Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 1, page 6
part #1 of Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Series
Julia sat forward, eager to take on the subject. “I know exactly why. Politics. Gilroy ruffled the wrong feathers in Fort Collins. He refused to bow down to people in positions of power. He’s a straight arrow, and a lot of powerful people don’t like straight arrows.”
“What did he do?”
“He arrested the mayor’s wife for drunk driving.”
“Holy cow.”
“The mayor was in a car behind his wife’s car. After Chief Gilroy pulled his wife over, he drove up, got out, and asked the chief to forget it all and let him drive his wife home. Gilroy wouldn’t allow it, and it came out later that this wasn’t the wife’s first DUI. The mayor and his friends started a whisper campaign against Gilroy—how he’d blundered here and there and had lost the confidence of the people on his team.”
As I pondered this intriguing news, I realized that Julia might not have the facts straight, that this story about Gilroy might be one more bit of unsubstantiated gossip. “How do you know this for certain?”
“When the Board of Trustees suggested hiring Gilroy, I went online and read the transcript of a Fort Collins city meeting. It was all in there.”
I wasn’t convinced. “But who was saying what?”
“The mayor wanted to fire Gilroy and replace him with someone who supposedly had more experience, but city residents were behind Gilroy a hundred percent. They knew the truth.”
“Would the mayor be so openly political?”
Julia looked at me as though I’d just rolled out of a cabbage patch.
“You’re right, silly question.”
“That mayor is long gone now,” Julia added. “The scandals finally caught up with him. And Juniper Grove got a—”
“Straight arrow,” I finished.
“Precisely.”
“With pale blue eyes.”
Julia frowned. “You and Holly. That’s not why I like him. Though I’m not so old I can’t still notice a handsome man when I see one.” She pointed a long, thin finger at me. “You’re not immune either. I saw the way you looked at him when he was in your kitchen.”
“Oh, please.”
I suddenly had the strangest feeling that I was being watched, framed as I was by Julia’s window. I moved away from it, working the kinks out of my legs. I had to get back to walking. Forty-three was way too young to feel this stiff, and if I didn’t get back to exercising, I’d have to go up yet another size in clothing. “I’m going back to work.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Julia insisted.
I grabbed my coffee cup and strode for the kitchen, my friend and her absurd imaginings on my heels.
“He’s the right age for you,” she said, not letting up. “A handful of years older.”
“And a handful of pounds thinner,” I said with a grin, setting my cup in her sink.
“He’s four inches taller than you.”
I stared. “What does that . . . ?” Oh no, you’re not pulling me into this again. Julia had been trying to pair me off with someone, anyone, since I’d first moved to Juniper Grove. A month ago it was our single mail carrier. A nice enough man, but we had zero in common. “I really have to go. If you hear from Holly, tell her what I found out. She was too busy to talk when I checked back at the bakery.”
I made it out in the nick of time, Julia launching into her “my single nephew” speech just as my feet hit her porch. I turned, waved, and hightailed it to my house.
After a quick sandwich, I headed out the back door for my garage, my eyes drawn once again to the bright yellow crime tape in my backyard. For no earthly reason that I could see, it remained—and probably would until I took it down. The police hadn’t been back since I’d found Foster’s body. I hurried into the house for scissors, came back out again, and then unceremoniously cut the tape in several places, leaving tape tails waving in the wind.
I drew near the hole, wondering how I’d fill it in. The digger had flung soil from the hole all about the yard rather than pile it up so I could easily push it back in. Murderers weren’t known for their neatness. And Gilroy had thought I was planting a tree. I chuckled to myself.
The grass where Foster had lain was stained brown with dried blood. If it didn’t rain soon, I’d come out with a bucket of water and wash it away. It made me a little sick to my stomach to look at it, and I didn’t want Julia to have to see it again. Walking over to my small cherry tree, I slid one scissor blade under a knot of crime tape wound about its trunk, cut, and stuffed the tape in my jeans. Casting my eyes over the scene, I noticed a small white stick near my lilac bushes.
