyd’s death apart from him and I and I’ve got myself an airtight alibi, let me tell you.”

  “You haven’t told me. Where were you?”

  “I was right near Banff. Gone camping with my buddies. Just came home today. All three of them will testify.”

  “You could have slipped out while they slept,” Victoria said. “It’s barely a fifteen-minute drive.”

  “Sure,” Angus said. “But I didn’t do it. I was fast asleep with my bottle of Jack Daniels, and my friends saw it too. I’m telling you, it’s Hanson who did it, and so, this case will never be solved.”

  “You think Corporal Jager won’t be able to catch him?”

  Angus hooted again. “Corporal Jager, catch ol’ Hanson? Not a chance. Jager’s the one who’s been caught by Hanson. He’s quite cozy in those deep pockets.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe what you like.” Angus shrugged. “All I want is my money, and I’m out of it. Boyd was Mayor, and he knew the risks involved with being a politician. It’s just his bad luck and his stupidity that finally got him killed.”

  Resisting the urge to smack Angus on the face, Victoria calmly asked Angus again. “Why are you so sure it’s Hanson though? A lot of people lose elections. They don’t go around killing just because of it.”

  “Oh, that’s true,” Angus said. “But Hanson’s a special breed of a spoilt brat. He’s had his own way in this town for so long that Boyd winning gave him a shock. Hey, it was Karen’s café wasn’t it, where Hanson made that huge scene with Boyd?”

  Chapter 8

  Victoria had a busy day. After meeting Angus, she had gone to the town doctor’s house and collected the puppy from her.

  “I found her shivering in a corner of the house, poor pup.” Dr. Molly Stewart said. “I thought I best keep her for you.”

  Victoria had hugged little Vanilla to her chest and wondered if the puppy had witnessed what had happened to Boyd. She’d deposited the pup back home with Byron, along with instructions on how to care for her. The pup had taken to Byron and Annie instantly. Attempts to gel with her father on the other hand, who had always been a cat person, didn’t go as well.

  “She’s just shy.” Her father smiled, as the puppy peed on his lap then jumped off it and hid. “Poor thing, she’s been through a lot and probably doesn’t like meeting strange new men anymore.”

  The Café had originally been started by their mother forty years ago. Victoria had only been five back then and Karen, a two-year-old toddler. Victoria still remembered the day they inaugurated it; her mother smiling wide as Boyd cut the ribbon to officially open the café. A tiny little hole in the wall it had been.

  Her father had been holding Karen on his shoulders and had done a little dance, waving Karen’s hands about in his. Victoria, in her newly pressed dress, had done a little dance of her own.

  They’d each had a hand in building it up. From as long as she could remember, Victoria had spent her time after school either waiting tables or cleaning up in the kitchen. She hated waitressing. What with her mother’s scornful tongue, demanding customers, and her own painfully shy nature all combining to make the experience as painful as a rattlesnake’s bite.

  But doing the dishes had been one of her favorite chores. It was back in the kitchen and farthest away from her businesswoman mother. It was also in the company of her father and Victoria had always been close to her Papa.

  She felt a twinge of admiration as she remembered him cooking up a storm. The orders would come relentlessly: sandwiches, chicken, eggs, burgers… and her Papa would handle them all effortlessly. He knew exactly when a pot had boiled, or when the grill was ready to have meat smacked on. He’d handle the spice jars delicately, then slam heavy cauldrons on the stove as if they were made of feathers.

  He’d teach her too, in between orders and that had been her favorite part. Baking was her mother’s domain and done in the late hours of the night or the early hours before dawn. But the cooking, the real cooking, had been her father’s and only her father’s work.

  He’d diversified too. Once, he’d tried to open his own catering business. But it had never worked. He was too much of an artist and too little of a businessman. In that way, it was Victoria’s mother, with her hard head, and her determined ways, who’d rescued them all from poverty and helped them live a good life.

  “You can stand there all day, Victoria. The menu’s staying the same. Get an apron on.” Her mother said now, and Victoria started. After all, her mother had been dead a long time.

  But it was Karen, Karen who had loved their mother most, and who now sounded a lot like her, who had spoken.

  “Karen. Sorry.” Victoria shook herself out of the trance she’d been in. “I was just… daydreaming.”

  “Yeah. So I gather. Look, what happened to Boyd’s a sad, sad thing but we’re not involved. So I say let’s move on; let’s get back to our own lives now. Well, in your case, get on with your new life now.”

