Death Knell

by Karin Kaufman

  I trailed after her, again wondering at her energy. She’d always been lively, at least in the eleven months I’d known her, but since beginning to date Royce Putnam in February, her enthusiasm for life, and solving mysteries, had blossomed. Royce, too, was a puzzle solver—and avid mystery reader. He was so eager to solve puzzles, in fact, that I’d taken to giving him unedited chapters of my mystery novels for comments.

  While Holly filled Julia in on the details of the morning, I made a quick pan of scrambled eggs. I wasn’t going to play with fire by drinking more coffee on an empty stomach. Julia had already eaten, but Holly topped off her early morning breakfast at her house by eating the partial cream puff I’d saved in my fridge.

  Holly poured us coffee, and I took my plate of eggs to the table, but before digging in, I showed Julia the cover of Penelope Falls. “The women meet once a month at one of their houses. It’s a combination book club and weekend get-together. That’s their May book.”

  “That’s a disturbing illustration,” Julia said. “What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said. “But Gilroy took a book with him.”

  “Did Lauren die from the fall?” Julia asked. “If I remember right, Wild Rose Cottage is only two stories.”

  “You’ve been there?” I asked. I kept forgetting that Julia had lived in Juniper Grove her entire adult life. She was a walking encyclopedia of our tiny town.

  “I knew Sophie Crawford’s parents a little,” Julia replied. “Her mother mostly. We talked gardening a few times. Unfortunately, they died in a car accident in Denver some four or five years ago, and we’d lost touch before that.”

  “Lauren fell onto concrete,” I said, grimacing at my own words as I imagined the brutality of her fall. “She may have hit her head, but when Gilroy announced they were treating her death as a homicide, he said the fall wasn’t her only injury.”

  “He didn’t elaborate,” Holly said, polishing off the last of the cream puff.

  I cradled my cup and leaned back in my chair, relishing the aroma of good, fresh coffee. “What other injury could she have had? Underhill told me there were a lot of scratches on her hands and she had broken nails. And he saw blood on the window frame and sill—and more of it on the shingles outside the window. He thought she was clawing on the sill and frame on her way down. But injuries like that don’t necessarily mean she was murdered, and Gilroy didn’t hesitate to call her death homicide. He must have seen something else at the scene that the coroner thought was the real cause of death.”

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Holly said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “I don’t care how much wine she had. You don’t get out of bed after five hours of sobering up, open a window, and magically fall out. I’m sure Gilroy took that into consideration.”

  “Tell me more about the bells,” Julia said. “The pastor is sure someone broke into the system?”

  “He made it sound easy,” Holly said. “But he also said he trusted the people on his staff, and in the eight years the church had the system, it had never malfunctioned or been hacked. Lauren had worked there only six months, but she would hardly hack the controller to chime her own death.”

  “The bells chimed several minutes after Sophie found her,” I said. “And besides, Gilroy was clear that this was murder, not suicide or an accident.”

  “But the bells are connected to the murder?” Julia asked.

  “Absolutely,” Holly and I said in unison.

  “But not in a spooky, superstitious way,” Holly said, looking my way. “Someone planned them to ring at the time of Lauren’s death. It’s a message of some kind.”

  Julia’s brows knitted as she listened. “But how can we find out who hacked the . . . the whatchamacallit—”

  “Controller,” I said.

  “—if anyone in Juniper Grove could have done it?” she finished.

  “It was someone at the cottage.” I took my plate and cup to the sink, then turned to face the table, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Sophie, Tyra, Alison, or Mariette. That’s our suspect list.”

  “You suspect Sophie?” Holly said.

  “Right now, there’s no reason not to. She’s always been nice and helpful to me in the library, but that doesn’t mean anything. We should know that by now. Murderers can put on quite an act.”

  Julia leaned forward, tugged down the sleeves of her cardigan, and in a hushed tone said, “Could the pastor have done it?”

  “Julia!” Holly said, feigning great offense.

