No Mallets Intended
Author: Victoria Hamilton
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Women Sleuths; recipes; Cozy
Description: TO THE MANOR DEAD The Queensville Heritage Society is restoring the once-grand Dumpe Manor. While Dumpe relatives and society members use the occasion to dust off old grudges, Jaymie Leighton prefers to adorn the kitchen with authentic Depression Era furnishings. A collection of vintage wooden mallets found in the house is a perfect addition to her display, but one also offers a late-night intruder the perfect weapon to knock Jaymie unconscious before escaping. Though the attack has everyone on edge, nothing is missing from the house. Perhaps it was merely a vagrant who thought the place was s
Publisher: Berkley

PRAISE FOR VICTORIA HAMILTON’S NATIONAL BESTSELLING VINTAGE KITCHEN MYSTERIES

Freezer I’ll Shoot

“A chilling whodunit.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Jaymie is a great character… She is inquisitive and full of surprises… I’m giving this one 5 out of 5 apples from my book bag!”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

Bowled Over

“A true whodunit… Spiced with appealing characters, a bit of romance, and a generous helping of food topics.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Well-plotted with several unexpected twists and more developed characters, Bowled Over is a strong sophomore effort.”

—The Mystery Reader

“If you’re looking for a compassionate, interesting character with an unusual livelihood, and a charming town that just happens to have an occasional murder, you won’t go wrong with Victoria Hamilton’s mysteries. Bowled Over is another treat for those of us who enjoy cozy mysteries with a strong community cast.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques

A Deadly Grind

“Has all the right ingredients: small-town setting, kitchen antiques, vintage cookery, and a bowlful of mystery. A perfect recipe for a cozy.”

—Susan Wittig Albert, national bestselling author of The Darling Dahlias and the Silver Dollar Bush

“Smartly written and successfully plotted, the debut of this new cozy series… exudes authenticity.”

—Library Journal

“The first Vintage Kitchen Mystery is an exciting regional amateur sleuth… Fans will enjoy this fun Michigan cozy.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“A fun debut in the new Vintage Kitchen Mystery series… Fans of Joanne Fluke or of Virginia Lowell’s Cookie Cutter Shop Mysteries will feel right at home in Queenstown.”

—The Season

“Victoria Hamilton’s Vintage Kitchen Mystery series is off to a solid start… [A] fun cozy mystery.”

—Novel Reflections

“Hamilton’s Jaymie Leighton completely captivated me… I’ll be awaiting [her] return… in the next Vintage Kitchen Mystery.”

—Lesa’s Book Critiques

“I really loved the hometown feel that Victoria Hamilton brings to this book. This is the start of the Vintage Kitchen Mystery series and I felt this book was smart, funny, and quirky. I smiled in places, blushed for the embarrassing moments, and fell in love with cooking all over again as I read this book.”

—Two Lips Reviews

“A great new series for cozy fans.”

—Debbie’s Book Bag

“Fans of vintage kitchenware and those who fondly remember grandma or mother’s Pyrex dishes will find a lot to enjoy in this mystery.”

—The Mystery Reader

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton

Vintage Kitchen Mysteries

A DEADLY GRIND

BOWLED OVER

FREEZER I’LL SHOOT

NO MALLETS INTENDED

Merry Muffin Mysteries

BRAN NEW DEATH

MUFFIN BUT MURDER

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

NO MALLETS INTENDED

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Donna Lea Simpson.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13930-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2014

Cover illustration by Robert Crawford. Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

Version_1

For those readers who love old cookbooks and use the vintage tools I enjoy describing and researching, this book is for you. I hope you have found a kindred spirit in Jaymie Leighton!

—Victoria Hamilton

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you so much to cover designers Lesley Worrell and Robert Crawford, who have captured so beautifully the vintage kitchen in the historic home I describe in these pages, and to copyeditor Sheila Moody for correcting, smoothing out and otherwise making my prose more clear and concise. For these publishing professionals I am eternally grateful!

CONTENTS

Praise for Victoria Hamilton’s Vintage Kitchen Mysteries

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

From Jaymie’s Vintage Kitchen

One

“I LOVE OLD JUNK as much as the next gal—and probably more, if the next gal is your sister, Becca—but I just don’t understand how you could get so excited over a bunch of old wooden hammers,” Valetta Nibley said.

Jaymie Leighton, sitting with Valetta in the middle of the black-and-white-tiled Dumpe Manor kitchen floor, sighed as she turned each one over and checked it against a catalog of antique and vintage kitchen utensils. “They are not hammers, they’re kitchen mallets. These are antique and vintage, and several are in perfect condition. I have never seen such an oddball collection all in one place!” She held up one with a long spindle-like handle that was round in shape but flat on the bottom. “Look at this; it’s beautiful! According to my research so far, with the flat bottom, it probably dates from the end of the 1800s or early 1900s.”

“It’s still just a wooden hammer.”

Jaymie sighed and shook her head. “Et tu, Valetta? Et tu? Besides, they’re not even all mallets. This one is a pestle, and this one a muddle.” She held up one with a rounded bottom, and another that was flat.

“Muddle, mallet, it’s all the same. They are wooden hammer thingies.” Valetta scrambled to her feet, and Hoppy, Jaymie’s three-legged Yorkie-Poo, danced around begging for attention. Valetta picked him up and cuddled him. “Even Hoppy thinks you’re wasting your time. He wants to go for walkies!”

Jaymie looked up at her, serious in her concentration. “You know how important this is to the Queensville Heritage Society, Valetta. They’ve entrusted me to take care of the kitchen display, and I’m going to do it right!”

Her friend looked down with a smile on her face, her glasses glinting in the late day sunlight that streamed in the uncurtained window. She looked around the shabby kitchen: worn countertop, battered cupboards, water-stained walls. “You’d need to be an explosives expert to do this kitchen right, kiddo.”

Jaymie surveyed the space. Valetta had a point. Dumpe Manor had deteriorated over the years from the stylish Queen Anne manse it had begun life as, to a sad, crumbling boardinghouse that was eventually abandoned as too big to be practical. There were problems with it, but still… the Queensville Heritage Society had bought it inexpensively, using some of the money from the sale of the Button Gwinnett letter it had been given—the letter was extremely valuable because Gwinnett was a Declaration of Independence signer. But before the purchase the group had had an accredited structural engineer look it over, and he had pronounced both the foundation and the structure itself sound.

“It just needs some love,” Jaymie said softly.

“So do I, but at least I don’t look like a hobo squatter’s dream,” Valetta joked. She put Hoppy down and the little dog climbed into Jaymie’s lap. “I have to go. Brock has an open house tomorrow he has to set up,” she said, referring to her real estate agent brother. “So I’m looking after my niece and nephew.”

“Evil and Wicked?” Jaymie asked with a laugh, using her nicknames for Eva and William.

“They’re not that bad—no worse than you were at that age, and don’t you forget it!”

Valetta, about the same age as Jaymie’s older sister, Becca, was fifteen years Jaymie’s senior and had babysat her as a kid, but over the last few years they had developed a more equal friendship. “You going to be okay here alone?” she asked, looking around the pitiful kitchen and shuddering.

“I’ll be fine. I have my trusty attack dog, Hoppy,” Jaymie joked.

“Right, a friendly three-legged Yorkie-Poo. What’ll he do, lick a robber to death?”

“Hey, he’s saved my life a couple of times,” Jaymie said. She took up another mallet and examined it, as Hoppy sniffed it with interest. It was odd… wedge shaped and quite heavy.

“I’ll leave you alone with your hammers,” Valetta said and gave a wave. “You remember to lock up after me.”

“See you tomorrow morning,” Jaymie said. She’d be working at the Queensville Emporium for the owners, the elderly Klausners, on their day off. Valetta was a pharmacist and had her own counter at the back of the store, where she dispensed medication and gossip in equal doses.

Once Valetta was gone, Jaymie got down to more serious work. Dumpe Manor was going to need a lot of TLC, Valetta was right on that score. Several of the society’s members had been put in charge of individual rooms, so that they could have something to show the public in a month or so when they did a soft opening during Queensville’s renowned Dickens Days festivities. From the first of December to the first of January the Michigan town held sales at all the little antique and junk stores on Main Street, as well as, if the weather wasn’t too cold, a Christmas-themed music program in the band shell in Boardwalk Park, strolling carolers, and an evening of Christmas carols at the Queensville Methodist Church, everyone invited, member or not.

Most of the heritage society members had Victorian-style outfits in which they would stroll the town, and the more musical among them would sing carols and collect money for the society. Those who couldn’t sing—like Jaymie—sold baked goods: mince tarts, Eccles buns and Twelfth Night cakes.

It was early November, so they had lots of time before the house needed to be ready. Since they were only doing select rooms for the soft opening, the hustle to prepare would be minimized, but Jaymie, in charge of the kitchen, knew that hers was going to be a star despite the skepticism of other society members. Who didn’t think of the kitchen when they were close to Christmas? The heady aroma of cinnamon, ginger and cloves wafting from the oven, the warmth of the hearth, all the delicious foods that only home cooking could produce: the kitchen and everything it represented was a vital part of the season. At the next heritage society meeting she had to be prepared with a list of what was usable in the kitchen, and what needed to be replaced, and have a decision on the color scheme. The house was going to showcase different eras in Queensville history, but despite pressure from some of the society members, Jaymie had argued that the kitchen was not practical to show Victorian life, as attractive as that would be. They already had cupboards, as well as plumbing and gas, that were installed in the 1930s. It would be simplest to do a Depression-era kitchen, and she hoped that meant a gas stove so she could actually cook with it, rather than trying to figure out how to bake in a wood-burning oven.

Besides, doing a Depression-era kitchen allowed Jaymie to look for another Hoosier cabinet to buy, as well as Depression glass, commercial tins and other twenties and thirties kitchenalia. It was unbearably exciting, but a lot of work, and she had yet to decide on a color scheme. After examining the box of mallets, pestles and muddles that Bill Waterman, their handyman, had brought down from the attic, and writing down a careful description of each, she became aware of how quiet it was.

Dumpe Manor was not in Queensville proper, though it was within the official town line. It was about a twenty-minute walk from Jaymie’s home, set in a secluded wooded spot that you could just see from the last house within the town. A line of pines ran from the road alongside the house; across the road was a marshy wooded lot, and beyond that, more woods. Woods everywhere!

The property included a garage, shed and various scattered outbuildings, most of which would have to be torn down before they tumbled down. The heritage committee had debated long and hard about buying Dumpe Manor because of the size of the property, but the price was right and the extra land meant there was room to add an interpretation center if the historic home became popular. The land was also valuable because, given the barrier of the St. Clair River on the east border, the town was inevitably expanding west anyway. There was enough property attached to Dumpe Manor that some acreage could be sold to developers, netting a tidy profit down the road some years. It was a good investment.

The house was a farmhouse from about 1880, but elaborate and quite large in the true Queen Anne style, with gorgeous wood paneling in some rooms, deep baseboards and brass fittings. In another year or so the upstairs would be finished, rewired with modern necessities like phone and updated electrical, and the heritage society would have offices in two of the spare rooms. Haskell Lockland, the heritage society president, planned to make meeting rooms that they could rent out to nonprofits and small businesses.

But that bustling hum of activity was in the future; right now, at this time of night—about eight thirty—it was dark, quiet and lonely. Jaymie hadn’t noticed how much so until that moment. She stood and looked around. The house was settling, creaking and moaning about her. She was used to that. Her own house in Queensville was the same. But the wind had picked up, and it rattled the windows like uneasy spirits trying to get out. Or in.

And now she was being fanciful. “It’s kind of spooky out here. I think we’d better get home,” Jaymie said to Hoppy, and he wuffled his agreement. She had walked all the way, so she would need to get a move on before it got too cold and too windy.

She knelt on the floor and started packing up the collection of mallets, pestles, muddles, spoons and other wooden tools that she was sorting and cataloging. When she heard the front door creak, her heart thudded and her mouth went dry. Hoppy sat up and growled. To call out or not? Jaymie just didn’t know. Had Valetta locked the front door when she left? Well, she wouldn’t have, would she? Because she didn’t have a key and, in fact, had told Jaymie to lock up after her.

Crap. Jaymie had been so involved in her work that she hadn’t thought of it. Maybe Valetta hadn’t made sure the door clicked closed and the wind had swept it open. Of course . . . that must be the explanation for the noise. Hadn’t she just been noticing the wind picking up? She took a deep breath and stood, feeling silly. There had been a little trouble with people sneaking into the house to bunk down when it was known to be empty, but that hadn’t happened since the society had bought it and nailed an OPENING SOON—QUEENSVILLE HISTORIC MANOR sign to the porch railing. She would get her stuff together, go out the front door—the back door was not yet usable, since it was nailed shut and blocked on the outside by junk—and lock up after herself.

She put the wooden tools back in the box and shoved it off to the side, near the cupboards, then grabbed her purse and Hoppy’s leash and said, “Okay, Hoppy, let’s see what’s going on in this place!”

That was when she heard the creak of footsteps. A chill raced down Jaymie’s back and, hands shaking, she bent over and clipped Hoppy’s leash on his collar. She was getting the heck out of Dodge, and no two ways about it.

More creaking! She stopped what she was doing and froze, afraid even to breathe. Mrs. Imogene Frump, who was a distant relative of the Dumpe family, claimed that when staying in the house as a child she had seen a ghost. It was a woman in white, she said, who floated into the bedroom in which she slept and hovered over her. No one ever said the ghost made the floors creak, though.

More recently the house was said to be haunted by the ghost of Mrs. Jane Dumpe, the last of that name to own it. She was said to disapprove of all that had happened to her beloved house in the last twenty years, since her death, but surely she wouldn’t haunt someone who was trying to help restore the place! Besides, Jaymie did not believe in ghosts.

But she did believe in thieves, and she didn’t want to be in the house with one. She crept out of the kitchen, through the parlor and to the hallway, toward the front entrance, stopping and listening for footsteps so she wouldn’t run into someone. Hoppy was shaking with excitement or sensing her tension, she didn’t know which. She could feel his trembling all the way up the leash. Just as she got to the front hall, where the door stood closed, he began barking.

“Hoppy!” Jaymie yelped, tugging him toward the front door.

A rush of footsteps behind her made her jump and whirl. She got the impression of a dark-cloaked figure, then a blast of pain radiated from her forehead and everything went black.

Two

SHE WAS COLD, shivering and hurt. Something wet was being slapped against her cheek, and something smelled bad. Real bad. And what was with the headache? She never got a headache, except when her mother was in the house. “Mom… you home?” she moaned.

The wet slapping continued… what the heck was that, a dirty dishcloth? It smelled… it smelled exactly like the liver treats Hoppy adored. “Hoppy, stop it!” she whimpered, pushing him away. Her eyes flew open, and she groaned again. Not only was there no mother in sight, there was no home. It was cold. She was at Dumpe Manor. She sat up and looked around and spotted one of the heavy mallets from the kitchen, the wedge-shaped one she had just examined.

It was so dark… what had happened? She felt fuzzy and confused and put her hand to her head as a wave of dizziness swept over her. “Oooh!” she groaned, lying back down, cheek to the cold wood floor. As she tried to sort out what was going on, a frigid blast of air swept over her. The front door was now open. She raised herself on her elbows and tried to scuttle out of sight as someone charged in the door and turned on a light. The blaze of the overhead pendant glared in Jaymie’s eyes, and she cried out in fear.

“Jaymie, what happened?”

Jaymie slumped back down in relief. It was Isolde Rasmussen, girlfriend of Theo Carson, a historian the society had hired to document Dumpe Manor’s history. Isolde was also a docent at the Wolverhampton Historical Museum.

The tall blonde knelt by Jaymie, staring at her with a worried look. “What happened?” she repeated.

Jaymie didn’t really know. “I’m… I’m okay, I think.”

“Oh, honey, no, you’re not,” Isolde said. “You have a bruise and a cut on your forehead and there’s some blood. Did you fall? Did you hit your head?”

“I must have.” Jaymie shivered. “I’m cold.” Hoppy put one paw on her knee and gazed up at her, growling uncertainly.

“Let’s get you home,” Isolde said, taking her elbow to help her up.

Jaymie swayed on her feet and Hoppy ran around her in circles, then to the door and back. It made her dizzy. “Hoppy, stop! I can’t concentrate, I don’t know… oooh… I’m not feeling well.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Isolde said suddenly, pushing Jaymie back down on the floor. “You stay right there. First I’m calling the hospital to tell them we’re coming”—she pulled a white cell phone out of her jacket pocket—“then I’ll pull my car up to the door.”

The next twenty-four hours passed in a flurry of busyness that left Jaymie exhausted. Hospital, Isolde, nurses, doctors, MRI. Daniel Collins, her kinda-sorta boyfriend, hovering over her hospital bed, a worried frown on his gaunt face. Valetta arranging everything, including who would look after Hoppy (herself) and calling Jaymie’s family, reassuring them that she was fine. Jaymie was then ordered to go home and get bed rest, though not to her own home just yet.

She was finally released late in the afternoon into Valetta’s care. Jaymie had to promise to stay with her friend overnight before they would release her, but she felt fine, except for a bandage on her forehead and a bit of a headache. Valetta picked her up at the hospital, drove her back to Queensville and parked in the lane beside her cottage-style home. She had painted the house a dull green with darker green trim; Jaymie didn’t like the dark colors but Becca agreed with Valetta that the color was “age appropriate” for the small home.

Jaymie was as comfortable there as she was anywhere that wasn’t her own home, and she knew exactly where to go. Hoppy, who had stayed at Valetta’s overnight, was overjoyed to see her and bounced around her all the way down the short hall. “So I get to stay in the room we painted,” Jaymie commented, slinging her overnight bag down on the antique single bed in Valetta’s spare room. They exchanged help in August when Jaymie had needed a hand getting the Leightons’ Rose Tree Cottage on Heartbreak Island ready for a memorable dinner with her parents and Daniel’s parents. So Jaymie was familiar with the spare room’s redecoration; she approved of the mellow gold Valetta had chosen for the walls, and the sparkling white trim.

She picked up Hoppy and nuzzled him. “I missed you, poochy-pooch! I hope Denver is doing all right at home.”

“Pam is feeding him,” Valetta said, referring to Pam Driscoll, who was looking after the bed-and-breakfast next door to Jaymie’s home for Anna Jones, Jaymie’s friend. “She doesn’t much like cats, but reluctantly agreed.”

She had done the right thing, Jaymie thought. Denver, her crabby tabby, did not take well to staying anywhere but home. She set Hoppy down on the bed and pulled her nightie out of her overnight bag.

At that very moment Daniel pulled up to the curb outside, the rumble of his Jeep engine too loud to miss, and came bounding into the house without knocking. He had visited Jaymie in the hospital but had asked to visit her at Valetta’s, too. He followed their voices to the bedroom and appeared in the doorway carrying a big bunch of multicolored roses, which he handed to Jaymie. Then he took her in his arms. “You okay? Are you sure you should be out already?”

“Daniel, it was a minor bump on the head, and I’m…” Her eyes widened and she sat down on the bed. Both Daniel and Valetta were watching her with concern. Even Hoppy had stopped bounding around the room and sat at her knee, staring up at her.

“Jaymie, what’s wrong?” Valetta asked.

“Are you okay? Should I take you back to the hospital? I told you it was too soon,” Daniel said.

“Stop fussing, Daniel! I just remembered what happened.” She looked up into her friend’s eyes. “Val, I didn’t fall, I was whacked over the head!” Hoppy jumped up on her lap and licked her chin. “And I think it was Hoppy’s barking that drove whoever it was away!”

Valetta called the police and an officer came out to interview her. They sat in Valetta’s cheerful retro kitchen. It honestly looked like something right out of the seventies, with an Arborite table and chair set in avocado green, burnt orange cupboards and funky, café-style patterned curtains drawn against the November evening.

The officer finished up the brief interview—Jaymie couldn’t remember much other than what she had already told her friends—and promised the police would be looking into it. They would interview Isolde and check the house out. But it was a day later, and unless there was some kind of evidence left behind or something taken, it was not that uncommon for someone to be in the house that shouldn’t. Before the heritage society had bought it, the police had had to go there quite often to check it for broken windows.

After the officer left, Daniel stood up from the dinette chair and tugged at the sleeves of his Ball State sweatshirt. “That’s it!” he said. “I’m going to have an alarm system put in that place.”

“The society doesn’t have that kind of money,” Jaymie protested, hand to her now-throbbing forehead.

“But I do, and I’m not going to have you at risk.” He sat back down next to her and pushed a tendril of hair out of her face. “Are you carrying the cell phone I gave you?”

“Sure,” Jaymie said, fishing in her purse and pulling it out. It was a nice little gadget and, given that she was not the best with technology, Jaymie had been surprised how well she’d taken to it.

He grabbed it and did some quick work, then handed it back to her. “Okay, now all you have to do to call 911 is hit star-9.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to dial 911?”

“No, because I know you too well: you’d have to get to a call screen past all the romance books you’ve already loaded on there to read.”

Valetta gave him a look. “Don’t badger her, Daniel.”

Daniel didn’t notice the look because he already had his own gadget out and was doing research, making notes and setting up an appointment for a security specialist to look over Dumpe Manor. Jaymie sighed. As much as she liked Daniel, there were some things she felt she shouldn’t have to explain. “You know, you can’t do any of that until you run it past the heritage society.”

He looked up and frowned, then pushed his glasses farther up onto the bridge of his beaky nose. “Why?”

“Why? Think about it a moment.” Honestly. How maddening could he be?

“Okay.” After a few moments of thought, he shook his head. “I still don’t get it.”

Jaymie exchanged an exasperated look with Valetta, who was snickering into her hand. “Daniel, you don’t own the property. You’re not even a member of the heritage committee.”

“Why wouldn’t they want free work? I’m not asking them to pay. I’ll give them the security system. For nothing. Kind of a donation. Who wouldn’t want that?”

He truly didn’t get it, and it reminded her of all the times she had to stop him from getting her something expensive that she didn’t want, just to try to please her. She had to accept some gifts, just to say no to others. He had wanted to buy her a new van, and she had been aghast. It had taken a month to explain why she couldn’t and wouldn’t accept it. It was all well-meant, but still… “I’m not saying they wouldn’t want it,” she explained. “But you have got to go through channels, Daniel. You can’t make a decision like that for them.”

“I’m just getting quotes! There’s no harm in that. We’ll go there tomorrow and—”

“No,” Jaymie said, her resolve hardening. “You’re not going to get quotes or anything until you ask the committee.”

“Then you’re not going back to work there until we do get a system put in.” He sat back and folded his arms over his chest, with a mulish look on his face.

“What gave you the idea that you could tell me what to do?” Jaymie asked, genuinely curious.

Valetta, her gaze slewing back and forth between them, held up one hand. “Children, enough. Daniel, go home. Jaymie’s had a rough couple of days and is going to bed.”

Jaymie bid Daniel good night, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her headache was pounding like a jackhammer. She had thought she had things figured out when she heard from her police officer friend, Bernie, that Detective Zack Christian had left the Queensville police force for a job with the beleaguered Detroit police. She was sure that her attraction to him was what was keeping her from fully committing to Daniel. Instead she found herself more impatient with Daniel’s increasingly possessive behavior, as the deadline for her decision about their relationship approached. She had said she’d tell him by Christmas whether she wanted to get more serious. If he’d pressed her that evening, she would have told him no.

•   •   •

AFTER A COUPLE of days passed and the results from her tests at the hospital came back, Jaymie was confident that she was fine. There was no concussion, her headache had all but gone away and it seemed like her memory had come back except for the fifteen minutes or so that she’d been out. Unfortunately, because she had not remembered about the intruder at Dumpe Manor until late the next day, a number of heritage committee members had been in and out, obliterating any evidence of someone who ought not to have been there.

There was nothing the police department could do, and no answers. The intruder was likely someone just hoping to bunk down for the night, startled when they heard her in the kitchen. Dee Stubbs, a good friend of Becca’s, told her that she and Mabel Bloombury, one of the other heritage society members, had gone there the next day to do some cleaning and found a heavy wooden mallet in the front hall. Not knowing how it got there, they had taken it back to the kitchen and tossed it in the box with all the others. Jaymie urged her to call the police and tell them that, but it wasn’t much good because Dee couldn’t even remember which mallet it was that they had found.

Bernie called to tell her that the police agreed with the general idea that it was just someone looking for a place to spend the night. Nothing, so far as they could tell, had been taken, and there was a minimum of disturbance. The theory was, someone walked in the unlocked door and went up the front stairs, but they heard her in the kitchen and got scared. When Jaymie moved to the front hall, they came down the back stairs, grabbed a handy weapon in the kitchen—one of the vintage mallets—and whacked her, then ran out the only working door. Bernie offered to go back to Dumpe Manor with Jaymie, if she needed support her first time reentering the scene of her attack, but it was something Jaymie wanted to do alone.

It was just three weeks to Thanksgiving and three days before the next heritage society meeting. Jaymie needed to get back to Dumpe Manor to make some decisions regarding her recommendations to the committee. The thought of going there, the thought of being there alone, made her queasy, even though she would not have admitted that to Daniel or anyone else. She was sorely tempted to call Bernie back and take the offer of company—who better than a police officer, after all?—but she had to do it alone, and she had to walk. She was not going to change her habits, though she would practice better awareness of her surroundings and have her cell phone handy.

It got dark early in November. Jaymie prepared to go, steadying her nerves with some common sense; now that it was well-known that the heritage society was refurbishing the house, vagrants would get the message. She’d be safe there, she really would. And she’d be more careful. Leaving Denver the crabby tabby snoozing in a basket by the stove, but with Hoppy on a leash and eager to go, she set out from the back door of her lovely old Queen Anne home, down the path to the gate and along the back lane that served both as access to the homes on her street and as a parking area. Trip Findley, her elderly backyard neighbor, waved to her as he raked leaves by the back porch light. Hoppy tugged at the leash, but she said, “No, Hoppy!” and he stopped.

Her usual walk was toward the St. Clair River and Boardwalk Park, but the road to Dumpe Manor took her through the more modern section of town, where split-level ranch houses were punctuated by the occasional older home. Heidi Lockland’s midcentury modern ranch home was down a side street in the neighborhood. As Jaymie kept walking she passed through a section of town that was more commercial/light industrial, with a garage, the big doors open to reveal two men working on a car by a hanging light, and a small convenience store, brightly lit, with a few kids on bikes and skateboards hanging around the front. A dog barked and Hoppy quivered, on alert. But he trotted on without barking or tugging; her training regimen was beginning to work.

They left the part of town with sidewalks, then the houses and buildings dwindled and the road turned to dirt. Autumn had done its work. The distant forests were bare of leaves, but the scent of them was everywhere, an earthy nutty smell Jaymie loved. She breathed deeply; someone had a brush fire going to burn debris, and the air held the fragrance of a campfire. That was one thing she had missed in the summer that had just passed. Every year she went camping with a group of girlfriends from college. They headed to the same family campground on Lake Huron and had a long weekend of fun and laughter. This summer, one had been recovering from an operation, and another had been going out of state to a wedding, so they canceled and swore to do it the next summer for sure. She hoped they did. Jaymie adored the outdoor adventure.

Hoppy trembled with excitement. He loved walking in the country, and this, though they were only a few minutes out of town, felt like the country, with the twilight closing them in, and the sound level significantly less. A few minutes more of walking, and she was there. She stopped and stared up at Dumpe Manor in the early evening gloom. It was once a beautiful home to one of the town’s founding fathers, passed down through generations; then it became a boardinghouse and finally was abandoned. Like Jaymie’s house it was Queen Anne style, but Dumpe Manor was bigger, with three stories counting the generous gabled attic, and instead of being yellow brick it was sheathed in clapboard and dripping with gingerbread, much of which was going to need repair or replacing.

So far the heritage society had okayed an outside paint color scheme of gray and pale blue, and the work was done quickly, before cold weather made painting impractical. Windows were replaced, gutters installed and the roof fixed. With the new paint and the yard work done the house wasn’t such an eyesore. It looked better, though it would require a lot more work. Since her “little incident,” as Jaymie tried to think of it, more had been done. The sign in the yard, with unlit floodlights pointed toward it, now proclaimed QUEENSVILLE HISTORIC MANOR—QUEENSVILLE, MICHIGAN, painted expertly by Bill Waterman in the same paint colors as the house. The sign was surrounded by a garden filled with late-blooming chrysanthemums and evergreen shrubs.

And she was delaying going in by staring up at the place as the moon rose.

She took out her keys, mounted the steps to the front door and let herself in. Loud echoing footsteps upstairs set her heart to pounding, but then she heard a familiar voice, shouting, “Cynthia, not every room can be cottagey!”

Another familiar voice said, more calmly, echoing down the stairs because of how empty the place was, “Jewel Dandridge, you know I said no such thing. It would look cute, though. Picture it… the walls could be pink and white candy stripes; it would be adorable!”

Jaymie smiled. Cynthia Turbridge, who had opened the Cottage Shoppe just down from the Queensville Emporium, was there, and so was Jewel, the owner of Jewel’s Junk, situated between the Cottage Shoppe and the Emporium. The two were best friends and quarreled constantly. “Hello, ladies!” she called up the stairs, her voice echoing as she let Hoppy off his leash. He bounded about the house once, but then swiftly came back to the front hall, nose to the floor.

It was funny that she hadn’t seen a car outside, but she supposed the two women could have walked from town, like she did. Both were fit fifty-somethings, slim and active. Or they may have parked behind the garage, which was what the heritage society preferred, stating that parking in the lane while the ground was wet just made it muddier. Jaymie headed down the hall, through the parlor and to the kitchen in back, where she turned on every light she could. Hoppy was on a mysterious errand and snuffled his way to the box of mallets and pestles. There he sat down and looked back at her.

“Hey, you,” Cynthia said, bounding down the kitchen stairs with an elegant step. A yoga practitioner and instructor, as lithe and energetic as any college cheerleader, she gathered Jaymie into a quick hug. “You have got to come upstairs to look at what Jewel and I are up to.”

“Arguing over color schemes, it sounds like!” Jaymie said. “I thought Jewel was doing the parlor.”

“She is… we are. We decided to work on her room and my room together.”

Recipe for disaster, Jaymie thought but did not say aloud. The two women could never agree on anything, and their aesthetic preferences were completely different, one reason why Jewel, with her sense of grand style and knowledge of historical architecture, had taken over the parlor, while Cynthia, who adored chintz and lace and everything pretty, was given a girl’s bedroom. “I look forward to the results.”

“I’ve already got all the furniture, and no, it isn’t doll furnishing!” she stated. “What is Hoppy doing?”

