Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 1, page 8
part #1 of Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Series
We sat quietly for several minutes, absorbed in our own thoughts, and watched as an ambulance bucked across the field toward the quilting tent.
Julia broke the silence. “Poor Aiden. That poor, sad boy. What a waste.”
After he’d terrorized her by spreading his notes around town and conspired with the Juniper Grove Post to dredge up the horror of seven years ago, Julia was forgiving enough to say that. I put an arm around her and rested my head on her shoulder. “I was watching him but lost track,” I said. “I think he knew I was following.”
“Whatever Aiden was up to, it wasn’t going to end well,” Holly said. “Think how bitter he was. He traveled here from Utah to get back at people who had nothing to do with his father’s death. Besides, if anyone other than Aiden is to blame for this, it’s Mitch Dillard. What he did to his own son was a disgrace. Stealing from the bank, deserting him.” She shook her head sadly.
“The police are going to question us,” I said, sitting straight. “When they’re done, let’s go to my house. We’ll order pizza and talk. I need to work this out.”
“There’s still the matter of who killed my husband,” Julia said, nodding her agreement. “And I’d rather not be alone right now.”
“We also need to find out what Newsome is up to,” Holly said.
“And who broke into your bakery, because I’m betting it’s connected,” I added. I saw the county coroner’s van drive onto the fairgrounds, a patrol car behind it. “That must be Officer Underhill. How are three policemen going to deal with two murders in less than forty-eight hours?”
Hammond walked from behind the quilting tent, a notebook in his hand, and strolled over to a small crowd gathered at the next tent.
“Are they going to question everyone?” Holly asked. “Hammond moves at the speed of molasses.”
“Gilroy and Underhill just joined in,” I said, tossing my head in the direction of the tent. “How’s Peter doing?”
“He’s fine. Not thrilled by the cleanup, but we’re both glad it wasn’t worse.” She angled herself on the bench to face me. “How do you think the break-in is connected to the murders?”
“It has the look of someone trying to scare you off. On the morning you found the note on your front door, how many people did you talk to about it?”
“Oh, a lot. I wasn’t very subtle, but at the time I didn’t think it was anything more than a nasty prank.”
“Is Tom Ventura on the Board of Trustees?” I asked.
“Where did that come from?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Just wondering. I should know these things.” I thought hard about telling her that Ventura had implied he would no longer be a supporter of her bakery, whatever that meant for her future business, but she had enough on her plate.
“He and five others, yes. Then there’s the mayor, and that’s our entire town government.”
“Here comes Chief Gilroy,” Julia said. She squirmed in her seat just a little, and I had to squelch a grin.
“Ladies, thanks for waiting,” Gilroy said. He got right to it. “Can you tell me where you were when . . . ?” His meaning obvious, he let his words trail off.
“When we heard the scream?” I asked. A gentle jab, but I should have kept my mouth shut. It occurred to me that I was trying to get the stony-faced Gilroy to react. Wanted him to react. The idea horrified me.
“We were all in the coffee tent,” Julia said, pointing to her left. “Over there, waiting for the rain to stop. When it did, we came outside the tent but kind of hovered around.” She made circles in the air with her hands. “I think Rachel saw her first.”
Time to act like an adult. “She was walking around the tent, holding on to it as if she might pass out,” I said. “Then she screamed. I ran over there at about the same time everyone else did. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, except . . .” I hesitated before continuing. “Just before the rain started and everyone ran inside the tents, Tom Ventura looked startled by something. Or someone.”
“Startled,” Gilroy said flatly.
I revised my statement. “Shocked.”
“But you don’t know by what.”
“Maybe he saw Aiden.”
“Why would that shock him?”
“Maybe Aiden wasn’t supposed to be here.” I told Gilroy about seeing Aiden and Ventura at the Lilac Lane B&B, and for good measure I told him I’d seen Newsome there too. “Ventura and Aiden were buddies, Newsome and Aiden were buddies, and for all I know, all three of them were buddies. They were up to something, starting with those notes. And Ventura and Newsome are still up to something.”
