Death Knell

by Karin Kaufman

  Again the careful hesitation before she spoke. “I was wary of her. She was always involved in . . . I’ll just say personal conversations. I don’t know how else to describe it. Whenever there was something going on with someone at church, there was Lauren. If someone was ill or getting a divorce or had just lost a job, there she was, listening to people talk and asking questions. I know that sounds harmless, but I felt in my marrow it wasn’t harmless, because she really didn’t care about people.”

  Beth’s last few words were hesitant and emphatic at the same time. She knew how terrible they sounded, but in her heart she believed them. “You had a sense about her,” I said.

  “There was something blank in that woman. I don’t care how much she helped in the church office or how many services she went to. I felt it. I think if I’d walked up to her and told her the pastor was dead, she would have shrugged and gone about her duties.”

  “Then who at St. John’s liked her?” Holly asked.

  “The pastor, but he likes everyone and Lauren was a help to him, there’s no denying that. A couple of the ladies who organized our April bake sale said she was nice, taking over for them when they needed a break, baking more than she needed to, that sort of thing. Let’s see.” She frowned in concentration.

  “So not many people liked her,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Honestly? No. Not at church, and I didn’t know her outside of church.”

  “My son liked her as a substitute teacher,” Holly said in a quiet voice.

  “Are you saying Lauren was nosy?” Julia asked.

  “Very,” Beth replied. “She was tell me this, tell me that, all the time.” She made grasping motions with her hands. “I guess it rubbed me the wrong way. She wanted to be at the heart of any news. I know I’m not explaining it right.”

  “I think I understand what you’re saying,” I said. “Lauren fed off bad news.”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

  “Maybe it made her feel alive,” I said. “Or made her feel a part of things. Was she married?”

  “No, and as far as I know she didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn’t have close friends, period. And you know what? She didn’t . . .” Beth’s voice trailed off.

  “She didn’t what?” I said.

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s just rumors, and rumors aren’t truth or evidence. They carry no currency with me.”

  “Sophie Crawford was Lauren’s friend, wasn’t she?” I asked. “And the other women at the cottage? Alison Francis, Tyra West, Mariette Shipley?”

  “I know Sophie and Alison,” Beth said, “but I didn’t think they were friends with Lauren. They didn’t strike me as friends.”

  “Did they sit together in church?” Holly asked.

  “Never,” Beth said. “They were cordial but not friendly. Lauren sat by herself, usually near the back. I tried to get her to sit with me once, but she wouldn’t. Sophie sat with her husband, and Alison sat with her fiancé in a different part of the sanctuary.”

  “But they were in a small book club together,” I said. “They met every month and spent the night on long weekends. That’s what they were doing at Sophie’s house.”

  “That’s surprising,” Beth said with a chuckle. “They’re like oil and water.”

  “And Lauren never seemed to be friends with either of them?” I asked.

  “I never saw them speak in church,” Beth answered. “They could have been strangers. But you know how it is in church. You sit with the same people every Sunday, and that doesn’t mean you dislike the people you don’t sit with.”

  My thoughts began to wander down half a dozen meandering and disparate trails, all of them ending up at St. John’s. It was there I’d discover the motive for Lauren’s murder.

  “What do you think about the church buying Sophie’s land?” I asked Beth.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I know they need the space for parking. It’s a growing church. We have a small lot on the north side of the church, but close to half the people on Sunday have to park on the street. Still, it’ll be a shame to see that lovely glade in asphalt. I think they should find another parking lot and shuttle people to services.”

  “That’s an idea,” Julia said, perking up.

  “But they want land conveniently behind the church,” Beth said. “Though they might keep the cottage as a guest house, from what I’ve heard. I hope they do. All those beautiful roses.”

  “Have you heard what the church is paying for Sophie’s property?” I asked. The sale price was public knowledge, but you had to hunt for it.

  Beth shook her head. “I’m not officially a church member. I attend, but I never joined, and real estate doesn’t interest me.”

  “The land and cottage are going for $915,000,” I said.

  Beth stared in disbelief. “I know the price of land and homes have skyrocketed in Colorado, but I thought maybe half that. Where could St. John’s be getting the money?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Do you think someone else will die at Sophie’s house tonight?” Holly asked.

  The three of us had stopped for lunch at Wyatt’s Bistro after talking to Beth, and though we’d made it through our sandwiches without broaching the possibility that a book-loving serial killer was staying at the cottage, the giant elephant in the room could not be forever ignored.

  “I need to read Penelope Falls.” I paused to scrape the last bite of tiramisu from my plate.

  “Four women are killed in that book,” Holly said, “and the last is shoved from a church bell tower.”

  “Well, that sounds like a darling book,” Julia said. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “All the victims fall,” I said, setting down my fork. “The first falls from a window. The second is electrocuted, but what kills her is a fall.”

  “Yes, she hits her head on a kitchen counter,” Holly said. “That’s what Tyra said.”

  “The third is strangled near a church,” I went on, “and the killer kicks her down an embankment into a church graveyard. The fourth gets pushed out of a bell tower. All falls, and two of them connected with a church.”