  “It had to be someone at the cottage,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Julia said, patting her cap of curly gray hair. “I don’t suppose the pastor broke into the cottage and shoved the poor girl out the window.”

  “He could have changed the timing on the controller,” I said, “but why would he?”

  “This is a perplexing one,” Julia said. “Very perplexing. When do we get started?”

  “I thought we had got started,” Holly said.

  “We have to interview people,” Julia said. “We can’t sit here like sacks of potatoes.”

  I laughed. “There’s plenty of time for interviews. Tonight you’re having dinner with Holly and me at Sophie’s cottage.”

  Julia’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, am I? Thank you very much for asking.”

  “Would you rather stay at home?”

  “Not on your life. Anyway, I’d love to see Wild Rose Cottage again. Are the roses still blooming?”

  “Loads of them. If it weren’t for the cottage sitting in its own little floodplain, I could see myself living there.” I told Julia and Holly what Sophie had shown me—how her cottage sat in an earthen bowl, vulnerable to heavy rains. “You don’t realize until you walk to higher ground how low the house is. It’s a shame. If they’d built it a few feet higher, only a massive flood could do damage. Still, St. John’s wants to buy it and the land.”

  “What will become of the cottage?” Holly asked. “I hope they keep it, even if they have to pave half the land.”

  Parking lot, I thought ruefully. That’s what Pastor Ackley had said at least some of Sophie’s land would become. I hated the idea, though parking was probably the best and safest use for land that flooded in rainstorms. But what about a park or garden? Had Sophie chosen to sell her land to the church, or were there no other takers?

  “How do we find out the sale price of the cottage?” I asked, looking from Julia to Holly.

  “Easy,” Holly said, taking out her phone. “We know Mariette’s the real estate agent, so we find out where she works and just ask. If it’s a public listing, there’s no problem.” She turned her phone sideways and started typing with her thumbs. “Mariette Shipley, real estate, Juniper Grove,” she said. “Here we are. Mountain Real Estate on Main Street. Next we look for the listings.”

  “Just think,” Julia said. “Twenty years ago we would’ve had to wait until Monday and drive to Mountain Real Estate. Now we simply look at our phones.”

  Holly tapped and scrolled, and a minute later she sucked in her breath and held up her phone so Julia and I could see. “The cottage and 1.5 acres of land are going for $915,000.”

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  “A note on the page says it’s under contract,” Holly added.

  “I’ll bet Sophie’s parents paid off the mortgage on the cottage,” Julia said.

  “We could find out,” Holly said.

  “If they did,” Julia went on, “Sophie would walk away with nearly a million dollars.”

  “Mariette Shipley’s commission will take a bite of that,” I pointed out. “They both stand to make a lot of money.”

  Julia pressed her palms to the table and stood. “Sacks of potatoes. Come on, let’s do something.”

  “Peter and Caleb are heading to the ballpark today, and I’m on my own,” Holly said. “How about we head downtown? Maybe Officer Underhill is in the mood to chat.”

  “If we bring him a drinkable cup
of coffee from Grove Coffee, he’ll talk,” I said. “If not him, then Turner.”

  “What about Chief Gilroy?” Julia asked.

  “Depends on the mood he’s in,” I said. “But he actually likes the station coffee.”

  we piled into my Forester and headed downtown, our first stop Grove Coffee, not far from the police station. I pulled a twenty from the coin bag in my console and bought three cups of coffee, just in case all three of Juniper Grove’s finest were at the station, and three jelly donuts. I only bought pastries from Grove on Sundays or at night, when Holly’s Sweets was closed. The coffee shop made fair blueberry jelly donuts, which I usually made a mess of eating—I’d been known to get jelly in my hair—but Holly was Juniper Grove’s Queen of Pastries. No one could match her cream puffs, scones, and croissants.

  Officer Turner, who was manning the station’s front desk, smiled broadly when we entered. “How did I know you’d be here—and bearing gifts?” he said, eyeing the donut box.

  “You know me too well.” I set the coffees and donuts on the desk, right under his nose. “Is Chief Gilroy in?”

