“Hang on,” Holly said, working her way around my desk to my computer. “We can at least get her current address. How many Jova Dillmans could there be in Colorado?”
Holly typed in Jova’s name and clicked a link. “Jova Dillman, age sixty-four, lives in Juniper Grove. No one else is listed as living with her.”
“It’s terrifying what you can discover about a complete stranger,” Julia said.
“Gilroy and I both noticed that all Stuart’s guests were single,” I said. “I don’t know if it means anything, but it’s funny, isn’t it?”
Holly motioned at the corkboard. “And Maurice Salaway?”
“Mor-ris,” I corrected. “He pronounces it Mor-ris and will defend that pronunciation to the death. He’s in his forties, and he’s also single. Stuart said he lives in Juniper Grove, owns a failing bookstore in Loveland, and supplements his income by developing websites. But in his interview with Gilroy, at least the part I heard, Maurice only mentioned his website work, not his bookstore.”
“If the store’s failing, maybe he’s embarrassed,” Holly said, her long, thin fingers clicking away on the keyboard.
I laughed. “Maurice doesn’t strike me as being capable of embarrassment. Boy did he get on everyone’s nerves at the party. I don’t understand why Stuart invited him. They met because he was Stuart’s dental patient, which is an odd way to start a friendship.”
“Maurice B. Salaway,” Holly announced. “Owner of Bloomsbury Books in Loveland.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Why of course?”
“The Bloomsbury Group? Writers living in London in the early twentieth century. Maurice is an anglophile. If you ever meet him, don’t for goodness’ sake call him Mau-reese. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Well, according to this, he’s forty-five and lives in Juniper Grove,” Holly said.
“So no connections to Fort Collins that we can see yet,” I said. “I wonder if McDermott knows the former Mayor Wick of Fort Collins.”
I was about to ask Holly to do an Internet search on McDermott when the doorbell rang. Julia cut me off as I turned for the office door, sprinting around me and making like a teenager for the stairs. “Should we stay up here or come down there?” I called out.
When I looked back at Holly, she had a huge grin on her face. “Talk about a spring in her step,” she said. “Should we go downstairs?”
“Maybe. I don’t want to make it difficult for Royce.”
I needn’t have worried. Seconds later I heard Julia and Royce thumping up the stairs, talking excitedly about Stuart Hunter.
Royce gave a gentlemanly pause at my office door, his brown eyes alight behind black-framed glasses. “Hello, ladies. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Listen to this,” Julia said, her restless hand patting his coat sleeve. “Royce has been investigating.”
I pointed Royce to a chair, but he declined, saying he’d rather stand. The man was a bundle of energy.
“I’ve been looking into the Hunters,” he said, his voice strong and smooth, not the least bit breathless. “Mostly Stuart, but also Lesley.” He pulled a small green notebook from an inside pocket on his jacket and flipped it open. “I don’t know them, but I have a friend who knew Lesley quite well, and he says Lesley was very ill.”
Though I hated to burst his bubble, I said, “In his report, the medical examiner said she had an autoimmune disease, possibly a severe case of lupus. She’d lost a lot of her hair.”
Holly frowned. “You didn’t say.”
“I was going to. I was in the station when Gilroy came back from his meeting with the ME in Fort Collins.”
“No, no,” Royce said. “Mrs. Hunter was sicker than that. She was dying.”
Julia nodded triumphantly. “He found all this out in one afternoon.”
“Really?” I sat again on the edge of my desk and insisted that Royce take a seat. This time he did. “What was wrong with her?”
“She had an inoperable tumor on her spinal cord,” he said, referring to his notebook. “It must have caused her a great deal of pain, and she probably would have suffered some degree of paralysis after a time. It would have become progressively worse. My friends says Mrs. Hunter had started to attend an end-of-life care group once a week in Fort Collins.”
“How awful,” I said. “She didn’t let on she was sick. How does your friend know all this?”
“Because he has a friend in the group. And they talked.”