  “And why were they reading this ghastly nonsense?” Julia asked.

  “It’s a murder mystery,” I said. “You can’t have a murder mystery without murders.”

  “The question remains,” Holly said. “Will there be another murder at the cottage?”

  “They should all go home,” Julia said firmly, wagging her fork. “Lock the doors and keep them locked. You don’t carry on with a silly sleepover when one of the guests has been murdered.”

  “But where would Sophie go?” Holly asked. “Her husband is on a hiking trip and won’t return until Monday night. I’d be afraid to stay at the cottage alone.”

  Julia’s expression softened. “I didn’t think of that. Of course she wants people to stay with her. So would I.”

  “I wonder what would happen to the property sale if something happened to Sophie,” I said. “The property is under contract, it’s not finalized, and she might not have a will.”

  “The house and land would go to her husband,” Holly said, “and I imagine he’d continue with the sale to St. John’s.”

  “But Sophie’s death wouldn’t benefit the church or Mariette,” I said. “It would probably delay the sale, and I don’t think either party wants that.”

  Holly latched on to her ponytail, drawing it over her shoulder and combing it with her fingers, a habit I thought both soothed her nerves and helped her think. “If Sophie was the target, why kill Lauren? I don’t understand that. Of all the women at that cottage you could murder—and I can think of at least two—why her? She’s so sweet and harmless.”

  Had Lauren simply been the easiest target? I wondered. Were there other murders to come? Or would Lauren be the sole victim? “I don’t know what it is yet, but something is bothering me about the murder scene. I still don’t understand how someone falls out a window or gets pushed out of it. I can’t visua
lize it.”

  “Is it bothering Chief Gilroy?” Julia said.

  “I haven’t talked to him yet.” I wiped my mouth on my napkin and dropped several bills on the table. “Mind if I take you two home before I do that? I can pick you up at quarter to six for dinner at Sophie’s.”

  after dropping Julia and Holly off at Julia’s house, I drove back downtown for the police station, hoping I’d find Gilroy in. This time Underhill was at the front desk, and he tipped his head toward Gilroy’s office the moment I walked in the door.

  “No donuts?” he said with a grin as I walked by. He well he knew me and my methods.

  Gilroy glanced up as I approached his open door, but I gave the doorframe a rap anyway. He smiled and waved me in.

  “Let me guess why you’re here,” he said.

  “I have a sensible reason for asking what I’m about to ask,” I said, taking the wooden chair that was always in front of his desk. “I’m going back to Sophie Crawford’s cottage tonight—along with Julia and Holly, before you object—and, you know, I’d like to not be too”—my hands fluttered in front of me as I looked for the right word—“unaware of the situation.”

  “You’d like to be informed,” he said.

  “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “It’s Sunday. I won’t get the coroner’s report until Monday.”

  “Should I be worried about one of those women?”

  “If I said yes, would you listen?”

  “Of course I would. But I’d still go to the cottage. Sophie really wants me to be there.”

  “We haven’t ruled Sophie out as a suspect.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “We have, actually, but don’t say anything. Officially, we have to keep all possibilities open.”

  It was an odd thing for him to say, and I told him so.

  “When I write my final report, it has to be thorough, all possibilities explored,” he said. “You’re not staying overnight, are you?”

  “I don’t think so. I hope Sophie doesn’t ask me to.” I smiled at the handsome man across the desk from me. How I loved that face. His dark eyelashes and dark hair—graying here and there, but especially at the temples—his winter-blue eyes and strong, straight nose. He was five years older than me and didn’t look a day of it. But beyond his looks, when I could look beyond them, he was a good man. I used to wonder how I’d been so lucky as to have him fall in love with me, but wondering that went hand in hand with worrying that he’d find someone else. Someone better, without the extra pounds, limp hair, and weird cowlick that looked like a bald spot on the back of my head. If he wanted to leave, he would tell me, no fooling around, and if we married, it would be forever. But he had no intention of leaving. Good grief and thank goodness, he really loved me.

  “Rachel.” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk. “Lauren Hughes died as a result of a fireplace poker being driven into her throat, probably while she was holding with all the strength she had to the window sill.”

  Back to earth. “That’s awful.”

  “Her injury was severe, and the coroner theorizes she grabbed her neck and didn’t protect her head as she fell to the patio. Otherwise, she might have survived the fall.”

  “Her head hit the patio?”

  “Full force.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That’s one of the women at the cottage.”

  “I get it.” I nodded slowly. “I really do, and I’ll be very careful.”

  “You can’t trust any of them. Don’t talk to any of them without Holly and Julia present, and tell them to do the same. You have a tendency to trust people and let your guard down. In this case, please be suspicious. And do not stay overnight.”

  “You retrieved the poker, then?”

  “It was missing from Mrs. Crawford’s fireplace tools. They didn’t have a fire going, so she has no idea when it went missing. It could have been hours before it was used or minutes before.”

  “The killer could have grabbed it just before she killed Lauren, while everyone was sleeping.”

  “That would have been the smart thing to do. That way, no one would have noticed it was missing.”

