Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Box Set 1 Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Mailing List Signup

  Juniper Grove Mystery Series

  Death of a Dead Man

  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

  Chapter 21

  Death of a Scavenger

  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

  At Death's Door

  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

  From the Author

  More Books

  JUNIPER GROVE

  MYSTERY SERIES BOX SET

  BOOKS 1-3

  KARIN KAUFMAN

  Copyright © 2017 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) — Coming Soon

  Cheating Death (Book 6) — Coming Soon

  Death Trap (Book 7) — Coming Soon

  DEATH OF A DEAD MAN

  A JUNIPER GROVE MYSTERY

  KARIN KAUFMAN

  CHAPTER 1

  The September air was sweet with the perfume of late-blooming roses, and except for the sound of my neighbor, Julia, repeatedly opening and closing her door, all was quiet. Though I’d learned to like Julia in the four months I’d lived in Juniper Grove, she struck me as an easily irritated woman, and something was irritating her on this beautiful morning.

  Never mind. The sun was breaking through the pines across the street, warming my face as I stood on my front porch. I was determined to take a walk before the day became too hot and my enthusiasm for exercise flagged.

  Now Julia was mumbling. Something about having had it with people. For an instant I considered heading inside and shooting for my back door. There was a lovely walking trail behind my house. But curiosity got the best of me.

  “Something wrong, Julia?” I said, standing on tiptoe to peer over the privet hedge between our two houses.

  “Rachel, I’m glad you’re up.” She waved a newspaper with one hand and clutched at her robe with the other. “I need to talk to you.”

  She disappeared from view, reappearing seconds later on the sidewalk, thumping toward my front door.

  “Coffee?” I asked as we headed inside. “You don’t look like you’ve had a chance to make any.”

  “I know, I know.” She glanced down at her robe, scowling. “I realize I’m not dressed, but I need to talk to you before anyone else does.”

  “That sounds ominous. Have a seat.”

  She tossed the newspaper onto my kitchen table and sat. “You think you know people. You live in the same place for decades, and you think you know them, but you’re wrong.”

  She was fidgeting now, combing her fingers through her short, pillow-ruffled gray hair. I started the coffee, and while it was brewing I joined her. “Something’s really troubling you.”

  Julia gestured at the paper, touched it, drew back her hand, then took a firm hold of it. “I want you to hear my side of the story, because it’s not coming out with that woman in charge.”

  “What woman?”

  “The editor in chief of this rag, Jillian Newsome.”

  “I don’t get the paper,” I said, taking it from Julia’s hand and setting it on the table before me.

  “Very wise.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “She put it above the fold to make it extra-hard to miss, and there’s a sidebar below it on the history of the case.” Julia reached over and unfolded the newspaper, pressing it flat.

  Immediately the name Foster caught my eye. Julia’s last name. “George Foster officially declared dead,” I read aloud. Puzzled, I looked to Julia. “But I thought your husband was dead. Didn’t you say he died years ago?”

  “Seven years and five days ago. But they never found his body, so the courts only ruled him dead three days ago. I had to go to court to have them state the obvious.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “That’s because I don’t talk about it, Rachel. Finish reading.” She rose and headed for the coffeepot.

  “Pour me a cup, will you?” I went back to the paper. George Foster disappeared after stealing $300,000 from his bank, the article reminded everyone. I suppressed an urge to gasp. The bank’s vice president and Foster’s partner in crime, Mitch Dillard, disappeared at the same time, though Dillard’s body was found in the Blue River the next day. Foster’s body was never found.

  “Here you go. Black?”

  “That’s fine.” I took the cup and tried not to stare gobsmacked at my neighbor. I knew she was a widow—everyone in our town of twelve hundred souls knew that. She had lived in Juniper Grove her entire adult life. “How hard for you.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said simply. “Did you finish reading?”

  “Not yet.” I took a long sip of coffee, hoping she would fill me in. I didn’t even want the Juniper Grove Post in my house. I’d sworn off newspapers.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” she said, dragging the paper her way. “George stole that money, I know that. And then he deserted me. But he died trying to get away. He and Mitch, in the river that same day. He drowned, and the police and the search-and-rescue team that looked for them and found the destroyed raft both testified to that. Body or no body, there was no way George made it
out alive.”