“That’s so sad,” Holly said.
“Normally this friend’s friend wouldn’t breathe a word about anyone in the group, but he was shocked to learn about Lesley’s death. He says he might have believed suicide, but not murder.”
“The medical examiner didn’t mention this in his report?” Holly asked.
“He was looking for Lesley’s cause of death,” I said. “He only noticed the lupus because she had a wig on and he saw the scarring on her scalp. Anyway, I think his report was preliminary. He wanted Gilroy to know the cause of death as soon as possible.”
“The poor woman,” Julia said. “She must have been miserable.”
Royce pocketed his notebook and ran a hand through his thick, white hair. “My question is, how miserable was Stuart?”
“For himself or her?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Both?”
“Royce, I’d say congratulations on your discovery, but this is awful,” Holly said.
“I know it is,” he said. “But ladies, all we can do now is focus on solving this murder so we can clear Chief Gilroy’s name. Julia tells me that our foolish mayor removed him from the case, and I happen to like the chief. He brought Julia and me together.” Smiling, he reached out and briefly took her hand. “We’re not going to let this travesty of justice go on.”
“I like how you think, Royce,” I said. “Do you mind if I tell Gilroy what you discovered? I won’t mention that the information came from a friend.”
“By all means, Rachel.”
“You haven’t eaten yet,” Julia said. “Let me get you a sandwich.”
“Let’s all head downstairs,” I said. “It’s pen and notepad time in my living room.”
Holly moved for the door. “Poor Lesley. Think of the pain she was in. Her murder was almost a mercy.”
Her words froze in place. “Mercy, Holly. The misericorde. She was killed in an act of mercy with a misericorde.”
CHAPTER 10
While Julia got Royce his egg salad sandwich from my refrigerator and Holly poured him a cup of coffee, I pulled more pens and yellow notepads from a kitchen drawer. Royce had dug up some important information, most of which suggested Stuart as Lesley’s killer. Now it was time to examine the other suspects. I dashed back upstairs for my drawing of the Hunters’ house and the three-by-five cards.
“I can do this and eat at the same time,” Royce said as I came back down. “I’m ready to go.”
“Let’s do this at the table,” Julia said. “Lay down your map, and tell us what happened that night, step by step. Royce hasn’t heard.”
“Neither have I,” Holly said.
I placed the drawing in the middle of the table and arrayed the cards with the suspects’ names above it.
“The number of suspects is limited,” Royce said, pushing his sliding glasses up his nose. “It can’t be anyone other than these five. I like that.”
I pulled up a chair and began. “When Gilroy and I entered, everyone was in the great room on the first floor. We were the last guests to arrive.”
For the next ten minutes, I went over every detail of the party and the murder scene, including the strange murder weapon and Gilroy’s lapel pin—a pin I’d never seen him wear. Then I went over the sequence of events, the remembered snippets of conversation, and Gilroy’s interviews with the suspects. “I missed all of Gilroy’s interview with Jova and Kip, and most of it with Maurice,” I finished. “But Gilroy must have told Underhill what was said first thing this mo
rning, so I can get that from him. Or Turner.”
“Will they talk to you?” Royce asked.
“They’re both furious with the mayor,” I replied. “They’ll tell me everything—and vice versa.”
Julia smiled as she looked around the table. “We’ve got quite a team. Here and at the station.”
Holly, who’d been jotting down notes, looked down at her notepad, a frown creasing her brow. “I’m concerned about that lapel pin. How did someone get hold of that?”
“I need to find out if Gilroy kept it in his desk all the time,” I said. “Underhill said he saw it there a number of times. Where it was kept might tell us who stole it.” Leaning back in my chair, I took a moment to think. For now, we were at an impasse. We had some information, but to move forward and connect any of the dots, we needed more. “I have to talk to Gilroy. I think I’ll stop by the station too.”
Royce upended his cup and downed the rest of his coffee. “Give me my marching orders, Rachel. What do you need?”