Jaymie looked over, and the Yorkie-Poo was still sitting in exactly the same spot, staring at a mallet, one in particular, a heavy, wedge-shaped piece. Jaymie went over and pulled out the correct one, and the dog barked and pranced around. That moment, the memory came back to her… she had seen this particular mallet, one with a unique shape, lying on the floor near her when she regained consciousness!

It was the weapon used to knock her out.

Three

SHE TURNED THE mallet in to the police and thought no more of it. What could they do at this late date, after several people had handled it and who knew how many people had been tramping through the house?

The days sped by, and the heritage committee meeting was almost there, the first one to be held in the house itself. But the evening before, she was going to have a quiet dinner at home with Daniel. They needed to talk. Sometimes it felt to Jaymie as if all they did was talk about their relationship: chat, plan, negotiate, explain, compromise. All well and good, except maybe they shouldn’t need to do quite so much of it. Some relationships just took more effort than others, her mother had told her, but that was no reason they couldn’t work.

He arrived freshly shaved and carrying flowers again, more multicolored roses. She met him at the front door, and while Hoppy bounced around their feet, he kissed her gently and held her for a moment. It felt good; that much she admitted to herself. He was a really nice guy, and she must never forget all his good qualities, even when he was driving her nuts.

She led him through to the kitchen, her favorite room in the house, and they sat at the old wood table surrounded by all her beloved vintage kitchenalia, as she called it, or “junk,” as her mom and Becca preferred to call it. The Hoosier was adorned with a glass rolling pin and some Pyrex refrigerator dishes in gorgeous colors, and the top held a decorative collection: an old colander on legs with a wooden pestle in it, some dried flowers and a few lovely old milk bottles and antique tins, as well as a set of scales out of the Queensville Emporium, from back in the days when the Klausners sold candy by the pound. She thought her kitchen was most beautiful this time of day, early evening, which in November meant the sun was down and the room was lit with pools of light cast by the pendant over the table and the task light over the porcelain Belfast sink.

“How is business lately?” she asked. Daniel’s software company was headquartered in Phoenix, Arizona, and that was where his parents lived. They had bought a cottage on Heartbreak Island—a ten-minute ferry ride from town—just that summer and planned to fix it up. His mother had said, with a heavy undercurrent of censure, that if Daniel was going to be spending so much time in Queensville, then they wanted to be near him without living in the same house, though heaven knew there was more than enough room in Stowe House, Daniel’s historic Queensville home.

“It’s okay. I need to get back there soon, though. Our HR director is going out on maternity leave, and she kind of keeps everyone sane, so I have to find a good temporary replacement, someone who can keep the staff focused like she does. It’s not easy managing from a distance. I really should be there more.”

She sighed internally, hearing the reproach in his voice but at a loss how to handle it. She was not the one making him stay in Queensville. It was his choice, not hers. And yet every time the subject came up, the subtext was, she should want to marry him and move to Phoenix, at least part-time.

But she didn’t want to; she was happy right where she was and could never imagine leaving her home for any length of time. Daniel had bought Stowe House, the oldest house in the town of Queensville, a few years before, but had just started spending so much time in it that spring, when he began dating Jaymie. Since then she had learned he owned houses in many towns spread across the country. She had an uneasy feeling that this was a troubling pattern, the tendency to purchase a house in a town, spend some time there, then move on. They needed to discuss such things, and his expectations down the road, if she was to consider committing to a real relationship.

“You should go back and take care of business,” she said, keeping her tone as neutral as she could.

She served up dinner—it was an experiment from her old recipes, a salmon loaf made with canned salmon, bread crumbs and seasonings—and they ate in silence. Daniel picked at his food while she plowed through hers. It was pretty good, and even better with the mushroom sauce she had made to drizzle over it.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked, watching him, his glasses glinting in the pendant light over the table. “You can say if you don’t, you know. It won’t offend me.”

He looked relieved and pushed it away, then shoved his glasses up his nose. “I’m not much of one for salmon. Mom never made stuff like that. We were always more of a steak or pork chops on the grill kind of family.”

“Do you want something else? A sandwich?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“I’m done, too,” she said and cleared the table, piling the dishes in the sink until later. Something was in the air, and she needed to know what was up. “Let’s go into the parlor and light a fire.”

That was one of her favorite things to do when the weather got too cold to sit outside. Living in Michigan meant four completely different seasons, and she loved each one, adjusting her life easily through the frozen winter, spring rains and wind, and languid summer to her favorite season, autumn, with chilly nights and brisk walks through drifts of fallen leaves. Her home décor reflected the seasonal patterns. Comforting throws came out of storage to make curling up in an easy chair or on a sofa cozy. She collected autumn leaves in red and gold and ironed them between pieces of wax paper, just as she had when she was a kid. They were scattered over the dining room table in that seldom-used room.

But her own decorating stamp was most visible—after the kitchen, of course—in the parlor. That room hadn’t been used much when she was a kid because they spent more time in the living room, where the TV was. But since she had taken over the house she’d had the fireplace and chimney swept and her dad had taught her how to start a fire and maintain the flue. She lit oil lamps on the mantel and had a red plaid throw to keep warm.

A settee faced the fireplace, and Hoppy raced in and hurled himself up on it between them, rolling over awkwardly, then righting himself. Denver slunk in and took a spot on a folded blanket near the fire. He was getting more friendly, oddly enough, since Jaymie had discovered, in September, that one of the reasons he was so crabby was bad teeth. Ten extractions and nearly a thousand dollars later he was eating canned food and sleeping on her bed every night. He wasn’t exactly cuddling yet, but it could happen. Jaymie was optimistic.

After she lit the fire, she gently moved Hoppy over to a corner so she could sit next to Daniel. He put his arm around her shoulders. They sat in silence for a few minutes, but she couldn’t relax. She turned and sat facing him, one knee up on the settee. “Daniel, we need to talk.”

“I know.” He looked in her eyes, searching them, it seemed.

At least this time he had not cringed when she said that. It was progress, she supposed. Jaymie was uncertain how to continue, afraid that what he wanted to talk about would not be what she wanted to talk about.

“I’ll be going back to Phoenix for a few weeks,” he said. “And I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll spend Thanksgiving with my folks.”

“That’s okay. We already did Canadian Thanksgiving with my parents and grandmother.” Her grandma Leighton, in London, Ontario, had liked Daniel very much, but she hadn’t gone ahead and said, “Marry him,” like she had to Becca about her beau, Kevin Brevard. When Jaymie asked why, her grandmother had said, with a serious look in her pale blue-gray eyes, that she just wasn’t sure Jaymie was ready. Jaymie’s mom had shushed her mother-in-law, saying, “Mama Lucy, don’t say that! Jaymie’s my only hope for grandchildren.”

“What will you do for Thanksgiving?” he asked.

“I have a standing invitation to Valetta’s for every special occasion, if I can stand Brock and the evil twins.”

“They’re not such bad kids, just high-spirited,” Daniel said. He stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Do you want children, Jaymie?”

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. They had talked about it before, and the answer was still the same.

He paused, but then said, his tone exasperated, “How can you not know? I mean, either you do or you don’t!”

Carefully, she answered, “No, that’s not true. Especially not for a woman. Let’s not have this discussion right now. It’s kind of early on to be talking about kids.”

“I think it would help if we knew ahead of time that our goals are aligned,” he said, stubbornly clinging to the subject. “I made that mistake once, and I won’t do it again.”

Jaymie knew he was talking about a relationship in his past; he had invested a lot of time and energy into it, only to find that she didn’t really ever want children, nor did she truly love him. Trish Brandon had hurt him deeply.

He screwed his mouth into a grimace and stared into the fireplace. “Okay, we’ll talk about it another time.” He sighed and squinted. “I talked to Haskell Lockland, the head of your heritage society, and he okayed me going ahead with the security consultant as long as I’m footing the bill.”

“That’s generous of you,” Jaymie said. She felt like they were tiptoeing around things, but she just wasn’t ready for a full-blown conversation on their relationship status. She had told him Christmas, and he had agreed.

“Are you really okay after that attack?” he asked, concern in his brown eyes as he watched her. He touched her hair, which she had worn down because she knew he liked it that way.

“I am,” she said, taking his hand, liking the bony feel to it. He squeezed, and she made a vow to keep focusing on all his good qualities.

“But regardless,” he said, in a stern fatherly tone, “I don’t want you back in that house alone until we have the security system in place.”

She pulled her hand away. Darn him! Why did he keep trying to control her? She knew it was genuine concern, but she was an adult woman, not a kid, and not his property. She took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to be reasonable. “I still have a lot to do, Daniel. I can’t guarantee I’ll never be there alone.”

“Jaymie—”

“Stop! Let’s not talk about that right now, either,” she said. “We’ll just end up arguing.”

“We’re going to run out of things to talk about, if we worry about arguing over stuff,” he joked, but there was an edge to his tone.

He was so right, but Jaymie didn’t have anything else to say. Every topic seemed to be barred from discussion for fear it would lead to a conflict, and that was no way to carry on. So she would go back to a topic they had dismissed; one she wanted him to understand. “You’re right,” she said, hand on his arm. “We need to be able to talk if we’re going to be together. Okay, then… Daniel, I don’t know if I want children because I’m just starting to actually figure out who I am. I’m now getting to a point where I feel like I’m doing what I want in life. Maybe I’m a late bloomer, but that’s the way it is.” She shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

“But having kids isn’t the end to life,” he said.

“It is if you do it right,” she joked.

He smiled. “Okay. I’m glad you told me that. Just think about it; that’s all I ask.”

She relaxed.

“Now, on the other thing… really, Jaymie,” he said earnestly, putting one hand over hers, “I don’t want you going to that house alone until I get the alarm system put in. Why take risks? You’ve been in a lot of trouble in the last few months, and it’s just dumb to take chances.”

Her spine stiffened and Hoppy, behind her, gave a little wuffle of inquiry. She heard a car door slam and then a key in the front door.

“Who could that be?” she said and got up. She hopped out to the hallway just as Becca came in with an overnight bag and box, struggling to carry both, plus her purse.

“Becca!” Jaymie said. “Let me get the box.” She took it and headed upstairs.

As she came back down, Daniel came out into the hallway from the parlor, where Becca was still organizing herself.

“Daniel!” Becca said. “Didn’t know you were here. I’ll go on upstairs and leave you two alone.” Becca bent to grab the overnight bag, which she had plunked down on the floor as she stuffed her keys in her purse.

When Jaymie saw the troubled expression on Becca’s round face, she knew something was wrong. “Come and join us,” she said. “We’re just talking in the parlor. You’re not interrupting anything.”

Daniel shot her a look, but sister troubles trumped boyfriend discussions. “Look, Jaymie’s right. Clearly, we were not talking about anything important. Nothing at all.”

Whoops… he was ticked off. She grimaced.

But he sounded a little calmer as he went on. “I have to get going early in the morning. Brock is driving me to Detroit and I’m flying back to Phoenix for a couple of weeks.” He turned to Jaymie. “I’ll call you while I’m there. Or you can text me. You do know how to text, don’t you?”

That was not a stupid nor insulting question, since she had not yet used her new cell phone for texting. Why should she, when no one else she knew texted? “I’ll try it out,” she said. He was still irritated, and she hated for him to leave that way, but she was anxious for him to go. It did not bode well for their relationship that in the middle of a polite disagreement she would rather he leave so she could talk to her sister.

A brief hug and kiss, and he was gone. She turned to Becca, who watched with concern.

“I interrupted something, didn’t I?” she said. “Honey, you didn’t have to send him away.”

“In the words of a Regency damsel, Daniel was being ever so tiresome!” Jaymie smiled at her sister. “Now, you can come and sit by the fire and tell me what’s up.”

“What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up.” Her face screwed into an ugly cry as she wailed, “I can’t marry Kevin… I just can’t!”

Four

“WHAT’S WRONG, SIS?” Jaymie asked, leading her into the parlor. It was highly unusual for her to be the comforter in their relationship. When Jaymie was a child and their mom and dad were going through a rough patch, Becca, at nineteen, was like a second mother to her. “Why can’t you marry Kevin? Did you have a fight?”

They sat down on the settee. Hoppy wiggled over to Becca for his share of the love. She picked him up and held him tight, burying her face in his neck. That, too, was unusual, since she wasn’t much of an animal lover. Denver opened one eye and glared up at them, then curled up tighter in a ball, sighed and went back to sleep.

Becca wasn’t talking, so Jaymie said, “What do you want to drink? Coffee, tea, cocoa? Wine? I have a bottle of Canadian wine from Thanksgiving.”

“Wine.” She sighed. “I could use a glass. Is it red?”

“No, white. A Riesling.”

“It’ll do. Before you go…” She grabbed her younger sister’s arm. “I’ve been worrying about you, Jaymie. Are you all right? Valetta said you were, but I wanted to be sure myself. The bump on the head didn’t have any repercussions?”

“Like a concussion repercussion,” Jaymie joked.

Becca groaned and let go of her arm. “I guess you’re okay, if you can make a bad joke.”

With two glasses of wine in hand and the plaid blanket over their laps, the two sisters settled back down on the settee by the fire. Becca seemed calmer, but still troubled.

“So what’s bugging you? Did you and Kevin have a fight?”

“Not at all. He’s so nice, Jaymie. He’s just… he’s so nice!”

“And… ?” Jaymie was afraid that Becca was experiencing the same thing she was… dating a nice guy, but not sure it was love.

Becca stared moodily into the fire and took sips from her glass. Her round face was not meant for brooding, though, and she just looked petulant, her cheeks red from wine and the fire. From experience, Jaymie knew to let her talk when she wanted. Hoppy was taking full advantage, snuggling up on Becca’s capacious lap.

Finally she said, “I’m supposed to be the steady, older, wiser one, and I rush into marriage like I’m buying a new pair of earrings.”

“Becca, don’t talk like that,” Jaymie said softly. Seemed like it was cold feet, or bride nerves, as Grandma Leighton called them.

“I’m going to be forty-eight in three weeks, Jaymie. Forty-eight.” She turned to her younger sister. “You remember when I got married the first time?”

“Barely. I was just, what… four?”

Becca nodded. “I was nineteen and ended up back home in seven months. Dad thought I should give the marriage more time, but Mom understood. She was the one who said I should come home. I’ve always felt like the turmoil I caused was what set Mom and Dad off on their own troubles about then. If only I could go back, I’d tell that teenage girl to slow down, take her time; she had her whole life to screw things up.”

That sounded an awful lot like bitterness. “Becca, what’s going on?”

“Do you remember my second wedding?” her sister asked, her voice odd. She stared determinedly into the fire, not meeting Jaymie’s eyes.

“Do I? The groom got stinking drunk and told the maid of honor—that would be me—to back off and stop telling him what to do. All in a lovely English accent.” Becca’s second husband was a charming Englishman who had plunged her into debt and almost bankrupted her, before taking off back to his homeland and leaving her to sort the mess out in her own methodical way. “That was James the Jerk.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

Jaymie stared at Becca. Was the wine already taking effect? “What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember my second wedding because you weren’t at it. No one was.”

“I don’t understand.”

Becca sighed, took a big gulp of wine and turned to gaze steadily at Jaymie. “I have a lot to tell you, stuff that even Mom and Dad don’t know. When I was twenty-five I met a guy, fell head over heels, and we got married at a JOP. Two weeks later I figured out what a mistake it was. We fought like two cats in a burlap sack, as Grandma would say. She’s actually the only other person who knows. I got it annulled and just tried to forget about it.” She had said it all quickly, plowing through it, then sighed deeply and slumped, as if a burden had slipped from her shoulders. “James the Jerk was my third mistake.”

They sat in silence for a long time, just listening to the crackle of the fire and the howl of the November wind rattling the windows. Then Jaymie moved over, hugged Becca hard and said, “Are you worried you’re rushing things with Kevin?”

Becca nodded, sniffling. “What if I’m doing it again?” She pulled a tissue out of her cardigan pocket.

“Let’s go upstairs to your room and talk,” Jaymie said, touched that her sister had come to her, of all people, to hash this out. Not Dee, not Valetta, her! The fire had burned down, so Jaymie separated the logs from each other and made sure the screen was in place. “We’ll figure it out together.”

They sat up long into the night, with Jaymie just listening at times and acting as a sounding board at others. Wine gave way to tea. After a few hours, and hearing all about Becca’s concern that she was being impulsive yet again, Jaymie, sitting cross-legged on her sister’s snowy counterpane, asked one question. “What did you learn in those three marriages, and how is this one different?”

That inspired another long, long discussion, and the outcome was, Becca decided she had learned enough about herself and let enough time elapse since her last marriage ended—almost ten years—that she could trust herself. Kevin was a fellow antiques dealer she had met at a show and though she hadn’t known him a long time (just a little over a year) they had talked about everything under the sun, and she had met his family and friends. That hadn’t happened before.

What had worried her was her own past history, mostly. Becca had gotten along with Kevin right away, but since he was a little older than her, she was hesitant about dating. She typically went for slightly younger men, but Kevin was patient and just kept asking. Jaymie had met and liked Kevin; he was kind, steady and gently humorous, and he took wonderful care of their grandmother. In fact, that was why Becca was able to come down to Queensville for a few days; Kevin was taking their grandma to a doctor’s appointment, and then out to lunch, a “date” they would both enjoy.

Ultimately, as they sat and chatted, Becca was reassured that she was not making another mistake, and the wedding was back on.

The next morning Jaymie awoke late—the result of staying up until three talking—and had to rush through walking Hoppy, and all the other little chores. She was helping Cynthia Turbridge, owner of the Cottage Shoppe, move some stuff around in the store that morning, then she was working for a couple of hours at Jewel’s Junk—Sunday was a good day to catch the tourist dollar—while Jewel went shopping in Wolverhampton. Finally, she would come home and get ready for the heritage committee meeting that evening.

Becca had a busy day planned as well, mostly making some local deliveries of china pieces. It was cheaper, since she had wanted to visit Jaymie, too, than mailing such delicate pieces from Canada and risking breakage. First there were deliveries in Queensville, then she had a set of Spode completer pieces—Copeland, a pretty blue and white pattern—that a lady in Wolverhampton wanted for Thanksgiving, so she and DeeDee Stubbs were heading there and then going on to an estate preview for an auction they would all be going to that Friday night. There was a Hoosier listed that Becca promised to look at and take pictures of so Jaymie could show the committee what she had in mind.

“Good morning, Cynthia!” Jaymie called out as she entered the Cottage Shoppe, Cynthia’s store on Main Street, just down from the Queensville Emporium and Jewel’s Junk. The town was small enough that the business district was limited to one strip of shops, with everything else, like the Ace Hardware, a grocery store and a few others, on the highway toward Wolverhampton.

No answer to her salute. Jaymie walked through the first room, made to look like a cottage living room with lots of knickknacks, all with price tags. She found Cynthia sitting at the cottage kitchen table (also for sale), staring into a cup of coffee.

“What’s up?” Jaymie asked, sitting down opposite her.

“Huh? Oh, nothing. Can I get you something?” Cynthia said, her lightly lined face turned down into a frown.

Jaymie paused, then said, “The other day you asked me to come help you move stuff around, and we agreed on this morning. Right?” One thing Jaymie had to be, juggling her usual multitude of small jobs, was organized, and she wrote everything down in a purse calendar. She pulled it out of her bag and verified it; she had the correct day.

“Oh. I guess you’re right,” Cynthia said. “I think… I wanted that divan in the living room moved to the side bedroom because I have a rattan set coming and need the space.”

“I came ready to work.”

Cynthia seemed distracted, but they moved things around. Jaymie was noticing signs of strain in the older woman; though normally calm and reflective, she was snappish, even broody. Cynthia Turbridge was a transplant, having worked in business or banking or something like that, then retiring young to buy a house in Queensville, where her elderly mother lived. She had been there about five years and had started giving yoga classes, but her interest in shabby chic and her enthusiastic buying habits meant she had to get rid of a lot of stuff, so the store was her answer. Her cottage shop was doing reasonably well, but Jaymie wondered if the money wasn’t coming in as speedily as she had hoped.

There was no tactful way to ask about money, however. At the door as she was leaving, Jaymie said, “I’ll see you at the meeting tonight.”

Cynthia, standing in the middle of the floor surveying their work, looked up. “I’m… I’m not sure I’m going.”

Jaymie turned back, one hand on the doorknob. “But we were going to talk about the design of the various rooms tonight, right? And color schemes… pink and white candy stripes, in your case?”

Cynthia smiled weakly and shrugged. “We’ll see. Uh… do you know who else is going to be there?”

“Everyone, I think. It’s an important meeting, which is why you have to go.”

“Is Theo Carson going to be there, do you think?”

“Probably.” Jaymie paused, but just had to ask. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

“You know him, right?” Jaymie tried to remember if he and Cynthia had ever been at the same meeting, and she realized Cynthia usually was absent when Theo was making a presentation. Coincidence, or something else?

“Sure. You run along, Jaymie. I have to get busy.”

As Jaymie worked at Jewel’s Junk she pondered Cynthia’s odd behavior. When Jewel came back she would have to ask why their friend seemed wary of being at the meeting if Theo Carson was attending. However, by the time Jewel returned, Jaymie had been busy, and with so many other things to ask and tell her, she completely forgot.

•   •   •

JAYMIE HEADED TO the heritage group meeting that evening, joining Valetta and DeeDee there. Dee had brought her elderly mother-in-law, Mrs. Stubbs, who was a fount of information where Queensville history was concerned. It took a couple of strong men to get the woman and her traveling wheelchair up the stairs, a vivid reminder to all that they needed to consider building a permanent ramp into the historic home if it was to conform to the Americans with Disabilities Act guidelines on wheelchair accessibility to public buildings. They would eventually need to consider an elevator to the upper floors, too.

Heidi Lockland was also in attendance. Haskell Lockland, a distant cousin of hers, was the heritage society’s president and she was cautiously exploring her local family ties. The feuding Queen Victorias, Mrs. Trelawney Bellwood and Mrs. Imogene Frump, were also there, seated at opposite ends of a row of chairs. Though Mrs. Bellwood was the Queen at the annual Tea with the Queen event every Victoria Day weekend, Mrs. Frump occasionally performed the same duty in Johnsonville, the town across the river on the Canadian side. The lady desperately wanted a chance to play Victoria at the Tea with the Queen event in Queensville just once before she passed, though, and so fitfully wished Mrs. Bellwood ill every May. The two had not spoken directly to each other in years, but it was rumored that there was an ancient photo of the two as pigtailed girls with their arms over each other’s shoulders.

The parlor, Jewel Dandridge’s project, had become one with the dining room by opening the huge pocket doors between them all the way, and the larger area was filled to capacity, with folding chairs and antiques mixed to make enough seating space for all. Jaymie sat with Valetta and Dee a few rows from the front, which was in the dining room. An antique buffet held pamphlets and pitchers of water for the speakers.

As Jaymie had warned Cynthia, Theo Carson, the author the society had hired to write the Dumpe family history for the booklet they were going to have printed for the opening, was indeed there in a place of prominence among those seated facing the crowd at the head of the room. He was a tall, distinguished-looking fellow with a thatch of brown hair and a neat mustache. He tended toward professorial tweeds and sports jackets with leather-patched elbows and usually had his phone in his hand.

He was actually a historical writer of some note, and it had been whispered that his book From War to War had been optioned to a documentary film company for PBS. While he wrote the historical pamphlet for the committee he was also doing research on his next book, Nazi in the USA, Jaymie had learned from Valetta. His girlfriend, Isolde Rasmussen, was in the front row opposite him. She swiveled in her chair and saw Jaymie; she waved and touched her head. Jaymie nodded and smiled to indicate she was just fine.

Dick Schuster, a pudgy, balding little man in a threadbare cardigan and polyester dress pants, glared at them both, then glowered across the room at Jaymie. Schuster was an antagonistic local, someone who had fought hard against Carson being hired in the first place. He was a writer, he claimed, and could have done the pamphlet at a fraction of the price. In fact, he was researching a book on the Dumpe family anyway—again, he claimed, though no one had heard what he was doing toward it, nor had he interviewed anyone yet—and his book would “blow Carson’s little puff piece out of the water.” He implied some deep and awful secrets he would expose. He didn’t seem to understand why that would not endear him to those who wanted the Dumpe Manor project to be fascinating and enlightening but not scandalous.

When he applied to write the pamphlet, the committee had investigated him and discovered that, though Schuster talked a blue streak about writing local history books, all he had ever done was threaten to write books. As one of the few society members comfortable using the Internet, and with her connections at the Wolverhampton Weekly Howler, Jaymie had done some research herself and found a wealth of reasons not to hire him. Nan Goodenough, her editor at the Howler, told her a story in confidence. Schuster had dug up some dirt on a Wolverhampton politician’s family. Nan did not specify what it was, and Jaymie didn’t really want to know. Schuster apparently went to the woman and threatened her with writing a tell-all story; she caved, paid him off and actually moved away to keep the scandal hushed.

If it had been something the public needed to know, malfeasance or neglect of duty, Nan’s husband, the newspaper owner and chief editor, who knew the whole story, would have felt bound to print it. However, it was something to do with her family—Jaymie could think of lots of things that were “scandalous” but nobody else’s business—and the Howler never exposed her private ordeal. If that was what Dick Schuster thought constituted “history,” then he was not the right guy for the job.

Haskell Lockland, standing at the front of the gathering among the leading committee members—three women (the treasurer, recording secretary, and subcommittee chair) and Theo Carson—harrumphed loudly to get everyone’s attention. The harrumph was a surprisingly effective method—or would have been had he not been interrupted by Dr. Prentiss Dumpe, a balding, slump-shouldered man, who banged the door open and sidled into the room followed by his slimy son, Iago, a thug wannabe. Everyone ignored Haskell and twisted to see who was making such a ruckus.

Dr. Dumpe, a local psychiatrist, had told them all that he was going to fight the committee over ownership of Dumpe Manor. He had already tried to get a court order to prevent them from doing anything to the house, since he swore it should have come to him. Haskell Lockland, a lawyer, didn’t believe he had any legal authority behind his challenge, and the court appeared to agree, declining to grant the injunction.

The doctor’s reasoning behind his attempt to regain the family home was that when his grandmother died in the nineties—leaving the house to her sister-in-law, who was not a Dumpe at all—it would have been passed down to him but for “undue influence wielded over a poor, dependent woman.” When the inheritor in turn left Dumpe Manor to her nephew, he rented it out to roomers for a couple of years, then left the area, virtually abandoning the building to the not-so-tender mercies of nature before finally selling it to the heritage committee. To Jaymie, it seemed that the chain of inheritance was clear and legally binding, and the committee was proceeding with the necessary work on that assumption.

Haskell, a tall, elegant figure—middle-aged but holding up well—harrumphed again and said, “If everyone will pay attention, we’ll get on with the meeting.”

Prentiss and Iago found seats, but at the last minute the door opened again and Cynthia Turbridge slunk into the room. Jaymie caught Jewel’s eye—the stylish junk shop owner was just two seats away from her—and motioned to the door.

Jewel caught sight of her friend and whispered loudly, “Here, Cynthia, we’re over here!”

“Is she okay?” Jaymie asked. “She didn’t seem to want to come to the meeting tonight.”

Jewel, a fifty-something firecracker of a woman, gave a dirty look toward the front of the room, then bent across Valetta to Jaymie. “Cynthia and Theo Carson were quite the thing when he was first hired,” she whispered. “Didn’t you know?”

Jaymie shook her head.

“Oh, yeah, hot and heavy. Girl fell hard. But he quickly dumped her for Isolde Rasmussen. You can see why.” She widened her eyes and glanced ahead at the tall, blond, beautiful and cool as a cucumber Isolde. “Who at our age could compete with thirty and stacked? But Cynthia was crushed.” She hushed as the Cottage Shoppe owner made her way to them. The women finally turned and noticed that the whole room was glaring at them. Valetta snickered.

“Sorry, Haskell,” Jewel said brightly. “We’re all here now. What are you waiting for?”

The meeting proceeded and they got a lot done, even though Prentiss kept interrupting, telling them that they couldn’t do anything structural and that he wasn’t going to repay them for all their work once he got the house back. Haskell finally told him that until Prentiss got that court injunction to stop work, he could just shut up.

They were all entitled to their say, but those who were working on rooms for the soft opening were expected to have a plan in place. The girl’s room was going to be rose and white, but not striped, Cynthia agreed. It would be rose with white wainscoting and have a white iron single bed covered in a quilt Cynthia had found at an antique shop; it was made with blocks of different rose-patterned materials.

Jewel’s presentation was far more vigorous and memorable. She stood and gave her plans with flair, gesturing at the room around them, pacing and illustrating with waving hands the maroon with gold velvet draperies that would clothe the ten-foot windows. On one wall there would be a candelabra-topped spinet, with a settee and low ladies’ chairs in a semicircle, as if for a family sing-along. Jewel pictured it as a vignette straight out of the song “We Need a Little Christmas.” Candles in the window, and carols at the spinet!

Mabel Bloombury and a friend of hers were taking on the dining room. Various other pieces of Victorian furniture had been donated to the society by families happy to get rid of the heavy, ornate pieces, and they would furnish the parlor and dining room. That was the only reason the dining room already had a set promised, a long oak table and eight chairs, as well as a china cabinet and buffet. Mrs. Bloombury, standing to say her piece, turned and looked at Jaymie. “I was wondering if Becca had some china she would like to donate. In particular, I was thinking of one of the Johnson Brothers patterns, like Mill Stream, or English Chippendale.”

All eyes turned to Jaymie, and she considered her answer. “I’ll ask her about it.”

“It’s just that we think the table would look so much nicer set for Christmas dinner, you see!”

“I agree,” Jaymie said. “I’ll see if there is anything she can at least loan the society, how about that?”

Mabel sighed and said, “That would be wonderful! And we could put one of her business cards out as a sponsor!”

Jaymie nodded and smiled as a murmur of approval rippled through the gathering of about thirty. Becca was all about promotion and would probably jump at the chance to help out the society and get some free advertising. “She may even have some Christmas-appropriate pieces that she can lend you.” This could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship for Becca, Jaymie thought.

Mabel clapped in glee. “That would be magnificent!”

It was Jaymie’s turn to speak, finally. The kitchen was an afterthought for many, but it would be of vital importance in the Dickens Days festivities. Jaymie, knowing how many underestimated the interest the general public would have in that heart of the home, nervously stood to have her say. She took a deep breath and glanced around the gathering of townsfolk, most of whom she knew. There were friendly faces, angry faces, blissfully blank faces and one or two indeterminate expressions.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research,” she said. “Since the kitchen is in an addition, it’s comparatively low ceilinged, with those copper panels; it’s beautiful, but dark in there. I may or may not be able to get a Hoosier cabinet in time for the soft opening, but if Bill will paint, I can get it furnished enough, with displays of baking in the Depression era, that kind of thing. The best color scheme is going to be cream and green, historically correct for the time, and it will brighten the room up some.” There… she had gotten out most of what she needed to say.

