And what about that weirdness in the greenhouse? Traps, insects, marching across other people’s leaves. And here I’d thought orchid collectors were quirky. They had nothing on Stuart and his Venus flytraps. No wonder Lesley had hated the plants.
I set my cup down on my nightstand, grabbed my tablet, and did a quick Internet search for medieval artifacts and digs. Crosses, as it turned out, were one of the most common finds. Weapons too, though they were usually spearheads or broken swords, not the perfect-looking daggers on the walls of Stuart’s collection room.
I turned off the tablet and laid it next to my teacup. Sliding down in bed, I pulled the comforter to my chin, visions of Stuart’s greenhouse again dancing in my head. His tour of the greenhouse had been a grand performance. A laying down of the Law of Stuart. Tread on my leaves? I’ll put up with only so much before I snap. The man hadn’t taken us on a tour so much as lectured us.
i woke wednesday morning, the first day of April, to the sound of my doorbell ringing. Julia. I’d told her we’d have breakfast at my house. Throwing on my robe, I dashed downstairs to let her in.
“Well, if it isn’t Rip Van Stowe,” she said, chuckling at the sight of my robe and, I was pretty sure, my disheveled hair. Thin and limp, mousy brown with threads of gray, and featuring an anarchistic cowlick smack at the back of my head, my hair was a frequent source of irritation to me. Probably more than it should have been.
“If you only knew,” I said, ushering her inside and trudging through the living room to my kitchen.
“But I do know.” She held up a pink bakery box before plopping into a chair at the table.
“You’ve been to Holly’s Sweets, where—”
“The talk is all about Lesley Hunter. Holly says Officer Turner was in at seven, buying donuts.”
“Anything new?” Please say he didn’t mention Gilroy’s lapel pin.
“I don’t think so,” she said, pushing the sleeves up on her blue cotton sweater. “It all sounds very preliminary. You know more than I do, I’m sure.”
I got dressed and Julia started the coffee. And while making scrambled eggs, I filled Julia in on what I knew, minus Turner’s discovery of Gilroy’s lapel pin. Something was very wrong there. That pin was a giant, rippling-in-the-wind red flag that had me on edge, and the last thing I wanted to do was acknowledge its reality by mentioning it to Julia. Maybe if I pushed it to the back of my mind, it would disappear. Later today, Gilroy or Underhill would say, “Oh, of course, I know why that pin was there!” and all would be well again.
If not? The only conclusion was that someone was trying to set Gilroy up. But where had they found the pin? At his house? In his office at the station? I had to broach the subject the next time I saw him.
I plated the eggs and poured us coffee, and at the table, Julia set a freshly baked cream puff on my plate and a raspberry scone on hers.
My stomach was telling me I was starving, but after three bites of egg, I laid down my fork. “Stuart Hunter wants Gilroy off the case. He accused him of killing Lesley, or at least being under suspicion.”
Julia erupted in protest. “What nonsense! Chief Gilroy murder someone? What’s wrong with Stuart?”
“Grief, maybe,” I said quietly.
“Still.”
“Lesley called out, ‘James! No!’ moments before she died. Everyone heard it.”
“Was she calling for help?” Julia grabbed her scone, broke off a bite, and plopped it in her mouth.
“That’s what I think. Gilroy was the cop in the house. Lesley screamed for his help and then screamed at her attacker. The thing is, if I were at a party with Gilroy and someone attacked me, my instinct would be to call his name. I wouldn’t have to think twice.”
“Mmm,” Julia said around a mouthful of scone.
“But Gilroy and I are in love. Why didn’t Lesley call for Stuart? Even if they were on the outs for some reason, they’ve been married twenty-six years. That’s what Stuart said.”
“Regardless of how long, your point remains.” She brushed crumbs from her gunmetal-gray top. “You realize what this suggests, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe Stuart killed his wife, Julia. Especially with his own reproduction dagger.”
“What you believe and what the truth is may be two very different things. We always tell each other to ignore emotion and look at the facts.”