  “But you had to wait seven years.”

  Julia nodded. “For the official ruling. So I can get his name off this house, off our car, off our bank account. The mess of it all.” She massaged her temples.

  “You said raft. Why didn’t they drive out?”

  “They didn’t have time. They didn’t know it, but they were being watched. The bank didn’t normally keep anywhere near that much cash on hand, but George and Mitch waited for the one day they knew money was being transferred.”

  “And the police knew too?”

  “The moment they left the bank. George and Mitch must have been listening to a police scanner because they took the river to bypass the roadblocks. When they got to the river, they stole the raft from some outfitter. I can’t imagine how they thought they’d get away.”

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Roadblocks, a police chase, a river-raft escape. This was Juniper Grove, not Denver. We were sixty miles to the northwest of that city and a whole world away. “Just the two of them on a raft?”

  “They knew nothing about rafting on that wild river. How foolish can you get?” She shook her head, disgust in her tone, but I saw tears beginning to well in her eyes.

  “But it’s over now, Julia. Forget the newspaper. Everyone must know what happened seven years ago, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” Julia said with a rueful laugh. “Jillian Newsome was a reporter back then. She made her career on speculation.”

  “What did she speculate on?”

  “On me.” Julia wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup. “She suggested I was involved, that George isn’t really dead, and that I got at least part of that $300,000.”

  Her eyes did not meet mine. She stared into her coffee, waiting for me to speak. My short, sixty-something neighbor involved in a bank heist? At first blush it seemed absurd, and if she had that kind of money, even a third of it, where was it? Her house was in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, her car was an old Ford, and I’d been inside her house—no big-screen TV, no fancy furniture. Julia was a plain woman with plain tastes. Much like me.

  “Why are you shaking your head?” Julia asked.

  “Well, I mean, it seems so crazy.”

  “It’s a nightmare.”

  “What’s the date on this?” I took hold of the paper and searched the top of the front page. “Day before yesterday.”

  “The day after the court ruling. You didn’t hear anything?”

  “I’ve been in my house, writing.” I smiled. “I get so involved sometimes, I forget to get out.”

  “So now you know.”

  “I do, but it doesn’t matter. And you shouldn’t . . .” I fumbled for words. Was she worried I’d look at her with suspicion? I was in Juniper Grove for a fresh start in life, and I wanted to extend that fresh start to her as well. “I’m glad you trusted me with this information, but it doesn’t matter, Julia. Never mind that fish wrap of a newspaper. Tomorrow they’ll come out with a new edition. People on this street love you. I know, I’ve seen it.”

  She tried to smile, her hand rising again to her tousled hair. “Thank you.”

  “So drink your coffee,” I said, motioning with my head at her cup.

  Julia did as instructed, but the expression on her face told me the conversation wasn’t over.

  “We should go get ourselves some scones or cream puffs,” I said, forcing a lightheartedness I did not feel into my voice. “I’ll treat.”

  “You and your cream puffs,” she said.

  “Something else is wrong, isn’t it? Spill the beans, come on.”

  She pulled a folded piece of green paper from her robe pocket and opened it. “I’m far more worried about this, but that awful Newsome woman started it with that article.” She slid the paper toward me. “It was taped to my front door this morning.”

  I unfolded it and read, “You can’t fool me. I know what you did seven years ago.”

  “Who would do that?” she asked. “I’ve known the people on this street for forty years. I’ve lived in the same house all that time.”

  “You should tell the police. Someone was foolish enough to write that in their own hand instead of run it out on a printer. They could trace the handwriting, the ink, the paper.”

  “Absolutely not.” She gulped her coffee, setting her cup back on the table with a little too much force. “I’m not starting that again. It would be like poking a rattlesnake.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I thought maybe . . . I thought, you know . . .”

  Realizing what she was asking me, I crossed my arms over my chest, giving her a taste of my don’t-even-start body language. “I’m sorry, but no. That’s not a good idea. I’m a writer, not—”

  “You’re a mystery writer, Rachel. You know about these things.”

  I leaned forward. “I know the crimes I make up in books. And I lead a very isolated and quiet life.”

  “And you like it that way, I understand. I’d like my life that way too.”

  She looked so small and defeated, it broke my heart a little. But how could I help? I dealt with made-up life—life I controlled down to the last comma. Not real life.