On closer inspection, I could see it was a partially smoked cigarette. Someone had discarded it after only a few puffs. No one, and I mean no one, smoked in my back yard. In fact, no one I knew smoked, period, and since I’d been in Juniper Grove I’d seen a grand total of two smokers, both teenagers. I bent down and was about to pick it up when I realized it might be evidence. It was possible the killer had been puffing away on a cigarette while he waited for Foster. “This is . . . this is so . . . ,” I sputtered, “incompetent!” How could three police officers and a forensics unit leave evidence behind?
Now I really did have to talk to Gilroy—and fast. He or one of his sloppy officers needed to come back to my house and pick that thing up. And then I’d tell them about Aiden Dillard. Not that I had any confidence my discovery would mean anything to the Juniper Grove Police Department.
Fifteen minutes after calling the station, Chief Gilroy himself was in my backyard, a plastic bag and tweezers in hand. “You cut the tape,” he said, slipping on a pair of gloves.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, we were done.”
Choosing to keep mum, I bit back a sarcastic Obviously not. Gilroy was embarrassed enough without me adding to his discomfort.
He crouched next to the cigarette. “Is this the first you’ve seen this?”
“Yes, but I haven’t really looked around my yard until now. Not in the daylight, anyway.” Was it Aiden’s? I wondered. Was he the smoker? I couldn’t believe it was some teenager who didn’t even know me.
Gilroy tweezed the cigarette and dropped it into the evidence bag.
“Do you think the killer was smoking that?” I asked.
Gilroy peered up at me. “This wasn’t here last night.”
“Are you sure?”
He stood, grunting a little with the effort. “We went over every inch of your back and front yard.”
Nevertheless, Gilroy began to walk the yard, his eyes to the ground. He seemed positive he and his men hadn’t missed any evidence the first time around, and now I was tempted to believe him. The more I thought about it, that cigarette, a white stick in a field of green, had been eye-catching. Missing it would have been blindness, not incompetence.
“Aiden Dillard wrote those anonymous notes,” I said to Gilroy’s back. He turned. “My friends and I found out. He’s staying at the Lilac Lane B&B.”
“Mitch Dillard’s son?” he asked.
“That’s him.”
He shook his head, told me to stay out of it, and went on with his search.
You’re welcome, I thought.
As Gilroy continued to walk, I brainstormed reasons for that cigarette to have ended up in my fenced yard. I came up with three feasible scenarios. First, Aiden had returned to the scene of his triumph—whether or not he’d killed Foster—and deliberately left a piece of evidence. A risky and pointless thing to do. Second, a cigarette-smoking neighbor or thrill seeker, looking to find the place where the famous George Foster had finally met his end, dropped it. That thought made me want to contact a home-security company. Or third, someone who didn’t like Gilroy was trying to make him and his police force look bad. Again.
CHAPTER 8
That evening I drove back to the Lilac Lane B&B, hoping to catch sight of Aiden Dillard, a.k.a. Joe Smith. Newsome knew my face, but Aiden probably didn’t—unless he recognized me from the paper—so I figured I could park across the street, in the dark between streetlights, and sit without catching his attention. Half an hour later, I realized the folly of my plan. I had no idea where Aiden was. Maybe he’d made an early night of it or even left town. Or maybe he was at a restaurant or downtown brewpub, carousing with Jillian Newsome.
I was about to start the Forester when I saw a silver SUV pull in front of the B&B. Two doors, front and back, opened, and two men exited the car and mounted the front steps. In the bright light of the entrance, they paused. Tom Ventura stuck out his hand and Aiden Dillard grasped it, giving it a firm and friendly shake.
I stared, unbelieving. “This is dirty,” I said under my breath. “Something is really dirty.”
Before I could grab my phone and take a photo, the men had moved on, Aiden into the B&B, and Ventura back to the SUV. I was rooted to my car seat, not knowing where to go or what to do next. I had thought that Ventura, who supposedly had been shocked to find an anonymous note on his door yesterday morning, was a victim—like Julia, Holly, and the others. But it was all a ruse. His note had been added to the others as cover. He was in on it. Whatever it was.
