Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 1, page 32
part #1 of Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Series
CHAPTER 5
“They’ll enjoy these,” Holly said, setting the last of a dozen donuts into a Holly’s Sweets pastry box. “I bet they don’t get donuts for breakfast very often.”
“Nora tells me it’s a nice assisted living home, but it’s still assisted living,” I said.
“Let me throw in a few extra, no charge.”
“And a cream puff for me in a separate bag.”
I’d started to tell Holly about Thanksgiving at Nora Barberton’s home, but of course she’d already heard the news. At thirty-seven Holly Kavanagh had managed to turn her bakery into Juniper Grove’s unofficial meeting place and gossip exchange. Chief Gilroy or Officer Underhill—they alternated days—stopped in every morning, as did the mayor, members of the Board of Trustees, and most of the shop owners on Main Street. Holly’s scones, donuts, croissants, and other pastries, including her to-die-for cream puffs, drew them, but they lingered and talked and shared because of the atmosphere. The bakery was bright and warm on dark November mornings, and when you opened the door, you entered a world smelling of sugar and fresh-baked bread.
“Did you hear Gilroy didn’t find that little painting?” Holly asked.
I looked up from the pastry display case. “No, I didn’t. I wonder where it is.”
“Underhill told me they’re going to look again this morning. They didn’t have enough light last night.”
“I hope for Nora’s sake they find it.”
Holly rang up my donuts and cream puff, and then slid the pink box to me across the counter. “Maybe we could take a box of donuts to Aspen Glen once a month? What do you think?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
“I also heard that Nora asked you to find Anne Rightler’s killer.”
“Who told you that?”
“The mayor.”
My mouth dropped open. “How does he know?”
“He’s a friend of a friend of hers—or something like that.”
“That means Gilroy’s heard.”
“Probably.” Holly grinned. “It’s a shame you couldn’t have had Thanksgiving dinner with him. Have you decided if you’re going to help Nora?”
“I don’t even know Anne’s cause of death.”
“Underhill said she had bruises on both her arms that were consistent with someone grabbing her from behind—hard. They could tell by the position of the thumb impressions, though they couldn’t tell if they were from a man or woman’s thumbs.”
“Underhill talks too much.”
Three women entered the bakery and marched straight for the almond and chocolate croissants at the far end of the pastry case. They were on a mission, and Holly was about to get busy. She leaned across the counter and whispered, “Anne was murdered” before greeting them with a smile.
I’d figured as much, and so had Julia and Nora. And that was the reason I was heading to Aspen Glen. I’d already decided to look into Anne’s death.
A phone call from Nora was going to be my entrée. She’d told me last night that she would call first thing this morning and tell the staff I was coming to pick up a quilt from Anne’s room. Nora had lent it to her a year ago, and now, as a memento, she wanted it back. While I was there, I’d talk to the residents, bribing them with donuts if necessary, and find out more about Anne.
“Call me tonight,” Holly said as I headed for the door. “We’ll get the gang together.”
“You got it.”
The Aspen Glen assisted living home was a mile west of downtown, on a hill surrounded by a small forest of juniper trees. The driveway curved around the front entrance and led to a parking lot at the side of the building. I parked my Forester, grabbed the pastry box, and made my way to the door. I braced myself for a grim tour through a depressing lobby and down dark corridors, but the second I walked inside, my preconceived notions were shattered.
A wood fire burned merrily in the oversized fireplace at the far end of the lobby, where a dozen residents sat on plump armchairs, reading their morning papers and sipping from Wedgwood Blue Willow cups, and a young woman behind the receptionist’s desk—not wearing a drab institutional uniform—welcomed me, asking if by any chance I was Nora’s friend Rachel. I told her I was, and that I thought I’d share some donuts with the residents before I picked up her quilt.
Her eyes on the pink box, she asked, “Is that from Holly’s Sweets?”
“Have one,” I said, opening it.
“Thanks! She makes the best donuts in the world.” Her hand hovered over the box before finally seizing a chocolate-glazed donut. “You’re not out shopping this morning like the rest of the world?”
“Not on your life. Can I ask you something?”
“Ask away,” she said, her round, pink face breaking into a grin as she contemplated her treat.
“I met Anne Rightler last night, and she, well . . .” I hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “She had a funny habit of taking Nora’s things when she visited. Nora knew about it, of course, and she always got them back before Anne went home.”
The woman nodded. Clearly she knew about Anne’s strange behavior. “Anne was a sweetheart, and she tried to protect her friends from whatever bad thing she thought would happen to them. Starting about three months ago, she was sure thieves were everywhere.”
“Even here?”
“Here and Nora’s house. Except for her doctors and nights out with the group, they were the only places she ever went. Last month she entered a friend’s room and took a figurine. She’d seen this friend’s family there earlier, taking her other belongings home with them.” She paused to take a bite of the donut before going on with her story. “This friend was going into hospice, and all she wanted with her were some clothes and her figurine, so her family picked up the rest. Well, Anne thought they were stealing from her and wanted to save the figurine, because she knew how important it was to her friend.”
“That’s so sad.”
