Death Knell (Juniper Grove Cozy Mystery Book 8) Page 3

  “So you’ve been questioned by the police before?”

  “Absolutely not. But I understand how things work.”

  Gilroy pivoted sideways and extended an arm toward the living room. “Why don’t we begin, Miss Francis?”

  “Do you mind if I change out of my robe first? My room’s on the first floor.”

  “Go ahead, but bring your robe and pajamas back with you.”

  “Looking for evidence?” Alison sniffed loudly, making her displeasure known, and marched off for her bedroom while Gilroy made his way to what was now the interview room.

  Alison was bound to lose any and all verbal jousts with Gilroy, I thought. She just didn’t know that yet.

  Sophie pushed back her chair and stood. “Officer, I have to check the downspouts.”

  Turner raised a quizzical brow.

  “We’re about to get rain,” Sophie continued, “and I have to make sure the downspouts are in place.” She waved her hand. “It’s complicated. Can I check them now, please? I’ll be back in three minutes.”

  “I can help,” I said, pushing to my feet. “Is that all right?”

  “Yup, sounds good,” Turner said. “Go out the front door, please.”

  Turner knew my plan was to chat with Sophie, perhaps get her to spill a few beans. A mystery writer by profession, I’d developed a reputation as a bit of an amateur sleuth—or a snoop, depending who you asked.

  Once outside, I paused at the stone wall and took a deep, cleansing breath of air.

  “I know they seem petty,” Sophie said, “but they’re not like that all the time, really. They’re friends. We just can’t believe what happened, and those crazy bells didn’t help. Our nerves are frazzled. We were all in tears when we found Lauren. Except Alison, of course. But then, that’s Alison. She doesn’t like to let on.”

  “Why?”

  “She hates feeling vulnerable, and showing pain makes you vulnerable, doesn’t it? Some people take it as a sign of weakness and use it against you.”

  “When did they all get here?”

  “Friday night.”

  Thunder sounded again. Sophie rubbed her arms, as if in expectation of a chilly rain, and strode around the wall to her right. “I’ll be glad when I don’t have to check these spouts anymore. There.” She pointed at a raised downspout extension. “The lawn people raise these when they mow and refuse to put them back down.”

  “You don’t want water pouring next to the foundation,” I said, nodding my head.

  Sophie smiled. “Not until the sale goes through and I’m out of here.”

  “You’re selling the cottage?”

  “I have to. It’s been in my family for decades, but it’s too much for me now. And the rain we’ve had the past two years? Unbelievable. Come on, let me show you.”

  Still dressed in her robe, she led me away from the house, the church, and its graveyard, up a gentle, grassy slope. Ahead of us were the same kind of junipers and shrubs I’d seen when entering the cottage grounds from St. John’s side. Here, too, they formed a barrier, a green wall. Where the ground leveled out, we stopped. Thirty feet ahead were sidewalks, cars, and houses. A humming Juniper Grove that had all but vanished in the still of the cottage grounds.

  “No wonder it’s so quiet down there,” I said. “The trees and land are like soundproofing.”

  “But look behind you.” Sophie pointed.

  I turned. Her cottage sat in a shallow, verdant dish. Talk about vulnerable. Though Colorado’s climate was semi-arid, we occasionally experienced flooding rains, and Wild Rose Cottage had foolishly been built in the middle of a natural collection point. Soft rains would fall harmlessly, soaking into the ground, but heavy rains would race down the slope toward the cottage. Even the church and its graveyard were on higher ground.

  “I can see your problem,” I said. “This doesn’t bother your buyer?”

  “My buyer is St. John’s,” Sophie said, “and they know all about this.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Sophie and I quickly checked the remaining downspouts and hurried back to the house, figuring Turner was wondering where on earth we’d gone. Gilroy had finished questioning Alison, and, according to Turner, had nearly finished talking to Tyra when we returned.

  “How long does it take to check gutter spouts?” Mariette asked.

