“Thanks.”
“Now, about your pastor. The police think he died between noon and three in the afternoon yesterday, which is about when you were all napping. Did you wake up at any time? Maybe hear someone come in or out of the cottage? Or hear someone in the graveyard?”
“When my head hit the pillow, I was out for almost two hours, and when I woke up, everyone had left. Their cars were gone. I was kind of hoping they wouldn’t come back.”
“Do you know why Ackley was walking through the graveyard?”
“Chief Gilroy asked me that. Sorry, I don’t know. Maybe he saw someone on the patio.”
That was a possibility I hadn’t considered. I’d thought that the killer had left the cottage to meet Ackley, but perhaps it had been the other way around. Ackley had seen the killer—or rather, the woman he suspected of being the killer—first.
“Or he might have been looking at the land,” Sophie offered. “The church is still deciding the extent of the parking lot, and Ackley wanted to add a little more room around the retreat house. To make it nicer.”
“If Lauren had lived, could she have stopped the sale of your property?”
“I don’t see how. Unless maybe she spread rumors about my property. And to face facts, she’d probably already done that. She was adamantly against me selling, and it wasn’t only because of the parking lot. I think she saw herself living in the cottage one day, but if it belonged to the church, she could never buy it.”
“Can you tell me more about her? You said she was calculating. How so, exactly?”
“It’s hard to put into words. She liked being in people’s business. She knew who was having marriage troubles, who was getting a divorce, who was in financial trouble, who was in the hospital—and I don’t mean she wanted to pray for them. She just wanted to talk about them.”
Sophie was echoing Beth Lightfoot’s opinion, almost word for word. “So she was a gossip?”
“Succinct and accurate. But she was an extraordinary gossip. She lived for gossip.”
“Did everyone know that?”
“Most people, I think.”
“Then why would anyone tell her anything important?”
Sophie sat forward, rapping her nails on her coffee cup. “After a while they didn’t talk to her, Rachel. She just knew things.”
“Hold on a minute.” I was dumbfounded. Why hadn’t Sophie or Beth brought this up before? “She knew what was going on in the lives of people at St. John’s without them telling her? People avoided talking to her about their personal business but she knew anyway?”
Sophie nodded and took a sip of coffee. “Everyone knew not to talk to her.”
I almost slapped the table. “Lauren was a gossip who knew things about people at church?”
Sophie nodded again.
“People avoided her, knew enough not to tell her about their lives, but she knew about them anyway?” I asked again. Good grief.
Her eyes narrowing, Sophie said, “You’re asking how she knew.”
“Exactly.”
“No one talked to her about themselves or about anyone else. She didn’t hear things from other people, either.” The obvious was beginning to dawn on Sophie. “She may have learned one or two little things from talking to people, but somehow she knew way too much.”
I took a large, fortifying gulp of coffee. “Lauren worked in the church office. She had access to files, donation records, emails from church members, maybe even office talk about who was in trouble with what.”
Sophie was crestfallen. “Spreading gossip, and in a church. I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“It’s worse than you think.” I drained the last of my coffee and asked Sophie to drive me to Lauren’s house—the one too small for book club meetings. I needed to see it.
“We don’t have to drive out there.” She grabbed her purse from the back of her chair, retrieved her phone, and clicked a few buttons. “Mariette’s selling it. She has inside and outside photos on the web.” Sophie handed me the phone.
Lauren’s little hovel, the one Mariette and Alison had so disdained, was selling for $329,000.
“Lauren put it on the market four days before she died,” Sophie explained. “It’s not that Mariette swooped in this morning.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“I’m sure they went to her house. You can see the For Sale sign in the photos.”
“It’s a cute house and pretty garden,” I said. “Why was she selling?”
“She wanted a bigger place. She had one in mind on the south side of town.”
“Do you know how much it was?”
“About thirty thousand more than her house.”
“Could she afford it? From what I’ve seen of Juniper Grove prices, they’ve skyrocketed since I moved here.”
“Like the rest of Colorado,” Sophie said.
“Aside from being a substitute teacher and working at the church, did she work anywhere else?”
She shrugged. “That was it. I think she only subbed ten or twelves times a school year. Social sciences, English—whatever they needed. Mostly she worked at the church. But Mariette told me the bank preapproved Lauren’s loan, and Lauren told me she had savings.”
Astonishing. On a sub teacher and church salary, the twenty-eight-year-old Lauren Hughes had planned to buy a big Juniper Grove house. It made no sense. In fact, it made no sense that she owned any house in town.
“Are her parents alive?”
“Yes, in Wyoming.”
“So no inheritance. Do you know when she bought her house?”
“Not too long ago. She was pretty new to Juniper Grove, and she’d only been at St. John’s for three months. It’s funny she was selling so soon.”
“Where did she live before?”
“Wyoming, I think. She may have lived with her parents. We never talked about it much.”
There was a monster of a suspicion raising its ugly head in my mind. I needed to talk to Beth Lightfoot again—and get some crystal clear answers this time. That woman knew far more than she had wanted to tell me.
