Death Trap Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Mailing List Signup

  Juniper Grove Mystery Series

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Death Knell Cover

  From the Author

  More Books

  DEATH TRAP

  A JUNIPER GROVE MYSTERY

  KARIN KAUFMAN

  Copyright © 2018 Karin Kaufman

  Series cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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  JUNIPER GROVE MYSTERY SERIES

  Death of a Dead Man (Book 1) — Out Now

  Death of a Scavenger (Book 2) — Out Now

  At Death’s Door (Book 3) — Out Now

  Death of a Santa (Book 4) — Out Now

  Juniper Grove Box Set: Books 1-3 — Out Now

  Scared to Death (Book 5) — Out Now

  Cheating Death (Book 6) — Out Now

  Death Trap (Book 7) — Out Now

  Death Knell (Book 8) — Coming Soon

  CHAPTER 1

  “Chief James Gilroy and Miss Rachel Stowe!” Our host greeted us at his front door, his eyes alight with pleasure, his broad grin revealing a row of slightly yellowed and uneven teeth.

  “Stuart,” Gilroy said. “This isn’t like you at all.”

  Gilroy put a hand to my back, ushered me inside ahead of him, and then pulled the door shut.

  I’d never met Stuart Hunter before, but because he’d known James for years, I’d been eager to meet him. More intriguingly, he had requested my appearance at his small party.

  “Mystery is what you two are about, isn’t it?” Stuart said with a wink. He took our coats and hung them on pegs by the door.

  Gilroy frowned. “You’re winking now?”

  Stuart laughed. “All things change.” He turned, gestured for us to follow him, and led us out of the foyer toward a sideboard in his living room. Though “living room,” I quickly judged, was an insufficient term. Twelve-foot-high beamed ceilings, a stone fireplace running floor to ceiling, and an open floor plan encompassing at least eight hundred square feet—this was a great room if ever I’d seen one.

  Stuart handed me and then James a flute of champagne. “Thank you for coming, James.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss Lesley’s birthday.”

  “And Rachel, I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time. I don’t suppose James has talked about me.”

  “I’m still learning about his friends, Mr. Hunter.”

  “You’ve picked up the police habit of calling people by their surnames. Call me Stuart. If I remember right, you two have only been dating since late November, early December, correct? So just shy of four months? It takes time to learn about the other person. Likes and dislikes, friends and acquaintances.”

  Stuart looked away into the great room and for a moment silently watched his other guests. Five of them stood in a loose circle by the fireplace, all engaged in deep conversation. One of them, a puffy, forty-something man with short brown hair, jabbed his finger toward an older woman, punctuating his words.

  I darted a sidelong glance at Gilroy. He shrugged.

  “I do love a good mystery, Stuart,” I said.

  Stuart looked back. “Then you’re in for a fun night. Don’t you think so, James?”

  “I’ll let you know when the evening’s over,” Gilroy replied before taking a sip of champagne.

  “Very wise.” Stuart grinned again. He looked a tad older than Gilroy. Maybe fifty, I thought. Trim, though not as trim as Gilroy, with more salt than pepper in his close-cropped hair, and a wide, firm jaw. There was no hint of the devious—or even the mischievous—in his smile. His pleasure, or rather, his anticipation, seemed wholly genuine and cordial.

  His guests were a different matter.

  “You see that obstreperous fellow in a sweater vest, pointing his finger as he talks?” Stuart asked. “That’s Maurice Salaway. Morris, I should say. He’s an incurable anglophile and insists it be pronounced Morris. Don’t cross him on that. He spends a good portion of every day correcting others’ pronunciation.”

  “I’ve never met him,” Gilroy said.

  “He lives in Juniper Grove but works in Loveland,” Stuart said. “Owns a small bookstore that’s rapidly going out of business and supplements his income by developing websites.”

  As I sipped at my champagne, I wondered why none of the other guests had noticed our arrival. Or if they’d noticed, they hadn’t cared about it. What were they talking about?

  “The woman he’s pointing at is Jova Dillman,” Stuart went on, “and she’s not about to back down. Sixty-four and as fierce as ever. I might have called her a warrior a few years back.”

  “What would you call her now?” I asked.

  “Now I would say she’s adamantly convinced of her own rightness in everything.”

  “I don’t know her, either,” Gilroy said. “I don’t know any of them, except Lesley.”

  Stuart leaned my way. “Standing next to Jova is Lesley, my wife of twenty-six years.”

  Lesley Hunter, looking supremely uncomfortable, focused on her champagne glass, glancing only briefly at the others as they talked. Just as much as basic courtesy required, no more. She flashed a smile at Jova, brushed ash-blonde hair from her cheek, and returned to her champagne.

  “They don’t seem to be aware you’ve arrived,” Stuart said. “Shall we?” He strode ahead of us toward the fireplace.