Realizing that Gilroy was glaring at me, I stopped talking.
“Do you normally hang around the Lilac Lane?” he asked.
“It’s my home away from home.”
Holly jabbed me with her elbow.
“Here’s my card,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket. “Call me if any of you remember anything.”
“You gave me your card day before yesterday,” I said.
Julia snatched the card from his hands. “Is there any progress on my husband’s murder?”
“We’re still working on it. I’ll let you know if there is.”
“It has to be connected to Aiden’s murder.”
“It might be,” Gilroy said, rubbing his eyes.
For once the chief’s brief replies seemed more the product of exhaustion than his brusque nature.
“And ladies,” he said, “there have been two murders now. For your own safety, please don’t meddle.”
Meddle. The nerve. After I’d handed him several pertinent pieces of information, starting yesterday with the fact that Aiden Dillard was the mysterious note writer.
Gilroy sauntered off, and when he was out of earshot, I said, “You two meet me in twenty minutes at my house. I’ll make coffee and order lunch.” I stood and marched straight for the parking area of the field.
It wasn’t until the three of us were settled into couches in my living room, coffees in hand after we’d devoured two pineapple and pepperoni pizzas, that I told Julia and Holly I may have seen something important at the festival. “Trouble is, everyone moved about so much it was hard to keep track of them. Maybe I didn’t see anything. Maybe I just had the feeling that something bad was about to happen.”
“I was watching you from the coffee tent,” Julia said, “and I lost sight of you and Aiden right away.”
“But I think they were moving in relation to one another,” I said, the image of a chess board still fresh in my mind. “They were reacting to how the others were moving. Watching one another.”
Setting her cup on my pine end table, Holly lifted herself from the couch and tucked one leg beneath her. “Who is ‘they’?”
I dashed into the kitchen, returned with a yellow notepad and pen, and dropped back into my armchair. “Aiden, Newsome, and Ventura,” I said, jotting their names. “Newsome and Ventura both knew Aiden and they both knew he was in town. All three of them were there. So was Douglas McDermott.”
“Don’t forget Gilroy and Hammond,” Holly said. “They both lived in Juniper Grove seven years ago, and they’re not above suspicion.”
Julia protested. “Gilroy and Hammond? Those two couldn’t murder anyone.”
“Holly’s right,” I said. “We can’t rule out anyone.” Without thinking, I added, “Belinda Almond was there too.”
Julia grunted.
It was time to fess up. “I met her yesterday, Julia. I think the Post treated her unfairly.”
Julia cocked an eyebrow. She wasn’t speaking, just staring—a bad sign.
“Belinda insists she didn’t have an affair with your husband. She says the Post’s photographer snapped a photo at a party at just the wrong time, trying very hard to leave that impression.” I didn’t mention that George had instigated the situation that resulted in the dubious photograph.
“And you believe her?” Julia asked, her eyes filled with reproach.
Tread carefully, I thought. Julia has lived the truth of this affair for more than seven years. “Isn’t it possible that Jillian Newsome made Belinda look guilty the same way she made you look guilty?”
Holly perked up.
“The way she made me look and sound evasive?” I added. “I have nothing to do with this, but she made it look like I did—and without breaking libel laws.” I leaned forward. “She did the same thing to Chief Gilroy, making it sound as though he left Fort Collins under a cloud of scandal.”
Julia was tugging at her earlobe, considering my words.
“Even Tom Ventura dislikes her.” I flipped open the pizza boxes in the vain hope I’d find leftovers, but only a few globs of cheese remained.
“Belinda never said a word in her own defense to me,” Julia said.
“How could she, especially after your husband disappeared? I think she’s heartbroken that people believe the rumors.”
“But George didn’t deny the rumors,” Julia said, finally letting go of her ear.
