CHAPTER 3
Gilroy said as he started his SUV.
“You had a mimosa. A sentence I never thought I'd say.”
“I meant coffee.”
“I’ve never been so uncomfortable. Let’s be hermits again.”
As he drove from the curb, heading west for Finch Hill Road, I shifted my phone from my jeans to my coat pocket and a second later withdrew a folded envelope.
“The mysterious papers?” Gilroy asked.
“Must be.”
Out of the envelope came three folded sheets of paper and one photograph. I checked the photo first. “It’s Dalton Taylor."
“Doing what?”
“Holding hands with Shasta Karlsen.” I held it up. “On the back someone’s written, ‘Before Taylor’s divorce, before he said his wife was cheating on him.’”
“Maybe they’re doing an innocent hello or goodbye.”
“No.” I took a closer look. “Nothing innocent about it. It looks like they’re at Grove Coffee, and they have no idea they’re being photographed. Someone shot this from the sidewalk or street. Or maybe from a car, with a telephoto lens.”
“Is it Mary’s handwriting on the back?”
“I don’t think so.” I unfolded the papers, gave them a cursory look, then returned to the first paper. “Holy cow, James. This one’s a copy of a drunk driving record from almost three years ago. Brodie Keegan totaled his car and critically injured his passenger, Eamon Keegan.”
“Related?”
“Probably, but it doesn’t say.”
“Is the report real?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“It looks real. It’s from the police department in Nampa, Idaho.”
“What’s Mary doing with it?”
I flipped to the second paper. “This looks real too. The first page of a second mortgage on the Blackwells’ house, taken out last year.”
“Okay. That’s weird.”
“Do you know what that means? Someone sent these to Mary since—”
“—she wouldn’t give you a copy of her mortgage for the heck of it.”
“Neither would she give me Brodie’s police report. What would she expect me to do with it?”
“If someone sent those to Mary, it could also mean this second mortgage was news to her.”
I stared out the window at the snow-covered lawns and the old, familiar houses of Juniper Grove flowing past. “I wonder if the Blackwells are having money problems. If Clay’s the one who pays the bills and Mary keeps hands off, she might not know. Or Clay might be the one who doesn’t know.”
“Maybe they’re in debt.”
“Or the loan could be for the art gallery.”
“That’s possible. But Mary would know about that.”
“I wonder if Clay would take out a second mortgage without telling her.”
“If their current mortgage is in both their names, he couldn’t.” Gilroy made two quick right turns off Finch Hill and parked alongside the detached shed we called a garage. He’d gallantly allowed my Forester to take up residence in the shed, saving me from shoveling snow from its hood and windows all winter long.
“This last one is disgusting.” The third item, which looked as genuine as the others, gave me a sick feeling. “It’s the cover page of an old lawsuit against Isak for sexual misconduct with a student at a place called Tilton Academy, in Minnesota.”
Gilroy turned the engine off. “I remember Isak talking about Minnesota, as if he knew it well. I assumed he had family back there.”
“I can’t imagine him doing . . . I don’t want to imagine. What’s ‘misconduct,’ anyway? Could they be any more vague?”
“Come on. Coffee. The good kind. And a warm fire.”
“No rancor, no veiled threats, no hideous paintings.” I tucked the envelope and its scandalous contents in my jeans pocket.
We walked through the garage and headed up the narrow brick path that traversed our back yard and led to our house. I’d bought the faux-Victorian fixer-upper a year and a half ago, after leaving Boston for Juniper Grove, and Gilroy had moved in on our wedding day.
Working long hours at the station downtown meant he had never become as attached to his neighbors as I had to mine. So again being gallant, he’d sold his house—thanks to Colorado’s hot real estate market, just three days after our wedding—and moved into my fixer-upper.
Julia Foster, a sixty-something widow, lived next door, and Holly Kavanagh, the thirty-eight-year-old owner of Holly’s Sweets, lived across the street. Together we called ourselves the Juniper Grove Mystery Gang. We were an oddball crew, and we were shockingly good at solving murders.
Now the Gang had a paper trail to uncover. At least, I was pretty sure that’s why Mary had put that envelope in my pocket. She wanted to know who had sent her those terrible revelations. And why. And how the sender had come to possess all that information.
That last question was what had my mind racing as I got the coffee going and Gilroy built a fire in the living room.
“Hazelnut?” I called out.
“Perfect.”
Perfect. Though I was a Colorado girl, born and raised in the state, I’d hightailed it to Boston after my fiancé left me, and I’d spent seven miserable years in that city, working in the publishing business. At forty-three, a year and eight months ago, I’d moved to Juniper Grove, certain I’d never marry and positive I’d never be truly happy again.
How wrong can a person be?
“I’m glad I told Mary I’d call her tonight,” I said, handing Gilroy his cup. “I have a million questions.”
“Your hands are cold.”
“All the blood’s gone to my brain. What on earth’s going on at the Blackwell house?”