“Green? Yuck. Like friggin’ mold,” grumbled Iago Dumpe, an unpleasant guy in his twenties. Turning his ball cap to point backward, he slouched down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His pants always dragged down around his knees, or so it seemed, and when he came into the Emporium, Jaymie watched him like a hawk. If it was stereotyping to assume he might be up to no good, then she was doing it, but it wasn’t his clothes that made her mistrustful of him. If he didn’t want to be suspected of being a thief, then he should try looking someone in the eye once in a while, she reasoned, and being polite wouldn’t hurt.

Mrs. Stubbs rose, shakily, from her wheelchair and turned to glare at the psychiatrist. “Prentiss Dumpe, that boy of yours is a sad and sorry excuse for a man,” she said, pointing a crooked finger. “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, making such a fuss. I knew your grandmother, and Jane was not a woman who could be influenced to do anything against her will, especially not by Hazel Grinley Frump. Jane was a good woman, but not one to suffer fools gladly, and poor Hazel was a fool, there’s no two ways about it. She worked her fingers to the bone for your granny when none of her grandchildren…”

Here she paused, giving the psychiatrist a basilisk stare—and to catch her breath, likely, as she was huffing a bit—then continued. “Not a single one of her grandchildren would give her the time of day. Your grandmother left the house to Hazel in recognition of years of thankless toil. You are fighting a losing battle. Give up now, or look more of a fool than you already do.”

He rose, shaking with anger, his balding head perspiring. “Just goes to show how much you know. My grandmother was a miserable old biddy, true, and she ended up with only one friend in the world. That’s why she was so dependent on that woman she supposedly promised the house to in exchange for looking after her until death, and that’s why Grandma left the house to Hazel Frump.” He paused, his eyes bulging, then hurriedly added, “Plus, she didn’t dare do anything else.”

All heck broke out then, with people chattering and some heckling, a lot shouting variations of What do you mean by that, Prentiss?

They were silenced when Imogene Frump took a breather from shooting poisonous glances toward Mrs. Bellwood and staggered to stand up, her artificial hips and knees locking. “You are lying, Prentiss Dumpe, lying! You’re just plain evil, and you’re lying.”

“What do you know?” he shot back.

“Hazel Frump was my aunt, in case you’ve forgotten!”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” he snarled back.

“I think I know better than you what happened!”

“What a bunch of crap,” he barked, heading for the door, followed by his ill-favored son, Iago.

Mrs. Frump wavered, her expression twisted with pain as a ruckus broke out again among those appalled by Prentiss’s behavior. To Jaymie’s astonishment the most amazing thing that had ever happened in Queensville happened at that moment. Mrs. Bellwood trotted over to comfort Mrs. Frump, her longtime enemy.

Then hell froze over, but no one noticed because they were too busy gawking at a sight no one in Queensville had ever expected to see.

Five

AFTER THE SHOCK wore off and the two women sat down… together… the meeting got back to business. Mrs. Stubbs thumped the floor with her cane and told the assemblage that Jaymie’s choice of paint color for the Dumpe kitchen was not only pleasing aesthetically, it was historically correct. She was there and had seen it; back in the thirties it was indeed green and cream. Many of the vintage tools she would find for the kitchen display would have wooden handles painted cream and green as well. Bill Waterman said he could get paint chips the next day and compare notes with Jaymie. A budget was agreed upon, and Jaymie was given the go-ahead to purchase what she needed at auction or wherever else, within limits.

Mabel Bloombury, in gratitude for Jaymie’s help with the dining room display, offered to make curtains for the kitchen and would take measurements that very evening. A soft opening was scheduled for the second week of Dickens Days, in early December. Pamphlets would be printed to invite folks to Queensville Historic Manor, as the house was being renamed, to come see Christmas in all its historic splendor. There was no way they would have the whole house ready, but they would have a few rooms open: most of the main-floor rooms—the dining room, parlor, library and kitchen—and upstairs the girl’s room that Cynthia was doing over and a maid’s bedroom would also be open. There were many more that would be locked, including the master bedroom and other bedrooms that were going to be used for heritage society business.

It was quite a lot to get through, but after some more quibbling and nonsense the meeting was finally over and the social hour was embarked upon. The able-bodied moved the chairs to the edges for folks to sit who needed to, and bustling women set up a giant urn of coffee, while Jaymie and some of the others made huge pots of tea and poured the brew in carafes. Still others brought out platters of treats, sweet and savory.

Jaymie’s contribution was miniature cranberry scones that she planned on selling at the Dickens Days festivities, and she nervously watched as folks nibbled on them, then took bigger bites with smiles on their faces. Valetta chuckled at her nerves, but Jaymie said, defensively, “I’m usually not there when people are eating my stuff, or it’s family, and they have to like it.”

They were separated by the flow of the crowd, and Jaymie found herself standing next to Theo Carson, whom she knew, but not well. He was an attractive man, she supposed, if a little on the paunchy side, and very much tending toward a history professor look, with a tweed sport jacket, khaki pants and brown loafers. She was still curious about Cynthia’s affair with the man and determined that she wanted to know why her friend was still so crushed. “Mr. Carson, how are you?”

He stared at her for a moment. Maybe her name wasn’t coming to mind immediately. “I’m good, Jaymie, how are you?” he said, with avuncular heartiness. He was somewhat older than her, but not old enough to take that tone.

“I’m fine. How is the work coming on the Dumpe family booklet?”

He smiled slyly and glanced across the room toward Prentiss Dumpe, who had come back without his son. Dick Schuster was standing with him—an odd pair, Jaymie thought—and he had hold of the psychiatrist’s jacket sleeve as he talked earnestly at him. The psychiatrist shook his arm to get rid of the persistent would-be writer, who then got in his face. The two men had an argument, and Schuster stormed off to another corner of the room.

“It’s interesting stuff,” Carson finally replied, turning his gaze away from the brief encounter. “Did you know that Cranmer Dumpe, who built the house, had been a slave trader in the South before moving north?”

“Really?”

“Yes, and the scandal morphs once you get into the twentieth century. It is widely known that there was more than one Nazi sympathizer among the Dumpes.”

“Widely known?” Jaymie had to bite her tongue to keep from retorting that a writer ought to know better than to use such a cliché. She hated that phrase, since it always seemed to be used by folks who couldn’t quote an actual source. That boded ill for the research he was doing into the booklet, if that was the case. “I wouldn’t say that it is or was widely known,” she demurred. “Maybe rumored or gossiped about.”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked around the room. “Whatever.”

The pamphlet would not be exactly what the committee was expecting, Jaymie mused, but if he did have facts to back up his statements, then so be it. She didn’t believe that such things should be glossed over. History was to be acknowledged and glared at in the cold hard light of truth. Hopefully everyone would be better and do better in future, but that would not be accomplished by sweeping unpalatable truths from the past under the carpet. And was that not a cliché? It seemed that she could get on her high horse just as much as anyone… and she couldn’t keep from using clichés now that she was thinking of them. She laughed at herself.

Carson glanced over. “A lot here to laugh about, I suppose.” He paused, examining her, then said, “So, Isolde tells me you’re quite famous locally. As an amateur sleuth, you must be in your element in this house.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned fully to face her. “Lots of legends and rumors about things hidden here. You ever find anything?”

“Other than dust balls and dead mice? Not really.”

“Oh, come on, you can tell me,” he said, with a throaty chuckle and sly wink. “You’re an intelligent girl and I’m a world-famous writer. We could really have a good… conversation. Don’t you think?”

She stared at him, taken aback at an apparent heavy-handed attempt to flirt. What exactly was he suggesting? She was about to walk away when he spoke again.

“You don’t really think that attack on you was a coincidence, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Just that your reputation precedes you.”

Time to change the subject. “I look forward to reading your family history.”

“Then you’re probably the only one of the society who will,” he griped. “No one wants the truth anymore.”

“Don’t underestimate the people of Queensville, Mr. Carson,” she said, not liking his insinuations.

“Yeah, well, I think there’ll be some material in this research for my next book, so we’ll just see.” He turned back to her, from glancing around the room. “Are you recovering from that nasty attack?”

“Recovering nicely.”

“What exactly happened?”

She told him briefly what she had told everyone else, wondering why he was so interested and his questioning so pointed.

“And you didn’t see who it was?”

“No, I just had an impression of a dark figure and then I was out cold, whacked with one of the antique mallets from our collection.”

“Now, why would someone do something like that?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Could there be something there that someone wanted? Hidden treasure? Untold riches?” He grinned, an expression that reached only to his teeth, an unnerving sight. “Have you found anything exciting in all your searches of the house?”

She stared at him, wondering what he was implying. He kept coming back to the subject of something hidden. “I can’t imagine there would be anything in that house that anyone would want, unless it was hidden so well, so cleverly, that a hundred squatters have missed it,” she said, with as much frost in her tone as she could manage.

He still stood contemplating her. “Interesting thought.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “I hear your rich boyfriend is going to pony up for security alarms for the old place. Nice that he can afford to protect you like that.”

She didn’t reply, beginning to regret talking to him. He was a deliberately unpleasant man, which was worse, in her book, than an unconsciously unpleasant man.

“Is he doing that soon? The alarm, I mean?”

She still didn’t answer, looking around and trying to think of a way to extricate herself from his presence.

“Where is your wealthy beau, anyway? Too good for the masses? Too busy for us little people?”

“He’s back in Phoenix attending to business,” she snapped.

“So… you must have an opinion. Who do you think attacked you?” he asked after a brief pause.

She wasn’t going to answer, but she needed to put his implications to rest. “It was just a tramp breaking into the house for somewhere warm to sleep. It used to be kind of a flophouse before it was sold to the society, you know, and some folks probably think it still is.”

He grinned, exposing those gleaming teeth again. “So you don’t think it was the ghost of Cranmer Dumpe?”

“No, nor the ghost of Jane Dumpe,” she retorted. “I’ve heard that the place is haunted, though. Do you think it is?” She was being facetious but to her surprise his expression sobered.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, his tone serious, looking from one side to the other at the gathered folks. “I would not come here alone, not for love or money.” His eyes widened, as he looked over her shoulder.

She glanced quickly behind her, but didn’t see anything, except some movement or expression that seemed off, though she wasn’t quite sure how. He was glaring in the direction of Prentiss Dumpe, who now had Haskell Lockland by the sleeve. Frowning, she looked back to Carson, examining his face. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think that because I was attacked, the house is not safe. Anyway, why wouldn’t you come here alone?”

“You wouldn’t understand. A man like me… I’ve made enemies. Some, my dear girl, do not respect the truth as much as you seem to.”

She didn’t miss his use of the word seem to qualify his statement.

Dick Schuster came up to them just then and glared at Carson. “You’re one to talk about the truth, Carson, when your truth is so self-serving!”

“You’re full of crap, Dick,” Carson said, his tone indulgent. “Just like your so-called writing career.”

Schuster sneered and growled, “Not my fault if some people steal my ideas and get rich off them.”

“Hah! You never had a good idea in your life that didn’t involve blackmail or extortion.” Carson whirled, stalking away to join his girlfriend and the members of the heritage committee. Schuster watched him go with a curiously blank expression.

“What did you mean by that? Are you saying he stole your work?” Jaymie asked.

“He knows what I mean; that’s all that matters,” the man said, and then he, too, walked away.

Jaymie spotted Cynthia standing alone, watching Carson and Isolde together, and crossed the room to her. “I’m so glad you came after all,” she said, approaching the other woman. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, just fine!” she said, her voice gritty with anger. “I must be some kind of schmuck,” she continued. “I can’t believe I lost sleep over that jerk! Do you know what he just said? As he passed by me, he said that it was nice to see that I was finally climbing out of my abyss of self-pity and joining the human race!”

Eyes wide, Jaymie looked toward Carson. “He said that? What a loser!” She put one hand on Cynthia’s arm and said, “That tells you what kind of a guy he really is. What do you think Isolde Rasmussen sees in him? She seems like such a nice girl.”

Cynthia snorted. “Nice like a barracuda. She’s angling to be cowriter on his next project, that Nazi thingie.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I don’t have to listen to him wax eloquent about his writing anymore. I’ve heard it’s going to make a Kitty Kelley biography look like a scholarly work. He’s planning to tear apart a few families with accusations of Nazi sympathizers and all the rest.”

Jaymie was silent; she supposed if his research was accurate, he had a right to uncover anything of the sort he liked, which was pretty much what she had said to him. However, if he was the kind of author to smear folks without adequate research… it was something the committee ought to be concerned about. Was he the right guy for their project after all?

Cynthia turned to look at Jaymie. “And just why does it seem so unbelievable that Isolde might fall for him, when I did?”

Realizing she had blundered, Jaymie stuttered, saying, “Uh, I… I didn’t even know you’d gone out with him until today. I’m sorry if I was insensitive.”

“Whatever,” the woman said.

Jaymie hesitated, but could not refrain from asking something else. “I heard that he was arrested not long ago. What was that all about?” When that fact came out, the society was scandalized, but Carson had just shrugged and said “no comment,” which effectively stopped the chatter.

“That wasn’t Theo’s fault,” Cynthia said. “It was that girl’s fault,” she sniffed, staring with malevolence at Isolde. “I heard all about it. Her former fiancé didn’t like the fact that Theo was dating her, and took a swing at him. He was just defending himself, and the charges against him were dropped. It’s the other guy who ended up in jail, not Theo.”

“Theo Carson sure does seem to get a lot of folks upset,” Jaymie muttered, surprised that Cynthia was still defending him, even though she seemed to see him for what he was. How did the guy get such great women to fall for him? He was kind of a jerk, and his attempt to flirt with her had left her feeling queasy.

Cynthia’s eyes glimmered with tears.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Cynthia shook her head, staring at the author. But she swiped the tears away with one manicured hand and turned to Jaymie with a determined smile. “So, it sounds like you’ve got great plans for the kitchen. But why green and cream? I would think you’d do something a little more fun for Christmas, like red and white.”

Jaymie sighed but restrained herself from rolling her eyes, an urge she frequently felt when talking to society members. “I need to go with something that’s going to be relevant all year long. Red and white would have been fine—a lot of the tools I’ve been buying for my own collection come with red and white handles—and I may even use some, but the green and cream color scheme just seemed more fitting for the house. You heard Mrs. Stubbs; it’s authentic to the house. I’ve already bought some Jadeite to use for a display, and I may be able to get a Hoosier cabinet to suit the color scheme.”

Cynthia had already lost interest and was watching Theo Carson again. The writer was holding court with his arm slung casually over Isolde’s shoulder. Cynthia may have said she saw him for what he was, but her eyes still held tears and she was clearly in pain. Jewel hustled over and led Cynthia away to talk sense to her and hopefully to cheer her up. Jaymie knew from experience just how painful a broken heart could be. It had taken her months to get past Joel’s betrayal, time she wasted feeling sorry for herself, hating Heidi and driving past the girl’s home, hoping to catch a glimpse of her ex.

Prentiss Dumpe strolled over and put his arm over Cynthia’s shoulders. Jewel cast him a look of dislike, but Cynthia turned in to a hug from the psychiatrist, clinging to him like a buoy in rough waters, and he pulled her away to a corner, where they sat down on a bench. The woman looked like she was pouring her heart out to the man, who popped a candy from a roll and tossed it into his mouth, munching away as he listened; strange confidant, Jaymie thought. Jewel shrugged and moved to another group of chatting folks, who sipped coffee and punch and munched on treats.

Heidi Lockland bounced over to Jaymie. “This is actually fun! I can’t believe I’m saying that. I thought it would be just a bunch of dry old sticks talking about history, but everyone here likes to gossip.”

“What are they gossiping about?” Jaymie asked, strolling with Heidi to the refreshments table. There were some of Tansy’s butter tarts, and she took one, letting the sugary goodness dance on her tongue. “I wouldn’t think you’d know anyone enough to care what they were saying.”

“I know, right? But thanks to you, folks are really opening up to me now.” She threaded her slim arm through Jaymie’s. “I’m so lucky you forgave me for taking Joel away from you.”

Jaymie restrained herself from replying and just choked a little on the butter tart. She swallowed and said, “So, what gossip are you hearing?”

Heidi glanced around and leaned in. “I know you’re super good friends with Valetta, but her brother… he’s a pill, right? Well, I heard he’s having an affair with a married woman.”

“Really?” Brock Nibley, a widower, was not her favorite person in the world, but she hadn’t thought he’d stoop to adultery. Still… it was just gossip and he was her friend’s brother. She had been accused in the past of being a murderess, so she should really give him the benefit of the doubt. Against her better judgment, she asked, “Who is his supposed amour?”

“Some woman he works with.”

“Oh.” That could be anyone: another real estate agent, a client or even one of his commercial clients. He also managed properties in Queensville and Wolverhampton, making a whole other list of those who could be considered coworkers. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Jaymie said, to change the subject. “What do you think of your cousin?”

Heidi glanced over at Haskell Lockland, who was enchanting the ladies with his oft-repeated tales of travel to far-flung places. “I don’t know yet. Haskell and I are going to get together tomorrow to compare notes on family history,” she said. “He’s glad I approached him. I guess there were some bad feelings between the Queensville Locklands and the New York Locklands over the years, and he says it’s time to mend fences.”

“That’s great,” Jaymie said. “How are you and Joel doing? Have you pinned him down to a date?”

Her expression dimmed, and she shook her head. In August Heidi and Joel Anderson had announced plans to marry in December, but had still not settled on a day nor chosen a venue. It would soon be too late, if it wasn’t already, Jaymie thought, for anything but a quickie city hall kind of wedding. Jaymie wondered if Joel’s perennial cold feet were to blame.

Her forehead pinched in a troubled frown, Heidi said, “I just don’t know, Jaymsie. What am I going to do? He’s avoiding me now, out of town on another freaking sales trip. And when he’s home he’s tired and distracted.” She pouted, her lipsticked mouth puckered, her arms crossed over her chest. “He’s the one who said he wanted to get married. I sure as heck didn’t corner him into it!”

This was more information than Jaymie wanted, but Heidi had become a friend, and Jaymie knew Joel as well as or better than she did. “He has seemed a little off lately, hasn’t he? What does he say when you push him about a date?”

Heidi sighed, her narrow shoulders slumped. She relaxed her stance, picked up one of Jaymie’s mini scones and turned it into a pile of crumbs at her feet. “Just that I need to quit pressuring him.”

“Vintage Joel.” Heidi was too good for Joel—the girl was truly a sweetheart—but Jaymie didn’t say that. “One thing I’ve always wondered was why he never took me to meet his parents,” she mused. “I know they’re still living, because I’ve been there when he’s called them, and he had to go to visit his mother once when she was sick. Has he taken you to meet them?”

“No; I don’t even know where they live. He just says he’s not that close to them.”

“Still, he should want them to meet you and come to the wedding.” Jaymie paused and eyed her friend. “By the way, have you told your folks yet?”

Heidi’s eyes welled and she shook her head. “How can I when I don’t even know when the wedding is?”

Jaymie didn’t see why that mattered; she should have told her parents about Joel long ago. Why spring him on them with a marriage announcement? But it wasn’t her business. She glanced around the room; Prentiss was giving Cynthia another hug, and the woman seemed better. The Cottage Shoppe owner headed toward the washroom.

“Why do you think a woman like Cynthia would find comfort from a guy like Prentiss Dumpe?” She explained to Heidi what she had seen.

“Just because he’s a sleazy creep doesn’t mean he’s not a good psychiatrist.”

Jaymie shuddered. “How can that be?”

She frowned, her forehead puckering, and played with a dangly earring. “I don’t know, but my mom’s psychiatrist is the creepiest, handsiest dude you ever did know, but my mom thinks he’s just the best. She says if it wasn’t for him, she would have left Daddy years ago.”

Jaymie could think of no appropriate comment for that.

Just then a commotion broke out across the room, and both women whirled to see what was going on. Haskell Lockland was holding Theo Carson and Prentiss Dumpe away from each other by the scruff of their necks as Dick Schuster looked on, an expression of utter glee twisting his face. Jaymie bolted over and heard Bill Waterman telling what he saw.

“These two jackasses were jawing at each other, then Carson took a swipe at Prentiss.”

“I did not! He tried to hit me first,” the writer howled.

“Carson, it’s time for you to cool off,” Haskell said, his tone firm.

“I told you not to hire that hothead,” Dick Schuster said, hopping from foot to foot in delight, rubbing his hands together as a bandage peeled off one. “He’s trouble. All kinds of trouble. Buckets of trouble!”

“Shut up, Schuster, you jealous wannabe!” Carson bellowed.

“Wannabe? Wannabe?” Schuster’s pale face was turning red.

Prentiss, who had pulled himself away from Lockland’s grip, began to chuckle, a sly snicker with all the oily ooze of a B-movie villain. He was watching Schuster with an unpleasant sneer, and Jaymie remembered the earlier confrontation between Schuster and Prentiss; the psychiatrist clearly didn’t like the fellow any more than Carson did.

Dick launched himself at Carson, screaming, “You stole my war book! You know you did… stole it and made a mint off it! I oughta sue you.”

“Wouldn’t that be a new approach for you, you old fraud!” Carson said, sidestepping the attack. Schuster tripped, tumbled to the floor and cried out in pain.

Suddenly there was a thud-thud-thud and a loud, cranky voice exclaimed, “Both of you settle down this instant!”

The crowd parted to reveal who was talking; it was Mrs. Stubbs in her wheelchair, and she had used her elaborate walking stick to bring everyone to attention. Dee, eyes wide with excitement, moved the old woman forward into the center of the dispute. “Dickie Schuster, you always were a bad egg, a cheating schemer from the time you were in short pants,” Mrs. Stubbs said, shaking one arthritic finger. “I knew your father and he was the same bad apple, spoiling the barrel for everyone.” She turned to the psychiatrist, who had backed off when the other two men began to squabble. “And Prentiss Dumpe, your grandmother was plain ashamed of you. That’s really why she left the house to Hazel Frump. Wasn’t going to say it, but you got no business here anymore and ought to leave us all alone. These young folks want to make something of Dumpe Manor, and that’s more than any of the families that owned it could do.”

Dee, eyes sparkling with mischief, said, “I think it’s time to go, Mama, before you get yourself in trouble.”

“You’re right, DeeDee. Take me home. Got no time for this tomfoolery anymore.”

Prentiss left immediately after, grumbling again, while Haskell Lockland was able to talk Dick Schuster and Theo Carson into retiring to opposite corners of the room.

Valetta rejoined Jaymie. “This has definitely been the most exciting heritage meeting we’ve ever had!” she exclaimed.

“I know!” Jaymie said, and she filled her friend in on what she had heard. “What is the deal between Prentiss Dumpe and Dick Schuster?”

“Those two hate each other. Brock works with Schuster’s wife in real estate,” Valetta said, referencing her brother. “And she told him all about some kind of double-cross Prentiss did to Dick over something involving his and his wife’s relationship. You know, don’t you, that Prentiss Dumpe’s psychiatry license was suspended a few months ago?”

Jaymie was startled. “No, I didn’t know that. What for?”

She shrugged, but said, “I don’t know all the details, but I do know that Schuster and some of his other patients are launching a class action suit for malpractice.”

“Malpractice in psychiatry? I guess I didn’t know there even was such a thing. So Dick Schuster saw him in his professional capacity?” Jaymie said, watching Dumpe across the room as he followed Haskell Lockland around, talking at him.

“I guess so. The wife told Brock that Dick was seeing him for anxiety and that they both went to him for marital help, but I guess he flubbed it big-time, and the couple is separated now.”

“That’s all private information,” Jaymie said uneasily.

Valetta shrugged. “She told Brock all of that and didn’t seem too concerned, or not enough to ask him to keep it to himself, anyway. You know me… I wouldn’t talk about it if it was told to me in confidence.”

Since Valetta’s brother was one of Jaymie’s least favorite people, she didn’t feel comfortable with the source of the information, though she couldn’t tell Valetta that. Brock had a tendency to twist things and make assumptions, which could totally alter the meaning of a situation.

“Anyway, that’s why Prentiss’s license has been suspended until the suit is settled,” Valetta said.

Mrs. Bellwood and Imogene Frump crossed the parlor floor toward the two younger women and cornered Jaymie. Valetta slipped away with an evil grin on her face—how could she abandon Jaymie to two formidable women?—and headed over to Cynthia and Jewel, who were talking to Bill Waterman, clearly consulting about the wall colors being chosen for the parlor as Jewel patted the surface and gestured at the crown molding.

“We want to know what happened to you and who is responsible,” Mrs. Bellwood said, hands clasped together under her impressive shelf of bosom. “We cannot have people being bashed over the head in our house.”

Jaymie bit her lip, looking between the two seniors.

“Do the police have any clues? Do you think we should investigate?” Imogene Frump added, her protuberant eyes boring into Jaymie’s. She was arrayed in a dress similar to that of her archnemesis, a tweedy jumper and sweater, with a Red Hat Society pin holding the sweater together at the neck.

Both women stared at her intently, and Jaymie had a sudden vision of the two donning deerstalker caps and holding magnifying glasses. She was hard-pressed not to snort in laughter. It was easier to restrain herself once she realized that the two women getting along might mean a mathematical squaring of their busybodyness. She suppressed a shudder at the vivid foreshadowing of trouble to come. “The police don’t have anything to go on, so far.”

“What was taken?” Mrs. Bellwood asked.

“Yes, what was taken?” Mrs. Frump echoed.

“Nothing, as far as we know.”

“So why were you bopped?” Mrs. Frump asked.

“Yes, why?” Mrs. Bellwood repeated.

She looked from one lined and querying face to the other. “I… I don’t know. We think that because the back door is still blocked, the person had no way out but the front door. He… or she… got scared and hit me on the head with one of the mallets from the kitchen.”

The two women looked at each other and nodded. It was weird, considering that until that night they had been enemies, but their speech and mannerisms had synced, and now they appeared to think and talk as one.

“We wonder if there is something in the house they were looking for,” Mrs. Bellwood said.

“Yes. When we were little girls…”

Jaymie temporarily lost track of the conversation as she tried to imagine the octogenarians in front of her as little girls in ringlets and frilly dresses. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“Aren’t you listening, Jaymie? Lucille would be most disappointed at your dullness tonight,” Mrs. Bellwood said sharply, referring to Jaymie’s grandma Leighton. “She always said you were the brightest of her granddaughters but…” The woman shook her head in disappointment.

“Listen, child,” Mrs. Frump said. “There was a rumor that before my aunt Hazel died she said she had a special something that she was going to give the historical society, but then she passed on and there was nothing left in her will. We think she may have hid it in the house somewhere, and someone was looking for it. That’s why you were hit over the head.”

“Yes, hit over the head,” Mrs. Bellwood said. She leaned forward, her gimlet stare focused on Jaymie. “Struck down for the Sultan’s Eye.”

Six

“THE SULTAN’S EYE? What on earth is that?” Jaymie asked.

“Girls today,” Mrs. Frump said, shaking her head.

“No knowledge of the finer things in life,” Mrs. Bellwood said, also shaking her head. “You would think at least Jaymie would know, with a background in antiques.”

“Well, not antiques,” Mrs. Frump demurred. “Just junk.”

Fascinated by the transformation in the two archenemies since they had so swiftly made up in front of the whole heritage society, Jaymie stared at them, still mystified. “But what is it?”

Mrs. Bellwood said, “The Sultan’s Eye is a brooch, a fine small painting of an eye—”

“Surrounded by pearls or gemstones,” Mrs. Frump continued. “Many, many years ago it was the fashion to have a portrait done of your lover’s eye, or a famous eye, and made into jewelry.”

“Oh, I know what you mean!” Jaymie said. She had read Stephanie Barron’s series of mysteries with Jane Austen as a protagonist, and in Jane and the Wandering Eye there was an eye portrait pendant. She explained why she suddenly understood.

“That is exactly what we mean, dear,” Mrs. Bellwood said, kindly, as if addressing a precocious child.

“My aunt, Hazel Grinley Frump, claimed that Mrs. Dumpe gave one to her as a sign of their friendship,” Mrs. Frump said. “She called it the Sultan’s Eye, because it was supposed to be some kind of oriental object. But no one ever saw it, and no one knows where it went, to this day. Maybe the assailant was looking for it.”

Jaymie sternly refrained from rolling her eyes—she was going to get eyestrain if she kept it up—and carefully said, “I think whoever hit me was probably just some poor soul looking for a warm place to spend the night. This house was abandoned for so long, and we know from the condition we bought it in that folks were squatting here. The guy just didn’t know it was no longer abandoned.”

“Guy… so you know it was a man?” Mrs. Bellwood asked, staring at Jaymie through squinted eyes.

“Very interesting,” Mrs. Frump said.

The two women looked at each other and nodded. Jaymie had a feeling she had two Snoop Sisters on her hands. “I don’t know that it was a man,” she hastily amended. “It was just a turn of phrase.”

“Interesting. We’ll look into it,” Mrs. Bellwood said in her best Queen Victoria voice. They turned, as one, and sailed away.

Jaymie said good-bye to her friends, talked to Bill Waterman for a minute about the kitchen renovations then headed home to work on her week’s column for the Wolverhampton Howler. After that it was bedtime and a novel. She had scored a box of old Regency romances when she was vintage shopping, and they made quick and tasty bites if they were good, boring and frivolous ones if they were bad. She could read one in a few hours. This time it was a very old book, Winter Wonderland by Elizabeth Mansfield, one of her all-time favorites. She read it from cover to cover, cried in all the right spots and slept magnificently, dreaming of snow and Christmas and mistletoe.

Becca returned to London on Monday morning, and the rest of Jaymie’s week was busy, with work at the Emporium, a few picnic baskets to plan for her vintage picnic rental business, the column due and several consultations with Bill Waterman over the color for the kitchen, which he planned to paint over the weekend. She was grateful for his workaholic attitude about the project, because though he was getting paid, it was considerably less than he normally would make for work of that nature. It was a labor of love, he said.

Friday night finally came and Jaymie was going to attend an out-of-town auction. Becca had already done some reconnaissance for her, having attended the preview held on the weekend. There was a green and white Hoosier cabinet that she had photographed, and Jaymie was intent on getting it. The quest brought back vivid memories of buying her own Hoosier in the spring, and the mayhem that had followed, but this time it would be going directly to Dumpe Manor, and not home with her.