  “Yes.” Victoria nodded. “Of course.” That was the sensible path, after all. No matter what that jerk Angus had said, Jager looked like a good man to her. Not the kind of man who’d be easily bribed. It was his job to handle the crime, not hers. After all, she wasn’t a true crime writer anymore. She felt a huge wave of grief; her partner and one true love had left her.

  Karen chucked an apron at her. “I never kept a waitress, so costs were down. I can’t hobble around much, so I guess you get the job.”

  “Right.” Victoria walked up behind the counter, ready to serve.

  The café hadn’t changed much since her mother had started it. They’d expanded to almost double the size, but the interiors were still the same. There were large glass windows to let in plenty of sunlight, red leather booths, checked tile floors, and a chalkboard menu with no more than seven items.

  They had a good location too, on the main street, with the river on one side of them, and the street on the other.

  Victoria spent the next hour taking an endless stream of breakfast orders from customers while Karen helped as best as she could. The new cook, Arnie, was a skilled short-order cook. Although he didn’t have her father’s touch, he laid heavy on the butter and cream, which the customers all liked.

  At about twelve o’ clock, Jager walked in; Constable Keeney tagging along with him. He took off his hat and gloves, and sat at the counter, making a show of sniffing the air.

  “What can I get you?” Victoria asked.

  “A smile would be a good start,” Jager smiled. “Had a busy day, so I’ll get the usual.”

  “You’ll have to let me know what that is.” Victoria stayed cool and unsmiling.

  “Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Jager said. “Coffee too.”

  “Same for me.” Keeney nodded.

  Victoria nodded and was about to turn away when a third man slipped in next to them.

  “Same for me too.” He said. “and make sure to give my compliments to the chef.”

  Victoria glanced at the man and instantly knew who he was. He was hard to miss with his flowing silver hair and his tight silk shirts. Hanson Johannson.

  He clapped a hand now on Jager, and said, “How’s my favorite nephew doing today? Had a busy day, I hear? Terrible tragedy.” His voice was smooth, with all the right pauses to indicate that he was sad. Victoria knew he wasn’t feeling even a twinge of it. There was glee under his carefully controlled features; a smile that was waiting to break out in private.

  Jager smiled back at him, and Victoria felt her heart sink. Perhaps Angus had been right. Perhaps Jager was too deep in Hanson’s pockets to really solve the crime.

  Nephew. Why hadn’t she figured that out before? It was rather convenient, wasn’t it? The senior officer of the RCMP in Larch Springs just happened to be the nephew of the richest man in town?

  Chapter 9

  In the old days, Michael would have been there. A steady mind to b
ounce ideas off and a steady conscience to guide her. Now, she had only her memories of him to rely on. What would he have done?

  She could see him in her mind’s eye, bristling with anger. He would probably have gone right up to Jager and given him what for, thus burning all bridges. A little smile crossed her face. Michael was always so hot headed. Luckily, she was a little cooler.

  The day was done now, and she and Karen were shutting down. It had been an exceedingly busy day. On hearing that she was back in town, many old friends and acquaintances dropped in to say hello and have a cup of coffee at the café.

  Victoria had taken some time off in the afternoon to enroll Byron and Annie in their new school. They’d both tested well enough that the teachers were alright with them starting in a week instead of immediately. Consequently, they’d spent the day at home, with her father. Byron, for all his sulkiness, had really been a great help, and Victoria promised herself that she’d make it up to him. Perhaps she'd buy him those headphones he’d had an eye on for a while.

  Then there was her father. Papa, who she had not seen in fifteen years. Papa, who she’d meant to meet, but really not gotten a chance to. What would she say to him? Her heart trembled at the thought. Dealing with Karen had been hard, but her stoic father, how could she possibly talk to him?

  She remembered the scene, years ago. She was only twenty-one when she introduced them to Michael.

  It had gone badly, to say the least. Her mother, always domineering, had gotten into a fit of rage when she heard that Victoria and Michael planned to marry and to move to New York. She’d accused Victoria of being pregnant, and she’d accused Michael of being a cradle-snatcher. Neither of which were true.

  Then she’d revealed the truth about why she was so furious. Her mother’s vision of life had always involved Victoria staying in town and helping out with the one, all-important thing. Spring Hopes Café. According to her, Victoria choosing to leave town was no less than her deserting the family and anyone who deserted the family did not deserve their love or affection.