CHAPTER 16
“I think I know why you’re here,” Beth said, waving me inside her home. Intrigued by her greeting, I wiped my wet shoes on her inside doormat and then followed her through the foyer to a hall, reminding myself as I turned left and entered her kitchen not to act like a tourist staring at a skyscraper. The place was stunning. White cabinets to the ceiling, white quartz countertops, stainless steel appliances, a huge center island. It could have been a showroom, yet it was warm and welcoming.
At one end of the kitchen, beneath a row of windows, was a breakfast nook. It was clear Beth spent a lot of time there, even though a house that size undoubtedly had a formal dining room. The nook’s little white table was piled high with gardening magazines and catalogs, and next to them were notebooks, pens, a garden diagram, an empty teacup, and a plate bearing the remains of some kind of flaky pastry.
“I was about to make more herbal tea. Can I make you a cup too?” she asked, taking the blue-and-white cup from the table and making her way to the counter nearest the sink.
“No thanks,” I replied. “Is this an okay time? I wanted to ask you about Lauren.”
“I figured you would,” she said, keeping her back to me. “I wasn’t entirely open with you, and I think you know that.” She set a stainless kettle on her stainless range and then took a seat at the table. She was wearing her down-in-the-dirt gardening uniform—hiking boots and another nearly threadbare flannel shirt—and there was dirt under every nail. I had to hand it to her. I occasionally paid people to do the heavy lifting in my garden, but she did it herself.
“You didn’t want to gossip about Lauren,” I stated flatly.
She tucked a short strand of graying hair behind one ear. “Now that Pastor Ackley is dead, I wish to goodness I had. It makes me sick to think of him dying alone, and in such a violent way. And in a cemetery of all places! But after Laure
n’s death I thought, it’s over and no one can bring her back, so why speak ill of the dead if it’s not going to help? I never thought anyone else would die. I was truthful in what I said to you, about her not having friends and being nosy and not caring about anyone, but there’s more to it than that.”
Hearing the kettle on the boil, Beth headed for the counter, drew a box of teabags from a cabinet, and dropped a bag in her cup before pouring the water. She brought the cup to the table—taking her time, working up the courage to speak—and delicately set it there before again taking her seat.
“My husband died two years ago,” she said. “And afterward, I remembered every cruel thing I’d ever said to him during our marriage. All the nitpicking, stupid, unkind words. They played over and over in my head.”
Not knowing what else to say, I told her I was sorry.
“It’s fine, Rachel. He was no paragon of virtue himself. He was as human as I am. What I’m saying is, death has a way of weeding out the unimportant and telling you to start again. To be the woman you intended to be but never really tried to be because you didn’t think about life ending one day. I was a gossip like Lauren. Not quite as energetic and wide-ranging as she was, mind you, but a gossip. When I lost Randall, I vowed to stop gossiping and nitpicking. I vowed to him and to God. I said I would tell the simple truth when asked, if necessary, but I would never gossip—and that means never filling in details or speculating on people’s motives. We don’t really know what’s in another person’s heart, do we?”
“We sure don’t,” I said. More and more, I liked this woman.
“But Pastor Ackley has been murdered, and what I know about Lauren may help the police find the killer.” She interrupted herself to jiggle the teabag in her cup and then gingerly take a sip. “I only suspect. I don’t know. I don’t have evidence for my suspicions.”
Even now it was hard for Beth to say the words. So I helped. “Lauren was a blackmailer.”
She gaped at me. “How did you know?”
“She was beyond nosy, by all accounts she was ruthless, people avoided her, she worked in a church office, giving her access to a lot of personal information, and she had way too much money for her age and occupation.”
“How long have you known?”
“I didn’t even suspect until fifteen minutes ago. I needed confirmation from you.”
“But I can’t confirm it, Rachel. She didn’t blackmail me, and no one at church has ever told me they’ve been blackmailed.”
“But you believe she was blackmailing others at St. John’s?”
“There’s a difference between belief and knowledge. I’m as certain as can be without knowing. But . . .” She strengthened her resolve with another sip of tea. “I saw Lauren standing next to an office vent Wednesday before last, listening. It was after hours. The hours on Wednesday Pastor Ackley always reserved for counseling. I was shocked to see her there. She knew those hours as well as anyone. What was she there for, except to listen? The pastor’s door was closed, but Lauren was in the next office over. She was the only one in the room. You can hear through the vents, Rachel. Do you see what I’m saying?”
I frowned in disgust. Oh yes, I saw what she was saying.
“It was pure chance that I passed by,” Beth went on. “I came to pick up some pamphlets. She jumped a mile when she saw me and grabbed some books on the shelves, as if they were the reason she was in the office. But didn’t work Wednesdays. Wednesdays or Sundays.”
“Do you know who was being counseled?” As soon as the question left my mouth, I knew Beth would never answer. “I know you can’t tell me. I just don’t know where to start.”
“I honestly don’t know who was in the office, but since Lauren was murdered at Sophie Crawford’s cottage, I’d start with Alison Francis and Tyra West.”
Now it was my turn to gape.
“Remember, I don’t know for certain,” she added quickly. “But there was unusual friction between those three, especially last Sunday at church. They were never openly friendly, but last Sunday the daggers were out, metaphorically speaking. And whatever was going on, Lauren held the upper hand. She was the dominant one. The one in control. You’ve met Alison, right?”