She met Heidi, Bernie and Valetta in a dark parking lot on the outskirts of Wolverhampton, and they all went together into the auction house’s barnlike warehouse. It was cavernous and cold, with a draft that whistled through from the open garage-type doors at one end.

“I hate November,” Heidi said with feeling. “It’s so c-cold!” She shrugged deeper into her expensive designer ski jacket.

“It’s Michigan, and it’s going to get a lot colder. You really need to dress in layers,” Valetta said, happily snuggling in her old quilted cotton coat, which she wore over a sweater embroidered with a kitty, which was over a blouse, which was over a long-sleeved mock turtleneck cotton jersey shirt.

Heidi looked shocked, her pale brows arched over big blue eyes. “Layers? But I might look fat!”

Valetta put a hand to her forehead in mockery, while Bernie snorted in laughter. Jaymie shared a look with the police officer. Bernie’s dark eyes were alight with humor, and she threaded her arm through her friend’s, saying, “Heidi, you could not look fat if you dressed like the Michelin Man.”

For her part Bernie was sensibly dressed in a gold ski jacket over a maroon wool turtleneck and wore a toque over her short-cropped curly black hair. Bernice Jenkins was the only African American on the Queensville police force, and she was intent on becoming its first African American to become a detective. Zack Christian’s defection had meant a position was opening up; one of the sergeants had been promoted to detective, and Bernie was one of two qualified officers who wanted the sergeant’s open position, the next step on the ladder to detective. But she had a BA in criminal justice, from Michigan State, and had been with the Queensville force longer than the other candidate. She was going to be taking the promotion exam in just a few weeks.

As she strolled the aisles of tables, her notebook out, Jaymie reflected on her reaction when she heard that Zack had left Queensville for Detroit. She didn’t want to admit it, but if forced to, she would have to say that what she felt had been relief. Why relief? Zack Christian was attractive, smart and a nice man. He appeared to like her company, and she liked his.

But… would there ever have been more? Romance was just complicating her life at the moment, when she had all she could handle. Romance made her goofy and distracted, and put her under pressure. Maybe she was not in the right frame of mind for a serious relationship.

How did anyone ever know?

“You seem distracted, Jaymie,” Bernie said, following her down the line of tables. Valetta and Heidi were off examining a boxed lot of sixties kitsch and squabbling over a couple of items they both wanted. “What’s up?”

Jaymie shared her thoughts about Daniel and Zack, and Bernie grimaced. “I know what you mean. Romance is a huge emotion drain. I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I’m feeling blue.”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Bernie!” Jaymie put her arm over her shoulder and squeezed. Bernie had been surreptitiously dating a fellow cop, Officer Ng, and had been just getting comfortable in the relationship. “Seems we’re all feeling the lovelorn blues.”

“Except for me,” Valetta said, coming up behind them. “I’m smart enough to stay away from such nonsense. Single and happy.”

“I shouldn’t be so relieved Daniel is back in Phoenix, should I?” Jaymie asked, as Heidi joined them by one of the box lots that covered a series of folding tables. Jaymie fished around in a box of utensils, being careful to watch out for knives. She had been cut before and wouldn’t take that chance again. “If I love him, shouldn’t I miss him and want him around?”

“I don’t know about that,” Heidi said glumly. “Sometimes I think Joel is more trouble than he’s worth. He makes such a mess around the house. And his idea of clean is definitely not my idea of clean! He always says he’s cleaned up after his shower, but there’s a puddle on the floor and his wet towel is in the hamper, and I hate wet towels in the hamper! I mean, who does that? They need to be dry before they go in, or they smell musty!”

It could so easily devolve into a gripe session about men, so to turn the topic, Jaymie said, “Okay, so who is here looking for what? Maybe we can help each other find what we want.”

Heidi was just along for the ride despite squabbling with Valetta over a box of junk, and Valetta was vague, looking for “anything cute.” Since her idea of cute ran to kitschy kitten figurines and other midcentury oddities, it was hard to shop for her. Bernie, though, was looking for anything with an amoeba or boomerang print on it. She was especially looking for barware in turquoise and pink to go on her new bar, similar to the one she had found Heidi in the summer. But she was open to other furnishings.

“And what are you looking for?” Valetta asked Jaymie.

“A lot, but my list is almost entirely for the Queensville Historic Manor.”

“So you’re shopping with heritage society money!” Valetta rubbed her hands together. “Other people’s money is always the best.”

“However, I’m not going to go crazy. I’m looking for green and cream kitchen utensils, also any Jade-ite, and I’ll be bidding on the Hoosier cabinet over…” She turned, scanning the bigger furniture at the end of the line of box lots. “There, that’s it. I have got to go look at it!”

“And she’s gone,” Valetta said dryly. “Now she’ll be mooning over that big hunk of oak for the rest of the evening.”

It was gorgeous, big and green and cream and complete! The finish wasn’t perfect; in fact, it was alligatored in places, the crackling and bubbling of a very old finish. That was not an issue for Jaymie, and she hoped it wouldn’t be to the society. She did not want to strip the gorgeous creamy color, edged in green, from the piece just to make it superficially perfect. It was like an old woman, every line and wrinkle making it the gem it was, and there should be no cosmetic surgery on the piece.

She opened doors and explored, noting the original milk paint on the shelves. Milk paint, a nontoxic and water-based coating, was used on the interior of Hoosier cabinets because it was food safe. Valetta stood by her elbow.

“Wow! It has the tip-out flour dispenser!” Jaymie said, her voice echoing oddly in the cabinet interior.

“You had better simmer down some,” her friend whispered, nudging her with her bony elbow. “Folks are noticing you getting all antsy over this, and the bidding could go high if you look too enthusiastic.”

It was good advice and Jaymie heeded it… right after she satisfied her curiosity and noted the almost complete set of Depression glass canisters with green-painted tin lids that went with it. A little farther down the line of tables, there was a boxed lot of kitchen utensils that had a bunch of green-and-cream-handled ones, as well as a white enamel colander with feet; she also saw some enamelware that would look pretty in the laundry room, which was a project they were going to tackle the next spring. It was a haul, to be sure, and she just hoped she got it all, because if so, she would have almost everything she needed to make the kitchen perfect… for the time being.

The auction was about to start when Jaymie noticed that Cynthia and Jewel were also in attendance. They waved to each other, and Jewel lifted her eyebrows and pointed surreptitiously over at Theo Carson and Isolde Rasmussen. The pair stood off to the side, near the auctioneer’s podium, talking intently and looking around.

Since Isolde was the docent at the Wolverhampton museum, and Carson was clearly interested in history, this would make an ideal date night for them! Their mutual love of old stuff was what had drawn Becca and Kevin together. Jaymie didn’t need that in a boyfriend, but it sure would have been nice. While Daniel seemed to appreciate Stowe House, he was just as comfortable in the modern home he had built in Phoenix, the one he kept complaining she had never yet visited.

She focused on the action near the podium, but her eye was drawn back to the pair. Theo had grabbed Isolde’s arm and was talking at her in a way Jaymie didn’t like. No one else appeared to notice, but at that very moment Isolde whacked Carson and stalked away, while the writer rubbed his arm and looked worried. So Isolde could look after herself. That was good.

The auction started. Jaymie was successful in winning the box of utensils she needed to outfit the manor kitchen. Bernie won a midcentury modern teak boomerang coffee table she wanted, and Valetta—regrettably—won a huge box full of tchotchkes… junk of the tasteless variety, especially a set of cat figurines in frilly sherbet-colored tutus. Jaymie saw some “gifts” of china cats in her own future. Valetta, always well-intentioned, felt that everyone ought to appreciate the frilly and silly knickknacks of the middle of the last century, and so she gave them as gifts.

The very last item up for bids was the green and cream Hoosier cabinet. There were a couple of other interested parties, and though the price started low it rapidly escalated, the bidding fierce and competitive. Jaymie had a tense twenty minutes of bidding and ended up paying more than she anticipated, though the price was still within the boundaries she had set with the society leadership committee.

After they had all paid for their items, they toted them to their vehicles. Jaymie had some help to put the Hoosier in her van, but then she wondered where she was going to put it. “I don’t have a clue what to do,” she said to her friends.

“Tell you what,” Bernie said, shoving her hands in her ski jacket pockets and hopping from foot to foot in the frigid air. “The easiest thing is to take all your Dumpe Manor stuff directly there. Heidi and I’ll follow, and you and I can woman-handle the cabinet into the kitchen. Do you have your key with you?”

“I do,” Jaymie said, surprised. “Are you sure about this, Bernie? I can’t ask you to do that.”

Heidi hopped up and down. “I want to show Bernie the house anyway. Let’s all do it. It’ll be an adventure!”

Jaymie exchanged a look with Bernie and they both grinned. They knew that by “Let’s all do it” Heidi meant that Jaymie and Bernie would carry the heavy stuff and Heidi would flit through the house excitedly.

“I’d better go along, too, then,” Valetta said. “Just so you don’t all end up on the floor hit by mallets.”

“I think I’ll be safe with a police officer,” Jaymie said.

Jaymie led the way in her rattletrap white van. She pulled into the drive—another car was already pulled in, but Jaymie didn’t recognize it—and stopped by the front steps. Heidi and Bernie got out of her car and made their way through the posttwilight gloom. “Why not pull around to the back?” Bernie asked. “There’s a door there, right? All these old houses have a back door off the kitchen.”

“Sure, but this one is nailed shut and blocked off. Bill is going to unblock it, but he has a million other things to do. Until then, we use the front door to bring stuff in.”

Valetta snickered, approaching them. “You are no doubt rethinking your offer to help Jaymie with the Hoosier, right, Bernie?”

Bernie’s eyes widened. “You mean we have to carry it up the stairs, into the house and all the way through to the back?”

Jaymie sighed. “I’ll completely understand if you renege,” she said.

The officer stiffened her back and said, “No, I offered, and I’ll do it. We’re strong women, right? We can do this!”

Valetta carried the box of kitchen utensils in and propped open the door for them as Heidi raced back and forth like an excited Pomeranian. Luckily the Hoosier cabinet came in three pieces, the upper and lower cabinet and the tabletop. They hoisted the awkward upper cabinet between them and, with much grunting and talking, got it up the four steps and into the house. They needed a break and set it down on the wide-board hardwood floor in the hallway.

Bernie wiped her forehead, which had beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air, and looked around. “You told me a lot about this place,” she said to Heidi. “But you didn’t do justice to how big it is!”

And indeed the front hall was wide and high ceilinged, twelve foot or more, as were all the main-floor rooms. The front hall was almost finished. Bill and the committee had decided on a rich cranberry for the walls, to go with the golden oak flooring. “It gets even better,” Jaymie said, racing to the light switch on the wall and pushing the button to click on the pendant lights.

“Wow! Not my style, but… wow!” Bernie said.

Heidi and Valetta had both seen the fixture alight before and were not so easily impressed.

“Are we going to get moving?” Valetta asked. “Come on, you two. I’ll bring in the tabletop if you pick up the pace.”

Just then they heard loud voices in the hall near the kitchen.

“What was that?” someone said, his stentorian voice echoing through the house. “Thought I heard something.”

Jaymie stopped and listened, putting one finger up to her mouth to hush the others. It was Theo Carson’s voice.

“It’s nothing! Stop changing the subject and answer my question.”

And that was Isolde. Jaymie frowned and tiptoed toward the kitchen. She paused before making her presence known, but almost jumped and shrieked when Bernie came up stealthily behind her.

“What’s up?” she whispered.

“Shh,” Jaymie hushed her.

“What was the subject? In fact, what was the question? You know I never actually listen to you,” Carson replied, his insulting tone indicating how exasperated he was. There was a bang in the kitchen, something falling over.

“I wanted to know, what are you looking for?”

“Look, Izzie, you can’t think that stupid girl getting attacked here was some coincidence, can you? She thinks it was just a squatter or tramp, but I don’t think so. You aren’t as dumb as she is, are you?”

“You mean Jaymie?”

“Of course I mean Jaymie, unless you know of some other stupid girl who got clobbered here recently.”

Jaymie rolled her eyes as Bernie giggled at her side, stifling it with her hand.

“So you think there’s something here someone wants,” Isolde said, her voice stiff with anger.

“I do.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Maybe, but why would I tell you that?”

“So maybe I can help you find it?” Isolde said. “You must have wanted me to come here for some reason. How can I help if I don’t know what I’m looking for?”

“Just go back to looking pretty while I make with the serious stuff.”

“Come on, Theo… have you come across something in your research?”

“Can you shut up so I can—”

Valetta dropped the Hoosier tabletop that moment in the front hall, and the loud bang echoed throughout the house. The conversation in the kitchen ceased and as Jaymie scrambled with Bernie to pick up the upper section of the Hoosier, preparing to carry it to the kitchen, Theo Carson and Isolde Rasmussen emerged from that room.

“Oh, hi, Isolde, Theo,” Jaymie said, trying to be as natural as possible, not easy to do once you’ve overheard yourself called a stupid girl. “I just got this at auction.”

“What is it?” Isolde asked. “Some kind of bookcase?”

“No, of course not,” Jaymie replied, as she and Bernie hefted it onto their shoulders. “It’s the upper section of a Hoosier cabinet,” she grunted. “What are you two doing here?”

Bernie growled, “Can you wait on the chitchat until we get this monster into the kitchen?”

“Okay, all right,” Jaymie said, out of breath and just starting to realize how heavy the darned thing was getting. She and Bernie finished their job, retrieving the bottom section from the van and putting the whole cabinet together in the kitchen. She set the box of utensils she had won on the countertop surface.

“Now, let’s go and see what those two were up to,” Bernie murmured to Jaymie.

“Exactly.” They rejoined the group in the front hall. “Isolde, Theo, have you met the others? You already know Heidi, I think, and you’ve met Valetta, but this is our friend Bernie.” No need to mention her employment. “So, what’s up? Why are you here? How did you get a key?” Jaymie brightly asked, trying not to glare at Carson.

“I was just exploring the ambience of the old homestead, you know,” Carson said, waving his hand around. “If I’m to write about the place, I need to feel it.”

Bernie, standing slightly behind the author, made a gagging motion. Heidi giggled and Valetta sighed. Jaymie had disliked Carson from the beginning—he was a know-it-all that the older ladies found charming, for some reason—but since she liked Dick Schuster even less she hadn’t opposed his hiring. Isolde frowned, but Theo appeared unaware of the women’s exasperation.

“So… you’re just soaking in the ambience,” Jaymie said, wishing she could just tell them she had overheard their conversation in the kitchen. “Would that be presoaking, then, or have you actually started the writing?” The society hadn’t seen a single word yet of the promised booklet, nor did they even have a delivery date.

“I think I’m done soaking,” he said, eyeing her with a frown like one would aim at a puppy that had bared its teeth. “Good evening, ladies. Isolde, come on.”

Isolde dutifully followed him out, a cold wind sweeping into the hallway along with some dried leaves as they left. The door slammed after them.

“So what was that all about?” Bernie asked Jaymie.

“I wish I knew,” Jaymie said, but she was thinking of Mrs. Frump and Mrs. Bellwood and their musings about the Sultan’s Eye. Was that what Carson was after? And was that indeed why she had been attacked?

Seven

“NAN, WE CAN’T call the piece that!” Jaymie protested to her editor on the phone while filling up Hoppy’s bowl of crunchies. The little dog enthusiastically dug into his breakfast.

“Why not? Don’t the people of Queensville have a sense of humor?” Nan Goodenough replied.

Jaymie strolled out to the summer porch, looked out the back door and waved at Trip, who was doing his calisthenics before his five-mile walk. The view of her backyard and beyond was so different once the leaves had fallen; instead of a sea of green above the fences and surrounding the structures, there were charcoal traceries, tree limbs outlined against the dove gray of the scudding clouds. “It’s not exactly that.” How could she explain? And why had she agreed to write a piece on the Queensville Heritage Society’s meeting anyway?

Nan was the food and lifestyle editor of the Wolverhampton Howler, but she also wore many other hats at the paper. She had offered Jaymie the opportunity to write about the heritage society meeting in Queensville, and Jaymie had jumped at the chance because she was awed by the editor’s faith in her. All she had written so far was her food column!

But still… she just could not go along with the column title the editor wanted. How could she look society members in the eye after writing a column called “Pickings from the Dumpe”?

“The society is just touchy about certain things, and the Dumpe name is one of them. I ought to know, because I’ve made one too many jokes.” Like walking into the house and quoting Bette Davis’s famous “What a dump!” line, and talking about being down in the Dumpe. That was really why she couldn’t call the article that; the other society members would suspect it was her idea all along. Though she might giggle about the Dumpe Manor name over wine with Heidi, she would never expose her friends and fellow Queensvillians to ridicule from the wider world, especially Wolverhampton, whose citizens tended to look down their collective nose at the populace of its smaller neighbor.

“It’s a golden opportunity, for crying out loud.” Nan paused and heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, we’ll just go with the mundane for now. What is your food column this week?” she asked, referencing Vintage Eats, Jaymie’s attempt to make a minor name for herself in the food world to advance her ambition of publishing a modernized vintage recipe collection.

Jaymie talked about her plans for a moment.

Nan replied, “Great. Get that piece to me before I have to fend off that Isolde creature again.”

Isolde was too unusual a name for there to be two in such a small community. “Do you mean Isolde Rasmussen?”

“Yeah, do you know her? She’s been calling me a couple times a week with article suggestions, trying to get a column, offering to write to spec, sending me unwanted pieces of junk.”

“I guess she’s ambitious,” Jaymie replied, remembering what Cynthia had said at the meeting about Isolde being a barracuda trying to ride Theo’s coattails.

“I don’t mind ambitious,” Nan said. “But when you combine that with the tenacity of a leech and a snail’s lack of insight you get a zoological nightmare.”

“Lack of insight?”

“Her writing! Don’t get me wrong, she can string together words into a coherent recognizable pattern that is logical and understandable.” She made a rude noise like a raspberry through the phone. “But great balls of fire, it’s so damned self-conscious. Pretentious. She must have been an English major.”

“I was an English major in college,” Jaymie pointed out.

“Yeah, but you don’t use words like profligate, obduracy, inchoate and my favorite, peripatetic, to describe—get this—the staccato drumming of a battle reenactment. All in one piece! Ye gods, as if I’d hire someone like that! I’d spend all day with a thesaurus trying to rewrite her work.”

“Guess that’s why you like me,” Jaymie said, trying to keep from giggling. “No big words, no thesaurus needed.”

“None that don’t belong,” Nan corrected. “Seriously, Jaymie, you’re a fine writer, much better than you think. Now get to writing and send me that piece!”

Nan hung up, and Jaymie sat down at the kitchen table, stunned by her editor’s unexpected praise. Nan Goodenough was brusque and sometimes abrupt. She never said two words when one would do. So what she had just said was high praise indeed.

Jaymie muttered a silent prayer of thanks for people who believed in her, then picked up her cell phone. It was new, but not so elaborate that she couldn’t figure it out. She had input all the home phone numbers of the heritage society members, plus the cell numbers of those who had one, including Jewel, Heidi, Cynthia, Dee, Valetta and even Isolde, who had showed up the day after the meeting when Jaymie and Bill were finalizing the colors for the kitchen and insisted on getting Jaymie’s cell number.

As she toyed with the phone, clicking around and figuring it out, she thought about the night before. What had Theo Carson been looking for at Dumpe Manor? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be something he wanted to share with his girlfriend. Though, come to think of it, did Isolde know more than she was letting on, even to Theo? Was that why she kept showing up at the house at odd moments and snooping around? That was something to ponder.

Denver got up out of the basket by the stove, which he hogged unless he was feeling generous enough—or wanted the warmth—to allow Hoppy a little space. He stretched and sauntered to the back door, which meant he expected his staff to open the door for him. She jumped up, let him out, and Hoppy in, and sat back down at the table as the Yorkie-Poo wobbled over to his bowl and settled down to eat more.

Why search the kitchen, though, she wondered, going back to Theo and Isolde the previous night. The Sultan’s Eye was one possibility, but it sure wouldn’t be hidden behind a wall in the kitchen or in the cupboard or anything ludicrous like that. However… Theo was a writer. Maybe this wasn’t about the Sultan’s Eye at all. Jaymie had heard a rumor of a Dumpe manuscript—kind of a bio—of the family and all of their intimate details. Maybe Carson had heard about it, too.

How would that be valuable, though? The Dumpes were just a Michigan family with deep roots in the area and no particular tie to anything famous or popular or important. Unless he thought it would reveal those Nazi sympathies he had conjectured about at the meeting. Given his next book’s subject matter, the manuscript might be valuable to him. She shrugged and got to texting, intending to tell Daniel briefly about her evening at the auction and send her love.

Her love. Which she wasn’t sure she felt. She typed a chipper but brief note and hit send. She then hopped next door and quickly checked in with Pam, who was looking after the bed-and-breakfast for Anna and Clive Jones. Anna’s cousin had turned out to be competent in a lot of ways and was certainly more of a cleaning nut than Anna had been, and definitely a better cook. Her son, Noah, was still a sullen and unpleasant blot on the landscape, but he was no different from a lot of teenage boys, she supposed.

Everything was fine there, so Jaymie returned home, headed directly upstairs to her office and got down to actual work, which meant first finishing the report on the heritage society meeting and sending it off via email to Nan. She had been agonizing over it for too long, and had no idea if it was all right, but it had to be done that moment because the paper was going to print the next day and they had a set amount of column inches saved for the piece. She then worked on her vintage recipes for an hour and updated her blog, which now had a couple hundred followers.

Finally, she had done as much as she was going to do, so she pulled on a heavy wool sweater, got a mug of tea and headed out to the summer porch to sit on the divan and look out over the still-green grass and row of brilliant holly bushes she had planted in the spring. So far she liked the look of the beautiful deep green bordering her lawn and thought it would be even better closer to Christmas, when she could cut branches for decorating. On the other hand, everything else looked gray and dispirited. The trumpet vine had dropped all its leaves and sagged over the old garage, which needed a fresh paint job.

It would have to wait until next spring. An old house required a lot of upkeep, but she knew how fortunate she was that when her parents decided to move to Florida permanently they had deeded the Leighton family house to Jaymie and her sister. Jaymie loved the house deeply and would never consider leaving to live elsewhere. Which was a problem, given the situation with Daniel. He just didn’t get her commitment to her home and Queensville, and how bone deep it was.

Jaymie hopped back into the house, grabbed the cordless phone and returned to the summer porch, letting Hoppy out to investigate the yard and torment Denver. The tabby, now heavier than in summer and with thicker fur, huddled in the holly bushes glaring out at the world. But when Hoppy bounced over to him, he gave the little Yorkie-Poo a head butt, his most friendly greeting. Jaymie dialed, and after greetings and the usual chitchat she asked how Becca was feeling about her upcoming wedding now.

“I honestly don’t know why I freaked out, Jaymie,” her sister said. “Kevin is… he’s just the best. It feels so right, and I suppose that’s what scared me.” She paused, but then delicately asked, “What about you and Daniel?”

Sighing, Jaymie said, “I’m starting to think I need to tell him I’m not ready for whatever it is we have. I mean, I like him—I like him a lot—but I don’t miss him when he’s not here. In fact, I feel free, like I’ve gotten a reprieve.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, but finally Becca said, “You know what, maybe you’re right about telling him you’re not ready. Mom’s going to be so disappointed, though. She already has a mother of the bride dress bought, and it’s not for my wedding!”

Jaymie groaned and slumped down in her chair. “Enough, already! What did I call you for, guilt trip number three?”

“Okay, never mind. Tell me about what else is going on.”

Jaymie filled her in on everything at the manor, then talked about the odd conversation she had overheard between the writer and Isolde. “What do you think they could be looking for?”

“You’ve got me. You’re the one in tune with goings-on in Queensville.”

“I guess. Sometimes I think there’s a whole lot I don’t know,” Jaymie replied, thinking about Cynthia Turbridge’s apparently torrid affair with Theo Carson and her own complete obliviousness to it. “I’d better get going.”

“Hey, sis, don’t worry about Daniel. You’ll make the right decision for yourself. I have faith in you.”

That was the sweetest thing her sister had ever said to her, and Jaymie teared up a little before saying good-bye and hanging up. It seemed to be her day for receiving compliments, and it buoyed her mood.

The day was long and busy but ended her favorite way, in her own kitchen with the mellow pendant light over the sink sending long shadows across the floor. She had a sandwich for an early dinner, then stayed at the kitchen table with a pile of old cookbooks at her elbow, as well as a bunch of kitchen utensils, among them some old wood mallets and pestles she had brought home from the Dumpe, about half of the ones there. Why on earth there were so many—probably seven or eight in total—she did not know. They sure made dandy weapons, she thought, hefting one club-shaped piece in her hand.

It gave her an idea for another Vintage Eats column, and she began to scribble notes. There was such a variety of sizes and shapes! One was cone shaped, and Jaymie knew that would likely fit into a colander, where the cook would turn it to mash cooked apples, berries or even potatoes; really this would be classed as a pestle. But the others were definitely mallets, with a hammer look, and yet not as heavy as a mallet intended for outdoor work.

Working with these items—she was writing a description of each and photographing them for an eventual Queensville Historic Manor catalog and inventory—forced the memory of being hit with one to resurface. Who had been in the house and didn’t want to be seen? Was it really just a squatter, or was someone there for nefarious reasons? Once upon a time she would have been certain it was happenstance, but lately things had been happening to and around her, and now she had become more suspicious.

So… had someone broken into the house to find whatever it was Theo Carson was looking for? Was that item the Sultan’s Eye? The mysterious manuscript? Or something completely different?

Her cell phone blipped, and she picked it up. A message back from Daniel maybe!

She clumsily scrolled through and found the message icon and clicked on it. It wasn’t from Daniel, it was from Isolde, of all people! It said, Come to the manor; found something really interesting!

Odd. But then, Isolde had been calling occasionally and had been in and out of the manor kitchen making suggestions, offering help, getting in the way. And if she had gone back, snuck in and found out whatever Theo was looking for, given the tension between them she just might want someone else to document her find. Jaymie laboriously texted back, What is it? and hit send.

She set the phone down and went back to work for a few minutes, but no new text came in. If she was right and Isolde was trying to cut Theo out of the action, Jaymie definitely wanted in on it. She might not trust Isolde’s intentions, but she trusted Carson even less. She stared at the phone, but still nothing. Okay, so she’d try to call Isolde and get the scoop. She clicked through to dial the number, but it went to voice mail. Darn.

“Hoppy, are you up for a walk?” she asked aloud, and the little dog leaped up at the word walk, which was his very favorite human word in the entire lexicon.

She paused, though, and thought it through: should she really head out there? Isolde had indeed texted her, that much was certain, and it was about something at the manor. However, given what had happened there last time, she wasn’t going to go alone. There was only one person who would do in a pinch, one friend she could call at any time and who would be up for anything.

A few minutes later Valetta, in her quilted jacket, banged on the back door. Jaymie was ready and clicked Hoppy’s leash to his collar as he quivered with excitement at the unexpected treat… an evening walk! She locked up after herself and started down the back path behind Valetta. “Do you want to take my van?”

“Are you kidding?” Valetta asked, hopping from foot to foot in the chilly evening air. “That’s like asking, would I like a good bone jarring along with some free dental work? No, I don’t want to take your van. If I’d wanted to drive, I would have brought my car. Come on; if I don’t keep moving this winter my butt is going to spread like Texas, especially if I keep eating Tansy’s butter tarts. This was a good excuse for a walk.”

“I agree wholeheartedly!” Jaymie said.

“You are the only person I know who can use wholeheartedly in a sentence and not sound weird.”

They walked, and, as much as Jaymie generally appreciated Valetta’s speed, it wasn’t fun keeping up with the woman. Hoppy seemed pleased at the pace and began to tug on the leash again, a bad habit she was trying to break. However, they had soon speed-walked their way to the manor house, and Jaymie, stopping to catch her breath, noticed that Bill had gotten the spotlights pointed at the sign working. It made the place more visible, for sure.

“I don’t see a car,” Jaymie said with a frown, searching the drive and road in front. “Do you know what Isolde drives?”

“Not me. I don’t know her too well, just what I’ve seen at the meetings, and that’s her hanging on Carson’s every word.”

“Maybe she parked somewhere else and walked here, or maybe she’s parked around back of the garage.” The garage—quite large and built in the style of the house—was original, a leftover from the days of horse and wagon, and had once served as the livery stable. Because of that—the horses and attendant noise and smell—it was set a ways back from the house with a circular lane in front of it. “Okay, let’s go in and see what she’s found.”

Jaymie picked Hoppy up and they ascended the steps to the house. Valetta took out her small flashlight and turned it on; the door was locked and there were no lights on anywhere.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Jaymie said, her stomach clenching. “Isolde can’t be in there; there aren’t any lights on in the house. And no vehicle… why would she park behind the garage, anyway? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What about the back door?” Valetta said, playing the flashlight beam around the porch and lawn. There was no sign of life at all. “Wasn’t Bill going to be clearing that today so you all could use it for bringing things in the back way?”

“True. I called him about how hard it was to take the Hoosier in last night and he said he’d get right on it,” Jaymie said. Hoppy sniffed the door and whined. It was downright frigid, and a wind was coming up. “Okay, we’ll check the back door, but if we don’t see anything we’re going home.”

They descended the front steps and circled to the back along the walkway Bill had laid, using flagstone, to fill in the dirt path that got muddy every time it rained. The back stoop, unlike the front porch, was only three short steps up because the land ascended toward the back of the property. They came around the corner and headed for the back door that led to the mudroom off the kitchen, and indeed the junk was cleared away. But in the dim posttwilight illumination it was clear there was still something there. What was it? Why had Bill not cleared away everything? He was always so thorough. Jaymie’s bad feeling was growing stronger. Valetta turned her light to play over the stoop.

“It’s a person!” Jaymie cried. Hoppy yipped excitedly. “Isolde?” She dashed forward and tugged at the individual on the steps, but it was not Isolde. It was Theo Carson, and his eyes were wide open. He was very, very dead, his head smashed in, blood across his startled-looking visage and a bloody steel-headed meat mallet lying on the step next to him.

Eight

“YOU ARE BAD luck, Jaymie, I swear!” Valetta muttered, staring at Theo Carson’s dead body by the steady beam of her flashlight.

Jaymie was silent, no words adequate for how awful she felt. He was dead, and there was not a single thing she could do for him. But someone, some murdering jerk, had seen fit to take a mallet to his head, and whoever it was would pay. Seeing a few dead bodies in the recent past had stiffened her backbone and she would not hop around shrieking or lamenting, even though she did feel woozy. She focused on the mallet; it was one she recognized and had handled herself: very heavy, red handled, with a steel head meant for pounding out and tenderizing large slabs of meat.