“I’m not saying Anne had dementia. Some of our residents do, you know. Anne was forgetful sometimes—little things, usually, like when to take her pills—but she was fully aware. She just misjudged what she saw and was so eager to help that she acted before questioning what was really going on.”
The sound of laughter echoed in the lobby, bouncing off the coffered ceilings, and a grandfather clocked chimed the half hour. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
I hesitated again before coming out with it. My question was intrusive, but it had to be asked. “How could Anne afford this place?”
“Didn’t Nora tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I don’t think I can—”
“Are you saying Nora was paying?”
The woman looked from side to side and, satisfied no one could hear her, she said, “She paid for everything, even the extras like our dinner theater nights. She’s been an angel.”
I’d suspected that Anne didn’t have any relatives, at least none who cared for her, or they would have been with her on Thanksgiving. “She didn’t have any family?”
“A son somewhere, but he never visited or called, and he sure never paid for anything. We have a few more hardship cases like Anne’s, and thankfully, a few more angels like Nora.”
I thanked her and started for the fireplace, thinking I’d begin by placing the donut box on a coffee table and then striking up a conversation with anyone willing to talk about Anne. I soon had no shortage of talkers.
“I can’t believe she died,” an elderly man said after I introduced myself. He passed on the donuts, saying it wasn’t good for his blood sugar, but he let me refresh his coffee cup. When I sat down next to him, he told me his name was Frank and that he too knew about Anne’s penchant for taking belongings from the other residents’ rooms. “None of us were bothered by that, Rachel. We’ve all got flaws, haven’t we? Anne wasn’t interested in keeping these things for herself, so in my opinion it wasn’t stealing. I had a book go missing from my room some weeks back. I went to Anne’s room, and there it was. So I thanked her and took it back.”
“Have there ever been any real thefts at Aspen Glen?”
“Not that I’ve heard of,” he said. “Donna? Betty?” He looked across the coffee table.
“Not since I’ve been here,” one of the women said. “I’m Donna, by the way. Anne and I were friends. Were you her friend too?”
“I only met her yesterday, at Nora Barberton’s house.”
“Yes, Nora.” Donna wrapped her sweater more tightly about her body and then held the collar together at her throat, as though she were chilly, even so near the fireplace. “Nora was good to Anne.”
“I heard she was.”
“Murder is not a fair ending for a woman like Anne,” Donna said, her gaunt face and deep-set eyes magnifying the grief in her voice.
I tried to keep my surprise from showing. “How do you know it was murder?”
“We heard she was found at the bottom of some stairs,” the other woman said. “And I’m Betty.”
“That’s right, Betty. Stairs leading down to Nora’s cellar.”
“Anne never took stairs by herself,” Donna said. “That’s why she lived on the first floor here. She wouldn’t go near the stairs unless one or even two of us were helping her.”
“But when I was at Nora’s house, Anne insisted on going upstairs with the rest of us to visit Nora’s documents room.”
“Everyone else went?”
“Yes. Nora wanted to show us something.”
“Did she wait at the bottom of the stairs for help?” Donna asked.
I thought back. “I think so. I know she waited for help on the way down.”
“There you go,” Frank said. “It’s not that she didn’t use the stairs, it’s that she didn’t like to, and she always waited for help.”
“She didn’t like to take the elevators, did she, Frank?” Betty asked. “She wanted someone to hold her arm if she did. She was afraid of falling and ending up in a wheelchair.”
Frank set down his coffee cup with a sigh. “She never ended up in a wheelchair, thank the Lord.”
“Was her eyesight good?” I asked. “Could she have opened a cellar door and not seen the stairs until it was too late?” I needed to explore every possibility, including the possibility that Anne did fall and the bruises on her arms had nothing to do with her death.
“Not a chance,” Donna said. “She had cataract surgery a year ago—she could see better than any of us. She only needed glasses for reading. You’d have to be blind not to see that stairs are stairs. Worse, you’d have to be a fool, and Anne was not a fool.”
Finally capitulating to the lure of the donuts, Betty grabbed a plain glazed one, tore it in half, and dropped the other half back in the box. “That’s what youngsters think. You can’t walk or hear as good as you used to, and that makes you senile. Or worse, useless. I’m telling you, I don’t think the police care much about finding out who killed her. They never do with someone our age.” She took a large bite of her half donut.
“That’s not true,” I protested. “Chief Gilroy cares, and I’m sure he’s determined to solve this case.”
“The police chief’s a youngster,” Frank said.
“He’s forty-eight,” I countered.
“Like I said, a youngster.”
I laughed. Gilroy a youngster? I knew Frank was teasing me—I saw the twinkle in his eye—but from his perspective, Gilroy and I were young, and I hadn’t thought of myself as young since my fortieth birthday.
“Chief Gilroy is half Charlie’s age,” Betty said, still chewing away at her donut. “You see Charlie over there by the window?”
I turned and saw an elderly man, his face sprinkled with liver spots, hunched over his morning paper. “He’s ninety-six?”
“Ninety-seven,” Betty said. “His hearing is bad, but he’s sharp as a tack. Did you want to see Anne’s room?”