What were he and Aiden up to? They had to have more in mind than just stirring up bad memories. Had one of them killed George Foster? Maybe Aiden had, and Ventura was helping him by concealing or muddying the evidence. More frightening than that thought was that I had no clue who was on their side. Their circle of friends, and partners in crime, had to be broader than I yet knew. The only people I could trust were Holly and Julia. Even Belinda Almond was now on my Treat with Caution List.
I decided to make a stop at Holly’s house on my way home. I needed to tell someone what I’d just seen, and I didn’t want to get Julia worked up so late in the day. She suffered from insomnia, and tales about killer attorneys wouldn’t help with her sleep.
Driving down Main Street, I saw Holly and her husband talking to Officer Hammond outside the bakery door. It was unpleasant business, I could tell, not a happy, chance meeting. Frustration on his face, Peter was gesturing at the bakery, and Hammond, grim-faced, hands on his hips, was listening politely.
I parked in the first open spot and marched to where Holly was leaning against her shop, her arms folded and eyes downcast.
“Holly?” I called.
She looked up. Her arms dropped to her sides. “Rachel, I can’t believe it. We’ve had a break-in.” Her voice was rough from crying and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.
“When did this happen?”
“I closed up two hours ago, and I came back, just now, to check on the chocolate. I thought . . . and the festival’s tomorrow. What am I going to do? All the pastries are ruined.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.” Holly wasn’t the hysterical type. If she said everything, she meant it. She sniffed and turned her face from Peter and Officer Hammond. “In the back of the shop, where I was storing all the pastries I was going to sell tomorrow. They might have missed a whole four or five scones, but . . .” She sniffed again and rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. “All destroyed for no reason.”
“What about the front of the shop?” I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the bakery.
“They didn’t touch the front. I think with all the foot traffic on this street they knew someone might see them.”
“Do you have any idea who it was?”
“Not the faintest. We’ve never had any trouble before. None of the store owners on Main Street have.” She leaned in close. “And I don’t think Hammond has a clue how to proceed. I asked him if he was going to look for fingerprints and his answer was to ask me if we had closed-circuit TV. No one on this street has cameras.”
“I don’t suppose your voice monitor can record sound,” I said.
“I wish.”
Camera in hand, Officer Underhill walked up to Officer Hammond, spoke briefly, and strode to the bakery door.
“Reinforcements,” I said.
Holly shrugged. “Lot of good that will do.”
“Give them a chance.”
“Come take a look. It’s unbelievable.”
The back of the bakery was as bad as I’d feared. Dough, fruit fillings, icing—everywhere. On the walls, on the countertops, on the range tops. Fortunately, at least on first look, pastry damage was the only damage. I’d expected to see dented ovens and smashed glass at least, but it was just pastry. Loads of it. Someone had had a fine old time.
I felt my temper rise. Such senseless destruction. And Holly had so been looking forward to the Farmers’ Market Festival tomorrow. It was a major event in Juniper Grove. Every vegetable grower, quilter, brewmaster, and culinary artist in town would be there to hawk their wares. There was no better opportunity for Holly to spread the word about her treats to the few slackers who didn’t yet know she was the best pastry chef in northern Colorado.
My heart sank as I looked about. If I rolled up my sleeves and pitched in, and some of Holly’s and Peter’s friends did the same, maybe we could slap the place into shape by the end of the weekend. She might even be able to open on Monday.
Knowing Hammond and Underhill were still at work, I resisted the temptation to start the cleanup. The officers disappeared with Peter out the back door, and Holly, after looking at the back door again, trudged over to where I was standing, looking a little brighter than she had a few minutes ago. “It looks like they picked the lock,” she said. “We’ll need to call a locksmith, but they didn’t bust the door, break any windows, or spray-paint the building.”
“Thank goodness.”