  When the doorbell rang, I was relieved. Between the kitchen table, the front door, and back again, I would come up with something to say to Julia. She needed to go to the police about the note or forget about it. Or maybe talk to this Jillian Newsome woman and let her know the damage her article had done.

  I opened the door to find Holly Kavanagh standing on the top step, holding a small pink box tied with twine. “I’m bearing gifts,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Is that one of your cream puffs?” The box was obviously from her bakery, Holly’s Sweets, so whatever it held was bound to be delicious. I grabbed it and thanked her profusely. “Come in. Want some coffee? Why aren’t you at the bakery?”

  “My part-timer took over for an hour. I was looking for Julia, and I thought maybe—there you are!” Holly made a beeline for the kitchen table, her long, dark ponytail swinging with each stride.

  “Rachel and I are having coffee,” Julia said flatly.

  Holly took my seat at the table and latched on to Julia’s hands. “I need to show you something. I don’t want you to worry, but I think you should know about it because it involves more than me, and you know how people talk.”

  As she retrieved a piece of green paper from her jeans pocket, Julia gasped.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, taking a chair. I directed Holly’s attention to Julia’s note on the table.

  “No,” Holly breathed. “Like this one?” She unfolded her paper, and there, in the same handwriting as Julia’s note, were the words “You can’t fool me. I know what you did seven years ago.”

  “Exactly like that one. What on earth is going on?” I said.

  “Seven years,” Holly said. “I’m sorry, Julia, but it could only mean one thing.” She turned to me. “You weren’t here then, Rachel.”

  “I was working in Boston at the time.”

  “I’ve told her all about it,” Julia said.

  Holly nodded. “Good. Because I have a feeling these notes are going to end up in the Juniper Grove Post. You know how I hear the early morning happenings when I open the bakery doors?”

  “Otherwise known as gossip?” Julia replied.

  “The same note was left on the police department’s door, the newspaper’s door, the mayor’s office, and the town attorney’s front door. The front door of his home. The attorney is steaming mad. And those are only the places I’ve heard about. There could be more.”

  “Who’s doing this?” Julia asked. “And what do they want?” She sagged back in her chair and looked from Holly to me.

  “It scares me to think someone was at my house in the middle of the night, taping this to my door,” Holly said. “I found it when I left for the bakery.”

  “I’ve told Julia she should go to the police,” I said to Holly
. “But you said someone put this same note on the police department’s door?”

  “That’s right. Same wording. Officer Hammond came in—it was his turn to buy donuts—and told me about it. He said the chief was ticked off.”

  “Then I don’t need to say a word to them,” Julia declared.

  Holly’s eyes strayed to Julia’s newspaper. “Rachel, if I remember right, you don’t get the paper.”

  “Not on your life.” I stood and headed for the coffeemaker, cup in hand. What remained of my coffee had gone cold, and I needed some hot, black caffeine this morning. What was I going to do to help Julia? What could I do? “Did you want some coffee, Holly? I’m making a new batch.”

  “So this paper is Julia’s?” she replied.

  “It’s mine,” Julia said.

  I turned. The two were exchanging sidelong glances while Holly turned the paper’s pages.

  “Did you read the article about George?” Holly asked.

  “I started to. Why?”

  “It continues on page three,” she said.

  “And?”

  “It mentions you,” Julia said.

  “Why me?”

  In answer to my question, Holly read aloud from the paper. “The bank’s cash was rumored to be buried somewhere behind 504 Finch Hill Road, on the property now owned by Rachel Stowe, forty-three, formerly of Boston.”

  I nearly dropped the coffee pot. “Why such detail? Who wrote that?”

  “The gracious Ms. Newsome herself.”

  “But why mention Boston? What’s that got to do with anything?” I set the coffeepot back down and retook my seat at the table. “I’m sorry, Julia, I shouldn’t complain. Not with what you’re going through.”

  “That’s all right,” Julia said, patting my hand. “You have a right to be upset.”

  I was beginning to dislike this editor in chief as much as Julia appeared to. How were the details of my life part of George Foster’s story? “And she mentions my age,” I said. “That seems gratuitous.”

  “That’s how Newsome rolls,” Holly said. “You’re not the first bystander to get trolled by her.”