“Julia,” Holly said, her voice kind but firm, “George Foster was not a good man, and more than once I saw him flirt with women at parties.”
“You did? You never said.”
“I couldn’t. But believe me, the interest was never returned.”
A serial flirter who probably relished rumors of his prowess. I had figured there was a pattern to Foster’s behavior. No wonder he hadn’t denied the affair with Belinda, even to his wife. “Is that party photo of Belinda the only proof of their affair?” I asked.
Julia swallowed hard. “Rachel, have I been wrong all this time? I knew George liked to pretend he was irresistible to women. He was always pretending.”
“I’ve only lived here a few months, but I know you wouldn’t be the first person Newsome has fooled. She’s good at what she does.”
“I haven’t treated Belinda very well,” Holly said. “I’m polite but cool. What if we’ve both been wrong?”
“And what if I’ve been wrong about Chief Gilroy?” I said. “I treat him like a bumpkin, but I don’t think he is.”
“The Post likes to portray him that way,” Holly said.
“I wonder why.” My eyes shifted to Julia. “So I’ve been fooled too. All we can do is start fresh.”
“I need to talk to Belinda,” Julia said. “If I think she’s telling the truth about George, I’ll have to ask her forgiveness.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, giving my notepad a pat, “she’s still on the suspect list for Aiden’s murder until we can rule her out.”
“Though if Belinda was going to kill anyone, you’d think it would be Newsome,” Holly said. She held up a hand. “Not that I wish murder on her.”
“Speak for yourself,” Julia said, her lips slanting into a smile.
“Peter dislikes her more than I do. He wants to cancel our subscription.”
“Peter’s a wise and fine man,” Julia said.
“I was lucky to find him,” Holly said, her tone suddenly serious. “Rachel, can I ask you something? Why haven’t you married?”
The question took me by surprise. I’d heard it before from other people, and I’d always evaded it one way or another. “You know, well, time passes, and then, you know, before you know it . . . ,” I said, fumbling for words and doing a particularly poor job of it.
“There must have been someone once,” Julia said.
I nodded. “Twelve years ago.”
Her interest piqued, Julia sat straighter. Which oddly made me all the more reluctant to talk. But I was among friends, and friends opened up to one another—as Julia had about George.
“We were engaged,” I said. My gaze strayed to the window overlooking my front garden, where my pink and white roses still glistened with rain. “And then he left and moved to Arizona.”
“You mean before you were married?” Holly asked.
“Yup.” I looked back at my friends, at their expressions of surprise and pity, and wanted to drop the matter right then. Julia wouldn’t let me.
“Did he give you a reason?” she asked.
“No, he just left, a week before the wedding. I found out from one of his friends.”
Holly’s lip curled in disgust. “What a rotten, stinking thing to do. Oh, Rachel, I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. “It was twelve years ago.”
“You still love him,” Julia declared. “But you shouldn’t think about him, just like I shouldn’t think about George. You have to move on.”
“He was the love of my life,” I said, forcing a smile. “A wonderful man who asked me to marry him and then didn’t even have the courage to tell me the wedding was off. I was still young back then, you know?”
Neither Julia nor Holly spoke. I’d said enough—more than enough. Giving my knees a slap, I rose from my armchair and brandished the yellow notepad. “We’ve got work to do. Who murdered Julia’s husband and how is that snake in the grass Newsome involved? More coffee anyone?”
CHAPTER 11
Julia and I played cards on most Saturday nights. It had become an enjoyable ritual, though Julia sometimes observed that it was strange I’d prefer playing Rummy 500 to going out. But after too much pizza, just enough coffee, and three hours of discussing George Foster’s and Aiden Dillard’s murders, Julia, Holly, and I called it a day. In the morning we would study the case with fresh eyes.
I decided the best course of action was to work on my writing—I’d been thrown off schedule by a couple days—and then make an early night of it. That was the plan, that is, until I heard a rap at my front door and found Belinda Almond on my doorstep.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” she said.