Though slightly taken aback by the swift change in subject, I told Betty yes and explained that I was there to pick up a quilt Nora had given her.
“I know,” Betty said with a sly grin. “My hearing is still good. Come along with me.” She plopped the last of her donut in her mouth and happily licked her fingers.
Donna and Frank stayed behind while Betty took me down a brightly lit corridor to the right of the lobby’s fireplace, her steps slow but sure. The grungy carpeting, stained walls, industrial furnishings, and other horrors I’d anticipated before my arrival were nowhere to be seen. It’s not that I was naive. I knew that for some, such terrible places existed, but I was glad that Anne had lived among friends at Aspen Glen.
“Here we are,” Betty said, stopping at room 114.
It occurred to me that the receptionist hadn’t given me a key, and I was about to ask Betty how we’d get inside when she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
“Anne never locked her door,” Betty said. “More proof that she wasn’t stealing.”
“It’s like a studio apartment,” I said. “There’s even a microwave.”
“They take good care of us here.” Betty pointed to the bed. “There’s Nora’s quilt.”
Folded neatly at the foot of the bed was a stunning ivory and red quilt, and on top of it, as if it had been casually tossed there, was Nora’s miniature.
CHAPTER 6
“You’re sure you’ve never seen that painting in Mrs. Rightler’s room before?” Chief Gilroy asked Betty.
Betty threw back her shoulders. “I would have remembered. Anne never had that in her room, and I’ve never seen it in anyone else’s room.”
“And I never have,” Donna said.
Frank shook his head. “Never. I’ve never seen it anywhere.”
After taking custody of the miniature, Gilroy had set up shop in the lobby, a place far more conducive to gently questioning the elderly residents. Several of the women had circled around Gilroy and were eagerly awaiting their turn to talk to him—almost as eagerly as they were eyeing the donut box. I did my best to keep from grinning, and I carefully kept just out of his line of sight.
Face facts, he’s one good-looking man, I thought. Tall and trim, blue eyes, dark hair with touches of gray. Intelligent, thoughtful. Cowboy boots. So out of my league, but a girl could dream. Last month I’d started hiking the trail behind my house in hopes of shedding the extra twenty-five pounds I carried, but to no avail. Anyway, with just one coffee date and one lunch date under our belts—in an entire month—my hopes of romance were a pipe dream. He either liked me or didn’t. Me with my dark hair, also with touches of gray, and that cowlick at the back of my head that was impossible to disguise. And truthfully, I was beginning to think his affections were lukewarm at best.
“Are those donuts for us?” one of the women asked Gilroy.
“Rachel brought those,” Frank said. “Ask her.”
“Who’s Rachel?”
“I am,” I said, giving a little wave. “The donuts are for everyone.”
Half a dozen hands stretched out, and the donuts disappeared in a matter of seconds.
“Chief Gilroy, Rachel told me you intend to solve Anne’s murder,” Betty said.
“Did she?” Gilroy shot me a look over his shoulder, where I’d cleverly placed myself so he couldn’t see me watching him.
A wisp of a woman, eighty years or older, squeezed herself onto the couch between Betty and Gilroy. “Was she murdered?” the woman asked.
“We haven’t released that information yet,” Gilroy said.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Betty said, glaring at the interloper. “Like we told Rachel, Anne never took the stairs by herself. Someone pushed her. It’s clear as can be.”
Gilroy shot me another look, this one more scathing, before addressing Betty. “Finding that miniature will help the investigation, so thank you again.”
“You’re a police chief but you don’t wear a uniform,” Donna said, as if noticing for the first time that Gilroy was dressed in jeans and a dark olive barn coat.
“Some police chiefs do, some don’t,” Gilroy said, getting to his feet. “I don’t.”
“Would you like some tea, Mr. Gilroy?” the interloper asked.
“Thank you, but no.”
“Coffee?” a woman asked.
“No thanks, ma’am.”
“We have the best coffee,” Donna said. “Frank here will get it for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“We never get distinguished visitors,” Betty said, imploring him with her eyes.
“Ah, well . . .”
Gilroy was rattled. I’d never seen him anywhere close to embarrassed before, but he was downright flustered and had no idea how to make his escape. I took pity on him, though not without enjoying his predicament. “Ladies, I think Chief Gilroy needs to get that painting back to the station. It’s important he acts quickly if he’s going to solve the case.”
“Yes, yes,” Betty said. “You look like a young man who means business, so you get on with it.”
I chewed at my lower lip to keep from grinning, snatched Nora’s quilt from a chair back, and hurried for the door.
“Very funny,” Gilroy called out when I hit the parking lot.
I spun back. Unable to contain myself any longer, I burst into laughter.
He marched up to me. “You enjoyed that, did you?”
“I think they enjoyed it more.”
He stepped close, bent his face to mine, and kissed me.
I sucked in my breath—not the most romantic of responses—and Gilroy headed for his car. “Stay warm, Rachel. It started snowing.”
For a moment I was rooted in place. I’d been oblivious to the snowflakes dancing in the air, the new membrane of snow on the asphalt parking lot. I turned back to see Gilroy getting in his police department SUV.