  “Yes, and she could have put gloves on or wrapped the handle in a scarf or even a sock to protect it from fingerprints.”

  “She definitely used something to hold it with or wipe it down with before using it, because you’re right in thinking there aren’t any fingerprints. Just Miss Hughes’s blood.”

  “I didn’t see a bagged weapon at the cottage.”

  “You were in the kitchen when we removed it.”

  “You know she’s selling her cottage and land to the church for $915,000?”

  “Yup.”

  Of course he did. When I’d first met Gilroy, I’d been sure he was a country bumpkin. Isn’t that what all small-town police chiefs are? How wrong I had been. The man was as sharp as they came. “We talked to Pastor Ackley at St. John’s. He’s convinced someone reprogrammed the bell-ringing system.”

  “So am I,” Gilroy said.

  “And we talked to Beth Lightfoot, who knew Lauren Hughes from church.”

  That piqued his interest. Finally I had information he hadn’t yet unearthed.

  “She said a lot of people at church, maybe everyone but the pastor, didn’t like her,” I went on. “She worked hard for him, so he appreciated her. And needed her, I’m sure. Most church positions are filled by volunteers, so I don’t think she was paid much. But she was nosy, apparently, and in a weird way. She asked people a lot of questions and she enjoyed hearing bad news. Gossip.”

  Gilroy slumped back in his chair, listening intently.

  “Beth made a point of saying that even though Lauren asked people about their lives, she didn’t care about anyone. She said there was something blank in her. Her word. She collected bad news, but she had no feelings for the people affected by that news. Beth didn’t say it outright, but I got the feeling Lauren didn’t have a normal conscience.”

  “A conscience. Right.”

  “So maybe Lauren stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, and one of the women at the cottage didn’t like it. Either that or Lauren’s nose didn’t have anything to do with it and the murder is connected to the sale of Sophie’s cottage.”

  “Could be.”

  His investigatory wheels were turning, and when that happened, his sentences shrank.

  “But the church is involved somehow. Those bells weren’t a coincidence.”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “Pastor Ackley said if we find why the bells were reprogrammed, we’ll find out who killed Lauren.”

  “Did he? He may be right.”

  “Did you find blood on any of the women’s clothing?”

  “None. And we haven’t found gloves.”

  It was time for me to go. Gilroy was on full boil, his mind making connections, coughing up questions, throwing out conjectures. “I’ll see you later.”

  He glanced up. “Call me tonight, the minute you get home.”

  “It won’t be until nine or even ten.”

  “If I’m not home, I’ll be here.”

  I hesitated briefly at his door. “Turner and Underhill eat your donuts, by the way.” As I scurried out of the station, I shot Underhill a grin.

  Back in my Forester, I retrieved a small notebook and pen from the glove compartment and jotted down my next two tasks: find out where Lauren lived and how much she paid for her home, whether it was rent or a mortgage. In fact, I needed basic financial information on everyone who was in that cottage. Money, real estate, and church bells. How were they connected?

  I was about to pull from the curb when I thought I spotted Tyra West in my rearview mirror. Throwing my arm across the top of my seat, I turned as far as my monitor-stiff writer’s neck would let me. It was her, shopping bag in hand, walking into the Cow Barn, a western-style clothing shop that stayed open on Sundays. Not seeing the other Cottage Women with her—not that th
eir presence would have deterred me—I turned off my engine and darted across the street.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tyra’s face registered surprise when she saw me, but after her initial wide-eyed stare, she recovered quickly. She smiled, and with her thumb and forefinger she pulled her long hair back from her face. And shook it right back again. Luxuriously, as if she were in slow motion. This was a woman in love with her own hair, a sentiment I had trouble comprehending.

  “Are you shopping too, Rachel?” she asked.

  It would have been harsh to say, No, I’m trying to find out who killed your friend just eleven hours after she was brutally murdered, so I smiled back and said no, I just happened to see her and wanted to talk.

  “Talk? That’s all we did this morning. I’m done talking.” She hooked her shopping bag in the crook of her elbow and began to thumb through a rack of western shirts.

  “But it seemed to me you and Sophie had much more to say.”

  “I pretty much said everything I wanted to. Mostly I was freaked out about our book.”

  “And no one else seemed to be. Especially Alison.”

  “Weird, huh? But of course Alison rules the conversations and conclusions at our book club meetings, and just about everywhere else.”

  “That’s the impression I got. I know Sophie wanted to talk more about what happened.”

  Tyra, falsely sensing a kindred spirit, set her shopping bag on the floor and glanced about the store. Seeing no one within earshot, she said, “Alison, Mariette, and Lauren argued last night. I mean bad.” She lifted a shoulder. “To be honest, we all argued, but those three went at it like wildcats. I thought they might smash wine bottles over each other’s heads.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “Lauren didn’t think Sophie should sell the cottage. Mariette and Alison said she should and that Lauren should mind her own business. It’s a huge place and a lot of land, and it floods every five years. If she stays there, she’s going to have a major flood one day, not just ponds in her backyard or a little water in her kitchen, like she does now.”