  “Nope. He’s out with Underhill. Is it all right if I dig in?” he asked, pulling the donut box his way. “I haven’t got much information for you.”

  “Be my guest,” I said. “Eat at least one donut. You probably have more information than I have.”

  “Could be.” Turner gave his donut a robust bite, and a blob of blueberry jelly oozed out the back and dropped on the desk.

  “Napkins are in the box,” I said with a smile.

  Grove Coffee’s donuts were bursting with jelly—the shop’s trademark. Big, heavy jelly donuts. I’d learned that last September, during the Blueberry Donut Incident. I’d been growing fond of Gilroy, certain my feelings were not reciprocated, and I’d run into him downtown, right after buying a donut from Grove Coffee. I bit, a glob of jelly fell on my jacket, he called my name, and I turned to meet him. All I could say as I wiped the glob with my fingers and then brushed hair from my face with those same fingers was, “Jelly.” He handed me a handkerchief and never once mocked me. Not then or since. Looking back, I knew that’s when I’d first fallen in love with him.

  “So,” Turner said, wiping jelly from his chin, “since the chief is going to tell you anyway, I’ll let you in on the cause of death. Or one of the causes.”

  “It’s Sunday,” I said. “Is the medical examiner’s report back already?”

  “No, this is what the coroner said at the scene, when I was in the backyard. He found a deep stab wound about an inch wide in the middle of her throat, just above her collar bone. Something sharp and squarish, but he didn’t want to guess. His preliminary thought was the wound would have been fatal by itself. You know what I think? I think one of her so-called friends stabbed her in the throat with something while she was holding on to the window. I wouldn’t stay in that house if you paid me a million bucks.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “What if Sophie is in danger?” I said. We had left the station in a hurry and climbed back into my car, wondering where to go next. We all agreed that one of the women at Wild Rose Cottage was a vicious murderer, and that meant the other women, if they’d chosen to stay overnight at the cottage, were in danger.

  “What if Sophie is the danger?” Holly answered.

  Maybe she was. I couldn’t be blind to the possibility, though I doubted Sophie would invite friends to her cottage so she could kill one of them. “She was scared, Holly, and she wasn’t faking it.”

  “Or she was nervous because she’d just killed someone.”

  “You didn’t see her when we went to check on the downspouts. She wanted me to stay. If she’d just killed Lauren, why would she want anyone to stay? Why would she ask us to dinner? I think I know Sophie well enough to say she’s not fragile or easily spooked. Besides, murderers don’t turn their own homes into crime scenes. It’s too risky.”

  Holly leaned forward from the back seat. “What we need is a motive. Why Lauren Hughes, and why now?”

  “And why the bells?” I said, starting the car. We needed to know more about Sophie, Tyra, Mariette, and Alison. Lauren, too. “Do either of you know anyone who works at St. John’s?”

  “No,” Holly said.

  Julia shook her head. Then she snapped her fingers. “But I know a woman who goes there. A widow. I met her last month at the church bake sale.” She leaned sideways for a better look at my car clock. “Eleven thirty. I think church services are over, so she should be at home. She lives on Maple, not far from St. John’s.”

  “Do you know the house number?” I asked, pulling from the curb.

  “No idea. She said she lives next to a house with a tattered couch on the porch. She doesn’t like it. She says it looks hillbilly, but the neighbor is friendly so she puts up with it.”

  I found Maple and drove slowly down the street, my eyes wide for an offending couch. “Don’t ever put upholstered furniture on your porch, Julia. I’d have to move.”

  “What if I did? You joke, but it’s unsanitary and unsightly. Right there!” She pointed ahead to our left. “That big brown couch.”

  “Which side of the couch does she live on?” I asked.

  “She has a lovely garden. Or said she did.”

  “The house closest to us,” I said, noting the front yard filled with irises and tall, upright peonies. “Only a real gardener stakes her peonies.” I pulled to the curb in front of 207 Maple and turned off the engine. “What’s her name?”