Facing facts, I had to admit that Stuart too had been in a position to kill Lesley and make an escape down the second staircase. Just like Brynne. It would have taken him all of five seconds. “If Stuart killed her, it would explain why Lesley called Gilroy’s name.”
“We can’t dismiss any of them as a suspect. Except for the chief, of course.”
“I’m just glad I was standing next to Gilroy when Lesley said his name.”
“You’re his alibi.”
“He shouldn’t need one.”
Julia laced her small fingers around the coffee mug. “So how do we tackle this? My entire day is free.”
“Weren’t you and Royce going to the Denver Botanical Gardens this morning?”
“We decided on dinner at Wyatt’s instead. I wasn’t eager to drive to Denver, and neither was he.”
I smiled at the thought of Julia enjoying time with her new gentleman friend—my silly, old-fashioned term, but with Julia being in her early sixties and Royce turning sixty-nine in April, it seemed appropriate.
“I’d much rather eat at Wyatt’s than deal with the traffic on I-25,” I said. I rose to clear the table.
If I ever used the words “gentleman friend” aloud, Julia would throw a fit. She often reminded me that I’d be her age in the blink of an eye—“That’s how fast twenty years goes, Rachel”—and then I’d realize that sixty-three felt much the same as forty-three. I’d feel in the prime of my life and I would resent, like she did, being treated like an old lady.
Julia had changed in the six weeks since the Valentine’s Day dance at Town Hall, when Royce Putnam, thanks to Gilroy’s encouragement, had asked her to dance with him. She was happier and less interested in my love life. My friend and next-door neighbor on Finch Hill Road had been alone since her husband’s death seven and a half years earlier, and by her account she hadn’t been very happy during the last years of her marriage. She deserved a good man, and in Royce, she had one.
I took a final bite of my cream puff, wrapped the rest in plastic wrap, and stuck it in the refrigerator. “I need to talk to Gilroy first.” By now he knew about the lapel pin Turner had bagged. How did he think it had ended up in the collections room?
“We should stop at Holly’s Sweets later,” Julia said. “Holly said she’d keep an ear out for gossip. Was it obvious how Lesley died?”
“Very. But Gilroy won’t assume.”
“Does he suspect anyone in particular?”
I thought back to our rather quiet drive home from the Hunters’ house. “I don’t think so. He was frustrated because everyone was either vague or evasive when he questioned them. On the way home I could see his wheels turning, but you know how he is. He doesn’t say anything at first. He lets it all marinate, and then and only then does he tell me what he’s thinking.”
I grabbed my jacket and car keys and headed for the back door. I had a bad feeling about this one, and sooner or later I’d have to tell Julia and Holly why. Someone was trying to set Gilroy up. And they weren’t going to stop with a planted lapel pin.
CHAPTER 7
Officer Turner was manning the station by himself when Julia and I arrived. In between bites of a jelly donut, he told us that Gilroy was talking to the medical examiner in Fort Collins—the ME had called him first thing—and Underhill was talking to a medieval weapons expert in Loveland.
“Is Gilroy having second thoughts about what the coroner said?” I asked, eyeing the dozen or so eight-by-ten photos Turner had arrayed before him on the desk. “That the dagger is a reproduction?”
“Nah, don’t think so,” Turner answered. “On
ce you give it a good look, even with the blood on it, you know it can’t be eight hundred years old.”
“I don’t suppose there were any prints on it,” I said.
“Nope,” Turner replied.
“Stuart Hunter would have no problem using a cheap dagger on his wife,” Julia said. Turning to me, she added, “He might if it was authentic, but it’s not. You can’t rule the man out.”
“I haven’t, Julia.”
“Interesting assessment there, Mrs. Foster,” Turner said. “If a man loves his expensive collection of antique weapons, would he use one of them to kill? Perhaps damaging it in the process?”
“He would not,” Julia said. “He would use a reproduction.”
Turner caught me staring at the photos as I turned my head sideways for a better look. “Rachel, I’m not sure you should—”
“Oh, come on, Turner, I was there.”
