Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 2 Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Mailing List Signup

  Juniper Grove Mystery Series

  Death of a Santa

  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

  Scared to Death

  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

  Cheating Death

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chaprter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  From the Author

  More Books

  JUNIPER GROVE

  MYSTERY SERIES BOX SET

  BOOKS 1-3

  KARIN KAUFMAN

  Copyright © 2017-2018 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)

  Death of a Scavenger (Book 2)

  At Death’s Door (Book 3)

  Death of a Santa (Book 4)

  Scared to Death (Book 5)

  Cheating Death (Book 6)

  Juniper Grove Box Set: Books 1-3

  DEATH OF A SANTA

  A JUNIPER GROVE MYSTERY

  KARIN KAUFMAN

  CHAPTER 1

  Ellen Lambert held up a small bundle of evergreens, turning it this way and that, making sure everyone at the table could see it. “The secret to making the perfect bundle is the layering,” she said. “If you get the layering right, you get the bundles right. And if you get the bundles right, you get the Christmas wreath right.”

  Ellen’s bundle was rightness itself, I had to admit. Dense and fleshy, with three distinct shades of green. “I love the smell of the cedar,” I said, holding my limp bundle to my nose. It was smaller than Ellen’s, and more than half cedar, making it flip-floppy.

  “The bundles should be the size of a man’s hand,” Ellen went on, “with spruce on the bottom, a smaller sprig of pine in the middle, and an even smaller sprig of cedar on top. Hold them together and then wrap them tightly with wire, leaving at least four inches of wire to attach the bundle to the frame. When we’re done, we’ll add berry clusters to some of the wreaths.”

  Few people could issue such precise instructions without veering into bossiness, but Ellen’s perfectionism was softened by her eager smile and her purpose: to make the best wreaths possible to take to nursing homes, hospices, and hospitals tomorrow, the day before Christmas Eve.

  Deciding my bundle would droop pathetically on a metal wreath frame, I began to unwind the wire that held the twigs together.

  “Rachel, save that,” Ellen said, sticking out her hand. “It’s just right. We always need small ones to fill in bare spots.”

  And few people could make it sound like my bundle’s fault was its strength. “You have an eye for these crafty things,” I told her.

  “So will you after your first wreath.” She grinned broadly, her full cheeks making apples beneath her brown eyes.

  “I hope so. Right now I’m all fumble fingers.” I glanced about the dining room, wishing I’d brought my neighbor Julia with me. Although I’d met Ellen in downtown Juniper Grove—which is where she’d corralled me into helping with her wreath project—I didn’t know the other women at the table. But this was the new me. Not just getting involved in charity work, which I’d always wanted to do, but meeting people while doing it. I loved writing mystery novels, and writing them paid my bills, but I needed to get out of the house more often. And now that I had a man in my life—thinking of James Gilroy, I had to squelch a grin—I was ready to start fresh. To leave every rusted bit of the past behind.

  A ding sounded from the kitchen, and Ellen pushed back her chair and stood, announcing that her snowball cookies were ready.

  “More cookies?” said Bonnie Eskew, holding her hand to her stomach and puffing out her cheeks.

  Ellen had already set a tray mounded with six different kinds of cookies smack in the middle of the table, and I’d indulged in all six.

  “This is your recipe for the Four Santas, so no complaints,” Ellen called over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen, her home’s old floorboards creaking under her feet.

  “You asked for it,” Bonnie called back. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  “Who are the Four Santas?” I said.

  “Carolers,” Bonnie replied. She laughed and patted her tightly permed gray hair. “Four men in their sixties who dress up as Santa Claus and sing Christmas carols like they’re in a barbershop quartet. My Craig is one of them.”

  “I love carolers,” I said. “For some reason I never saw them in Boston.” Though I was a native Coloradoan, I’d spent seven lonely years in Boston, working as an editor for a high-powered publishing company, and now, seven months after leaving Massachusetts for Juniper Grove, I was still getting used to the sweet and slower ways of my new Colorado town.

  Amber de Witte laughed and glanced from Bonnie to me. “I’ll tell you something frightening, Rachel. With every year that goes by, those four guys look more and more like Santa Claus, and that’s without the suits. All they have to do is add the fake beards.” Amber had been the last to arrive, and her face was still pink from the cold, a skin tone accentuated by her cherry-colored lips, red sweater, and long auburn hair. “They don’t even need padding anymore, do they, Bonnie?” she added.

  “Not so much these days,” Bonnie said with a giggle. “Craig’s padding is all natural.”