“Can you find out more about our suspects?” I said. “We need to know who besides Stuart had a motive.”
He slapped his palms to the table and stood. “Julia? Coming with me?”
Julia, clearly having the time of her life, didn’t need to be asked twice. She said a quick goodbye and hurried down my porch steps, arm in arm with Royce.
Maybe it was the down-style way Royce dressed, or the fact that he was retired, but I had assumed he was pinching pennies. Yet there at the curb was a silver, newer-model Honda. And judging by the plates, it wasn’t a rental. I was pleased. Aside from everything else, Julia needed a man who didn’t have to scrimp to get by. I had a feeling Royce wasn’t the sort of man to make Julia pay her own way at Wyatt’s or anyplace else, but now it looked like he could afford to spoil her a bit.
Holly had also noticed the car. “Well, he does have a nice pension from Town Hall. And Social Security. He’s probably doing better than we are.”
mayor mcdermott had made it clear that Gilroy wasn’t allowed at the station while Lesley’s murder was still an open case, but he hadn’t said anything about me going to Gilroy. I was a private citizen, and so long as I wasn’t breaking the law, he had no control over me. I could investigate if I wanted, and I could tell Gilroy what I’d discovered if I wanted. And Gilroy could listen if he wanted. I wasn’t one of his officers.
Gilroy’s small, ranch-style house was on the east side of Juniper Grove in a quiet, tree-filled neighborhood. I parked at his curb and headed up the flagstone path to his front door. Forsythia shrubs in half bloom bracketed the door, and a river of crocuses and grape hyacinth ran from each forsythia partway down either side of the path. I’d had no idea. In the fall and winter, the forsythia had been dull shrubs and the river of spring bulbs had been dirt or mud, depending on the weather. In the two weeks since I’d last been here, spring had arrived in all its delicate beauty.
Not wanting to surprise him—he’d had enough surprises lately—I’d phoned ahead. He must have been waiting in his living room because he opened the door after two knocks.
“McDermott’s a fool,” I said before giving him a fierce hug.
He laughed and waved me inside. “Hello to you too.”
“Honestly,” I said. “And such a coward.”
I dropped my jacket on his couch and followed him into his kitchen, taking a seat at his table.
“We don’t know what pressure he was under,” Gilroy said. “The sheriff might have been involved. Or someone in county government.”
“Or the former mayor of Fort Collins,” I said.
He stopped, coffee filter in hand, and turned to me. “Why do you say that?”
“Someone’s trying to frame you, just like in Fort Collins. I know your lapel pin was found at the scene.”
“Ah.”
“The only logical conclusion is that you’re being framed.”
“In Fort Collins I was railroaded, not framed.” He held up the filter. “Too late for coffee?”
“I’ve had too much already, but you go ahead. Are you still off sugar?” On a whim, or at least that’s how I saw it, Gilroy had decided in February to quit sugar. He’d called it an experiment. But then I saw a pink box from Holly’s Sweets on the counter next to his refrigerator.
“No, I’m back on. Want a bearclaw?”
“No thanks. I had one of Julia’s egg salad sandwiches a little while ago. We had a meeting of the Juniper Grove Mystery Gang at my house. Even Royce Putnam was there.”
Gilroy started the coffee and turned. He peered at me in concern. “This sort of thing happens, you know. Cops get accused. There’s not much you can do but ride it out. It won’t be the last time my ability to work a case fairly is called into question.”
“You’re not angry?”
He sighed as he sat across the table from me. “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed. I thought Stuart and I were friends. But the man’s suffering right now, and he needed to lash out at someone.”
“So he lashes out at his old friend? Why not Maurice Salaway or one of the other guests? For crying out loud, he doesn’t even like them. But no, he goes after you. I call that suspicious.”
“He heard Lesley say my name.”
“Lesley was calling you for help.”