Despite her determination to stay strong, her stomach roiled. Last time Jaymie had seen the mallet, it had been in the pail in the kitchen with some of the other heavier ones she hadn’t wanted to lug home. How did it get outside, where it had been used against Theo?

“This is awful,” Valetta said, her words muffled by her hands covering her mouth as she stared, then turned away. “I didn’t like the guy, but he didn’t deserve this.”

Hoppy started barking and danced around, then abruptly stopped and began sniffing the ground. Jaymie tugged him away from the stoop. Poor Carson. Nothing could actually prepare you, she decided, for dealing with a life cut short in such a brutal manner.

She dialed 911 on her cell phone and tersely explained the situation as she gazed sadly at the dead man by the light of Valetta’s flashlight, examining his rumpled jacket and jeans, bloodstained from his bleeding head wound. “Yes, I said the weapon appears to be a meat mallet,” she said to the operator. “How do I know? I saw it! See it. Whatever.”

She frowned and stared, focusing on anything but the bloody wound. The jacket was awfully light for evening in November. Had he been assaulted or killed before night fell and the temperature plummeted? Or had he driven there in a warm car, and so had not needed a heavy coat?

But then she looked around, holding the phone away from her as she waited for instructions from the 911 operator. Her stomach twisted with fear. “Valetta, where is Isolde? I got that text from her saying she was at the house, but I haven’t seen her anywhere.”

Valetta’s eyes widened. “Do you think something’s happened to her? Do you think the murderer—Jaymie, tell them to hurry up!”

“Please hurry,” Jaymie said into the phone, her voice breaking. “Valetta, really, though… maybe Isolde is inside, hurt, needing help. Should we… should we leave Carson? Go inside and look for her?” Jaymie stepped back and looked up at the house, but there were absolutely no lights on. Isolde could not be in that dark house alive, unless she was terrified and cowering somewhere in the shadows.

Hoppy tugged at the leash as Jaymie glanced around. Maybe she was outside, close by. Or was she dead, too? A wave of fear engulfed her, but her concern for Isolde was stronger. “I have to look, to see if Isolde is here and needs help!” Jaymie cried, following Hoppy’s lead and letting his leash reel out of the holder as he took off toward the garage behind the house. “Go find Isolde, Hoppy!”

“Jaymie, Jaymie! Be careful!” Valetta hollered, but then she started hustling after her friend, muttering, “Darn it all. I can’t let you wander off alone with just a three-legged Yorkie-Poo for protection. Wait up! There could be a murderer lurking out there!”

They circled the garage, a structure big enough for several cars. It was dark in the shadows behind the building, so Valetta played her flashlight around the property. The beam was narrow and weak, but there was no car and—thankfully—no Isolde. But there were car traces left in the grass, muddied from rain in the past few days. And Jaymie noticed, as Valetta cast the flashlight beam around, that the back window of the garage was broken.

“When did that happen?” she exclaimed. “One of the committee members would have noticed if they parked their car back here and it was like that. And I know Bill Waterman has been storing some of his tools in the garage… he would have noticed the broken glass.”

Valetta stepped closer and hopped up to look in, her superior height a distinct advantage. “There’s nothing inside that I can see,” she said, stepping back.

Just then sirens sounded in the distance and came closer, as a Queensville police cruiser barreled down the road and screeched to a halt in front of the manor. “Police!” a voice called out. “Who’s there? Step into the light with your hands up!”

“I’m the one who called this in,” Jaymie said, stepping into the beam of the headlights, hands up as requested. Hoppy started barking and tugging at the leash again, excited by the police presence.

“Jaymie?” Bernie said. She was one of the two officers responding. “What the heck is going on here?”

“I… we—Valetta and I—found Theo Carson. He’s over there. Dead. With a bloody mallet!” The horror rushed over her in a wave, and she picked Hoppy up, cuddling him to her, as Valetta put one arm over her shoulders.

“Good grief,” Bernie said and ordered her fellow officer to check the perimeter of the house, but carefully. “All right… okay. Valetta, Jaymie, stand down!” she said, retrieving a flashlight from the car and switching it on. She swept the broad beam around the property and spotted Carson’s body. “You two go and wait by the squad car until we check things out.”

“Bernie, we’re worried about Isolde!” Jaymie exclaimed, shivering. Rubbing Hoppy’s damp paws. “We came out here because I got a text from her saying she’d found something and I should come see it, but when we got here, she was nowhere in sight.”

“She may be inside or on the property, hurt by whoever did this to poor Theo.” Valetta was as calm as Jaymie on the outside, and probably as torn up inside. “That’s why we were looking behind the garage, but she’s not there!”

“But there is a broken back window in the garage,” Jaymie added.

“Okay. Do either of you have your keys to the house?”

Jaymie handed her set to Bernie as she explained about the back door being newly cleared of junk by Bill Waterman just that day.

“Stay put, both of you,” Bernie warned, “And Hoppy, too! We’ll take care of looking for Isolde.”

Another police car screamed up to the site, along with an ambulance and a volunteer fire department truck, and the scene devolved into what looked like chaos to Jaymie, though she knew better. With Bernie in charge, the perimeter was established and, once they had backup, she and her fellow officers entered the house, guns drawn. Ten minutes later the two exited and Bernie announced the manor was clear. No Isolde inside; no one at all, in fact.

The ambulance left, as did the volunteer firefighters, but more police cars arrived. The site was closed off until the detective, a woman named Angela Vestry—now Detective Vestry, since Zack’s departure—arrived. Then she and the newly hired assistant chief, Captain Deborah Connolly, conferred with the officers in charge, Bernie and her partner.

Jaymie watched with a detached sense of unreality. If she had only stayed away. If she had only ignored the text, or not seen it. But no, then one of the ladies of the heritage committee, like Mabel Bloombury or Mrs. Frump or Mrs. Bellwood, may have found the body. That would have been horrible for whoever it was, and Jaymie had to be happy that she and Valetta, younger and stronger, had been the ones to find Theo Carson. She grimaced at her own chain of thought; Mrs. Stubbs would tell Jaymie that she would pit an older woman against a younger one any day for a strong stomach and acceptance of death.

Her mind turned to poor Theo. Had he been snooping and caught someone trying to break in? Or was there a more sinister explanation, one directed at him, not just anyone who happened to be there?

“I understand you two found the deceased?” the detective asked as she strode toward them. She was a tall woman, fortyish, her hair scraped back into a severe bun and no jewelry or makeup to soften her appearance. Her only accessories were a no-nonsense attitude and a grim expression.

“Yes, I’m Jaymie Leighton, and this is Valetta Nibley.” By the flashing police light on the top of the squad car Jaymie could see how pale Detective Vestry’s skin was, almost translucent.

“I know the detective,” Valetta said, without further comment. As the town’s pharmacist she had dealt with almost everyone, at some point, except for those who preferred to go to the drugstore in Wolverhampton.

“And you say you came out here in response to a message of some sort?” Vestry asked.

“I got a text message from a friend, and she said to come out because she had found something at the manor.” Jaymie was proud of her steady voice and calmness.

Detective Vestry looked down at a small notebook in her hand. “And this friend is Isolde Rasmussen? Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re worried about her,” Valetta said, her voice quavering. She wrapped her arms around herself, keeping her composure, but only with effort, it seemed.

“Our officers are doing a more extensive check of the grounds even now, and it’s entirely possible that she was home or somewhere else when she sent that message,” Detective Vestry said. “Could I see your cell phone, please?” She held out one manicured hand.

Jaymie fumbled for it, and then noticed how her hands were shaking. She was appalled. She had thought she was handling it so well, but as she clicked through the messages, she was getting more and more upset.

“I’d like to just see it, now,” the detective said, snapping her fingers. She plucked the phone from Jaymie’s hand. “I’ll find it myself.” She swiftly scanned through the messages and evidently found what she was looking for. As Jaymie watched, she read it through. “Why did this make you come out here?” she asked, looking up at Jaymie.

“Other than the fact that it asks me to come out here?” Jaymie said, doing her best to keep her tone free of sarcasm.

The detective watched her through narrowed eyes. “You told the officer that you texted Ms. Rasmussen back and even called her, but didn’t get an answer. Why did you come out here, then, if you didn’t get an answer?”

“But… well… that’s kind of why, don’t you see?” Jaymie hesitated, but then plunged into an explanation of how she and Bernie, in the manor house, had overheard a conversation between Theo and Isolde about something he was looking for, and how she thought Isolde was texting her to come look at it because she was mad at Theo. “I figured she was just busy or that she regretted telling me she’d found something. Bernie can tell you, those two were up to something.”

“Okay, wait!” the detective said, holding up one hand in a “stop” gesture. “So this Bernie… am I to understand you’re referring to Officer Bernice Jenkins?”

“Yes. Bernie,” Jaymie said, pointing her out as, with her partner, she wrapped yellow crime scene tape around the big maple tree that was on the far side of the garage. They stretched it all the way to the house, attaching it to the corner that concealed the back stoop from view. “We all were at the same auction and she helped me carry a cabinet into the house.”

“And you both overheard this conversation.”

“Uh-huh.”

The detective eyed Bernie, in the headlight beam, and made a note. “What exactly did you hear?”

Exactly? “Uh…” She looked over at Valetta, who was no help at all, since she hadn’t heard it. Her friend shrugged. “Let’s see… Bernie and I were carrying the top half of the Hoosier cabinet, and…” She saw the look of confusion on the detective’s face and stopped to explain a Hoosier cabinet, then continued. “I heard someone say something like, ‘What was that?’ That was Theo; I recognized his voice right away. Then Isolde said something about him changing the subject.” This was the tricky part. “I, uh, shushed Bernie and moved toward the voices, and Bernie followed me.”

“So you didn’t just speak up and ask what they were doing there. Did they have a right to be on the premises?”

Valetta exchanged a look with Jaymie and said, “Theo could kind of make a case that he had a right to be there, since he was writing a booklet for the heritage society. He apparently had a key, anyway.”

“That’s true,” Jaymie said. Who would have given or lent Carson a key? She’d have to ask around among the society members about that. Her cheeks heated up at the memory of Theo Carson’s “stupid girl” comments. She did not need to humiliate herself with telling the detective that. Hoppy shivered and whined in her arms and she set him down, but kept the leash short. “Anyway, the important part of what I heard was him referring to something he was looking for.”

“But he didn’t say what?” the detective asked, her eyes squinted in suspicion.

“No, he did not say what, even when Isolde asked him, and then someone made a noise and they heard us.” She shot Valetta a look, but her friend was oblivious.

The medical examiner, who had arrived a half hour earlier, strode up to the detective and drew her away to the other side of a cruiser. He was a big man, though, with a booming voice, so even though he pitched it at a murmur, it still carried in the chill night air. “Blunt-force trauma. I’ll know a lot more after the autopsy, but from the bruising I’d say he was attacked, but lived for a few minutes before the death blow was delivered, and that damn thing near him likely fits the bill. Someone maybe wanted him to tell them something, or wanted him to suffer before he died. Either way, that thing makes a hell of a weapon! What is it, anyway?”

Detective Vestry’s gaze swiveled to Jaymie. “When the 911 was called in, the caller said it was a meat mallet,” she said.

“Meat mallet! That’s a new one. I guess he did, didn’t he?”

“What?”

“Meet the mallet.” The ME boomed with laughter. “That’s a good one! He did meet the mallet!” He strode off down the lane toward his car, haw-hawing all the way.

The detective came back to them and said, “I guess you overheard that, right?”

“That Theo was attacked some time before he was killed. Yes, I heard,” Jaymie replied.

“Keep it to yourself.”

Bernie’s partner came to the detective just then and took her aside, whispering into her ear. She nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “Good job, Trewent,” she said and sent him on his way. She then turned back to Jaymie and Valetta. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. I would appreciate it if you kept the details of this case to yourself for the next while. I know how difficult that is in a town like this,” she said, eyeing Valetta, whom everyone knew as a gossip but who was really a lot more closemouthed than anyone suspected. She finished by saying, “It is imperative to the investigation that we have a chance to interview folks without the details being part of the villagers’ common knowledge.”

Stiffly, Jaymie replied, “I won’t breathe a word, and neither will Valetta. Despite what you may think, we both know how to keep a secret.” Then she did something—she didn’t know why—that she hadn’t done since she was a child. She buttoned her lip and threw away the key.

•   •   •

“WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Valetta asked later, as they sat in her kitchen drinking tea from two of her odd assortment of jokey mugs.

Valetta never saw a mug she didn’t love, so she had over a hundred. Valetta’s proclaimed, Caffeine… my drug of choice. Jaymie’s said, I wish this was wine. There was truth to these mugs.

“Really, Jaymie… I’m serious. What were you thinking? I mean… buttoning your lip?”

“I looked like an idiot.” She put her head in her arms on the Arborite tabletop. “I know it’s only ten thirty, but I’m so tired. I’d better get home before Hoppy decides he’s bedding down here tonight.” She sat back up. The little guy was looking very sleepy, leaning against Valetta’s avocado green retro stove, blinking up at them.

“Oh, relax. It’s not like he’s a Great Dane that you can’t carry. So… who do you think did it?”

Jaymie took the question seriously. It wasn’t her first rodeo, after all. Too many times she had been the one to find a body alone, and she was just grateful that this time she had company. “I keep wondering about Isolde. If she’s missing, is she dead? If she isn’t dead, did she kill Theo? I think I would, if I had to listen to him much.”

“I know he is… was… a pill, but there’s a lid for every pot.”

“That’s something my grandmother would say. The guy had a way of ticking people off. Like Dick Schuster. And Prentiss Dumpe.”

“Everything ticks Prentiss Dumpe off. I always thought he medicated half the people he saw as a psychiatrist just so he didn’t have to listen to their problems.” Valetta shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. Strike it off the record, please.”

“Done,” Jaymie said promptly. Valetta must be tired, too, because she never commented on the doctors or their patients for whom she dispensed drugs. Jaymie watched her older friend curiously, in the dim light that illuminated the counter work area. Valetta had curly, graying hair and wore thick glasses. She dressed in odd kitten-emblazoned sweaters and quilt work, and even granny square vests, the very image of a maiden aunt, as she was to William and Eva, Brock’s two kids. And yet she had a quirky, hilarious sense of humor and a steel-trap mind. She never forgot anything, which was handy in her job as Queensville’s pharmacist.

“Where is Isolde?” Jaymie fretted, working at a ragged flap of skin by her fingernail. “Why did she text me? Or did she text me? And if she didn’t, who has her phone?”

“All good questions,” Valetta said. “But you shouldn’t be worrying about that. What can we do? The police are on the case.”

Good advice, except Valetta was almost as snoopy as Jaymie.

“How about I come over first thing tomorrow and tell you what’s up, if I’ve heard anything?”

“Good idea,” Jaymie said. Valetta was news central in Queensville; if anything was buzzing, she would hear about it first.

“I’m giving you and Hoppy a ride home,” Valetta said. “And no arguing!”

Jaymie was too tired to argue and went along meekly. She, Hoppy and Denver retired to bed immediately, but not to sleep, at least not for Jaymie. The detective had kept her phone, and Jaymie wondered if Daniel was trying to reach her. She’d have to call him tomorrow. She lay on her bed staring straight up at the ceiling while Hoppy on one side and Denver on the other slept soundly, pinning her like a mummy within her blankets. Questions whirled through Jaymie’s brain.

Who killed Theo Carson? And why? Immediately she could think of several folks who might be ticked off at the writer.

Dick Schuster had virtually accused Carson of stealing work and publishing it as his own. What did he mean by that? And was the theft egregious enough that Schuster would be murderously angry? Wasn’t that the kind of thing that, if it was true, Schuster would sue over? And when Jaymie gave Schuster the opportunity to spill his guts, why did he not do so?

Prentiss Dumpe. He didn’t really have any reason to do Carson in, did he? Not as far as she knew, but if there was anything Jaymie had learned in the last few months, it was that motives were like fault lines… invisible to the naked eye and only coming to the surface when there was an upheaval.

Cynthia Turbridge; now there was someone who really had a reason to wish ill on Theo Carson. Heaven knew, Jaymie had felt like doing Joel in on more than one occasion after he dumped her. But at the meeting Cynthia had said only that Carson was a jerk; still, she seemed like an emotional basket case over him, though, so who could tell? The elegant, calm yoga instructor obviously had a passionate nature. That could lead to murder. Jaymie shook her head… not Cynthia. It just wasn’t possible.

And then there was Isolde Rasmussen. Where was she? If she was not another victim—and Jaymie hoped she was not—could she possibly be the killer? Cynthia had called Isolde a barracuda and said she was ambitious, only hanging on to Theo Carson because he could benefit her career. Jaymie had heard from Nan how ambitious and persistent she was, too, but why did Cynthia think that? She’d have to ask her next chance she got.

Hoppy sighed, groaned and turned in a couple of circles. Denver woke up, grumbled and swatted across Jaymie at the little dog.

“You two get along. Denver, behave.” The tabby grumbled some more, turned around a couple of times like Hoppy had, flopped his tail over his face and went back to sleep.

Jaymie closed her eyes and tried to sleep, too, but all she saw was poor Theo’s eyes staring, no life in them, the spark gone. She had thought a lot about life and death in the last few months, and it always came down to the same thing: no one had the right to end another’s life, except in the defense of their own. And even then… paranoid delusions of a perceived threat did not make an adequate defense, or so she wished, anyway.

She must have fallen asleep at some point. Pounding on the back door and Hoppy scrambling off the bed, barking his little head off, awoke her with a start. Brilliant day had dawned, and Jaymie staggered from bed feeling like she had only been asleep for ten minutes, not several hours. When Jaymie got to the kitchen Hoppy was clambering around the back door barking and yipping.

“Jaymie open up!”

It was Valetta. But when Jaymie did open the door she was not expecting the sight that greeted her. Her friend was propping up a sagging and weeping Isolde Rasmussen.

“What’s going on?” Jaymie cried, dashing forward onto the summer porch and taking Isolde up under her other arm, helping her through the summer porch and into the sunny kitchen.

“I was coming over to have coffee with you and I found Isolde in your back lane, crying,” Valetta said.

Isolde, her beautiful blue eyes rimmed in smeared makeup, looked up and cried, “He’s dead, isn’t he? Oh, God, he’s dead!”

Nine

AS VALETTA CALLED 911 on Jaymie’s home phone, Jaymie sat Isolde down at the table, got a blanket around the chilled and shivering woman, then crouched down beside her. She was a mess, her blond hair full of dirt and tangles, her eyes glazed, her skin pale and smeared with dirt.

“What happened to you?” Jaymie asked. “Where have you been?”

Isolde covered her eyes and wept into her hands, muttering incoherently. It sounded like she was telling what happened, but Jaymie could understand only one word in ten, so “dark,” “scared,” “noise” and “hit” stood out, but nothing more.

“Tell them to hurry!” Jaymie said over her shoulder, feeling helpless. “I don’t know what to do!”

Valetta asked the 911 operator what to do for her, and then passed on the information that keeping her warm was important and they could give her some water if she seemed dehydrated. Jaymie filled a glass from the tap and set it in front of the other woman, then wrapped her own housecoat around her shoulders and crouched down at her side again. “Isolde, why did you text me? What did you find at the house?”

She dropped her hands and stared at Jaymie. “I… I d-didn’t text you,” she moaned, shivering uncontrollably.

“But I got a text from your phone telling me to come to Dumpe Manor, that you’d found something important.”

It was as if a veil dropped over the clear blue of her eyes, and she glanced off sideways, then back at Jaymie, all frankness gone. “I didn’t text you, Jaymie, you’ve got to believe me.”

“What happened, then? Where is your phone? And how did you get in the alley behind my home?”

Isolde was silent for a moment, apparently lost in thought as the sound of sirens filled the frigid November morning air.

“Isolde, what happened?” Jaymie asked urgently.

“I… I don’t know.”

“You must know something! What did you do? Where did you go?”

Her shivering had subsided. She pulled the blanket closer around her and sat up straighter. “Theo was at my apartment. We had dinner and fooled around. I was almost asleep on the couch, but when he tried to sneak out of my place and ditch me, I f-followed him.”

Odd… very odd. “Why did he try to ditch you?”

“There was something in Dumpe Manor that he wanted,” she said, frowning down at the floor, her forehead pinched into wrinkles.

“You don’t have any idea what it is?”

She hesitated, but then said, “I thought it might be this Dumpe family manuscript that tells the truth, or so I’ve heard.”

“The truth about what specifically? The old Nazi sympathizer rumors?”

Isolde shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know. Theo said once that ‘they’ were keeping it away from him. I asked who ‘they’ were, but he wouldn’t say. And then he started looking for something in the house. I’m just guessing, but…” She shrugged, then shivered again.

It was logical. Jaymie tucked the blanket around her more closely, as she watched Isolde’s face. She had a feeling the woman was being evasive. Jaymie knelt on the floor by Isolde and looked up into her blue eyes. “So you followed him to the house… and then what?” she prompted.

The sirens had stopped, and Valetta headed toward the front of the house to meet the paramedics, giving Jaymie one long look over her shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

Isolde didn’t answer, so Jaymie asked again. “What did you see?”

“Nothing. I…” She frowned down at her hands, then took a drink of water.

“Do you know what happened to Theo? You must, because you said he’s dead. Did you see what happened? Did you see who did it?”

She shook her head.

Jaymie changed her approach; anything to get the woman talking, because Jaymie needed to know who had committed the brutal murder. Start with something easy, but quickly! “Isolde, how did you and Theo get into the house the other night, when I brought the Hoosier?”

“S-someone… uh… loaned Theo a key.”

“But who?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything last night?”

Isolde shook her head again and sobbed into her hands for a long moment as the sound of the paramedics coming through the house and a police officer loudly asking Valetta what was going on echoed down the hall. Hoppy bounced around, barking and growling and complicating their progress.

“Look, I don’t know what happened, honestly!” Isolde finally said, her voice quavering. “I drove up the road and parked. I didn’t see Theo’s car, but he parked behind the garage once when we went to the house, I don’t know why. As I walked up the lane I saw someone being attacked. I thought it was Theo, but I wasn’t sure.” Her voice broke, and she sobbed into her hands. She took a deep breath, looked at Jaymie, then away, and said, “Then s-someone grabbed me from behind. I was stuck in the car trunk and left there for hours, while they drove somewhere and left the car. I was s-so scared. And it got cold… bitterly cold!

“I tried to get out, but I couldn’t make the trunk release latch work. I passed out or fell asleep, then this morning the car started up again, and I was dumped at the end of this back lane with a paper bag over my head and the ties around my wrists cut. I was staggering along the alley, trying to clear my head, when Valetta found me.” She looked down at Jaymie. “That’s all I know,” she said, her blue eyes wide.

There was more, Jaymie could tell, but the police officer and paramedics came in just then, and chaos reigned. It wasn’t her job to ask the questions, she knew, but the need to understand what she had become a witness to was like an itch. However, now that Isolde was in police hands, she would possibly never find out what really happened.

An hour later the police were gone and Isolde was, too, taken to the hospital for observation, though aside from some bruising and minor scrapes she seemed fine. Isolde had babbled much the same story as she had told Jaymie to the police officer, who then went out to cordon off the lane and initiate a search. Valetta headed off to church.

Jaymie went upstairs to her home office, a tiny little closet of a room on the second floor, to check that her blog entry for the day had launched in the middle of the night like it was supposed to. She glanced out the window at the back lane and watched for a moment; Bernie was one of the officers and she called another officer over to where she was searching. It looked like she had found something. Jaymie longed to know what it was, but knew she shouldn’t jeopardize Bernie’s career by presuming on their friendship and asking.

She went back to her computer and checked the Wolverhampton Howler online edition. Jaymie’s article on the heritage society meeting was published, but it was a note in the comments section that attracted Jaymie’s attention. Along with the usual grousing about wasteful spending—not applicable because the heritage society was a privately funded group—and the standard “who cares about history” gripe, there was one anonymous note that said something interesting.

It stated, Y was Yago Dump seen exiting the manner from an upstares window? What was he doing their?

Translated, the informant was saying that Iago Dumpe was seen coming out of Dumpe Manor from an upstairs window, and asking why. Well, if it was true, Jaymie wanted to know why, too, and she emailed Haskell Lockland with the link, asking him if he had heard anything about that, and should they be doing anything?

She then stared at the comment; it just didn’t seem quite right. The misspellings, especially of Iago’s name, and the use of Y for why just seemed… She shook her head and squinted at the screen. It felt deliberate. Planned. She shut down the computer, puzzled.

It was Sunday. She had a free day and knew Bill was to have finished painting the kitchen at the manor house the day before. She was anxious to see the color, and even more anxious to get the Hoosier in place and see it in the context of the room. The Dickens Days promotion was important to her, as was the whole Christmas season and what it meant to the kitchen at Dumpe Manor. Her deadline to have the kitchen ready was Thanksgiving, just a couple of weeks away.

But would she be able to get into the house, given what had happened there? She took a deep breath and pulled on a heavy sweater. She let Hoppy out to the backyard, where he proceeded to bounce in his endearingly wobbly manner down the pathway to the back gate, as Jaymie followed. She unlatched the gate and strolled down the lane to where Bernie was in her patrol car typing notes on a laptop. As Hoppy sniffed every fencepost and piddled on some, leaving peemail for his buddies and enemies alike, Jaymie tentatively approached the police car and tapped on the window.

Bernie hit the button and the window lowered. “How you doing?” she asked Jaymie.

“I’m okay, all things considered.”

“Those ‘things’ being your remarkable ability to scout out dead bodies?”

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Jaymie said with a rueful smile. Hoppy bounded over to Trip Findley’s yard. He had his gate open and was piling leaves in some paper leaf bags, so her Yorkie-Poo trotted over and started dashing about in the leaves, staggering and falling into them as the senior laughed.

“I was wondering… I want to go to the house today and check on my kitchen paint, but is it going to be open? I mean, will I be let in?”

“Let me check,” Bernie said. She put up her window and radioed the station, then let the window back down again. “You can go,” she said. “The house has been cleared by detectives and is open, though the actual site outside is still cordoned off.”

“Good. I appreciate it.” She paused. “Does that mean they don’t think Theo ever went inside?”

“Detectives don’t confide in officers,” Bernie said with a grimace. “Anyway, you can go ahead and get moving on the kitchen. I know how important it is to you.” The young woman eyed her for a moment, her dark eyes clouded by questions. “Jaymie, what do you think is going on? Despite what Detective Vestry thinks about you, you do have a really good track record for figuring things out.”

Jaymie straightened and looked off into the distance, as a wind whipped the treetops into a frenzy, a shower of the last gold and red leaves fluttering on the breeze. It was not a good feeling to learn that the detective didn’t have much use for her, but it wasn’t surprising, she supposed. The snoopy local villager was a common interference in the mystery novels she sometimes read.

“I think someone either didn’t want Theo Carson to find whatever they thought was hidden, or they lured him out there under the pretense of knowing something about what was in the house in order to kill him.” She pondered that, staring off at the tossing treetops. “He was fanatical about finding whatever it was, and maybe it made him act carelessly, or he frightened somebody for some reason.”

She looked back down at Bernie, who was listening intently. “Mind you, I don’t know if there actually is any mysterious ‘thing’ that people seem to believe is secreted away in Dumpe Manor, but it’s all tied up together.” She explained what she had heard about the alleged manuscript revealing all the Dumpe family secrets and the Sultan’s Eye that Mrs. Frump and Mrs. Bellwood were looking for.

Theo Carson may not have told Isolde the truth about searching for something and/or Isolde may not have told Jaymie the truth about what Theo confided to her. Or the absence of what he confided to her. Isolde was hiding something; Jaymie could not shake that feeling, but she also couldn’t share that with the police. How did you explain that you had a “feeling” someone was lying? But though Bernie was the police, she was also a friend who knew Jaymie was not a flake.

She suddenly reversed her opinion; maybe it was worth saying after all. “I just have this feeling that Isolde wasn’t being completely honest, but I’m not sure what about,” she said. “She was hiding something, I’d bet on it.”

Bernie nodded, looking thoughtful. “Okay, I’ll mention that to Chief Ledbetter, if you don’t mind. There will still be a police presence, so take it easy, and don’t go looking for any more dead bodies.”

“I don’t go looking for them,” she retorted. “They just show up in my life. Bernie, can you tell me what it was you found earlier in this alley? I’ll understand if you can’t.”

Her friend gazed up at her, one hand on the car steering wheel, then said, “Look, don’t say I told you, but we found a paper bag and some rope that seems to match what Isolde said about having a bag over her head and her wrists being tied when she was dumped here.”

“So that much appears to be true.”

She called Hoppy back from Trip Findley’s, took him inside and gave him some treats. She was just getting organized to go when the phone rang.

It was Heidi. “Do you have a moment?” She sounded downhearted.

“I’m heading out to the manor. Do you want to come? I might need a hand moving…” Jaymie paused. Heidi was one of those girls who never got her hands dirty and looked like a stiff wind would blow her away. However, Jaymie, surprised at times by Heidi’s spunkiness, had committed to not underestimating her friend. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I may need a hand pushing the Hoosier cabinet into place, if Bill is done with the walls. Are you up for it?”

“I can try,” Heidi said, sounding a little more cheery. After a moment, she went on, “I have something to ask you, friend to friend.”

“Okay. I’ll come past your house and we can walk the rest of the way together.”

“You’re walking?”

“Yes, I’m walking,” Jaymie said firmly. “Winter is coming; I need to lose the last five pounds on my hips before starting to add on my Christmas weight. I am not giving up chocolate caramels and turkey stuffing with gravy for anyone!”

“You’re not fat, Jaymsie, you’re just pleasingly plump!”

Jaymie rolled her eyes and said she’d see her in fifteen minutes.

The day had become raw with a biting north wind and gray storm clouds scudding across the sky, so Jaymie bundled up in a parka and gloves, then slipped Hoppy’s specially knit sweater on and domed it under his belly. He was eager, his whole body wiggling with anticipation, and bolted out the back door. She locked up securely and walked briskly to Heidi’s split-level ranch house, trying to reinforce Hoppy’s good leash-walking habits as she went. The clouds were disappearing, but it was getting colder instead of warmer.

For once Heidi was ready, and they set off at a good clip in the hard, brilliant November sunshine, though Heidi soon lagged behind. Jaymie moderated her pace to fall back in with her friend. “So what’s on your mind?” she asked, as Hoppy stopped to sniff at a clump of dried weeds along the roadside. Heidi didn’t answer for a long moment. When Jaymie looked over she saw tears in the younger woman’s eyes. She stopped dead. “Heidi, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Heidi turned to her. “I’m all right. But Joel is gone again. We had a huge fight before he left. I think he’s having an affair.”