  “I wanted a tour of the cottage grounds,” I said, retaking my seat at the table. “I’ve never been here before. It’s lovely.”

  Sophie went to the kitchen sink and announced she was going to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  Turner cleared his throat.

  “Coming up, Officer,” Sophie said.

  Mariette’s slender fingers, her nails glistening with clear polish, tapped the table. She had changed into a long summery dress, and her robe and pink nightgown were folded neatly in the center of the table. Next to them were two other robes and two sets of pajamas belonging to Tyra and Alison.

  “This is probably your last chance to see Wild Rose,” Mariette said. “Sophie’s selling it.”

  “Mariette is my real estate agent,” Sophie said.

  “That’s why our May meeting was here,” Mariette said, “even though we met here in April and we usually alternate houses every month. We needed to say farewell to the house.” She flaunted her broad, toothy smile. “The sale is a good thing for Sophie, but of course it’s also bittersweet.”

  “Sophie,” Holly said, sliding sideways in her seat, “may I ask how old the cottage is?”

  “Age was built into the appearance,” Sophie said. She flicked on the coffeemaker and headed back to the kitchen table. “It was meant to look like an old English cottage, right down to the name Wild Rose Cottage. My parents built it forty years ago, and this has been my home since the day I was born.”

  “Your parents don’t live here?” Holly asked.

  “They died four years ago, and the house was passed to me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Sophie’s eyes wandered over the kitchen and dining area, from the enormous cast-iron range to the large hutch at the other end of the table, where Alison sat. As her eyes focused first here and then there, she seemed to relive small moments of her past. How sad that one of her last memories of the place would be the death of her friend Lauren.

  “I need more coffee,” Tyra announced as she shuffled back to the table and sank into her seat. “Getting interviewed is weirdly exhausting.”

  Underhill poked his head in from the living room and motioned to Mariette. “Mrs. Shipley?”

  “That would be me.” Mariette grinned—she seemed predisposed to do that, regardless of the circumstance—and accompanied Underhill into the living room and toward Sophie’s office.

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was just before seven in the morning, my usual rising time on Sundays. I was Julia’s ride to church, and I needed to let her know I wouldn’t be making it this morning. But what were Holly and I to do? Stay awhile longer? Sophie wanted us to, though I wasn’t sure how we could help her. But clearly she was wary of her own friends—understandably, since one of them was a killer.

  “Do you need to leave?” Sophie asked. She’d seen me check the clock.

  “I need to take care of a few things,” I said.

  “Can you come back tonight? Holly too. I’d love to have you for dinner. And your other friend—the one I see you with in the library. I’ve forgotten her name, but we’ve talked.”

  “Julia Foster.” I looked from Alison to Tyra. “Are you two staying tonight?”

  “We’d originally planned to,” Alison said, “but I’m not sure now. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I’m staying,” Tyra said. “The next woman to die in Penelope Falls is—”

  “We know, we know,” Alison said, jamming her fingers into her short bangs. “There’s no need to go over and over it.”

  “I’d like to know,” I said, once more overriding one of Alison’s proclamations. I stuck out my
hand. “Give me another copy of the book, would you? How many victims are there and how did they die?”

  Tyra propelled another paperback my way. “Victim two is electrocuted by a toaster in her own apartment. She could have survived the shock, but when it happens, she falls and cracks her skull on her kitchen counter. Victim three is strangled near a church, and the killer kicks her down an embankment into a church graveyard, where she’s discovered the next morning.”

  “What?” I could hardly believe my ears. And Alison didn’t think these fictional murders were creepily relevant?

  “Yeah, weird,” Tyra said, appreciating my reaction. “And the last victim is shoved from a church bell tower.”

  “All the victims are women?”

  “Yep. And so is the killer.”

  “I’d like to take this book with me, if that’s okay,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  Sophie’s expression told me she wasn’t convinced of a connection. “Tyra, do you really think one of us is using that book as a murder map?”