Turner shook his head. “What am I saying? You’re going to find a way to look at them anyway. But listen, when the chief pulls up—”
“I’ll back off. I see you have a diagram of the second floor with Xs where the suspects were standing.”
“Gilroy sketched that out.”
“I did something similar last night.”
“Do you concur with the chief?” he asked with a grin.
“Down to the last inch. Julia, look at this.”
Julia came alongside of me and peered closely at Gilroy’s drawing. “After Lesley screamed,” I continued, “Stuart and Brynne came up these stairs. Brynne first. Stuart almost knocked her out of the way to get to Lesley in the collections room.”
“How did he know she was there?” Turner asked, happily licking powdered sugar from his fingers.
I thought for a moment, replaying in my mind not only what I’d seen, but what I’d heard. “We all knew. Everyone looked toward the collections room or ran that way.”
“But why?” Julia said.
Then it hit me. “Because Lesley was asking where everyone was. She was saying something like ‘The room’s this way.’ She sounded like she was the first one in the room and was waiting for everyone else to show up. We were all supposed to go directly there.”
“Then why wasn’t Mr. Hunter there?” Turner asked, tapping Gilroy’s sketch. “He should have been with his wife.”
“I think he was there at first. Then he realized someone had stolen something from the room.”
“The cross?” Turner said.
“Probably. I remember he said, ‘Which one of you thieves took it?’ Isn’t that a funny thing to say?”
“To guests at a party, it certainly is,” Julia said. “Officer Turner, would you mind if Rachel and I had some coffee? I find I can’t think on fewer than two cups.”
“Be my guest.”
Julia poured herself a tar-black cup of station coffee. I shook my head no when she offered to pour me one. One of these days I was going to wean Gilroy from the awful-tasting ground coffee he and his officers drank.
I now noticed that one of Turner’s photos was a closeup of Gilroy’s five-year pin butted up against one of the display case legs. I glanced at Turner. He said nothing, so I kept my silence. On the pin, anyway. “Do you have a feeling that someone wants to frame Gilroy?” I asked.
That got Julia’s attention. She slipped back to the desk.
Turner barely hesitated. “I do, Miss Stowe. So does Underhill.”
“Frame him for Lesley’s murder?” Julia said. “He was with Rachel when it happened. All you have is Stuart’s ridiculous accusation.”
Turner arched his neck to get a better look out the station’s window. “Mr. Hunter called the station this morning—right after he called the mayor’s office. The chief had just left, but Hunter gave me the gist of what he told the mayor. He wanted Gilroy dumped from the case.”
“How dare he!” Julia said, bristling with indignation. She had always been Gilroy’s biggest supporter. Until I arrived in town, that is.
“The mayor can’t do that,” I said. “The sheriff, maybe, but not the mayor.”
“He can, Rachel. He can ask him to step down temporarily for appearances’ sake, so there’s no question about the integrity of the investigation, or he can fire him if he refuses to step down.”
Julia was dumbfounded. “All because Lesley shouted Chief Gilroy’s name?”
Turner opened his mouth to speak but reconsidered.
“Well?” Julia said.
Obviously Turner had given the matter some thought. And it worried me that he was worried. “Tell me McDermott wouldn’t do such a stupid thing,” I said.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Turner said. “Hunter has money and connections in the county and state.”
“That’s all it takes? Money and connections and you can ruin a good man’s reputation?”
“McDermott’s in a tight spot.”
“McDermott is gutless. Stop making excuses for him.”
Turner held up a hand, palm outward. “Rachel, I’m not. I’m explaining.”
“I’m sorry. But has anyone stopped to consider that Stuart wants Gilroy off the case because he knows he’ll solve it?”
“There!” Julia said, nudging me, hard. “You see? This is more proof that Stuart did it, as if we needed more proof.”
“It’s not proof,” I said weakly. Wandering over to the coffeemaker, I dropped into one of the station’s ugly plastic chairs. Instead of hounding the best thing that ever happened to Juniper Grove, why wasn’t the mayor spending a few bucks to make the station look decent? The high school’s chairs were more comfortable than these. Gilroy had never told me what his salary was, but I doubted it was very much. I was certain he’d made more as a detective in Fort Collins.