“An affair. Really?” Since he had cheated on Jaymie with Heidi, why would the girl be amazed if it happened again? But still, Joel had proposed to Heidi and had seemed eager to seal their relationship with matrimony. And why would he cheat this time? What more could he want beyond a beautiful young heiress with a big heart, who thought he was the best thing that had ever happened to her? “Why do you think that?”

“I found a text message on his cell phone from a woman named Cathy, and it said she’d see him when he got back. I don’t know any Cathy. He’s never mentioned any Cathy. And where is ‘back’ . . . here or somewhere else?”

“It could be a work contact.”

“Uh-uh. I asked him about it, and he said, no, she wasn’t a work colleague, she was a friend.” Heidi was normally bubbly like champagne, but at that moment her tone was like champagne that had been left uncorked too long, flat and lacking life.

At least she had been brave enough to challenge him openly; that was a smart choice. Gently, Jaymie said, “Then maybe she is just a friend.”

“I’m not an idiot,” she said in a low voice, starting to stroll again, hands shoved in her ski jacket pockets. “He’s been moody, distracted, unhappy; he’s definitely having an affair.”

Funny, but he had displayed none of those signs when he was cheating on her, Jaymie reflected. In fact, he had seemed completely normal until the day he walked out of her house and into Heidi’s. “I wouldn’t jump the gun just yet. Maybe it’s something else.”

“No, it’s me. I’m not smart enough. He had it all with you, Jaymsie, but he left you. You’re so smart and nice. I’m… I’m a work in progress, he says.”

Anger burned in the pit of Jaymie’s stomach. He was doing to her what he had done to Jaymie, making her feel bad about herself, and it wasn’t fair. Jaymie stopped and turned her friend around, staring directly into her wide blue eyes. “Heidi, don’t you listen to him. You are not a work in progress, you are perfect the way you are, so don’t let him give you that crap.”

“You’re right!” Heidi said, straightening. When they moved on she was walking a little taller. “I’m not going to take that crap. I’m going to hire a private detective to follow him!”

Aghast, Jaymie said, “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?” she asked, an edge entering her tone. “I’m not an idiot, Jaymie. I’ve got money. Lots of guys are only looking for that. How do I know Joel isn’t one of them?”

A sudden resolution made Jaymie stay Heidi’s progress with one hand on her sleeve. “Just wait. When he’s back from his trip, tell me. I’ll talk to him. I know him pretty well; I’ll try to find out what’s wrong.”

Heidi threw herself into Jaymie’s arms. “You’re so much better a friend than I deserve! You really are. I’m sorry I took him away from you.”

“I’m not,” Jaymie said, patting her back as Hoppy bounced around them barking. She had sworn not to get involved, but now she was, because Heidi was her friend. “I’m not sorry, not now. Men aren’t like wallets; you can’t steal one.”

They walked on and arrived at the manor in another few minutes. Cars lined the road in front of the house, and a couple of patrol cars were in the lane. Jaymie took a deep breath as they approached the house, nervous about the memory that plagued her of Theo’s dead stare.

Hoppy laboriously made his way up the front steps of Dumpe Manor, or rather, Queensville Historic Manor, ahead of them, with Jaymie and Heidi following. The front door was unlocked and the place was alive with activity, despite the depressing police tape that she had seen fluttering disconsolately from the back stoop. Jaymie had been trying not to focus on Theo Carson’s demise right on the steps to her kitchen, but it was hard not to think of it now. The house was open, but would her kitchen be off-limits, since the murder weapon was a meat mallet from the house collection? She strolled through the house, listening to echoing voices and the banging of a hammer. She was relieved to find that her kitchen was open.

“Wow, it turned out just perfect,” she said, as she stepped in from the hallway and looked over Bill’s finished paint job.

The kitchen, still smelling of latex paint, was a soft green with glossy off-white trim. The cupboards were painted the same color as the trim. Eventually Jaymie hoped to have some custom tile work done to suit the age of the Depression-era kitchen, but right now this would have to do. Heidi followed and looked around.

“Is this really the right color?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

Jaymie sighed. No one except Bill saw what she saw, the potential in this room. “Come on and help me move the Hoosier.”

With Jaymie doing most of the work, they pushed the antique cabinet in place along one wall, as she described the curtains that Mabel Bloombury was sewing for the big window that was currently just covered in a sheet. They were going to be ruffled café curtains in butter yellow to emphasize the light that streamed into the window in the morning.

“Now what?” Heidi asked.

Jaymie was beginning to regret bringing her along. “Now I attach the top cabinet to the bottom with the screws in this little baggie,” she said, taking out the plastic bag she had taped to the interior wall of the Hoosier when she had taken it apart at the auction barn to move to the house. She had duplicates of most tools, with one case being in her van and another, smaller case full of tools in the lower kitchen cupboard at the historic home, hidden because people kept stealing her screwdrivers and she was tired of replacing them. She got down on her knees, opened the cupboard door and fished around.

Nothing. It should have been right there! “Darn it, who took it now?” But she felt deeper, and her hand brushed against something. “Maybe that’s it,” she grunted under her breath. But it was paper, not vinyl. Funny that she had never come across that before. She grabbed the item and gave a tug; it was stuck to something, but it came free and she sat down on the floor, looking at the manila envelope.

Heidi sat down cross-legged on the floor opposite her and said, “What is it?”

She looked at the stained envelope, fastened shut with a string around a button. Scrawled on it in looping cursive was one word: Will. What on earth… ? Jaymie, her fingers trembling, undid the string tie and unwound it from the button. Inside was a single piece of paper, old looking but not ancient. She pulled it out. It was handwritten, and scrawled at the top was Will again, then under that the name Jane Thorpe Dumpe. It was dated July 5, 1993.

Jaymie read out loud, “‘July fifth, 1993. I, Jane Dumpe, being of sound mind, entirely revoke all previous wills. I now, as of the signed date, leave Dumpe Manor and everything it holds to my beloved grandson, Prentiss Dumpe, on the condition that he not give a single, solitary penny to Hazel Grinely Frump, who I have reason to believe is stealing me blind, and who has been keeping me from seeing my lawyer. I include all lands, house, antiques, jewelry, money and anything else that I die possessed of, all to my dear Prentiss. Mrs. Jane Thorpe Dumpe.’”

She sat staring at it for a long moment while Heidi asked what it was, and what that meant.

Finally, Jaymie said, “What this means is, maybe Prentiss was right. Maybe he does have a right to Dumpe Manor after all!”

Ten

JAYMIE WAS PARALYZED into inaction by the shock. Prentiss Dumpe had all along said that there was no way his grandmother would be so disloyal as to leave the house to someone other than the direct family, not when he and his son were still around to keep the family name on the property. Mrs. Dumpe had died in 1995. Jaymie had heard the story of the house many times: Mrs. Dumpe’s will, drawn up in 1990, left the house to Mrs. Hazel Grinley Frump, her sister-in-law. Hazel, who was childless, died ten years later, leaving the house to a nephew who subsequently moved away and eventually sold the home to the heritage society for a song. But this will could change everything, and it upheld Prentiss’s contention that there was undue influence in the original will.

Her stomach flip-flopped. What would happen to all their hard work now? They’d be back at square one, and the money they had already paid and invested would be tied up in litigation for years. They’d likely never see it again.

“This is awful,” she said, her voice trembling. “This ruins everything!”

Heidi leaned forward and put her hand on Jaymie’s knee. “Don’t get upset, Jaymie. Let someone else see this and figure it out!” She took out her phone and called a number.

“Who are you calling?” Jaymie asked, hoping to heavens it wasn’t the police or someone equally troublesome.

“Haskell Lockland. Who else?”

That actually made sense. He was the president of the historical society, and it would be up to him what they did. Heidi got him on the phone and then handed it over to Jaymie.

“Jaymie, what seems to be the problem?” the president said, his tone sonorous.

Haskell Lockland was a lawyer, semiretired, and his manner was courtroom ready at all times. He looked like he practiced in the mirror, his expressions were so precisely designed to comfort, challenge or reassure, whatever the occasion demanded. Even on the phone his voice was impressive, a rich baritone perfect for the courtroom or boardroom. She explained what she had found, and there was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, he muttered, “Oh, dear. Stay right there, and don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. I want to see that document!”

She clicked the phone off and handed it back to Heidi. “He’s on his way out here.”

Bill Waterman trudged into the kitchen. “Thought I heard you here, Jaymie. Say, Imogene claimed that Mrs. Bellwood told her that Valetta said you two found Theo Carson dead here last night. What happened—he have a heart attack? What was he doing here? Why are the cops here?”

She stood and dusted off her butt. “It wasn’t a heart attack. Say, Bill, do you have your tools here? My screwdrivers have disappeared again.” She didn’t want to talk about the murder and she did not want to say anything about the will she had just found. She gave Heidi a look, and the girl nodded.

Bill, a lanky gray-haired fellow in overalls, was easily distracted by work to be done. He retrieved his tools and offered to help, so the Hoosier cabinet was securely together in no time at all. He then told Jaymie about something he’d seen for sale at a junk store nearby. “It’s kind of a neat place, Jaymie, run by a young fella little older than you. I found an old gas stove there, cream and green, exactly right for the era of the kitchen. Do you want it?”

“We really need a stove, but we need one that could work if we’re going to make this kitchen function properly. Does it work? Are there photos?”

“Not sure. I’ve done some work for the fellow who runs the place. I’ll ask him; he’s honest and fair. I’ll call him and see if he can send me pictures.”

“If it will work and is in decent shape, Bill, I’d love to have it. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“You know what I think… the kitchen needs to be done before anything else. What’s a home at Christmas without cookies and a turkey in the oven?” He smiled and winked at her.

Someone shouted his name and he bustled off, ready to work, as always. Heidi went upstairs to have a look at the girl’s room that he was painting. Jaymie looked the will over again and wondered how long it had been in the cupboard. She had cleaned out underneath, but had she really dug deep in toward the back, as she had this time? Her first thought had been that it was a fake, but the handwriting looked like an old lady’s, and it seemed faded. She put it away and pulled the sheet off the window so she could see out. That was a mistake because the window overlooked the back stoop, where the yellow crime scene tape still cordoned the area off.

She turned away and got down to work, pulling off the tape Bill had used in painting around the cabinets. A few minutes later Haskell Lockland strode into the kitchen. He put out his hand and Jaymie handed him the envelope.

“I’m not looking forward to this,” he said, pulling the sheet of paper out and strolling to the window for better light. He sat on the windowsill and read it.

“What should we do if it’s legit?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest. “Fight it or shell out more money or… what? I don’t even know what our options would be.”

“Limited, very limited.” His expression was impassive, but the faint wrinkling of his brow held all the emotion he never expressed in tone or language. “We might be best off to sever all ties and look elsewhere, because I can’t see paying Prentiss off. He’s likely to want half a million, or some such ridiculous amount, and we’d still have to try to get back what we already paid the other fellow, Hazel’s inheritor. However… we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let me have another look.” He read it over.

“Does it stand if it’s handwritten like that?”

“It’s called a holographic will. Perfectly legal.”

“Wait, it’s not witnessed! That makes it invalid, right?” Jaymie said, cheering up.

Her hopes were dashed as Haskell replied, “No. Unfortunately, though the law prefers that even a holographic will have two witness signatures, if it is clear that the document expresses the wishes of the testator, and is apparently created while he or she is of sound mind, and further, it is clearly revoking a past will, then it is valid and can be enforced in a court of law.”

“This will does all of that.” Jaymie felt defeated. She looked around her kitchen, the color just right, the Hoosier in place. “Can’t say Prentiss didn’t warn us.” She frowned. “How was he so sure? If this will was hidden in the kitchen cupboard, how did he know there was one?” It was weird, she thought, that Prentiss Dumpe was the one who benefited by this turn of events, but it was Theo Carson who had been searching the place for something important. Not this will, though; this couldn’t be what Theo was looking for.

“I don’t imagine he knew there was a will; he just hoped to sue on the grounds that the testator, his grandmother, was the victim of undue influence.”

“He did say something like that at the meeting, didn’t he? Why did he wait so long, though? He has never yet sued, even when the society bought the house. I don’t understand.”

“He has recently tried to get a court injunction,” Haskell reminded her. “I would guess that before now he had a reputation to protect and didn’t want to appear avaricious by suing for the Dumpe property.”

“Now he’s got nothing to lose,” she murmured, thinking of his license suspension. “And he’ll need money, if he loses his license to practice psychiatry permanently. So what do we do next?”

Haskell took a deep breath and sighed, as he slipped the will back in the envelope. “Now I take this and present it to the court. The previous will was probated so long ago! The property has been through two owners since then, and the court could decide to dismiss it. Probably not, though, since the inheritor by this will is still alive. It’s going to get complicated.” He slumped, his broad shoulders rounded. “Very complicated. And just between you and me, complicated, in the legal system, is not good except for the lawyers involved.”

Jaymie shook her head. “I feel awful! I wish I’d never found the will.”

“Don’t worry yourself, my dear. We wouldn’t even have had the wherewithal to buy this place if it had not been for you and the Button Gwinnett letter!”

She brightened. Well, that was true; it was her investigation into the dead man on her back doorstep that had led her to find a letter written by a signatory to the Declaration of Independence. When she returned the letter to its rightful owner, that generous man had donated it to the heritage society. At auction it had brought seven figures, allowing them to buy the manor house and invest in refurbishing it.

“Anyway, better now than a few years down the road when we’ve put a lot more money into restoration!” Haskell said, bucking up slightly. “And who knows… maybe the will isn’t valid at all!”

“I really hope Prentiss Dumpe doesn’t get a dime.” Jaymie sighed and put her hands on her hips. On to other things. “By the way, did you get my email this morning?”

“About Iago Dumpe? Yes. I don’t know what to make of it, though. Was it just an ill-mannered joke? Or someone trying to make trouble for Iago? He doesn’t have many friends in the community.”

“There was something not quite right about the letter, the way words were misspelled,” Jaymie mused. “I suppose it will all be a moot point if the property isn’t ours. Should we still take Daniel up on his offer and have the security system put in?”

“Absolutely. We won’t know for some time how this is all going to go, and I hope we’ll still be able to go ahead with our Dickens Days opening. The fellow is coming out soon to install the alarm. We’ll have to work out a system with each society member as to security codes and such.”

Haskell left, and with him went Heidi, whom he offered to take out to lunch at Ambrosio, a restaurant down the river. He told her he wanted to discuss their family history, but Jaymie was sure it was more that he wanted to take a pretty girl out to lunch and be seen with her. Yes, they were cousins, and he was quite a bit older than she, but they were distant cousins, and she was very pretty and very wealthy.

And very sweet. Jaymie sighed. How hard would it be to have to suspect people’s motives all the time? Remembering Heidi’s mistrust of Joel’s intentions, Jaymie reflected that it must not be easy to be rich. Like I’ll ever have that problem, she thought.

Hoppy, who had been gaily running free in the house, came to Jaymie when she called, and she snapped his leash on and headed outside. She circled to the back and had a look at the murder site, the splashed blood now a dark stain on the wood steps and painted clapboard. The death of Theo Carson, though she had done her best to push it to the back of her mind, weighed heavily on her. Her almost sleepless night had been full of images, specifically of the poor man’s dead face, startled eyes open, shattered skull crushed and bloody.

With the meat mallet. How had it gotten from the kitchen into the hands of the murderer unless he or she had been inside? That certainly limited the field of suspects to those who had been in the house, but unfortunately that included dozens of people, certainly everyone she knew of who hated Theo.

Shuddering, she turned away and stared over at the garage. The police had gone through it, but hadn’t found anything to indicate who’d killed Theo or if anyone suspicious had even been in the garage, as far as she knew. Bill was keeping some of his tools and materials inside, and she wondered if he had bought the molding to repair the ceiling. Some of the tin panels were sagging and needed to be pushed up and fixed in place.

Tugging Hoppy to come with her, she pushed open the single door and flicked on the light switch. The big double doors were locked securely, so nobody could park in the garage at this point, and Bill had all his tools locked up in a tool chest in the corner. She let Hoppy have a long leash and he snuffled around in the corners, but he didn’t find anything but some mouse poop, candy wrappers and an empty Rolaids container.

“Come on, fella… let’s get out of here. I sure hope they fix that back window, because the wind is whistling through it something awful. Once the snow flies we’ll have drifts in here.” She exited and stopped to look around. She was not ready to return home just yet.

Moody November, mercurial in its sudden weather changes, had gone gloomy again, a grim gray sky foretelling a few snowflakes before long. Bare trees swayed as a wind tossed them, tearing the last few leaves from fragile branches. It sometimes seemed that autumn was a sudden season: one day there were red and gold leaves on the trees, and the next every tree was bare, stripped by the wind, a litter of brown crunchy leaves on the ground around them.

She gazed out over the landscape and wondered how far the Dumpe property actually went. It had been surveyed recently, and the survey stakes were still in place. She needed to clear her head. Skirting the crime scene and avoiding looking at it, she headed out, hiking across the weed-clogged field, her feet sinking into the ground in some low-lying boggy spots. So far, no survey stakes. But she saw a mound ahead within a grove of scrubby trees and walked toward it, letting Hoppy off the leash to have a good run. He always came back when she asked.

What an odd mound, she thought, circling it to find a structure buried in a hillside. It was half concealed with brush and overgrown, withered trees, but there was a wall set into the hill, with a battered wooden door half hanging off it. “I know what this is!” she exclaimed excitedly. “This is a root cellar, Hoppy!”

Her little dog bounced around, barking. This place was spooky, she thought, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. Somewhere nearby, perhaps in the woods, a crow cawed, harshly warning her to beware! But it was daylight, no reason to be alarmed, and she was not going to be frightened away because of a gloomy sky and noisy birds.

She pushed away brambly branches by the root cellar’s doorway; the brambles looked for all the world as if they had been stacked there on purpose. Why would someone do that? The door was just pieces of rotting wood held together by another couple of strips of rotting wood. But when she grabbed the rusty handle, it actually moved reasonably smoothly. She stopped and stared at the door for a long minute, then looked down. She could see the fan shape in the dirt; the door had been opened recently. Why?

“What are you doing, Jaymie?”

She shrieked and jumped a foot in the air. Hoppy began to bark as she whirled. “Bernie!” she said, hand over her pounding heart, staring wide-eyed at her police officer friend. “What are you doing here?”

“So, I’m just driving up the lane and I see you and your little dog head out across the field. Where the heck is she going? I wonder. If I’m smart, and I want to solve this crime, then—given your track record—I follow you! I would have caught up with you, but those two ladies, Mrs. Frump and Mrs. Bellwood, came clumping out of the house right then and pinned me down, asking me all kinds of questions about the murder.”

Jaymie bit her lip but couldn’t refrain from chuckling.

“Lord save me from old folks when it comes to gruesome detail!” Bernie said. “My aunts are like that… have to know every detail of the death, even down to the bloodshed. Anyway, those two wanted to know everything. I told them to ask you. What’s going on?”

Jaymie’s heart began to return to a normal rhythm, and she turned back to the door. “Look at this: you can tell it’s been opened recently.”

“What is this place?” Bernie asked, moving forward and crouching, peering into the darkness. “Okay, this is seriously creepy. It reminds me of that awful underground den in The Lovely Bones, the one the killer built.”

“I loved that book… cried like a baby at the end. I didn’t know you liked to read!” Jaymie exclaimed. Few of her friends did, and it got lonely when you couldn’t talk about how exciting a particular book was.

“Anything but murder mysteries,” Bernie said with a laugh. “Can’t stand the nosy villager who always stumbles across the identity of the killer. No offense, Jaymie. Now seriously, what is this place? Do you know?”

“It’s a root cellar,” Jaymie said, as she turned back to the wooden door. “Back in the day, folks didn’t have refrigerators, so they had a root cellar to store vegetables over the winter. You know: potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips, cabbages. Enough to get the whole family through.”

“Why is it so far from the house?” Bernie asked, twisting to look back at the heritage home, a good couple of football fields away.

Jaymie straightened. “Good question.” She peered back at the house, now ominous looking as the gathering clouds piled up, darker charcoal against the gray sky. “Maybe the original house was out here, nearby,” she said. “I’ll bet if you looked around you’d find the foundation of the original Dumpe home.”

“That makes sense.”

“And when they built the big house nearer to the road, they didn’t need the root cellar anymore because they dug a cellar right in the house,” Jaymie said, developing her theory as she spoke. “The house cellar has since been finished and a floor put in, but originally I’d bet it was just dirt.”

“You really are into all this, aren’t you?” Bernie examined her like she was crazy. “Hey, I love old, too, but old to me is my dad’s childhood. He’s told me stories about when he was a kid, what he remembers about his family’s first TV, Howdy Doody, his bicycle and Radio Flyer wagon.”

That explained the police officer’s fondness for midcentury modern. “Old for me is my grandmother’s childhood,” Jaymie explained. She suddenly looked around. “Where did Hoppy go? Hoppy!” They heard a muffled bark. “Darn dog!” she exclaimed. “He’s gone into the root cellar. I guess that means I’m going in, too.” She pulled the creaky door open across the fan-shaped scrape in the dirt and ducked her head. “I can’t see much,” she said.

“Let me,” Bernie offered, and she shone a pencil flashlight into the space.

Jaymie glanced around and what she saw made one thing clear: someone had very recently been staying in the root cellar.

Eleven

THE PLACE WAS astoundingly dry and completely walled, with rocks and plaster set between thick, squared wooden beams. Makeshift shelves lined the walls and were stocked with cans of beans and stew. In the corner was a kind of pallet with blankets piled in a heap. It was dark, but whoever had been staying there had an oil lantern that hung from one of the wooden beams that held the ceiling in place.

But there was a lot more in the root cellar than just food and blankets: boxes were lined up against the shelves on pallets, new boxes of what appeared to be electronic stuff. There was a big wooden crate with clothes spilling out of it, all still with price tags.

“I want to know who’s staying here,” Bernie muttered. “We’d better go back to the house. I need to radio headquarters. The boss has to see this.”

Jaymie caught hold of Hoppy and leashed him, and together they walked back to the house. What did this mean? Jaymie wondered, her mind spinning with conjecture. Was it connected to the murder? It was quite possible that it wasn’t, since squatters had once considered the house fair game to stay in, and they must have moved somewhere once locked out. But then, what were the boxes of electronics and clothes doing out there in the root cellar? It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that the cache had to be stolen goods.

When they got back to the drive, Bernie went directly to her car and radioed in. She rejoined Jaymie, who stood staring off into the distance.

“You don’t look too good, Jaymie. You okay?” Bernie crouched down, as Hoppy danced around and then tried to crawl up on her lap as she scruffed behind his ears. “No, little guy. Not on the uniform,” she said and stood back up.

“I’m okay. Just a little trauma left over from last night. I don’t think you ever get used to seeing a dead body.” She looked over at her friend. “How do you deal with it as a police officer?”

Her expression sober and her tone determined, Bernie said, “Honestly, I go to a different part of my mind. I never want to become desensitized to the point that I can’t understand and respond to another human’s tragedy, but as an officer I have to take that natural fear and turn it into the energy to do something about it. People have to be able to trust that I will both know what to do and have the ability to do it.”

What would sound stiff and formal coming from some was a warm expression of humanity coming from Bernie; she was a good cop. It was the best explanation Jaymie had ever heard for a police officer’s need to respond appropriately in the face of violence. She looked at the stoop, trying to get over her sick feeling at the splattered blood still evident on the freshly painted wall and door. Softly, she said, “I’ve been trying to figure out how the murderer got the meat mallet that was in the kitchen, last time I saw it.”

“Was that before or after you were attacked?”

Good question, and one that had not been covered in the lengthy interview Detective Vestry had done with her the night before. The police seemed to be treating the attack on her in the house as a separate incident, as it probably was. Jaymie frowned and thought. “It was after, I think. But I can’t be sure.”

Bernie whipped out her notebook and started writing. “So it couldn’t have been taken the night you were attacked, is that correct?”

“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so.” That meant it was lifted after the incident by someone with access to the house.

Just then a car pulled up the drive and an older woman got out, clutching her purse to her chest and looking up at the house with loathing.

“Who could that be?” Jaymie asked.

“Mrs. Carson, Theo’s mother. She wanted to see the place her son died. That’s why I’m here, actually; they sent me to meet her and show her around.”

Wind whipped up the driveway as Mrs. Carson hesitantly approached, examining the house. She was a woman of about seventy, with tightly curled iron gray hair and wearing all black, a skirt suit and long coat, with a black handbag and matching low-heeled pumps. Bernie walked toward her, introduced herself and asked how she could help.

“You can tell me who killed my son, and why!” The woman’s voice trembled with intensity.

“We’re working on that, ma’am.”

“Who are you?” she asked with some hostility, glaring at Jaymie.

Jaymie stepped forward and said, “I’m one of the heritage society members, working on the house. Jaymie Leighton.” She put out her hand, but it was ignored. “I found your son, Mrs. Carson. I’m so sorry. He was a great writer and we were all looking forward to his booklet on the family and house history.”

The woman stared past Jaymie, at the stoop. “Is that where it happened? Those back steps? That’s what the paper said, that he was found on the back steps of the house.”

“Yes, that’s where it happened,” Jaymie said.

She started forward, picking up speed as she went. Bernie and Jaymie exchanged a look and followed. Mrs. Carson stood, shivering in the brisk wind and staring at the blood splatter. Jaymie’s stomach turned. With the information she had, thanks to the gabby medical examiner, Jaymie thought she could detect how Theo had been standing at first, when hit; there was a light spray of blood that was beginning to fade from the clapboard wall. But then the poor guy had fallen or been beaten down on the stoop when the final blow was dealt. That was where most of the blood was concentrated, on the stoop and the wall immediately above it. What had the murderer wanted that Theo wasn’t giving up? Was it simply a brutal theft?

And why murder by mallet?

“Have you spoken to your son lately?” Jaymie asked, as Bernie hung back at a respectful distance.

“Just the day before he died,” she said, her voice clogged with tears. “He had a girl he wanted me to meet. I was so happy he’d broken up with his last girlfriend.”

“His last girlfriend?”

“Some older woman.” She stiffened in anger. “Far too old for him; she was apparently in her midfifties. What was she doing with my Theo?”

“Was that Cynthia Turbridge?”

“You know her?”

“I do,” Jaymie said.

“Some yoga instructor antique shop retiree.” Her tone was filled with bitter disgust. “Theo said she was crazy, in the end, when he broke it off with her. She told him he had better know what he was doing or he’d be sorry. What kind of woman badgers a man like that?”

That was certainly dramatic. Cynthia had been upset about Theo, but Jaymie had figured she was just hurt, and that she’d get over it. But how well did she really know Cynthia? And one thing was true: Cynthia had access to the house and could have taken the mallet anytime she wanted.

But there were so many other avenues. She glanced over at Bernie, but the police officer did not seem inclined to interrupt. “Theo has been a controversial writer for a while, though. I know his book From War to War stirred up a lot of feeling, and he said he was writing a new one, Nazi in America. Was he professionally in trouble with anyone?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Carson said, glaring at Jaymie. “No one kills anyone over a book!”

Unless that someone had been cheated out of a manuscript, as Dick Schuster maintained. Jaymie was curious about Schuster’s claims. Were they legit? Was Theo the real deal or a thief of intellectual property? “Maybe not, but there may have been some jealousy out there over his success,” she commented. “Did he tell you about anything like that?”

The woman frowned, wrinkles drawing around her pursed lips. “He made a joke about some odd little man who kept badgering him, someone who wanted the job he got.”

That would have been Dick Schuster. “Had the man threatened him at all?”

“I don’t know. Why? Do you think he’s the murderer?”

“No, not at all,” Jaymie hastened to say, not wanting to plant ideas in the grieving mother’s head. “But the members of the society are all so upset about it. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

“Yes, well, that’s up to the police, isn’t it?” she said, hugging her purse tightly to her body. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.” She struggled with control, her mouth working and tears springing into her eyes. She turned away and stared off into the distance, fidgeting with her purse and drawing out a tissue.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaymie said, feeling helpless but heartsick for the woman. “Are you from out of town? Will you be staying in Queensville?”

“I’ve taken a room at a bed-and-breakfast run by a sweet woman, Pam something or other. I can’t leave until I know what happened to my son.” She looked uncertain for a moment, but then grabbed Jaymie’s right hand. “Wait… did you say your name was Jaymie Leighton? I’ve heard about you! The druggist at the store in town told me you’ve solved a couple of murders. Will you help me find out what happened to Theo?”

Bernie stepped in and calmly said, “Mrs. Carson, the Queensville Police Department is doing everything possible to solve the murder of your son. We’ll take care of it.” She gave Jaymie a look.

“Yes, I’m sure they’ll take care of things,” Jaymie chimed in.

“But what if they don’t?” the woman said.

“They will,” Jaymie replied, gently. “I got lucky a couple of times, that’s all.”

“And we don’t encourage civilians to get involved,” Bernie said. “Do we, Jaymie?”

“No,” she said—meekly, she hoped. She did not want to get the woman’s hopes up that she could magically discover the answer. The last time she had figured out whodunit it had almost been at the cost of her own life. And Detective Zack Christian had been within hours of getting the information that would have helped nail the offender anyway. She really needed to stay away from murder mysteries for now. Life was complicated enough as it was.

“Fine. I understand,” Mrs. Carson said, stiffening. “Everyone was always envious of poor Theo. He said that this little historical committee was filled with jealous, backbiting, would-be authors who were out to sabotage him.” She gave Jaymie a fishy-eyed stare. “Maybe you’re one of them.” She whirled and strode down the lane to her car, got in, slammed the door and took off.

“She is one unhappy camper,” Bernie said, as another police car rolled up the drive.

Police Chief Ledbetter climbed laboriously out of the car as another officer held the door open for him. Chief Ledbetter was a big man, with a paunch that spread over his belt, and a bulbous nose and big ears, with tufts of hair sticking out from their depths. Jaymie wasn’t quite sure what he thought of her; nor was she certain what she thought of him.

“Miss Leighton,” he said, ambling up the lane toward her. “We meet again. There was a murder in a bar out on the highway last month. We solved it ourselves. Did that surprise you? You didn’t feel compelled to rush in and help us out?”

She kept quiet, while Bernie glanced between them, a smile twitching her generous lips. Hoppy sat at the chief’s feet, staring up at him, waiting to be noticed. They had met before, and Hoppy liked it when folks remembered him and made a fuss, but Jaymie didn’t think the chief would do so.

“What have we got here, Officer Jenkins?” he asked.