“It’s no bother, come in,” I replied, waving her inside. “And it’s not that late.”
“It was dark, so I didn’t know if you were in.”
I flicked on the living room and then the kitchen lights. “I was writing upstairs. Keeps the electric bills down. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
I motioned for her to sit at the table and then started the coffeemaker. “Decaf,” I explained.
Belinda slung her jacket on the back of a chair and took a seat. “You have a beautiful kitchen.”
“Thank you.” It was nice, and serviceable, with honey-colored cabinets and not-too-shabby faux-granite countertops, but no one had ever called my kitchen beautiful. “So what can I do for you?”
“You know about Aiden Dillard, of course.”
“I was at the festival. I saw you briefly but never got the chance to talk to you.”
“I saw you too, after they found the body—after I saw it. I can’t get it out of my mind.” She kept her hands busy, fingering nicks on the tabletop, playing with her earring.
“Have you heard anything? Do you know whose knitting needle that was?”
Belinda shivered. “No, I haven’t heard a word. I’m sure something will be in the paper tomorrow, whether or not it’s true. I hate the idea of having to buy that birdcage liner so I can find out the news, and probably not the real news, at that. Good thing I don’t have to buy it very often.”
I poured myself a cup of decaf, sat, and cleared my throat, hoping Belinda would take it as a signal to broach her subject. Something was worrying her, but she seemed to want to distract herself from it, to postpone saying what she had come to say.
She took a breath, gathering strength. “I overheard something at the festival. I was in the quilting tent, near the back flap, and I heard Tom Ventura and Chase Hammond talking outside the tent, only a foot or two away from me. There was a lot of noise inside the tent, but you see”—she spread her hands—“I was closer to them than I was to the sellers inside. I saw their shadows on the tent.”
“I take it their conversation was out of the ordinary.”
“After two murders, I’d normally go to the police if I heard something like that, only Hammond is the police, and Ventura’s an attorney. You’re the only person I can trust.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re new to town. You don’t have a stake or a history in any of this.”
I saw her point. “Tell me exactly what they said.”
“They were talking about Chief Gilroy and Jillian Newsome. Ventura said, ‘I can’t believe Newsome is double . . .’” Her eyes shut briefly as she tried to recall his words. “‘Double-dealing me,’ that’s it. He said he told her to stay away from Aiden Dillard and just keep reporting on Gilroy, and now he was afraid things were about to get out of control.”
“This was before Aiden was killed?”
“Before.”
“Go on.”
“Then Officer Hammond said he was tired of waiting for his time to come, that Newsome was complicating things, and that Ventura should never have brought Gilroy in from Fort Collins. After that someone must have walked by, because they stopped talking and split up.”
“Tired of waiting for his time to come,” I repeated, recalling my first meeting with Gilroy and Hammond at my house. “When I asked Gilroy and Hammond if they were living in Juniper Grove at the time of the Foster-Dillard disappearance, Gilroy said he’d just become chief, and Hammond said he was an officer back then, just like he is now.”
“That’s true.”
“But it was the way Hammond said it. Just like I am now, with a touch of bitterness.”
“Like he hadn’t advanced in seven years.”
“And Gilroy gave him a look I couldn’t quite figure out then, but it makes sense now.”
“That doesn’t explain what Ventura meant by Newsome double-dealing him.”
“Did Ventura or Hammond sound like they were making threats against Newsome or Aiden Dillard?”
“To be honest, no.” Belinda sounded a little disappointed. What she’d heard was evidence of collusion between a police officer and town attorney, but what kind of collusion wasn’t clear. “And they didn’t say a word about George Foster.”
“But they’re up to no good, and Gilroy’s at the bad end of it.” Warning Gilroy was out of the question, at least for now. He’d told me to stop meddling, and though I had no intention of backing off, I wasn’t going to draw undue attention to my investigation.