“Put your cup down. Come here.” He set his cup on the coffee table, stood, and gathered me in a hug. “I’m sorry it’s been a rotten day. It was a good plan—to meet people, I mean.”
“It’s hardly your fault, and it’s still a good plan. It’s just . . . that brunch. Have you ever seen so many unhappy people in one place?”
“We’re not unhappy.”
“I’ve never been happier.” I thought a moment, and chuckled. “It’s kind of scary.”
“That’s because you’re a natural cynic.”
“Not as much as you.” I kissed him and sat with a contented sigh on the couch. “Grab your coffee before it gets cold, and help me solve this mystery.”
“We’re not sure what the mystery is,” he said, settling in next to me.
“Blackmail?” I took the envelope from my pocket and handed Gilroy the photo. “That’s the first thing I thought of. Who took that photo?”
“Could Mary have taken it?”
“And then given it to me?”
“Yeah, not likely.”
“So why did the person who took that photo give it to Mary and not Dalton or Shasta? That’s how blackmail works. And does the photo taker have it in for Dalton, Shasta, or both of them?”
“If I’m remembering correctly, Dalton got divorced last January. Accused his wife of adultery.”
I leaned in, concentrating on the photo. “That seems about right, if the inscription on the back is correct. He doesn’t look much younger in this, and neither does Shasta. How long has he lived in Juniper Grove?”
“At least eight and a half years. He was in Juniper Grove when I moved here.”
“Was he married back then?”
He nodded. “To a woman named Alison. She left Colorado after their divorce.”
“So he was having an affair while accusing Alison of cheating on him.”
“Maybe. We don’t know for sure when that photo was taken.”
It was taken outside Grove Coffee, I was sure of that. Continuing to study it for clues, I spotted a dated flyer in the window. “Wait a sec. We do know when it was taken. Look at the flyer taped to the glass, to the right of Dalton. It’s for a Christmas concert at Town Hall, year before last.”
Gilroy squinted, held the photo closer. He whistled. “Detective Stowe-Gilroy. I remember that flyer. All over town.”
“Grove Coffee doesn’t leave old flyers in their windows. They have too many new ones to post. So this was taken more than two years ago, well before his divorce. And he had the nerve to accuse his wife of adultery?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. We don’t know Alison’s part in their divorce.”
“Agreed.” I took a long, slow sip of coffee, savoring the toasty hazelnut flavor. “So why was Mary given the photo? What’s she supposed to do about Dalton’s old affair?”
“Maybe it’s an ongoing affair.”
“Shasta can’t stand the guy. Trust me.”
“She did cut him down to size a couple times.” Gilroy stuck out his hand. “Give me that Idaho police report.”
I handed him the report then propped my feet on the coffee table, cradled my cup, and stared into the fire. James and I could go only so far without knowing who gave the papers and photo to Mary—and why she’d been the recipient. Presuming she knew the answers to those questions. If she did know, there was no need to involve me. Unless all she wanted was advice.
“I have to talk to Mary,” I said.
“Umm.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. “Do you think that report’s real?”
“I’d bet on it. Look at this. A blood alcohol level of .14. Injuring Eamon Keegan—or worse. It doesn’t say if he survived. Brodie might’ve done time. I wonder if the Post knew about this before they hired him.”
“They hired him out of Nebraska, so maybe not. Maybe he moved to Lincoln to escape his past.” Replaying the brunch in my mind—where was everyone standing when James and I arrived and where did I first see Brodie?—I tried to remember if he’d had a champagne flute or any other kind of glass in his hands. “He wasn’t drinking a mimosa in the living room. He had a cup of coffee at the table, that’s all.”
“He wasn’t drinking anything in the living room.” Gilroy handed me the police report and took up the photocopy of the Blackwells’ second mortgage.
I focused on the third sheet of paper, the disturbing accusation against Isak Karlsen. Nine years ago, a sixteen-year-old student named Sophia Geller accused Isak of what was termed “sexual misconduct” at Tilton Academy in St. Paul. As an eighteen year old, she’d sued Isak and the school, alleging that the school had been made aware of the misconduct but had refused to take action. Tilton considered it a matter of he said-she said, and the police had never been called.
Isak would’ve been about twenty-eight or thirty at the time, I thought. Younger, dumber. But the sort of man who would assault a girl?
But what sort of man was he, really? Truth was, I barely knew him.
Had Geller’s lawsuit proceeded? Given my resources—the internet, Gilroy’s access to virtually any police record, and even willing acquaintances at Town Hall—it seemed an answerable question.
“What do these look like to you?” I asked, making a sweeping motion with my coffee cup.
“What do you mean?”
“This is personal, damaging stuff. Someone gave Mary four pieces of juicy gossip.”
“True,” he said slowly.
I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “And Mary—”
“—works for the Post,” he finished. “You think someone wants this stuff in print?”
“Why else would someone give these papers to her?”