Fort Collins. I had the sinking feeling that we were about to relive history. That city’s mayor, Michael Wick, had run a vendetta against Gilroy for simply doing his job. Was McDermott about to do the same?
“What’s going on here?” I said, my gaze traveling from Julia to Turner.
“Something fishy,” Turner said.
“You bet.” The time for silence about the lapel pin was over. If Julia was going to help Gilroy, she had to know about that dubious piece of so-called evidence. I told her about Turner finding it, and about the fresh vacuum lines in the carpet, then asked Turner if McDermott knew about the pin.
“I don’t see how he could. Right now only me, Underhill, Gilroy, and you know. And Julia.”
“And the person who planted it,” I reminded him.
Julia stuck up her chin. “Stuart Hunter.”
“Hold on,” I said. “If we’re going to help, we need to clear the slate and start again. No assumptions.”
Suddenly Turner began to round up the photos, shoving them quickly behind the desk. “Mayor at twelve o’clock,” he said.
“Officer Turner?”
I turned. Douglas McDermott, Juniper Grove’s child mayor, had his eyes on Turner as he strode to the front desk. Well, he wasn’t a child, but he didn’t have a stitch of gray in his dark hair and he couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five.
“The chief’s not back yet,” Turner said flatly.
“Are you sure?”
Turner looked at him blankly. “I would know, Mr. Mayor.”
“It’s important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So as soon as he arrives, I need to know.”
“I’ll tell him to call you.”
“No, tell him to come to Town Hall.”
“With this murder case going on, it might make more sense if he called you,” Turner said. “He’ll have to go out again. More interviews.”
“This can’t be handled over the phone, and I’m not stopping in again. I’m busy too, Officer. Have him drop by Town Hall the moment he comes back from Fort Collins. He’s not to go anywhere until he speaks to me.”
“Will do.”
“And what’s taking him so long, anyway?”
Seething, I turned
to McDermott. “He’s solving Lesley Hunter’s murder. Something her killer would rather he didn’t do.”
“Rachel Stowe?” McDermott said.
As if you don’t know who I am. “We’ve met,” I said. “Last September, when Chief Gilroy simultaneously solved two murders and an old bank robbery. And made your life easier at Town Hall on top of that. Do you realize I was with Gilroy when Lesley Hunter was killed? Standing at the bottom of a staircase at the opposite end of the hall from where her body was found?”
McDermott rubbed his brow.
Julia chimed in, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. My friend was on the short side, but when roused to righteous anger, she could intimidate even a politician. “Douglas McDermott, I won’t stand for this. This is utter nonsense, and you know it is. Don’t you dare drive away the best police chief we’ve ever had. Juniper Grove is lucky to have him.”
“I’m not driving him—”
“The chief’s here,” Turner announced, interrupting whatever lame excuse the mayor was about to deliver.
McDermott wheeled back to the door.
Strangely, Gilroy didn’t seem at all surprised to see McDermott, though I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen the mayor in the station.
“James,” McDermott said, “can we talk?”
James. How dare you use his first name like you’re not about to cut him off at the knees.
“Yup,” Gilroy said. “Let’s go to my office.”
When his door shut, I faced Turner. “He knows what’s about to happen.”
“Looks like it,” Turner said.
“I want to know who leaked news of that lapel pin to McDermott.”
“Are you sure he knows about it?” Julia asked. “It’s too soon for him to know anything about the crime scene.”
“The mayor wouldn’t remove Gilroy from the case on Stuart Hunter’s insistence alone,” Turner said.
I nodded. “So who did McDermott talk to? If we find the person who leaked the information to him, we find the person who planted the pin. And if we find the person who planted the pin, maybe we find the killer.”
We heard a door open and turned in unison toward Gilroy’s office. McDermott, his gaze cast to the floor, made a quick exit. The coward. It took all my willpower to stand still and not chase him out into the street to give him a very loud piece of my mind.
Death Trap Page 5