  Before knocking on the Hunters’ door, Gilroy and I had debated whether the house before us, set in a pricey neighborhood on the southwest side of Juniper Grove, could be called a mansion. At six thousand square feet, give or take, and two stories, I was sure that was the appropriate word. Gilroy thought “big house” was a fair description. As we walked across the shiny hardwood floor toward the imposing fireplace, I nudged him with my elbow.

  “It’s not, Rachel,” he whispered.

  “We’re all here now,” Stuart said, sweeping an arm our way. “I think most of you know Juniper Grove’s chief of police, James Gilroy?”

  “James!” Lesley said. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “We just got here,” Gilroy said, giving her a peck on the side of her cheek. “And this is Rachel Stowe.”

  “Rachel, I’ve heard good things about you,” Lesley said, shaking my hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. My gaze shot from guest to guest. I didn’t know any of the people standing before me. Gilroy at least knew the Hunters.


  “Why would I know the police chief of Juniper Grove?” Maurice Salaway asked. “Nevertheless,” he said, thrusting his hand toward Gilroy, “good to meet you. And your date. I didn’t know we were allowed to bring one, Stuart. You might have said.”

  “Obviously, it’s invitation only,” Jova Dillman said.

  Maurice’s nostrils flared. “Obviously,” he repeated.

  “Stuart, old friend, what have you got up your sleeves now?” Jova said, giving our host a terse smile. “I realize we’re here for Lesley’s birthday, but what’s this mysterious announcement? My invitation said something about an announcement.” She was a tall woman, thin but toned and muscular looking for her age, and her hair, short at the sides and longer on top, looked rather like a gray bicyclist’s helmet.

  “There’s plenty of time for that later,” Stuart said, turning to the fireplace. “For now, let’s relax and enjoy ourselves.” The light from the roaring fire played over the room as the last rays of the sun on the final day of March slid behind the mountains.

  “I have hors d’oeuvres in the oven,” Lesley announced. Making a quick pivot, she shot to the left of the fireplace, exiting the great room in haste.

  For a moment there was utter silence in the room, save for the echo of Lesley’s retreating footsteps. Then the third woman in the room—I guessed she was about half Jova’s age—spoke up.

  “Time is something I never seem to have enough of.”

  Stuart turned, his expression quizzical. “Of course you have time, Brynne. If you don’t, who does?”

  Brynne laughed. “I’m a teacher, Stuart.”

  “They you’ll have plenty of time this summer.” Stuart took a step my way. “I’ve heard you like plants and greenhouses, Rachel. Would you like to see my greenhouse? It’s on the other side of the kitchen.”

  Intrigued, I said, “Attached to the house?”

  “Come with me. You too, James,” he said, pointedly leaving the others out. We left our champagne on the sideboard and followed him.

  As we headed into the kitchen, Lesley sprang from her stool at the island and laid down the cookie she’d been eating. “The mini-quiches are almost ready, Stu,” she said, brushing crumbs from her white blouse.

  “There’s no rush, honey. Sit, please. This is your party, remember? I’m just going to show Rachel the greenhouse.”

  Lesley grimaced.

  Sure enough, on the far side of the kitchen was a glass door through which I could see a greenhouse. Not so small, I thought. Even in the fast-fading light, I could see it overflowed with plants. I ahhed. Stuart, thrilled by my reaction, opened the door and led us inside. We were met by a blast of warm air, humidity, and the earthy scent of damp soil.

  “This isn’t part of the original house,” Stuart said. “I had it built six years ago directly over the soil, so there aren’t any drainage issues. It’s twelve by eighteen feet. Not bad, huh?” He flipped a switch near the doorjamb, and a dozen overhead lights came on.

  “The last time I was in here, you had about a quarter the number of plants,” Gilroy said. “What’s all this?”

  “I’ve been collecting,” Stuart said. “It’s been one of my greatest pleasures. I could spend hours in here. If Lesley would let me, that is,” he added with a chuckle.

  I pointed at a purple-blooming, bare-rooted plant dangling from a hook in the ceiling. “Is that a Vanda orchid?” I asked.

  “You know your stuff, Miss Stowe.”

  “Rachel, please.”

  He tipped his head. “Rachel. Do you raise orchids?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied, “but I love my roses. One of the things that attracted me to my house was its established rose garden in the front yard.”

  In the ten months I’d lived in the small town of Juniper Grove, Colorado, I’d grown to love my faux-Victorian house with its picket fence and front garden brimming with old-fashioned roses. The house was in need of repair—something I was working on at a snail’s pace in between writing mystery novels—but I loved it. As well as the quiet street it sat on. And the foothills of the Rockies, which curved about the town, hugging it on three sides.

  “Vanda orchids can be difficult,” Stuart said, “but give the easier orchids a try sometime. You don’t need a greenhouse for most of them.”

  “Do you still collect Venus flytraps?” Gilroy asked.