“I don’t know if it’s related to the murder, sir, but Jaymie found a root cellar out there,” Bernie said, pointing out to the hill in the field. “When we explored it, it turned out someone has been staying there, and there is also a large stash of electronic goods and merchandise with tags. I thought it could be related to the recent thefts at that warehouse on the highway and the electronics store in Wolverhampton.”

The chief nodded. “Interesting. Miss Leighton, you just happened to go walking in the field and came across it?”

She sighed. “I have a dog, Chief, and I walk Hoppy every chance I get. He likes it. And… and I have been feeling down about this… the murder.” She looked away. “I wasn’t fond of Theo, but it was a terrible way to die. I just wasn’t ready to go home so I thought I’d explore the back field.”

“You are either very lucky or the best natural detective I’ve ever met. Let’s walk; show me what you found, Officer Jenkins, Jaymie.”

“What do you mean by a natural detective?” Jaymie asked, falling into step with them. Their pace was slow, as the police chief was heavy and did not walk briskly.

He glanced over at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. “I mean someone whose instincts are usually right; someone who notices things and wonders why.”

“Oh.”

“Just between you and me and the lamppost, Officer Jenkins is one of those, too.” He gave a comic head tilt toward Bernie, who pretended not to notice even as her cheeks rouged, and not from the brisk wind. “And it’s someone who doesn’t make assumptions about others. You don’t do that, do you?”

“I think we all do that sometimes,” she said. “I was wrong in the summer, in who I had thought murdered Urban Dobrinskie.”

He chuckled. “That’s true, we do all make some assumptions, and the fact that you can identify when you’ve done it just proves my last point, which is… you can admit when you’re wrong. Very important characteristic.”

Halfway across the field the police chief stopped and looked around, probably to catch his breath, Jaymie figured.

He huffed for a few minutes, but then said, “Someone’s driven across this field in the last month or so. Repeatedly.” He squinted into the distance. “No fence, so they probably left the road about there”—he pointed to a sloping spot along the tarred road—“and drove past where we’re standing and right…” He turned slowly. “Right to that mound. Interesting.” He set off again.

Jaymie noted what he saw, the faint sense of a trail in the weeds, where some vehicle had broken the grasses in a straight line, leaving them lying flat. “There’s another trail,” she said, as she followed.

Ledbetter stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“But it looks like a single tire,” she said, pointing to an even fainter path that appeared to come out of the woods. “Maybe a motorcycle or scooter?”

He nodded. “Seems to be. And it ends right… here.” They were at the mound. “Busy little place this has been. Could be connected to the murder, but maybe not.” He circled the mound. “Officer Jenkins, there appears to be a fire pit just here, on the other side. Looks like a campout to me.”

Bernie hopped around and took a look. “Not a new one, either, sir. It’s been used more than once, I’d say. Burned-out tin cans… they’ve been cooking over it.”

The officer who had driven the chief to the manor caught up with them, camera in hand. The police chief directed him to take photos of the site, the fire pit, and inside the root cellar. He then turned to Jaymie. “We won’t keep you any more, Miss Leighton. Thank you once again for all your invaluable help.”

Dismissed, Jaymie gave Bernie an exasperated look and turned to walk away.

“Miss Leighton!” the chief called.

Jaymie turned and waited.

“Perhaps I’ll call on you sometime to discuss detecting, shall I?”

Not sure what to make of the odd man, she simply nodded, turned and headed back toward the house.

Twelve

IT WAS A long walk home, and she thought over all that had happened. The root cellar cache disturbed her. Who had been staying there? Had they been spying on the comings and goings at the house? It was possible, though they likely wouldn’t be able to see the front entrance from that vantage point. It was all a mess in her mind.

Unless Theo’s murder was a random attack, though, she would bet that the perpetrator could be found among the society members, or even just those who were present at the last meeting, which included Isolde Rasmussen and Prentiss Dumpe. Not that she could imagine motives for most of them. Now, if Prentiss had ended up dead, she would suspect Dick Schuster, given what she now knew about their difficult relationship and past dealings. But Theo Carson? It was a harder sell. Schuster clearly didn’t like him, but when was the last time someone was murdered for getting a writing job someone else wanted?

Hoppy was one pooped puppy after all the walking, and in fact, once they reached town, she had to carry him the rest of the way home. She warmed up some homemade soup she had in the fridge and called Valetta, telling her all that had happened that day. Her friend was suitably puzzled by the police chief’s behavior and promised to find out what she could about him. It had all brought back her past dealings with Zack, of course, and she pondered their brief friendship, if such it could be called.

He had started out treating her like she was a child, but they had found a more even footing late in the summer over the murder investigation on Heartbreak Island and had shared an amicable dinner and a few walks. Despite the continued physical attraction she felt for him, and the fact that she learned he was a very nice fellow, one she could see dating, some of the luster had worn off. She had been ripping into people—notably Daniel—for presuming to think that her well-known love of romance novels had made her somewhat unrealistic about real-life relationships, but was there something to it? She hoped not, but it appeared that once some of the mystery was gone from aloof, magnetic, sexy Detective Zack Christian, her attraction had simmered down into a quiet liking rather than an unsuitable lust.

Was that really romance novels at work, though, or just the allure that the mysterious held for all people, women and men? In a tell-all society, folks had forgotten how sexy mystery was; “leave ’em wanting more” was a maxim from yesteryear.

As Jaymie worked at the kitchen table that evening, Becca phoned, bubbly and full of plans for her wedding. She and Kevin were going to get married on New Year’s Eve, then take off to England for a three-week honeymoon visiting his family and childhood haunts. Jaymie was going to go to London, Ontario, meanwhile, and stay at her home to make sure their grandma was all right.

But that was almost two months away, and in that time Jaymie needed to figure out what to do about Daniel. Before Becca hung up, Jaymie said, “Sis, I need to ask your opinion. I know you like Daniel, but do you really see us together?”

There was a bit of silence. “Jaymie, if you have to ask me that question—”

“I do, and I want an honest answer.”

“I can’t give you one. That’s like asking me to tell you if you love him.” There was another silence. “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know,” Jaymie said miserably.

“If you can say you don’t know, maybe that’s your answer.”

They said good night. Just as they were hanging up, there was a knock at her door. She trotted down the hall to the front door and looked out the sidelight. It was Chief Ledbetter with Bernie! Jaymie opened the door and invited them in. As he squeezed past her, the chief assured her that this was not an official visit.

She seated them in the parlor by the fireplace and he glanced around. “Nice house you’ve got here. One of the historic ones, I’d guess.”

Bernie was watching him, and Jaymie got the impression her friend, who was not in uniform but was carrying a notebook, wasn’t entirely sure what the chief was up to. Well, he had said he might drop in on her, and here he was, just hours after he said it!

They chatted for a few minutes, then the chief cleared his throat, invited Hoppy up to his lap and said, “Now, see, I have a lot of questions that aren’t necessarily part of the investigation into Theo Carson’s death, but that I’m curious about. I’m a curious person by nature, as are you, I believe. Characteristic of a good investigator. Did you know that I retired seven years ago from the big-city police force?” He grimaced. “Yup, but then I was driving the poor wife up a wall at home. Couldn’t stand retirement, so three years ago I took this job.”

“That’s very interesting,” Jaymie said politely.

“No, it’s not, that’s boring chitchat. See, that’s what I don’t want. I don’t want you to just be polite.” He leaned forward, his belly squishing Hoppy until the dog complained. “Sorry, fella,” he said, scruffing the little dog under the chin. “Truth be told, I’m gonna be forced to retire again, soon enough. Getting too old for this, I guess. But see, I like finding the truth about stuff. I want the truth about everything. Off the record, or whatever. Now, my wife, she’s a member of the Wolverhampton Historical Society, and she says that Isolde Rasmussen is a snooty snoopy little thing, a real pain in the bee-hind. Seems to me that she was hanging around with this Carson character because he was a famous author.”

“I’ve heard that said.” Even by her own editor at the Wolverhampton Howler.

“By the fellow’s ex, I suppose, that Cynthia Turbridge. She’s some piece of work. Good-lookin’ woman. Smart, too. But getting older and doesn’t like it. Bit of a temper, that one has.”

Jaymie stayed silent. She had learned to keep her mouth shut and wait for the actual question being asked.

He shifted and squinted at her. “We’ve heard that she was very angry when Mr. Carson decided to move on. Has she said anything to you about the guy?”

Jaymie shook her head. “I didn’t even know they had been dating,” she said. Until the heritage society meeting, she neglected to add. But she was not going to rat out her friend. There was no possible way that elegant, intelligent Cynthia Turbridge had murdered Theo Carson over a ruined love affair.

“So back to Isolde Rasmussen. Do you like her?”

Surprised, Jaymie stuttered, “Well, sure. I guess. I don’t really know her that well.”

“I’ve heard she’s been hanging around that house a lot lately, and I can’t help but wonder who—other than you, of course—would think to pick up that meat mallet thingamabob. And is it just a coincidence that you were whacked with a mallet and Carson was killed with one? And that Isolde Rasmussen was on the scene both times?”

Jaymie felt a chill down her backbone. She hadn’t even thought of that, though she had felt Isolde was hiding something. “But she was tied up and put in her trunk for hours!”

“So she says.” He snickered and patted Hoppy’s head as the little dog fell into a slumber on the police chief’s capacious lap. “You should see your face about now. Making you think, right? Now, see, you can tell I’m not being all official, because I couldn’t say something like that to you if I was acting as police chief. Could I, Officer Jenkins?”

Bernie, eyes wide, shook her head. “No, sir.”

“So this is just a conversation between acquaintances.”

“Yeah, right,” Jaymie finally said. “Pardon me for skepticism, but there is more to this and we both know it.”

Bernie’s eyes widened again, but she remained impassive otherwise. The chief’s lack of response gave Jaymie courage.

“What you really want is for me to tell you everything I think about these people on the society, my friends and neighbors.”

He sat back and watched her through half-closed eyes. “Go on, Jaymie.”

“I don’t mind telling you some stuff, but I won’t just gossip.”

The chief stared at her for a long moment. “If you had shared all your thoughts and imaginings with us last time, it could have saved you from being in danger. Detective Christian was close to breaking the case and would have if you hadn’t interfered.”

“Somewhat true. But in that case,” she said, referring to some trouble she’d had on Heartbreak Island near the end of the summer, “the guy was on the edge by that point. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t taken it out on me? There were others in danger. In fact, he tried to kill Ruby Redmond, if you recall.”

The chief nodded. “I see your point: you’ve had your moments. But, young lady, for better or worse you seem to be a lightning rod when it comes to the nut jobs and dangerous folk out there. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things. Will you help?”

“In any way I feel I can,” Jaymie said, hoping they had reached a rapprochement of sorts.

“Okay, then. Isolde Rasmussen… she claims she didn’t really see who was attacking her boyfriend. What do you think of that?”

Jaymie glanced from the chief to Bernie, who smiled but shrugged. She turned back to the police chief. “Are you wondering if she’s telling the truth?”

“I’m always wondering if people are telling me the truth. They often aren’t.” He sighed. “Just a feeling I have with her, that’s all.”

Jaymie stayed quiet.

He smiled and winked. “You are learning, aren’t you? Never answer a question that’s not been asked. You’re a bright young lady. You’re also on the inside of this historical society.” He paused and eyed her. “Look, it seems to me and Detective Vestry that the killer is possibly one of these historical folks. And this Isolde girl, she’s Carson’s girlfriend, after all. Wouldn’t be the first time a girlfriend did a fellow in.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I just don’t know her very well.”

“But you have ample reason to speak with her, right?”

“Sure. She keeps popping up at the house, though I don’t know if she will anymore.” She watched him for a moment. “Are you saying you don’t believe Isolde was attacked and put in the trunk?”

“I didn’t say that, now.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We couldn’t find much proof of her story. No one saw her except your friend Valetta Nibley, and by then she was already staggering down the lane.”

“So it could have been as she says, or she could be making it all up to cover herself, if she was the one who killed Theo.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“I did have a feeling, when we found her and looked after her, that she was hiding something, but I really don’t know what. If I figure it out, I’ll tell you, I promise.”

“Whoever killed him would have had blood on their hands and clothes, but hers didn’t… not the ones she was wearing when you found her that morning, anyway,” the chief admitted. “She is a person of interest, but so is the whole damn hysterical society, as my wife calls the one she belongs to.” He frowned and touched Hoppy’s ears, his demeanor relaxed, the folksiness with which he hid his acumen gone. “Just let me know if she says anything you think odd or interesting. But be careful, especially given her proximity to the violence each time a mallet has been used. We’re watching her, but I don’t have the manpower to keep an eye on her every moment of the day.”

It was beginning to become clearer to her what the chief was asking. He wanted her to keep her eyes and ears open and report back to him. Bernie was watching him, occasionally glancing Jaymie’s way but mostly watching her boss. They appeared to have a good rapport, and Jaymie wondered if that boded well for her ambition to advance to sergeant. It was telling that his most recent advancements had been women, his assistant chief and his new detective, Angela Vestry.

Hoppy gazed up at him adoringly, and the chief scruffed behind his ears, getting the little Yorkie-Poo’s back leg going. Ledbetter chuckled as he petted the little dog. One thing Jaymie had not appreciated about Zack was that he didn’t seem to have any patience with or liking for animals. That was a must for her, but he had always gently but persistently pushed Hoppy away. It was a minor irritant, but there nonetheless.

The chief cleared his throat. “Now, that Dick Schuster: we interviewed him and he’s a tad volatile, seems to me. Kept talking about how Karma was responsible for Carson’s murder. Don’t know who this Karma is, but he must be a violent sort.”

Jaymie bit her lip, but the chief winked at her, and she smiled. There was that side of him again; he played up his folksiness to keep folks off-kilter, and it probably worked. It was a good technique, Jaymie thought, to let people underestimate you.

“And Prentiss Dumpe.” The chief frowned. “I don’t like him. Do you?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think anyone does. In fact, I was just thinking that if he had ended up dead, it wouldn’t have surprised me as much as Theo’s murder.” She told him what she knew about his practice, but it appeared the chief knew all about it already.

“But none of that means he’s a killer. However, seems to me this writer, Carson, may have been about to do some damage to the Dumpe family name. I’ve heard tell his little booklet was shaping up to be a hatchet job… or should I say mallet job?” He chuckled. “Could be enough to set a fellow like that off.”

“I talked to Theo at the heritage society meeting. He made a comment about some ancestor of the Dumpe family being a slaver. And he said he thought there would be some material there for his book, Nazi in the USA, or Nazi in America, whatever it was going to be called.”

“Interesting. Now, I wonder what you think of this Prentiss fellow’s son?”

“Iago? Who would name their kid after a Shakespeare villain?” Jaymie suddenly remembered something. “Oh, wait! Someone said they saw him climbing out of a window on an upstairs floor of the Dumpe Manor. That was a comment in the Wolverhampton Howler. I called Haskell Lockland about it, and we have a security guy coming to install an alarm system.” She’d have to check with him in the morning to see what was being done.

Chief Ledbetter made a motion with his head and Bernie jotted something down. Jaymie shared her thoughts about how the anonymous commenter could simply be someone trying to get Iago Dumpe in trouble, and her suspicion of the odd misspellings.

“It wouldn’t take much to get that guy in trouble,” Bernie said, the first she had actually spoken. “He’s got a record and he isn’t afraid to add to it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I watch him every time I’m working at the Emporium and he comes in.” Her thoughts clicked into sync and she looked between the chief and Bernie. “Wait… could Iago have something to do with that stash of stolen stuff in the root cellar? Can you find out?”

The chief nodded. “We’ll look into it, check the tire tracks against any vehicle he might have access to. Make a note of that, Jenkins.”

She jotted some more on her pad. She glanced at the chief, seeming to wait, but he didn’t say any more.

Jaymie chewed her cheek and thought of something. “Chief, has anyone tracked down Isolde Rasmussen’s missing cell phone yet?”

He shook his head. “We’re working with the cell phone company to trace it, but no, it hasn’t shown up yet. Why?” He leaned sideways and dug in his pants pocket.

“Well, I just wondered… who do you think texted me if it wasn’t Isolde?”

The chief pulled Jaymie’s cell phone out of his pocket and handed it over. “That’s something we don’t know. If you have any ideas, let’s hear ’em.”

“Well, I guess it would be whoever killed Theo, right? But… why text me to come out there?” She took the cell phone, but didn’t look at it.

“What do you think?”

“A couple of possibilities occurred to me… maybe someone was setting me up.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Or they wanted me to find the body, which would mean the timing of the text was important. Maybe someone had an alibi set up and needed the body found at that time.”

“Go on.”

“Or they planned to attack me, too, and me bringing Valetta spoiled the plan.”

He nodded. “Very good. You have a creative mind. That’s a good attribute for a detective, isn’t it, Officer Jenkins?”

Bernie smiled and nodded. “It is, sir, but some folks don’t think so.”

“You’re lucky I do, aren’t you?” he said to her.

“Did she say when her cell phone went missing?” Jaymie asked. “Did she have it when she left the house? Or did she lose it or have it stolen earlier?”

“She claims not to know,” he said, with careful emphasis. “Says she only knows she didn’t have it when she left the house, if she remembers correctly. Told us the stress of the attack is making her forget things.” He set Hoppy gently on the floor and heaved himself to his feet. “I’d better be going. Mrs. Police Chief doesn’t like me being too late. She worries.” He lumbered from the room to the hallway, putting one hand to his back. “Getting old,” he commented. He turned at the door. “You be sure to look at your cell phone tonight, young lady. There is a fellow who very much wants to talk to you.”

Daniel must have texted her back, and maybe more than once. She colored, feeling the heat in her cheeks. She caught Bernie’s eye and raised her brows, but her friend just smiled back.

“Now, you listen to me good and be careful,” the chief said, his bloodhound eyes serious. He took one of her hands and cradled it, patting it as he spoke. “Don’t do anything alone and don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ve learned my lesson, sir. That’s why I took Valetta with me that night I found Carson’s body.”

He nodded. “Good girl. That may have saved your life, if one of your guesses is right about why you were texted to come out to that place.”

That gave her much to think about. “But I can’t avoid being at the house alone sometimes,” she insisted. “I have a lot of work to do, and I can’t drag someone along with me every time I go out.”

He nodded. “I know that, but be careful. Be smart.”

Bernie waved behind the police chief’s back and mouthed that she’d see her soon, as Jaymie closed the door behind them. She climbed the stairs and got ready for bed in a fog of thought, frowning into the mirror while she brushed her teeth, then crawling under several layers of blankets, since she had turned the heat down before bed, as usual. She picked Hoppy up and deposited him at her side. Having the police chief visit her home had her in a bit of a spin. Why had he come? Was it really just a friendly visit to pick her brain, or were there other reasons?

She picked up her bedside book, this time a Christmas historical romance anthology with several of her favorite authors represented. The words kept jumbling in front of her eyes and the story just would not make sense. The house was quiet, so quiet! Too quiet to sleep. She got up and padded down the stairs, followed by the clickety-click of Hoppy’s claws, into the kitchen. Denver was snoozing in the basket by the stove, his way of claiming it from Hoppy. Jaymie grabbed a handful of treats and sat down cross-legged on the chilly floor. Denver stretched, yawned and climbed out of the basket, sauntering over to Jaymie and sitting next to her, staring up at her with a quizzical expression. Hoppy sat on the other side, staring up at her, too.

As she fed them treats, first Hoppy, then Denver, she considered what was keeping her awake. There was something she hadn’t mentioned to the police chief: the will she had found. It still troubled and puzzled her. Was it on the level? Would it destroy all the hard work she and her friends had done to make Dumpe Manor over into Queensville Historic Manor?

“But the will doesn’t have a thing to do with Theo Carson’s death, right, animules?” she said to the quizzical dog and cat on either side of her. She shivered. It was too cold to be sitting on the floor, so she stood and stretched.

Was there anything else bothering her? She stood stock-still and stared down at her slippered feet. Carson—she thought about something he had said at the meeting and that she had not thought of since. He said there was no way he would go out to Dumpe Manor alone. She had been left with the impression that he was afraid of ghosts or something, but no… he had then gone on to say something about a man like him making enemies, people who didn’t have her appreciation for the truth.

What truth? What was it that had him afraid to go to Dumpe Manor alone, and why had he broken that resolve to go to his death? Or had he gone to the house with someone he trusted? That was what he had done before, when she caught him and Isolde in the house together. She definitely needed to follow up with Isolde Rasmussen, but she also needed to explore other options. Unfortunately, one of those options included finding out where Cynthia Turbridge was the night Theo Carson was killed.

Thirteen

THE PHONE RANG very early. In mid-November, even though daylight savings time had disappeared and the time had “fallen” back, it was barely light at seven fifteen. Jaymie was already up, though still half-asleep after a restless night when nothing—not warm milk, not a romance novel, nothing—had helped her sleep. “H’lo?” she murmured, padding around the kitchen in her jammies and socks and slippers, making tea.

“Jaymie, my son is sick and I need to take him to the doctor, but I have two sets of guests!” It was Pam Driscoll, who was looking after the bed-and-breakfast next door. “Could you do breakfast this morning?”

“Of course,” Jaymie said without hesitation. “You take care of Noah; go on and do what you need to do. I have my key, so I’ll get dressed and come over right away to make breakfast.” She had worried that the woman was going to be a continual pest, but Pam Driscoll was actually a very hard worker and a much better housekeeper than Anna, her cousin and Jaymie’s friend, had ever been. Though she wasn’t perfect with the guests—she had a tendency to share far too much of her personal life—she had only called Jaymie a few times with problems. Most guests actually seemed to like her and appreciated her anxious tending to their every need.

“You’re a lifesaver!”

That started Jaymie’s day on a hurried note. She headed over to the bed-and-breakfast, let herself in, turned on the oven and cooked the bacon, sausages, ham and pancakes for breakfast as she whipped up some muffins. The first pair she served were a senior husband and wife who were on their way out to Seattle for Thanksgiving, but were taking a leisurely drive to see the country as they did so. She chatted to them about the village, and guided them to some of the local places of interest, after which they ascended to shower and clear out their room.

The other guest was Theo Carson’s mother, and when she came down, tissue in hand, she didn’t appear to notice Jaymie. She sat at the dining table, asking for just coffee, and stared idly out the window that overlooked the street. Jaymie pulled out a chair and sat down next to the woman, saying, “Mrs. Carson, we met yesterday. I’m Jaymie Leighton, remember? I’m filling in for Pam, as she had to take her son to the doctor.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry for how abrupt I was yesterday,” she said with a sad smile. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. “I’m just so upset.”

“Are you here alone? Can I help in any way?”

The woman pursed her lips. “I already asked if you’d help figure out who killed my son. That is the only thing I want help with.” She drained her coffee mug and banged it down on the table.

Jaymie jumped up, retrieved the thermal carafe and refilled the woman’s coffee cup. “I know, Mrs. Carson, but I’m not sure what I can do.” She hesitated, but then went on. “Maybe if you could tell me… was your son superstitious in any way? Like, did he believe in ghosts?”

“No, not at all. Why?”

Jaymie sat across from Mrs. Carson and explained her conversation with the writer. “I don’t believe he would have gone there alone. He almost had a dread of the place. The only time I saw him there other than at the meetings,” Jaymie said, not explaining that he seemed to be looking for something, “he was with his new girlfriend.”

“That Isolde Rasmussen,” the woman said, her eyes narrowed. “I found it odd; the police say she told them she followed Theo there, to that house—that he went alone to look for something, and she went after him, but was jumped. Do you believe her?”

“I have no reason not to, except it’s strange, after what he told me, that he went alone,” Jaymie said. “Maybe if you look through his papers you’ll find out what he was looking for at Dumpe Manor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m meeting his landlord today to decide what to do about his things. He was renting an apartment from some fellow, a Brock Nibler or some such name.”

“Brock Nibley? That’s my best friend’s brother.”

“Doesn’t that just figure?” she said with a contemptuous sniff. “Seems everyone knows everyone in this place. I’m not used to that. My home is Cleveland, and I prefer the city. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The police have said I can go through his things, that I c-can…” She trailed off, shook her head and stared straight ahead as tears welled in her eyes. She ripped her tissue into shreds as they ran down her cheeks. Exhaustion and sorrow appeared to be taking their toll on her, and the very skin covering her cheekbones was sagging.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Carson,” Jaymie said softly, wanting to physically reach out to the woman, but knowing it would not be welcome. “Did Theo ever say anything about his work: what he was doing, how much he had written, anything he had discovered?”

“Not much; he was researching, that’s all I know. He said that folks in the society might be shocked at what he’d discovered. That the Dumpe family—ridiculous name!—was not as saintly as they had been made out to be.”

That was no surprise. He had said as much to Jaymie the night of the meeting. “But what was his proof?”

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care.”

Jaymie couldn’t answer, couldn’t say that he may have angered someone enough that they killed him for it. “Have you met Isolde yet?”

“No. I doubt that I will. What would I have to say to her?”

“Aren’t you curious why she followed Theo out to the house? And what she saw? I know I am.”

She sighed. “I suppose. I wouldn’t know what to ask.” Her expression hardened. “But if I meet that Cynthia woman, I’ll have a thing or two to say to her, I’ll tell you!”

Jaymie was nonplussed by the woman’s focus on Cynthia, who had really done nothing, as opposed to Isolde, whose actions were still a puzzle. Jaymie stood. “Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said, calming. “My sister is coming to town to help and will stay with me.”

“That’s good. You shouldn’t be alone. I’m home every evening, next door in the yellow brick, if you ever need to talk.” She touched the other woman’s shoulder, then went back to the kitchen to wash up the breakfast dishes. She cleaned the evacuated room and left a note for Pam about what Mrs. Carson had said about expecting her sister. She also offered to fill in again, if Pam needed help, and hoped that Noah was okay.

She didn’t have a single chance to breathe after that because she had to make a quick run out to Heartbreak Island to check up on their vacation property, Rose Tree Cottage, since she was renting it out for the week of Thanksgiving to a local family who needed a place to put extra guests over the holiday. She couldn’t even take Hoppy with her, because when she returned in midafternoon she headed straight from the ferry dock to Jewel’s Junk to work for a few hours while Jewel and Cynthia went shopping to fill their inventory needs.

Shopping, for a junkster, could be anything from investigating the local dump to a complete perusal of thrift stores. Jewel’s Junk was an eclectic store that stocked the best “junk” money could buy, but also sold higher-ticket items that Jewel cleverly altered from their original purpose to a more modern-day application. Thus she had a fifties dresser that she had taken all the drawers out of, fitted with wine bottle compartments and painted a glossy white. It would be someone’s chic little wine bar and rack for thirty or forty bottles. She had taken an old wood lecture desk from a college and repurposed it to be a laptop workstation; it was the third or fourth of its kind, and she had more of them in Bill’s workshop waiting to be fixed up, since they seemed to be hot items. Jewel had rescued a high school locker from the scrapyard, took the doors off, installed shelves and painted it a gorgeous chocolate brown, and it became a cool bookshelf for a wandering urbanite.

There were teacups turned into chandeliers, keys as wind chimes and drawer fronts made over into wall plaques, with doorknobs as coat hooks. As creative as it all was, Jaymie still preferred to see the items in their original form; so, as much as she admired Jewel’s work, she had no desire to do the same in her own home.

Much later, as the sun hung low in the sky and purple clouds foretold a storm on the horizon, or even snow if it got colder, the two women came back with a trailer full of finds from their little road trip. Jaymie pulled on her coat, a wool parka, and met them outside, on the road halfway between their two shops. “Hey, how did you do?”

Jewel bounded out of the truck, her flame red hair flying around her, then settling on her shoulders, vividly standing out against her milk chocolate shawl-collar sweater coat. “It was fabulous!” she cried. “We had lunch at a darling little tearoom near Marine City, then Cynthia had to mail something or other, so I went to an antique store and got the most stunning estate ruby!” She flashed a gorgeous ring. “Then we went on to the junk store and I found a piece for the parlor of the Dumpe and we bought a ton of junk that Cynthia and I are going to make over into shabby chic for her Cottage Shoppe.”

Cynthia got out of the passenger’s side, but she was low-key and did not seem as invigorated as her friend.

Jaymie eyed her, but asked Jewel, “Where all did you go?”

She named some places, then said, as she lowered the tailgate on the trailer, “Have you heard of a new junk store on the highway called the Junk Stops Here?” When Jaymie admitted she hadn’t, Jewel said, “You have got to go! Amazing. Right, Cynthia?”

“Sure,” her friend said, with no enthusiasm.

“And the owner is the cutest young fellow,” Jewel raved. “If I were forty instead of fifty I’d go for him!”

Jaymie smiled, but glanced over at Cynthia, worried. A chill wind gusted down the road, sending a shower of leaves whirling up into the air. “Let me help you two unload your stuff.”

“Okay,” Jewel said. “Some of this is going back to Bill’s place for me to work on,” she said. Bill Waterman had a workshop/store/museum of ancient tools in the big shed behind Jewel’s Junk. Jewel used his space and tools to do the rough work and paint or strip. Jaymie helped her carry back a couple of old dressers and a dressing table, then helped with boxes.

Cynthia worked, too, quietly, but Jaymie insisted, after saying good-bye to Jewel, on helping with Cynthia’s last two boxes. She carried a heavy one up to the Cottage Shoppe’s back door and waited while Cynthia unlocked the door and turned the lights on, then carried the box of enamelware and Pyrex into the kitchen.

When she set down the box, she said, “Cynthia, I wanted to tell you how sorry I was. I know you dated Theo for a time, and that you felt deeply about him. It didn’t end well but still… it’s hard.”

Cynthia nodded, her dark hair like a curtain concealing her face as she stared down at the vintage Arborite table, with silver and gold starbursts on a turquoise background. She traced the pattern of one of the starbursts with a long, manicured fingernail, cracked, it appeared, but expertly repaired.

“Did he ever ask you anything about Dumpe Manor? Or… anything like that?”

“He kept wanting to go there and look around, I don’t know why. He had been researching and said that the last Mrs. Dumpe’s husband was a Nazi sympathizer. I asked what that had to do with anything.”

“Anything else you remember?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Oh… he asked me about some manuscript he’d heard about, something about the Dumpe family.”

“Did he ever talk to Prentiss Dumpe, do you know?”

“Sure. He said Prentiss was a jerk, and that he wasn’t going to fare well in the booklet. I guess Prentiss and he didn’t get along.”

Maybe that was some of what he had told his mother was going to shock Queensville about the Dumpe family. “But you seem to be friends with Prentiss,” Jaymie said, remembering the doctor comforting Cynthia at the meeting, after her snub from Theo.

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Cynthia exclaimed, turning away and moving things around, agitated. “I have to close up the shop.”