  “Maybe not,” Tyra said, “but I’m the only one who lives alone in an apartment, and I don’t want to go back there so I can be a guinea pig for my theory.”

  She had a point. A small one, but a point nonetheless. Still, her only other options were to stay at Sophie’s cottage or check into a hotel.

  “What about the Lilac Lane Bed and Breakfast?” I asked her. “Just until the police find out what happened.”

  “Or you can stay here,” Sophie said.

  “And lock my bedroom door?” Tyra said.

  “Sounds like you don’t want to be alone either, Sophie,” Alison said. “Neither does Mariette. She’s as nervous as a baby chick when her husband’s out of the country. We’re adult women, for heaven’s sake, so let’s behave like we are. Home or here, I really don’t care one way or the other.”

  Sophie stood abruptly. “Then go home, Alison. Feel free.”

  Alison’s jaw dropped and she spread out her hands, declaring her innocence. “I’m just saying.”

  I’d had enough of Alison of the Short Bangs. Getting riled up this early in the morning wasn’t my thing. I wanted breakfast and a decent cup of hazelnut coffee. “What time would you like us for dinner, Sophie?” I asked, speaking for Holly and hoping she didn’t mind. Sunday night was family night at her house.

  “Six?”

  “You got it.”

  holly and i made our way back to my car through St. John’s graveyard, walking out of that cool green oasis into the warm May sunshine of the church lawn. It had rained, but only a sprinkle, and now the sun was out again. At the curb, I turned back and saw that the church’s doors were wide open.

  “The pastor must be inside,” Holly said. “Gilroy would’ve closed the doors. Is it just me or are you still curious about those bells?”

  “It’s not just you.” I tossed my copy of Penelope Falls into my car, took my phone from the center console, and called Julia to let her know I wouldn’t be at home when she knocked on my door for church.

  “When we’re done, I need a good cup of coffee,” Holly said, cutting a path across the church lawn. “I didn’t think anything could be worse than police station coffee, but I was wrong.”

  “Coffee at my house when we’ve finished here,” I said.

  We stepped through the doors—I spotted the crowbar damage at the deadbolt right away—and into a beige-tiled lobby. Ahead was another pair of doors, mostly glass, leading to the sanctuary, and to our left and right were halls that I assumed led to various church offices.

  “Go right?” Holly asked, taking off. She was on a mission. Her grandmother’s fear of bells and of what they foretold, though somewhat diminished in Holly—with her it was more intense curiosity than fear—had nevertheless become a part of her.

  We found the pastor’s office on the first door to the right. Pastor Kenneth Ackley, a sign outside read. Inside, a red-haired man dressed in jeans and a blue shirt sat with his back to the open door, his eyes fastened on a computer monitor.

  I knocked on the doorframe.

  He swiveled back, smiled, and rose. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  In spite of his harried morning, not to mention my subsequent bumbling explanation of who we were and why we were in his church, he welcomed us into his office and showed us the electronic black box that controlled St. John’s bells.

  “We’ve been using this system from MacAllan for eight years, and we’ve never had a malfunction like that,” Ackley said, shaking his head at the box. “I’ve been trying to find the fault in the system, but it’s not there.”

  “What do you think that means?” Holly asked.

  “There wasn’t an error,” he said. “Someone reprogrammed the box.” He gestured toward a pair of chairs against the office wall, inviting us to sit.

  “Why would anyone do that?” I asked, taking one of the chairs.

  “The question isn’t only why, but when and how,” he replied, tilting his head for emphasis. In his mid-forties, he had a gentle face and a bit of a paunch, and as he spoke, a strand of red hair fell onto his forehead. He pushed it back and continued. “Though it’s not so hard to break into the system. Not for someone who understands technology better than I do. The next question is, when was it reprogrammed? It could have been any time after last Sunday’s service. I wouldn’t have known, and neither would anyone else. The system operates without constant checking. That’s the beauty of it.”

  “How would someone break into the system?” I asked.