  “Do I?” Stuart walked ahead, his shoes crunching loudly over the brown pea gravel on the greenhouse floor. “All of this,” he said, spreading his arms out over a sea of green clam-shaped leaves, the insides of the shells tinged with purple. “I’ve lost count how many flytraps I have, to tell you the truth.”

  “I bet they keep the greenhouse free of pests,” Gilroy said.

  “They do.” Stuart brushed his fingers over several of the plants, and their leaves, sensing prey, closed. “Lesley can’t stand the things.”

  “Because of how they feed?” Gilroy suggested.

  “She thinks they’re cruel. I’ve told her it’s just their nature, and nature is neither cruel nor kind. It operates in neutrality.”

  “Do they actually digest what they trap?” I asked. “I mean, all the way?”

  Stuart nodded. “Except for the exoskeletons.”

  I cringed a little. “I’m not sure I’d want to see them at work.”

  “Or see the insects struggling to free themselves?”

  “I’m with Lesley on that,” I said.

  “If you make it to a certain age, you’re forced to see such things,” Stuart said. “How old are you? Do you mind me asking?”

  Strange as the conversation was, I refused to be shy about my age. “Forty-three, Stuart. How about you?”

  He laughed. “Old enough to know better. Now Lesley, she can swat a fly on a wall, but she can’t bear to see one trapped in a plant.” Again he brushed his plants with his fingers. “But see? The insect has to come to the flytrap. The flytrap doesn’t reach out and grab an insect minding its own business elsewhere. It waits patiently, and then snatches the ones that invade its territory.”

  “Only the insect doesn’t know it’s invaded the plant’s territory,” Gilroy said. “It’s an insect.”

  “Of course it knows,” Stuart said. “But it thinks it can face the leaves with impunity. It considers itself superior to the plant because the plant can’t fly. So it does what it will, thinking the inferior plant will never strike back. And if you watch an insect walk across the leaves, very often the flytrap doesn’t react at first. It doesn’t snatch the creature. Not always. It’s only when enough leaves have been crossed and invaded that the flytrap takes its prize.”

  I sensed a hint of disdain in Stuart’s voice as he lectured his friend of more than seven years. I was sure Gilroy felt that crediting insects with an almost human arrogance was nonsense—as was crediting flytraps with forbearance—but he simply nodded and listened. I’d had enough and wanted to leave the greenhouse.

  My waning attention hadn’t escaped Stuart’s notice. “Venus flytraps aren’t to your liking, Rachel?” he said. “You’re more of an orchid lover, I think.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Then you consider the nonreactive plants the superior ones?”

  I heard a rap at the greenhouse door and turned to see Lesley standing just outside it, pointing at her watch.

  “My wife is reminding me that I have other guests,” Stuart said. “Such a shame. I could stay out here for hours. I’d rather.”

  When Stuart moved for the door, Gilroy stopped him. “What’s going on? Lesley looks upset, and you’re not yourself. Does it have to do with this announcement of yours?”

  “You get straight to the point, James.”

  “I’m a policeman, Stuart.”

  Stuart smiled, and when he spoke again, the disdain I’d heard earlier had vanished from his voice. “That’s precisely why I asked you here, my friend.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “We’ve been trying to figure out how we all know each othe
r,” Jova said as the three of us returned to the great room.

  No longer standing by the fireplace in a circle, the guests had spread out and seated themselves. Jova sat at one end of a three-seat leather couch, and Maurice on the other. Lesley was perched on a fabric-covered ottoman, holding a plate of tiny quiches on her lap, and the two guests I had yet to be introduced to sat on two of the four leather armchairs near the couch. Someone—Lesley, probably—had turned on several lamps in the room, chasing away most of the shadows.

  “Your conclusion?” Stuart said as he wove his way through them toward the fireplace.

  “Our conclusion is we don’t,” Maurice replied.

  Planting himself directly in front of the fire, Stuart did an about-face and thrust his hands in his jeans pockets. “You sound testy, Maurice.”

  “Did you want us all to meet?” the younger woman asked. “Like networking?”

  “James, Rachel,” Stuart said, “this is Brynne Ware, a French teacher at Juniper Grove High. You haven’t met.”

  “None of us have met,” Maurice said.

  “Hi,” Brynne said, twisting our way. She was about thirty, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and pale skin. Her delicate hands rested on the arms of her chair, though now and then her long, thin fingers plucked nervously at the leather. “I’ve heard about you, Chief Gilroy. Of course, everyone in Juniper Grove has.”

  Gilroy did a chin nod.

  “And I’ve heard a little about you, Rachel. You write mystery novels.”

  “Yes, I do.” I tapped Gilroy’s forearm, circled around the couch, and settled into one of the two armchairs left, both of them closest to the fire. Seconds later, Gilroy took the other chair.

  Stuart cleared his throat and flung a finger at a thirty-something man sitting in the opposite armchair. “And this is Kipton Dempster.”

  “Kip,” the man corrected, pushing his blond bangs from his oily forehead. Everything about the man was thin: his face, his arms, his nearly adolescent chest.