  Carrying a large platter filled with cookies, Ellen entered the dining room and pushed aside a stack of spruce twigs to make room at the table. “Snowballs with chocolate filling. I decided to add walnuts. They’re still warm and gooey. Try them and tell me what you think.”

&nb
sp; Once was all she needed to ask. I reached out for my seventh cookie. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one indulging. Ellen and I shared a need to lose twenty-five or so pounds—a fact that immediately, if irrationally, made me like her—and Sonya Quinn, sitting next to me, had unashamedly devoured at least a dozen cookies. I was in good company.

  “Craig adores all your cookies, but especially ones with chocolate,” Bonnie said, taking one and modestly placing it on a napkin in front of her, waiting for just the right time to nibble at it. The rest of us were scarfers, but not Bonnie. She was the oldest wreath maker at the table, in her mid-sixties, and her thin and able fingers could layer and wrap a bundle in twenty seconds flat, I’d noticed. On the other end of the age scale, there was Amber, in her mid-thirties and almost as slow as I was.

  “Awesome,” Sonya said, quickly polishing off her cookie and wiping her hands on her jeans. “I love your new cookies, and I like walnuts.”

  “So will the Four Santas,” I said.

  Bonnie leaned back in her chair and jammed her hands into the pockets of her dark green cardigan. “Soon to be three, I think.”

  Sonya froze, her fourteenth cookie midway to her mouth. “What does that mean?”

  “Craig is leaving?” Ellen asked.

  Bonnie bit her lip and nodded.

  “But why?” Amber asked.

  “He thinks it’s time.” Bonnie reached up to pat her tight cap of hair again, a habit that seemed to soothe her.

  I glanced at the solemn faces around me, wondering if I’d missed something. So Craig wasn’t going to sing with the Four Santas anymore. Was that so tragic? If he was in his mid-sixties like Bonnie, or older, going from door to door in the bitter December cold had to be losing its appeal.

  “The end of an era,” Ellen said, a wistful tone in her voice.

  “But Craig isn’t any older than the others,” Amber said. “Micah Schultz is older.”

  Sonya’s head jerked.

  “Micah is sixty-seven,” Ellen said.

  Amber frowned. “Like I said, he’s older.”

  “By one year, for heaven’s sake,” Bonnie said.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Sonya said. “I don’t like endings.”

  “Get used to endings,” Bonnie said. “That’s what life is all about.”

  “I agree with Sonya,” Ellen said. “Let’s talk about Christmas. Rachel, have you bought your tree yet?”

  The sudden shift in the conversation left me speechless for a moment. “Um . . . no, not yet. I usually have my tree up the day after Thanksgiving, but not this year. I was going to buy one this afternoon.” After working like mad to meet my publisher’s deadline on my new book, and with less than three days until Christmas, I was woefully behind on my decorating.

  “There’s a place on Main Street,” Sonya said, eagerly participating in the conversational shift. “You go east of downtown, I think. They have the best trees.”

  “Thanks, I’ll try it.”

  Ellen smiled with relief. The subject of Craig Eskew leaving the Four Santas had disturbed her for some reason, but we had safely navigated our way to Christmas trees.

  “I love your tree, Ellen,” I said. “And the wreaths on your gate and front door. As soon as I get the hang of this wreath thing, I’m going to make one for my front door.”

  Ellen grinned, pleased I’d noticed her lush but simple wreaths, both of them tied with big red bows. But I was an unabashed lover of Christmas trees, wreaths, garlands, and lights, and nothing Christmasy escaped my notice.

  “Listen,” Bonnie commanded, holding up a hand. “They’re next door.”

  “I can’t hear anything,” Amber said. “Oh wait, yes I can.”

  “Why carol on a Wednesday?” I asked. “And at ten o’clock in the morning?”

  “They’ll come through the gate any minute now,” Bonnie said, paying no attention to my question. She stood and pushed her chair out from the table, scraping it along the floor. “Ellen, can I open your door?”

  “Of course.” Ellen reached for her platter of cookies, but before she could lay hands on it, Bonnie seized it and made for the front door.

  “Wow,” Amber said.

  “It’s Craig’s last year with the Santas,” Ellen said, shoving back a lock of her salt-and-pepper hair. “It makes sense she wants to hand out the cookies.”

  “But you made them,” Amber said.

  “It’s fine, Amber. Come on, everyone.”