I told her I had.
“Can you imagine anyone having the upper hand over her?” Beth grinned. “But let me tell you, Lauren did.”
“What about Mariette?”
“She and Lauren were never friendly, but I didn’t notice a change in their relationship like I did with Alison and Tyra. I got the impression they’d agreed to get along by ignoring each other in church. I don’t understand why they were in a book club together. Maybe it’s a case of keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
Not wanting to pressure her in any way, especially to break her vow, I carefully contemplated my next words. “I’m asking you to speculate,” I began, “and I wouldn’t do that if it weren’t very important. But I trust your instincts, and I need to hear your thoughts so I can take this new information to the police. Do you think either Tyra or Alison is capable of murder?”
She wet her lips with her tongue. “It depends on what the blackmail was about.”
“Something very serious, I imagine.”
“Then yes, either one.”
“Do you have any idea why one of them would hack the church’s bell system so the bells would chime after Lauren’s death?”
Beth considered my question. “It strikes me as an unnecessary embellishment. Why go to the extra trouble?”
“I agree. It was a risk that had nothing to do with achieving the goal of killing Lauren.”
Beth smiled. “Great minds think alike.”
“But we’re back to why. It’s risky enough committing murder in a house full of women, but when you add bell hacking, you involve the church and the pastor, and he was no slouch at technology. Murderers normally keep it simple. They don’t add layers of complications for themselves, especially since complications tend to backfire. Was she sending a message? Showing off?”
“Showing off how?”
“By telling the pastor she could take control.” I lifted a shoulder. “I’m only guessing, but I think the bells were meant as a thumb in the eye to either Lauren or Ackley.”
“Lauren wouldn’t have been around to appreciate the thumb.”
“The pastor would have. The pastor who was buying the cottage and land Lauren loved and doing with it what she hated. It’s possible Ackley had his suspicions about who the killer was but wanted evidence. In fact, I think he was actively gathering evidence and that’s what got him killed.”
Was it Tyra or Alison? I wondered. It had come down to those two, I felt it in my bones. Sophie hadn’t murdered someone inside the very home she was anxious to sell, or murdered one of the principals in the deal, and she hadn’t faked her fear of the other women. She knew one of her friends was a murderer. And Mariette was about to make a lot of money selling Sophie’s property to the church, but more than that, Gilroy had been right about her stumbling over the pastor’s body. She hadn’t tossed her shoe to make the scene more convincing, and she hadn’t faked her drunken shock at finding Ackley.
I thanked Beth, and as I left, I told her we should swap garden secrets when this was over—and when the May rains stopped. My front rose garden was my pride and joy, but my back garden was a jumble of spring weeds, unpruned and overgrown shrubs, and bare, muddy patches. She promised to visit and offer me advice, and I promised to make her tea when she did. The simple truth was, I liked her and wanted to see her again.
In Boston, I’d had no real friends. Admittedly, that had largely been my own fault. I’d worked long, hard hours, and because I’d felt out of place, I’d kept to myself much of the time. But it was also true that Boston—at least the publishing company side of it—was a city of guarded, reserved personalities who didn’t readily make friends themselves.
In Juniper Grove, friends were everywhere. They were like ripe fruit on a tree. I found
them by saying hello to them on Main Street, sharing a cup of coffee with them, or just knocking on their doors. It still surprised me how easy it was, and how my naturally introverted nature didn’t stand in the way because a simple glimpse into someone’s beautiful backyard was enough to spark a friendship.
I hopped into my Forester and drove for the police station. I had news for Gilroy, and hopefully he had news for me regarding Ackley’s phone or computer.
And then I planned to dig up some dirt on Tyra and Alison. That meant gossiping, unfortunately. I needed to find out which one of them hated the church or the pastor almost as much as she did Lauren.
CHAPTER 17
“I was expecting donuts,” Underhill said as I walked into the station. “I’m working overtime, you know.”
“I got up late,” I said.
“Lucky you.”
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and then come to an end, and the station was bathed in bright sunlight, all the more intense for reflecting off wet cars and sidewalks.
“So you’re working long hours?” I asked him rhetorically.
“You know it, Rachel.”
“Let me ask you something.” I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the tall front desk. “If you had an intimate conversation with a pastor and you found out someone you knew was listening in to that conversation, what would you do?”
Underhill gave his chin a scratch. “What’s the conversation about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it something I’d do anything to keep from getting out?”
“It must be.”
“This isn’t a hypothetical, is it?”
I straightened. “No, I discovered something about Lauren.”
He pointed over his shoulder. “Grab him while you can. He’s leaving in ten minutes.”
“Thank you, Officer. Donuts later.”
“There had better be donuts. And work on getting us a new coffee machine while you’re at it?”
I marched for Gilroy’s office, rapping on the doorframe before stepping inside the open door. He was at his window, drinking a mug of sludge-black station coffee and watching what was left of the rainstorm drip from the roof line. He twisted back and smiled. “A new coffee machine. I heard. If the budget allows.”
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