  “Beth Lightfoot,” Julia said. “She’s about fifty-five, very sweet, very talkative, lost her husband two years ago. Don’t get her started on gardening or she’ll never let us go.”

  We headed up the brick path to her front door, knocked, and waited. “I’m sorry we missed church,” I said.

  “Me too,” Julia said. “I always miss the singing if I don’t go. But I suppose murder is a little more important.”

  Holly grinned, and I managed, only just, to keep from laughing. “Julia, you have no idea how funny you are sometimes.”

  She huffed. “I’m sure that’s a compliment.”

  “Could Beth be in her back garden?” Holly asked.

  “You two stay here,” Julia directed. She cut across the lawn, turned a corner, and disappeared from view. A minute later she popped back around the corner and waved for us to follow her. Beth Lightfoot was indeed in her back garden, covered in soil from her fingers to her elbows, pruning shears in hand, bags of peat, compost, and wood chips at her feet.

  “Hello, ladies,” she said, brushing dirt from the knees of her jeans.

  “We’re sorry to interrupt,” I said.

  “Not at all. I needed a break.” Hands on her hips, she glanced at the happy chaos about her. Her yard was thick with small fruit trees in flower and neatly pruned flowering shrubs, and there were freshly dug holes in numerous places, spades and shovels alongside them, no doubt waiting for the bagged azaleas that lined her cedar fence. She had turned her tiny parcel of land into a garden paradise.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Really spectacular.”

  She smiled appreciatively, her mouth curving into a crooked smile. She was a tall, sturdy woman with dark brown eyes and short graying hair, and she wore a rather tattered flannel shirt and hiking shoes. I liked her immediately.

  “So as I was telling you,” Julia said, “we’re trying to find out about Lauren Hughes.”

  “Come on, let’s sit down,” Beth said, inviting us to follow her to a small wooden deck next to sliding glass doors. We took seats around her garden table.

  “Rachel is friends with Sophie Crawford,” Julia continued.

  That was stretching the truth. We had been doing that a lot lately.

  “I heard about Lauren,” Beth said. “How strange! She died falling out of a window? That doesn’t sound right, does it?” She glanced about. “Does that sound right to any of you?”

  The word that Lauren had been murdered would get out soon enough,
I realized, so I decided to be open with Beth, yet without disclosing what Officer Turner had told us about Lauren’s stab wound. “It doesn’t sound right to us either, but Lauren didn’t die from the fall. The police are calling her death a homicide.”

  “Oh, my good word,” Beth said. “Poor Lauren. She worked in the church office. Pastor Ackley must be crushed.”

  I nodded. “We spoke to the pastor earlier. He was trying to come to grips with her death. Did you hear about the church bells chiming around five o’clock this morning?”

  “I did. I was in bed, so I didn’t hear them myself, but I was told they chimed at Lauren’s death.”

  The morning’s events had become garbled in their retelling, just as I’d suspected they would. “No, they chimed a few minutes after.”

  Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Still.”

  “Still,” I agreed. “There’s a connection between the bells and Lauren’s death. Can I ask you a blunt question?”

  She leaned back and crossed her legs. “I’m not delicate.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to kill Lauren?”

  I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe an explosive “How can you ask that?” followed by a portrayal of Lauren Hughes as the angel of St. John’s. That was routine when friends and acquaintances spoke of murder victims, and it was entirely understandable. But rather than erupt in outrage, Beth grew thoughtful. She looked past me to her garden, gauging, it seemed, how to gracefully tell me something unpleasant about Lauren.

  “I don’t know about murder, Rachel,” she began. “It’s beyond what I can imagine doing. But Lauren had enemies in the church, I’ll say that. I think even our pastor knew she had enemies, but he treasured her help so much he looked the other way. I’m sure he hoped things would turn around. He’s an optimistic, goodhearted man. Not to paint a wrong picture, because I suppose Lauren had friends too.”

  The way Beth spoke—openly because she wanted to help, but reluctantly because she had a distaste for gossip—told me her opinion was valuable and probably spot-on. “What did you think of her?”