  Ellen led us through her kitchen and into her living room, a cheerful Christmas carol growing louder in our ears the closer we drew to her open front door. A sudden gust sent a blast of frigid air inside, and I hugged myself to stay warm. Amber had been right about the caroling Santas. The four men standing on the Lamberts’ porch, dressed in full Santa gear, looked shockingly alike, though their suits—and details like their uniformly rouged cheeks—were largely responsible for the effect. Three impatient Santas were chewing cookies while they sang, and one had to keep adjusting his ill-fitting hat.

  Ten seconds later, the carol was over and Bonnie was thrusting the cookie platter at the carolers. Four black-mittened Santa hands reached out, grabbing three and four cookies each. Sonya of the Fourteenth Cookie had nothing on these guys. They were ravenous. One of the Santas even lifted his ponderous white mustache to clear a smoother path to his mouth. They grinned and chewed, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

  “You all look so cold,” Ellen said, ushering the carolers inside. “Come on, take a break. There are more cookies inside, and plenty of hot coffee.”

  They stomped the snow from their black boots and stepped inside, two of them still reaching for the platter in Bonnie’s hands.

  “It’s freezing out there,” one of the Santas said.

  “It’s warm in the kitchen,” Ellen said, gesturing for them to follow her.

  Sonya greeted one of the Santas with a hug and then wrapped her arms around his ample waist and led him toward the kitchen. Another Santa pressed his hand to Bonnie’s back, gently propelling her forward.

  Ellen’s kitchen was large, with cream-colored walls and rich walnut cabinets, and it smelled of sugar, coffee, and pine-scented candles. Sunlight streamed through a skylight overhead and a pair of French doors overlooking the backyard, reflecting off the center island’s white quartz top. I stood by the doors, soaking in the light and warmth.

  “It’s toasty in here,” Amber said appreciatively.

  Bonnie laid the cookie platter on the island, Ellen and Sonya set about pouring the coffee and serving it, and all but one of the Santas dug once more into the cookies. The fourth Santa, the one Sonya had hugged, was silently watching me as he removed his mittens to take a mug from Ellen. It seemed to me he was calculating whether to approach. I smiled.

  He set down his mug, walked to the French doors, and took my hand in both of his. “You’re the only one here I don’t recognize. You must be Rachel Stowe. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You have?” Feeling uncomfortable, I pulled my hand from his.

  “Most people in Juniper Grove have by now.”

  “And you are?” I said.

  “Micah Schultz, the original Santa of the Four Santas. And how old are you, Rachel?”

  I’d decided in my thirties not to be coy about my age, so despite being taken aback by his question, I answered him. “Forty-three. And how old are you, Micah?” I’d just learned how old he was, but his somewhat tactless question deserved a somewhat tactless response.

  “My niece is forty-four. A year older than you.” He slipped off his Santa hat and let it fall to the floor.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Sonya’s her name. She’s over by the coffeemaker.”

  Micah, it seemed, was adept at avoiding questions. “Yes, I see her. I met her today for the first time.”

  “She’s kind. And she’s younger than her years.”

  “She seems very nice.”

  “I’m asking you to find out who’s thr
eatening her.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Both her parents are gone, she’s not married, and she doesn’t have sisters or brothers. I’m her only family.” He shot a glance at the coffeemaker. “Answer me quickly, before she comes over here.”

  “Micah, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

  “Find out who’s threatening her. You’re good at working these things out. I’m afraid for her.”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  He slowly shook his head. He looked drained, and sweat beaded his brow. I told him to sit, that we could finish talking in the dining room, but he pressed on, glancing now and then at Sonya, and smiling at her when she looked back at him.

  “To answer your question, Rachel, I feel ninety.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Amber staring at us and two of the other Santas, less bold in their nosiness, taking surreptitious glances as they stocked up on more cookies. “How is Sonya being threatened?”

  “Phone calls to her house late at night, to her job—telling her boss she’s done all kinds of things she hasn’t. Someone stuck a knife into her apartment door while she was gone.” He sidestepped to the one of the doors and sagged against it, running his eyes over the room and everyone in it, glaring at them as if warning them to keep their distance. “Don’t trust anyone in this kitchen. You might not be safe because I’m talking to you. And if that’s true, Rachel, I’m sorry.” He looked me square in the eyes. “Just find out. I need fresh air.”

  “You should sit,” I said. I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Micah, you don’t look well.”

  “I felt fine a minute ago. If I can get some air.”

  “But then let’s talk, all right? I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s hard to think straight.” He opened one of the French doors, stepped outside, and turned back. “Find out. Please.”

  I pulled the door shut behind him to keep the wind out and watched as he walked off the patio into Ellen’s backyard, his black boots shuffling, cutting a trail in the pristine layer of snow.