“First, we don’t know if someone gave them to her. Right now we don’t know anything. Second, Brodie Keegan is the editor, isn’t he?”
“That’s what Clay said when he introduced him.”
“So he’d be the one who decides what stories get printed, not Mary. And this,” he said, tapping the photocopy of the Blackwells’ mortgage, “is an outlier. It isn’t newsworthy, even for the Post. ‘Clay Blackwell mortgages home to finance his art gallery’?”
“Or ‘Clay Blackwell mortgages home to pay off debts.’ Either way, you’re right. It would mean something to Mary, but only if she didn’t know he took out a second mortgage. For goodness’ sake, why didn’t she just tell me when we were at the brunch? Instead she hands me a note and vanishes. It’s almost comical.” I swung my feet off the coffee table, sat up, and downed the rest of my coffee. “We’re operating on zero info. I’m going to call her.”
“Why not wait until tonight?”
“One, I’m terribly impatient.”
“Agreed.”
“And two, I want to hear what you think about what she tells me, and I have a feeling we’ll both be too tired to discuss it after dinner.”
“Being sociable is draining.”
“You know, some couples go out with other couples once a week, not once a month.”
“Let’s not get carried away. Moderation in all things.”
I went to the kitchen, pulled my phone from my coat pocket, and hit Mary’s number, hoping Mary, not Clay, would answer.
I waited, listening to the fire softly crackling in the living room. Eight rings later, Mary answered.
She sounded weary and, well, nose-clogged, as though she’d been crying. Never one for subtlety, or being the patient type, I got right to it.
“I had a look at the photo and papers you sent me.”
Silence.
“Mary? Did someone give them to you?”
Sniff.
“Can you talk? Is Clay there?”
“He and Isak went to talk to Dalton.”
“What for?”
Mary then told me that Clay and Isak, troubled by the gallery-opening changes Dalton had hinted at before leaving the brunch, had driven off to meet with him at his home studio.
“Did Isak go with Clay?” I asked. “How did Shasta get home?”
“I drove her in my car. She’s only two minutes away.”
“Okay, so tell me about the stuff you put in my coat pocket.”
“Yes, sorry. Someone put them in my mailbox yesterday. In a large envelope. Luckily, Clay wasn’t at home.”
“Was the envelope addressed to you?”
“It wasn’t addressed. It was blank, and I don’t know who put it in there.”
“Anything else in it?”
“Nothing.”
Now I was thoroughly confused. “So why would someone give those things to you?”
Another sniff.
“It doesn’t make sense, Mary.”
“They know me now. They know how weak I am, and they want the Post to print stories. Three stories. I think the mortgage paper is a reminder. They can dig up any information they want on me and Clay, so I’d better do as I’m told.”
“But they didn’t actually tell you what to do with the information, right? How do you know they want you to print stories on Isak and the rest?”
Silence ensued. I waited.
“I know it’s what they want because that’s what they wanted the first time,” she said at last. “And I complied. I gave in, Rachel. I did it. Did you read the article on Connor Morse, the teacher at Juniper Grove High who’d been arrested for dealing heroin when he was seventeen?”
I told her Gilroy and I didn’t get the paper.
“Someone put his arrest record in my mailbox, with a demand that it be published. The guy’s in this thirties now, but his arrest turned out to be true, so Brodie printed the story in mid-December, without a byline. He loved it. He called the article a service to the community. Our subscriptions shot up.”
“What happened to the teacher?”
“He was fired.” She let out a strangled laugh. “Well, Brodie’s not going to love the article about Brodie and his car accident.”
“He’d never print that.”
I heard muffled noises and Mary—her hand covering the phone?—yelling something.
“Can you still talk?” I asked.
“Clay’s back. I need your help. Call me at work tomorrow morning.”
The phone clicked off.
Gilroy had heard my end of the conversation, judging by the expression he gave me back in the living room.
“Now we know someone gave those things to Mary,” he said. “What happened to what teacher?”
“Connor Morse. He was arrested as a teenager for dealing heroin. Someone pressured the Post into writing a story about him, using Mary. They printed it and the teacher was fired.”
“If he has an arrest record for dealing, why did the high school hire him?”
“Either the school didn’t perform its due diligence or Morse’s record was expunged because he was under eighteen.”
“Someone had it in for Morse? And now for Isak Karlsen and Brodie Keegan?”
“It sounds like we have an avenging angel on our hands. We’re going to need more caffeine. And sugar.”
Before I made it out of the living room, a phone rang in the kitchen. Gilroy’s ringtone.
He strode ahead of me, and while he answered his phone I put another coffee pod in the machine.
“Where?” Gilroy was saying. “Who called it in?”
I turned.
“You know what to do, Underhill. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He punched off, stuck his phone in his back pocket, and reached for his coat. “Laura Patchett’s been murdered.”
“Laura? We just saw her—I can’t believe it! How?”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Lock the door behind me.”