“I thought I must have missed something when I first looked, but I just looked again. Peter’s checking the parking lot. But it looks like the only damage is here.” She spread her hands. “It’s a royal mess, but it’s not permanent.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “You’ll get through this. I’ll help. Julia will too, I’ll bet,” I said with a grin. “You know what a wiz she is at cleaning. Just watch us.”
“No. Positively no.” She vehemently shook her head. “This is what I have insurance for. You will not touch a thing, and neither will I.”
The three men reentered the bakery, Officer Underhill snapping photos every two steps. As unlikely as it was that a photo of crushed croissants on a metal countertop offered any clues to the culprits, I bit my tongue, refusing to comment. Holly didn’t need to know that I shared her pessimism when it came to the Juniper Grove Police Department. Leaving Underhill to his work, Peter began to examine the refrigerator contents, opening containers, sniffing and testing, and probably wondering if he should toss it all for safety’s sake.
“Does your insurance cover this?” I whispered.
“It covers vandalism of all kinds, including cleanup thereof. I’m hiring a cleaning crew first thing tomorrow.”
Admittedly, I was relieved. The prospect of spending an entire weekend with a towel and mop wasn’t appealing.
“I also have to call the festival committee first thing and let them know there won’t be a Holly’s Sweets table.”
I sighed and looked at my friend. What could I say? “People still know you’re best.”
“There’s always next September.”
“I’m sorry about this, Holly,” said Officer Hammond as he made his way over. He slipped his notebook back into his uniform, removed his hat, and gave his head a scratch. “And you’re certain nothing was taken?”
“Nothing I can see. It’s pretty much just . . . pastry mess.”
Hammond smiled. His slightly buck teeth contributed to his friendly, open look, I decided. Perfection, even in teeth, was intimidating.
“One piece of good news,” he said. “It doesn’t look like they touched anything out back. Peter and I gave it a thorough search. Officer Underhill is going to dust for prints, but I’m not hopeful.”
“Neither am I,” Holly replied.
“We’ll talk to other shop owners on the street, see if they noticed anything. Whoever it was came in the back.” Hammond tossed his chin in the direction of the back door. “But we don’t know if they walked to the bakery, drove, or were let off. We don’t know if it was one person, two, or more. But we’re just getting started, so don’t lose hope.”
I decided to offer my two cents. If Hammond was anything like Gilroy, he’d grunt and ignore me, but I needed to speak up. “This looks to me like someone had two minutes in which to make the biggest mess they could—and ruin Holly’s day at the festival tomorrow.”
Scanning the pastry debris one more time, Hammond nodded thoughtfully and rubbed his chin. “A short-term goal, in other words.”
“Otherwise,” I asked, “why wouldn’t they have destroyed some of the expensive equipment back here?”
Hammond turned to Holly. “Can you think of anyone who wanted to keep your bakery out of the festival that badly?”
“No,” she said. “Not a soul. None of the other owners would do this.” The idea bewildered her. Holly had often spoken to me about the good relationships among Main Street shop owners. Once, she said, after the florist down the street suffered water damage from hail-broken skylights, the other owners pitched in to help, getting her back on her feet in twenty-four hours. Main Street, even in a town like Juniper Grove, where shops vied for a limited number of customers, was not cutthroat.
“Then could it be personal?” Hammond asked. “Someone who wanted to cause you trouble?”
“No,” Holly said again. “Anyway, if someone really wanted to get me, why wouldn’t they have destroyed the stove or refrigerator? They cost thousands.”
“Thousands of dollars in damage means a bigger fine or even prison time if they’re caught,” Hammond said. “Especially with breaking and entering added on.”
Holly ran her hand across her forehead. I could see that turning a suspicious eye to her neighbors was as wearying as contemplating the damage done to her shop.
“Well . . .” Hammond looked down at his shoes. He wanted to leave, I thought, but was reluctant to abandon Holly and Peter to the chaos around them and the sad knowledge that someone in their little town had disliked them or the bakery enough to hurt them in this way. “The chief will be out tomorrow morning. Will you or Peter be here?”