I told Gilroy that I suspected Stuart and Brynne were having a fling—probably not a full-blown affair. He didn’t seem surprised. Then I told him what Royce had discovered about Lesley and reminded him what misericorde meant. The news about Lesley troubled him, but more, I thought, because he’d had no idea how sick his friend had been.
“Is it possible that Stuart deliberately chose a weapon called ‘act of mercy’ to kill Lesley?” I asked.
Gilroy grimaced and ran a palm across his face. “My first thought was never. But do I know him like I thought I did?” He rose, poured himself a cup of coffee—black—and then leaned against the counter, staring past me to the far kitchen wall.
I knew that expression. The wheels were turning in his head, and I needed to give him space and time to think things through. But there was the puzzling matter of the lapel pin.
“James, did you keep your five-year pin in your office?”
“Yeah. In a drawer in my office desk.”
“Always?”
“Always. It’s not like I was going to wear it.”
“Besides Underhill, who would know that? I wasn’t even aware you had such a pin.”
“Possibly Turner.” He sipped his coffee.
“I don’t like that.”
“I trust Turner.”
“Yeah?” I wavered briefly in that trust as my imagination explored the awful possibilities, but I knew deep down that Turner was trustworthy. More than that, he had Gilroy’s back. “I guess I do too. So who else knows you had the pin? Not where you kept it, but that you had it?”
“The Board of Trustees, any number of people in Town Hall.”
“McDermott?”
“McDermott gave me the pin. He’d just been made mayor.”
“Was there a presentation?”
“No, he just handed it to me at the station. Underhill was there. They both thought it was funny I didn’t want to put it on.” A faraway look came into his eyes. “I remember I put it in my desk drawer right after McDermott handed it to me. He laughed, said he understood. I haven’t moved that pin in two and a half years.”
“McDermott—”
“It’s not just him,” Gilroy insisted. “Anyone who’s looked in that drawer over the course of two-plus years, for so much as a stapler or Post-it note, knew that pin was there. And anyone at Town Hall that McDermott mentioned it to knew it was there. Any number of people knew where to look for it if they wanted it.”
“And you’ve never met Maurice, Jova, Kip, or Brynne?”
He pulled out a chair and sat. “Nope.”
“Except for Jova, Stuart hadn’t known them very long. Not nearly as long as he’s known you. Why, out of all the people he
could have invited, did he invite unlikeable people he’d known for only six months or a year? It was Lesley’s birthday party.”
“You’ve thought about this,” he said. “What’s your take?”
It wasn’t Gilroy’s style to speculate out loud, but he’d grown used to me doing so. And now, not only wasn’t he protesting my meddling, but he was asking outright for my opinion.
“Stuart invites four people he dislikes to a party,” I said. “He might be having an affair with one of them, but he appears to dislike her too. And by all accounts he loves his wife—who was nervous throughout the party.”
Gilroy nodded.
“He invites you because you’re a cop and can . . . keep things under control? Arrest one of them?”
“And you?”
“Because we’re dating? I don’t know.”
“Go on.”
“Stuart promises to make a big announcement at his party, but he never gets the chance. He strings everyone along until it’s too late. He takes us to his greenhouse, supposedly because I like greenhouses. But then he talks about his long-suffering Venus flytraps and the trespassing flies that walk across their leaves until finally the flytraps can’t take it anymore. He makes a speech. He declares his intent.”
Gilroy smiled. “Yes.”
“He was up to something nasty, James. He was going to turn on his guests, one by one. He invited them to his house for payback. The question is, did one of them realize that and decide to strike first?”
CHAPTER 11
On the way back to my house I stopped at the police station. It was past five o’clock, but both Underhill and Turner were there, studying the crime scene photos. Underhill said they had plans to stay all night. Neither of them was in the mood to go home with Gilroy’s reputation on the line.
I told them what Royce had discovered about Lesley’s health, then informed them that Gilroy’s lapel pin had been in his desk drawer since the day McDermott gave it to him. Without a doubt, someone was framing him.
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