“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.”