  “That’s the part of this that concerns me most,” he said. He rotated the monitor on his desk so we could see it. “Someone could have come in here, gone into my computer, and changed the program settings. It’s easy. You open the app, click on the time and day, then click Apply. Anyone with a basic knowledge of computers could have done it.”

  The question had to be asked. “Could it have been someone on your staff?”

  “No,” he said adamantly. “I’ve worked with the same people for the eight years we’ve had this bell system. I trust them completely. Aside from that, there’s almost always someone in the office. It wouldn’t be easy to sneak in.”

  “Who else had access?” Holly said.

  “Anyone, I suppose,” he said. “Inside or outside the church.” He reached for his cell phone next to his monitor. “The bell system is on a computer program on a church computer that has minimal security and an embarrassingly easy password. I intend to change it later today. I even have an app on my phone.” The pastor tapped an app button and showed us the program as it loaded on his phone. “I almost forgot about it because I never use it.” He set the phone down again and crossed his arms on his chest. “Someone hacked the system. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  It made a lot of sense, I had to agree. I leaned forward, anxious not to give the poor man yet another jolt. “Did the police tell you about Lauren Hughes?”

  Ackley nodded sadly. “Chief Gilroy did. I drove up a minute or two after he broke in.”

  “The neighbors were getting antsy.”

  “He had to do it, I understand. My wife and I couldn’t hear the bells at my house, you see. We live in the foothills outside of town. First I got a call from a neighbor, and when I was in my car driving to the church, the police called, but service cut out before I could answer. By the time I made it here, they’d fixed the problem. I walked into the lobby just as Gilroy was leaving the office.”

  “How did he turn it off?” I asked.

  “He flipped a switch on the black box. A simple toggle switch.” Ackley fell silent. For a poignant moment, he appeared stunned by the morning’s events. “Lauren was only with St. John’s for six months. I’ll miss her. The church will miss her.”

  “So she wasn’t on staff for eight years?”

  “No, she’s the exception. Everyone else, though, eight years.”

  “Did she work full time?” Holly asked.

  “At least thirty hours
a week, sometimes more,” he said. “She organized the office, organized our files, answered the phone, sent out thank-you and sympathy cards, updated our website, and on and on. She was tireless.”

  Feeling we’d taken enough of Ackley’s time, I got to my feet. He rose too, and then shook my hand and Holly’s.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Sophie tells me St. John’s is buying her land and cottage.”

  He brightened a little. “Yes, if all goes right. Some of the land will end up as a parking lot. As you can probably tell, we don’t have much in the way of parking. How is Sophie doing?”

  “She’s still in shock, but she’ll be all right,” I said.

  I thanked him, started to leave, and then immediately circled back. I’d neglected an important question. “Why do you think the bell system was reprogrammed? Sophie Crawford told me the bells started chiming a few minutes after she found Lauren’s body.”

  “Like the bells tolled her death,” Holly said.

  Ackley made a face. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “No, no,” Holly said. “But it gives me chills thinking about it.”

  “Which is the effect someone wanted. For whom do the bells toll?” he said with a note of gentle humor. “Do I think Lauren’s death and the bell-system reprogramming are a coincidence? Probably not. Do I think the bells on their own tolled her death? Absolutely not. I have faith, ladies, not superstition. I think when the police find out why the bells were reprogrammed, they’ll find out who killed Lauren.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Holly and I hadn’t been in my house more than sixty seconds when Julia knocked on the door.

  “I want to have Julia’s speed and agility when I’m her age,” I said to Holly as I hurried to let her in. “Keep making coffee,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  The instant I opened the door, Julia burst into my living room—all five feet two of her. “It’s all over town,” she declared. “The bells, Lauren Hughes dying at Sophie Crawford’s house, Chief Gilroy breaking down St. John’s doors.”

  “Seriously?” I pushed the door shut.

  She pointed toward my kitchen. “Is Holly making coffee?”