Jaymie, startled by Cynthia’s outburst, decided not to pursue that subject. Maybe Cynthia had been seeing the doctor for some reason, or maybe they were just friends. She framed her next words carefully, still thinking that Cynthia could have information that would be valuable. “I keep thinking, if Daniel hadn’t bought me a cell phone, I would not have gotten a text, and if I hadn’t had a text, I wouldn’t have gotten that weird message, and I would have just gone to bed like any other night in November. What about you? What were you up to that evening?”

Cynthia suddenly got very busy, taking the box and pulling out the contents, willy-nilly. There was a pretty lot of vintage enamel bowls that caught Jaymie’s interest, and a green enameled soap dish that would be perfect hanging over the sink in the Dumpe kitchen. Jaymie picked it up, examined it and realized it was a reproduction of an antique, not the real deal. Cynthia didn’t really care about the distinction, but Jaymie did.

She glanced up to talk, but the other woman had gone white, her complexion a pasty chalk color. “Are you okay?” Jaymie asked, as her friend swayed on her feet. She pulled a chair over and forced Cynthia to sit. Kneeling by her, she repeated the question.

Cynthia shook her head, then appeared dizzy, and put it down in her arms for a second, on the Arborite table. Finally she said, her voice muffled, “I’m not all right at all. You want to know where I was that night Theo was killed?”

“Yes,” Jaymie said, afraid of what she was about to hear.

Cynthia took a deep breath and sat up straight, staring out the back window at the darkening sky. “I wasn’t home, I can tell you that.”

“Then where were you?” Her question hung between them, and Jaymie knew the answer was important. Cynthia’s fury over Theo’s defection had been weighing heavily on the older woman, and there was clearly still something wrong, even though Carson was now dead.

“I was over at some bar on the highway getting stinking drunk,” Cynthia said, her voice guttural with suppressed emotion. “Like a fool, I then got in my car and drove.”

“No!” This was not at all what she had expected and, even though Jaymie was shocked, it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Or was it? “Cynthia, what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking! I don’t even remember it clearly, but I knew I needed to go somewhere.” She broke down sobbing, and Jaymie knelt by her, patting her shoulder, not quite knowing what else to do.

“I haven’t done that in a long, long time. Not since the DUI about… oh, God… fifteen years ago? But I did it… I drove. And now I can’t remember where all I was, where I went. All I know is…” She raised her head and looked at Jaymie, tears streaming down her face. “When I woke up in the morning in my car on a side road, there was blood on my sweater and I don’t know how it got there!”

Fourteen

JAYMIE’S HEART THUDDED, and then beat faster; she felt sick, but she was not going to get hysterical. “How much blood? Are we talking a scratch, or…” She shook her head and caught her breath. She thought of what the police chief had said about the killer being splattered with blood. “Was your sweater splattered or dripping or… or what?”

The older woman swayed in her chair and moaned.

“Cynthia, relax.” Jaymie hopped over to the sink and filled a tumbler with cold water. “Have a drink and take a deep breath,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite her. “What exactly are you saying? What do you think happened that you had blood on you? And where were you?”

Cynthia shivered, her teeth chattering with cold or shock. Jaymie turned up the thermostat, then retrieved a vintage granny square afghan from the living room section of the shop and draped it around Cynthia’s shoulders, tucking her in, trying to help her get warm.

The woman’s eyes held a bleak expression. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “I just don’t know!”

Okay, first things first. Perhaps Jaymie should be advising a trip to the police station, but there was time for that, if it was necessary. “Where is the sweater now?”

“Do you want to see it?”

Jaymie hesitated, but then her resolve crystallized and she nodded. “Yes, I do. Where is it?”

“Here, in the shop. I didn’t want to leave it at home, but I didn’t know how to get rid of it. I hadn’t… I hadn’t thought anything until I heard about Theo. That’s when I brought it here… I just couldn’t leave it in my house!” Her voice rose to a hysterical note, and Jaymie touched her arm to reassure her. She instantly calmed. “I’ll get it.” She disappeared from the kitchen and returned carrying a pale pink cashmere polo-neck sweater.

Jaymie took it from her, trying to quell the shaking of her own hands. This was a lot to take in; cool, calm, collected, yoga-teaching Cynthia Turbridge, whom she had always admired for her poise and serenity, had some darkness in her past, it appeared, from the casual mention of drinking binges and DUIs. Her grandmother had always said still waters run deep, and it appeared in this case the aphorism was true.

But if the last year had taught her anything, it was that people were not always who you thought they were. Joel’s defection and her climb back from the depths of heartbreak had begun her transformation into a more realistic woman. Finding a few dead bodies along the way had toughened her, too. A little blood was not going to shock her. As long as it was a little blood. She laid the soft, luxurious sweater on the table and looked it over.

There was what appeared to be blood on it, true, but it was limited to one sleeve at the ribbed wrist and some along the ribbed waistband. There was a hint of the blood on the cable-knit pattern across the breast, but it wasn’t splattered, by any means; it appeared as if Cynthia had rubbed against something—or someone—bloody. Whoever killed Theo Carson would have been splattered, unless they were wearing protection of some sort. In fact, this blood would seem to argue that Cynthia could not have been his murderer; if she had killed him, there would be much more blood or none at all.

But still… it was blood. Now, what to do about it? She was uneasy, after her talk with the chief the previous night. It seemed as though he wanted her help, and he definitely considered her an aid in his quest to nab the killer. But she would only pass along what she considered to be truly related. It was like the will she had found… it had nothing to do with the killing, so it was not a piece of the puzzle and would only cloud the case. This blood could not be from the murder, so it was unrelated and unimportant. Or at least she sure hoped that was so, because she wasn’t turning Cynthia over to Chief Ledbetter. Not yet, anyway. The woman was fragile and already a suspect in the chief’s mind.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything?” Jaymie prodded. “Did you see anything? Talk to anyone?” The shop owner had turned away from the sweater and was swallowing convulsively. “Cynthia, you have got to face this.”

“I know, I know,” she said, her tone low. “It’s just like a part of my past has come back to haunt me.”

“What do you mean?” Jaymie asked.

“I came to Queensville for a lot of reasons that you know about… my mother, and wanting to start fresh, retiring from business. I messed up in my life but good, Jaymie. I don’t talk about it, but it’s true. There was a time when I drank heavily. I was… I am . . . an alcoholic, and I fell off the wagon that night. I haven’t driven drunk or blacked out for years.”

Jaymie grabbed her hand. “Cynthia, I’m sorry for your troubles, but right now you need to focus and tell me what you remember of that night.”

“That’s the problem, I don’t remember anything!” She shook her head and closed her eyes.

“That can’t be true. Think, Cynthia!” Silence. That approach—bleating at her to think—wasn’t working. Instead Jaymie went back to the beginning and took the other woman over her evening, how she’d closed up the shop, gone home, had something to eat, then got restless.

“I was feeling lonely, and that’s dangerous for me.” She picked at her manicured fingernail, pulling at a tiny ragged flap of skin. “I tried to call Jewel, but she was out and not picking up her cell phone. So I thought I’d go out for just one drink.” She laughed, but it was a bitter sound, dark with self-loathing. “One drink. When did I ever stop at one drink? I really thought I had it licked.” She shook her head. “I guess that was my mistake.”

“But you must remember where you went. You were sober when you started out.”

“Oh, sure. I went to the Cozy Inn Bar and Grill, out on the highway on the way to Wolverhampton.”

“Okay, that’s good. What happened there?”

She frowned. “I had a few drinks. But the bartender was watching me too closely, so I left.”

Jaymie frowned; watching her too closely? It almost sounded like Cynthia had regressed to her alcoholic ways even at that early point, paranoia making her skittish. “Okay, you left the Cozy Inn… and went where?”

“Some other place. I just drove for a while. I don’t remember where it was.” Her tone was dull, defeated, her head down.

Jaymie pushed the glass of water toward her, worried that she hadn’t been looking after herself and might be dehydrated. “Drink up. Look, there aren’t that many bars around this part of the township. How long did you drive? How far?”

She shrugged, hopelessly. “Fifteen minutes? Twenty? I just don’t know.”

“Where were you when you woke up in the morning?”

She shivered and looked embarrassed. “I was on a side road down near Algonac,” she said. That was a town at the junction where the St. Clair River entered Lake St. Clair.

That was the opposite direction and quite a ways away from Dumpe Manor. Jaymie looked down at the sweater. Carefully, she said, “It doesn’t look, to me, like you were anywhere near the murder.”

Cynthia turned to Jaymie with hope in her eyes. “Really?”

“Really. I was there; I saw poor Theo. If you had done anything, there would be more blood.” Jaymie blinked and shoved the memory back in the closet of her mind, where it belonged. “Still… Cynthia, if you could just think what happened in those hours, it would help. This is blood, or looks like it, anyway,” she said, indicating the crusty, stiff dark spots.

“I don’t know, I tell you!” she cried, threading her fingers through her hair and scrunching it, leaving it unusually mussed. “Everything from the Cozy to waking up in the morning is a blur!”

“Has this happened to you before? Blackouts, I mean?”

“When I was drinking,” she said, nodding, her voice breaking. “It happened all the time. People would tell me stuff the next day that I did the night before, and I wouldn’t remember.”

That sounded awful… and dangerous. “Cynthia, you have to—”

“No! Don’t push me. Can’t you see I’ve had enough?” She got up and took her glass of water to the sink, then gripped the edge. She stared out the back window and said, “I don’t remember a thing, and that’s it.”

No amount of coaxing or prodding helped, after that, and in fact she became almost hysterical. Jaymie got her calmed down and left without subjecting her to any more questions, but she was still wondering, where did the blood come from? And whose was it?

It was getting dark quickly, the sky purple and streaked with gray clouds. Jewel caught her as she was walking away from the Cottage Shoppe.

“Hey, Jaymie! Can you do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” She was tempted to tell Jewel that Cynthia needed a friend right at that moment, but she wasn’t sure if the woman would appreciate it. She swiftly decided that if Cynthia needed Jewel she’d call her.

“In Wolverhampton I picked up a back support that Dee ordered for her mother-in-law. You know Mrs. Stubbs in the wheelchair? I guess her back has been bothering her and Dee sourced this one designed for people with osteoporosis and paid for it online. I told her I’d pick it up for her since I was going to be out and about today. If you’re going that way, could you take it over to the Queensville Inn?”

Though it wasn’t on her way home, Jaymie agreed and took the clunky bag; it was only a few blocks out of her way. She headed there, walking quickly. The Queensville Inn looked a little spooky in the gloom of autumn twilight, with purplish clouds gathering in mounds on the horizon and wet leaves gusting along the streets. It was a grand Queen Anne manse, much bigger even than Dumpe Manor, and had newer additions to make several modern suites for guests. Lyle Stubbs, the proprietor, and his girlfriend, Edith, lived on the main floor in a suite, as did Lyle’s mother, Mrs. Stubbs. Jaymie knew the woman well, and they’d struck up an odd friendship based on two things: Mrs. Stubbs’s grudging liking for Jaymie, who, though a modern girl, still appreciated the past, and Jaymie’s love for the elderly woman’s stories of Queensville’s days gone by.

“Hey, Edith,” Jaymie said as she entered the main lobby and found the woman manning the check-in desk.

Edith looked over the tops of her bifocals. “Oh, hello, Jaymie.”

Jaymie explained her quest, and Edith said she could just leave the backrest with her, but Jaymie replied that if Mrs. Stubbs was in her room, she’d like to visit for a moment. It was only five thirty, so though the senior had eaten dinner, she was likely still up and about. Jaymie headed down the hallway.

It was Mrs. Stubbs’s crankiness that had saved Jaymie’s life during the spring incident, when a would-be killer was coming after her in an upstairs suite of the inn. Jaymie made enough noise that Mrs. Stubbs’s complaints sent her son, Lyle, up to the room at just the right moment. She had a profound regard for the old lady and had managed to enrich her new friend’s life by arranging for the wheelchair-bound woman to get over to Johnsonville on the Canadian side for a day trip that summer. She hadn’t forgotten her resolution to find out about getting a ramp installed at the new Queensville Historic Manor for Mrs. Stubbs and other wheelchair-bound townies, too.

“Mrs. Stubbs?” Jaymie said, knocking and entering.

“Who is it? What do you want?” the woman said, looking up from her book. She was an avid mystery reader and held a large-print copy of the latest M. C. Beaton on her lap, where she sat in her wheelchair in the pool of light shed by her bedside lamp. “Jaymie!” she cried, when she saw who it was. She put one long, arthritic finger in her book to hold her place and sat back, wincing a little.

Jaymie brought the bag over with the back support and explained it was something Dee had bought for her to try. She offered to put it in place, and the woman agreed. It was a simple thing, just a support with Velcro straps around the backrest. Jaymie securely attached it and the woman sat back, sighing with a smile on her face.

“That feels better. She’s a nice girl, my daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Stubbs said about DeeDee. “But she’s afraid of me. Needs to grow a backbone.”

Oh, she has plenty of backbone, Jaymie thought, recalling how Dee, a former ER nurse, had helped her mop up a terrible pool of blood on her back summer porch in the spring. “I think she can’t figure out how to stand up for herself with you and yet be respectful at the same time.”

“She should take lessons from you.”

“It’s easier for me, though, because you’re not my mother-in-law!”

“Sit, young lady; stop towering over me. Makes me feel like an invalid.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jaymie said with a laugh, sitting down on the edge of the adjustable bed.

“Now, I want to hear all about the goings-on with the society and that darned house! And I mean all the gossip, the more mean-spirited the better.”

Jaymie brought her up to speed with it all, but noticed the woman eyeing her through narrowed slits.

“You’re not going to talk about the murder?” she griped. “I’m disappointed in you, Jaymie. Thought you’d be front and center, ’specially since you found that crumb.”

“Crumb?”

“Crumb… a bum, what you kids call a jerk. I was at the meeting, don’t you remember? I heard that feller, Theo Carson. Dreadful man; not surprised someone bumped him off. Talked a bunch of baloney ’bout himself. At the same time, got everyone’s goat that had a goat to get! And he talked down to me. Despise that. I’m old, not stupid.”

Jaymie grinned. No one said things like Mrs. Stubbs. “How could I ever forget you were at the meeting? You did something I wanted to do, and told Prentiss Dumpe off! I loved it. Okay, shall I tell you all the gruesome details?” She told the older woman what she had seen, what she suspected, and what she had heard, as much as she could.

Mrs. Stubbs nodded, squinting into her bedside light as she listened. When Jaymie finished, the senior said, “Interesting. You keep me up to date, you hear?”

Jaymie agreed, then thought of something she wanted to talk to the woman about. “At the meeting you said you knew the old Mrs. Dumpe and her helper, Hazel Grinley Frump.”

“I did. Jane Dumpe was one of the town’s leading matrons when I was a young bride. She was head of the Methodist Church Ladies’ Guild and we had a separate ladies’ group for gatherings not related to the church. That’s what women did in those days instead of working, you know, or at least those of us who could afford to stay home. Lots of women still worked. Your grandmother, Lucy Leighton, was one of the younger ladies we invited to join, along with Imogene Frump—she’s Hazel’s niece, you know, by marriage—and Tree Bellwood,” she said, referring to Mrs. Bellwood by her seldom-used nickname, “Tree,” short for Trelawney.

“At the heritage meeting you said Mrs. Dumpe was not one to suffer fools gladly. What did you mean by that?”

She snickered, then set her book aside, reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Eyeing Jaymie, she said, “You got time for a story? Younger days in Queensville?”

“I do!” Jaymie said, popping up from the bed and dragging a chair over to sit more comfortably in easy view of the older woman. “As long as I’m not keeping you from anything.”

“Hmph… what would you be keeping me from, the grave? Saw a young man on Halloween night dressed up as the Grim Reaper and nearly had a heart attack; thought he’d finally come for me.”

Jaymie laughed, as she knew she was meant to. Mrs. Stubbs was cranky and had alienated many, but if you stood up to her, she was a pussycat. “Tell me the story,” she prompted.

The woman settled in. “Jane, as I said, did not suffer fools gladly. And Hazel… poor Hazel.” She shook her head, her eyes misty with remembrance. “She was what you’d now call naïve, but we called empty-headed. She was a good soul, but not bright at all.”

“I know the kind,” Jaymie said.

“Hazel believed everything anyone told her and everything she read in the trashy magazines she loved. You young folks get your lies from the Internet; well, she got hers from dime magazines. She believed that communists were listening to her through the ductwork. She was convinced that aliens had abducted her uncle Seth and taken out his heart, replacing it with a pig heart.” She snorted with laughter. “Jane had just about enough with the foolishness, and one day she decided to do something about it.”

Mrs. Stubbs looked like she was getting sleepy, but Jaymie did want to hear the story, so she stayed quiet, not offering to listen some other time, as was her instinct when she saw an older person tiring. She had learned just to let Mrs. Stubbs take her time and catch her breath.

After a moment, the woman went on. “Jane enlisted my help to trick Hazel, and I didn’t dare say no. This was a few years after the war, you know, World War Two. It was the early fifties. We were all young mothers or newlyweds. I had Lyle then, but Johnny wasn’t born yet,” she said. Johnny was DeeDee’s husband. “I drove; not all the ladies did, so most relied on their husbands to shop at the bigger grocery stores in other towns. I sometimes took friends with me, and at Jane’s urging, I offered to take Hazel shopping in Wolverhampton. On the way we stopped at a little roadside market where the produce was fresh and local.”

She paused and picked up her glass of water, taking a long drink. Jaymie patiently waited.

“Well, Jane had enlisted a couple of her nephews, young hooligans who thought it was a lark, and made them costumes—just long robes, really—out of this shiny sateen fabric she had for lining some dress. We went to the market, Hazel and I, and I told the proprietors we wanted some pumpkins for pies, not the big old ones for jack-o’-lanterns they had piled up by the cash desk. Well, they sent us out back to the field, like I knew they would, where I insisted to Hazel I would find the smallest, sweetest of the pie pumpkins. She followed, just as I knew she would. It was one of those gloomy raw days in late October.”

“I can picture it.”

“I was very smart in those days, with a woolen coat, stylish hat, gloves, handbag, everything. Hazel did her best, but there was always something not quite right, her hat askew, her gloves stained.” Mrs. Stubbs looked melancholy for a moment. “I wish I could go back and be kinder to that poor woman. Anyway… they had a corn maze set up for the youngsters, you know, and I led Hazel out toward it, when all of a sudden these fellas erupted out of the maze in their silvery suits and googly eyes, silver-painted helmets, the whole thing,” she said, laughing, sketching the commotion in the air with her arthritic hands. “They came toward us, me trying not to burst out laughing, and poor Hazel, she took one look and started screaming!”

“Oh, no!” Jaymie murmured, watching Mrs. Stubbs’s face, lit with a sparkle in her cataract-dimmed eyes, her mouth stretched in a devilish grin.

“She screamed, ‘The martians are coming! The martians are coming!’ and ran all the way past the vegetable stand, past my car and down the highway, dropping her purse and leaving a trail of tissues and lipstick and keys and whatnot after her on the way.”

She laughed and Jaymie joined her, at the vivid picture the old woman had created. After the laughter, though, Mrs. Stubbs soberly said, “Afterward, when Hazel learned it was all a joke on her, she said to me, ‘I expect that kind of abuse from Jane, but I never expected it from you, Martha,’ and she walked away.” She compressed her lips and sighed. “I didn’t know whether to be ashamed or unrepentant. Hazel didn’t talk to me so much after that.”

She closed her eyes and put her head back. Jaymie knew she was tired. It was well after six, and for Mrs. Stubbs that was getting close to bedtime. She had intended to talk to the woman about the will supposedly penned by Jane Dumpe, leaving everything to her grandson, Prentiss, but it was going to have to wait. She wanted to think about it some more, anyway. Jaymie moved her chair back into place, then hugged the elderly woman. “I’m sure she forgave you, ma’am,” Jaymie said. “You have a good night, Mrs. Stubbs, and sleep well. I’ll send Edith down to you, shall I?”

Jaymie walked home and was greeted by Hoppy, who went a little insane, wiggling and leaping, hopping and wobbling around the kitchen when she let herself in. “I know, sweet boy, you’ve been on your own all day.” She let him out into the yard, after checking for skunks, and made herself a cup of tea and warmed up some of the previous day’s dinner in the microwave. She was tired, and yet she didn’t feel she’d gotten anywhere all day. She had been just pedaling madly to keep up.

She had put her cell phone on the charger the night before, after the chief gave it to her, so now she sat down with her dinner at the kitchen table as Denver jumped up on the chair next to her to watch. Since he had had most of his bad teeth removed he was eating more and starting to look like a butterball. “I keep saying I’m going to call Daniel, Denver, and yet I don’t. What do you think that means?” He looked at her and licked his chops.

She ate some, then clicked on her phone. It chimed, meaning she had a text message. She touched the screen and a longish message popped up. It was from Zack Christian, and the first line was, Been thinking of u a lot lately…

Fifteen

. . . SO WHEN CHIEF L. gave me your cell #, I figured I’d text u. How’s everything in Q’ville? —Zack

Jaymie stared, her stomach turning over and scrunching. She put the phone down, ate some more, then picked it up again and read on, grateful that though Zack did abbreviate his text, he didn’t make it unrecognizable.

Left in a hurry; sorry I didn’t say g’bye.

He had texted again, continuing his conversation… Do you want to talk sometime? Call me.

She had always brushed off her attraction to Zack Christian as a one-sided crush, just a physical reaction to his good looks and intense personality. But she had learned that he was a truly nice guy, as well as hot, and discovered that she liked him a lot as a person. The lusty dreams of him had stopped, though, as she got to know him better, and since he’d left Queensville she’d rarely thought of him at all. However… her heart still beat a little faster when she thought what this reaching out by text might mean. Did he like her as more than a friend?

But Daniel was her boyfriend. He was the one who had pursued her. She liked him because he was smart, easygoing, energetic and not clingy. Or so she had thought. Lately, though, she had been pushing him away, and it had nothing to do with Zack. Daniel just seemed to want more than she was prepared to give; he was anxious to get serious more quickly than she was comfortable with. She had begun to resent the deadline of Christmas for figuring out if she wanted to take their relationship to a new level, and that wasn’t fair because the deadline was a mutual decision, not just his. Her state of confusion was not a good indicator of being ready to settle down to serious dating.

She was left wondering… why did Zack want to talk to her? Was it just that he was lonely in his new job? Was she a friend? Or… was it more?

She picked up the cell phone and looked further. There were several texts from Daniel, starting with a response to hers, but then more along the lines of Where r u? and Why haven’t u answered? Is everything all right?

Daniel was still the same good guy: solid, dependable, good-natured, fair… most of the time. But there were quirks, things she just wasn’t sure about. Over the past five years he had apparently become addicted to buying houses in random cities across the country, staying there for a few months each time. It made no sense, when his business was in Phoenix. What was up with that? He would never say, just shrugged his shoulders. It made her uncomfortable and left her wondering if he would just abandon Stowe House and Queensville at any minute with no explanation. She had begun to wonder if her initial assessment of him as a straightforward, no-nonsense, uncomplicated nice guy was truly who he was, or just the aura he gave off.

She needed to think.

It was only seven thirty, but she was so tired. She brought Hoppy in, locked up and headed upstairs, took a hot bath, then retreated to her bedroom. It was an oasis of calm in a frazzled world. Butter yellow and warm, it was furnished with an antique iron bedstead, a 1940s dressing table, an Eastlake chest of drawers and a modern bookshelf crammed with Mary Balogh, Mary Jo Putney, Eloisa James and Jo Beverley books and a hundred other romance novels, all historical. She lived in the past, some (including her mother and sister) said, but that wasn’t true. She very much lived in the present.

She sat cross-legged on the homemade quilt on her bed with Hoppy curled up next to her. Denver entered and leaped up to the bed, settling himself on her other side. It was eight o’clock, six in Phoenix. Daniel should be home. She picked up the cordless phone from her bedside charging unit and dialed.

“Hello!” came his hearty greeting.

“Daniel! It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Uh… hi! How are you?”

“I’m good.” His voice sounded odd. It had started out hearty and happy, but changed to guarded the moment he knew who had called.

“Is everything all right, Daniel? I have so much to tell you. To start with, I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your texts, but—”

“Can you hold the line a second? I’ll be right with you.”

The sound went muffled, but she could hear him say something in the background. Maybe he had company, or an employee, over; he often worked from home. There was a rustling sound, a door closing, it sounded like, and then he came back.

“Hi, Jaymie. How are you?”

“I’m good.” She paused, feeling awkward. “Daniel, if I’m interrupting something you can call me back later. I’ll be reading for a couple of hours.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Now, you said something about the texts I sent?”

She launched into her story, telling him all about the text from Isolde and finding Theo Carson’s body. He sympathized and added an “I told you so” about staying away from the house.

“That’s why I went with Valetta,” she said, to avoid nagging. “I just can’t figure out the text message from Isolde’s phone, though; I mean, why? And we still don’t know where the cell phone is.”

“Are you sure she’s telling the truth?”

“Not really. I’m not sure of anything to do with this mess.” She related her discovery of the root cellar and the stolen goods stored there. “But then the most extraordinary thing happened!” She told him about the chief and Bernie paying her a visit.

“I don’t like that,” he said, his tone wary. “What does he think he’s doing? The police chief has no right to draw you into it! Stay out of it, Jaymie. Stay well out of it.”

That was not the reaction she expected. She understood his concern, but she was an adult, and could handle herself. Stiffly, she said, “I don’t intend to go investigating, or snooping, Daniel.” She crossed her fingers, a juvenile response, she supposed (especially since she had just been thinking that she was an adult and wanted to be treated like one), but it was true; she didn’t intend to snoop, but she did have questions. “I’m mostly concerned about other things now.” She told him about finding the will leaving the house to Prentiss.

“That’s a problem,” he said.

“I know! It would mean we did a bunch of work for nothing, but that would really be our own fault. Prentiss kept saying that his grandmother would never leave the estate away from direct family, but not a single one of us thought he had a leg to stand on.” She paused, staring off into the distance and ruffling Hoppy’s fur. “I still think there’s something fishy going on.”

“Fish… uh, what did you say about fish?” Daniel asked.

He seemed distracted again, and she could hear a voice in the background.

“Just a minute,” he said and muffled the receiver.

She waited, then it seemed like he put the receiver down, and the phone went dead. She sat looking at the receiver, but there was only a dial tone. What the heck… ? She set it in the base, and a moment later the phone rang.

“Jaymie, I’m so sorry,” Daniel said, sounding out of breath. “I’ve got some of my team here and we have a lot to get through tonight. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Okay. ’Bye now. Take care.”

Dial tone.

Take care? That was his sign-off now?

There was only one thing to do. Jaymie dialed the phone again. “Valetta, what am I going to do?” she said when her friend answered. She lay back on her pile of pillows and told her friend all about Daniel’s weird behavior. “Now, normally when he signs off we, uh… well, you know… he asks what book I’m reading, tells me he hopes he’s the hero of my dreams!” Jaymie rolled her eyes; it sounded so stupid when she put it into words. “We do the loud kiss and say good night, sweet dreams, that kind of stuff.”

“Mush,” Valetta said.

“Yes, mush. Boyfriend-girlfriend stuff! And now it’s take care?” She sounded indignant, even to herself, but she felt she had a right to be.

Valetta was silent for a moment. “Well, looking at it from Daniel’s perspective, you haven’t really given him much in the way of encouragement.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m not one to talk. I don’t have a husband or even a boyfriend. But it’s always seemed to me that you’re… I don’t know.” She paused, but then said, in a rush, “You’ve always seemed to be holding back from Daniel.”

Her first reaction was anger, but Valetta never said anything that didn’t have a grain of truth. “Let me think about that,” Jaymie said, trying to be fair. “I guess I’m just not sure how I feel. I like him—I really do—but I don’t know if it’s more than that.”

“You need to figure it out for his sake and for yours. Wasn’t that what this time was all about?”

“I know, but I’m no more sure than I was three months ago.”

“That’s a problem.” Valetta yawned, the sound traveling as if they were in the same room.

“Let’s talk about something else. I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” Reassured that she wasn’t, Jaymie then told Valetta about the discovery of the root cellar stash, the chief’s odd visit and everything else that had happened in the last couple of days, including finding the will. “I was going to ask Mrs. Stubbs about it, but she was so tired that I didn’t have the heart. I left it to another day.”

“If anyone will know how likely it is, she will. I suppose you ought to go back and talk to her again. If you can stand it.”

“Valetta, I like Mrs. Stubbs!”

“And bless you, you’re the only one in town who does. But then, you’re too young to remember her as the mom who chased kids with a broom if they misbehaved. She was older and crankier than any of the other moms. However, shouldn’t you just leave the whole will thing up to Haskell now that you’ve handed it over to him?”

“Everyone is trying to keep me from being snoopy,” Jaymie griped.

“We just know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”

“I know,” Jaymie acknowledged, reaching out and straightening her stack of bedside books. “Grandma Leighton would tell me not to borrow trouble.” She paused, but then rushed ahead. “Valetta, there’s something else, and I need to talk to someone about it, but it’s sensitive stuff.”

“Okay.”

“I know I can trust you.” In fact, Valetta was the only person she felt she could trust with the sensitive subject of the blood on Cynthia Turbridge’s sweater. “Do you have any free time tomorrow?”

“I’m working, but any time after work.”

“Come for dinner. I need to test out a recipe for the next Vintage Eats column!”

“Call me a guinea pig and give me a bib!”

They hung up on that, both chuckling. Jaymie hadn’t answered Zack’s text yet, but she really didn’t know what to say. And it still seemed odd to her that apparently the police chief was the one who had given his former detective Jaymie’s cell number. It kind of felt like an invasion of her privacy, but she wasn’t unhappy he had done it, so she let it go.

With the knowledge that she was going to talk to Valetta about things the next day, Jaymie was able to read for a couple of hours, cuddled with Hoppy and Denver, losing herself in Regency England and swirling on the dance floor of a ballroom decked out with kissing boughs for Christmas.

She felt refreshed and determined the next morning. There were about a dozen things bothering her, and she needed to take care of all of them at some point. But first she had to make a list of what needed to be done out at Queensville Historic Manor, as she must train herself to consistently call it. She had a free day before coming back to cook dinner for Valetta, so she clipped Hoppy’s leash on—he was wearing a maroon sweater embellished with embroidered leaves and looked adorable—and set out, cell phone in her jacket pocket.

The cell phone chimed that she had a text, and she juggled her purse, the leash and the phone, checking her messages. It was from Heidi saying that Joel was home, and could she talk to him? Jaymie paused at the end of the back lane and texted laboriously that she would be at Dumpe Manor (for the sake of a text—it was much shorter than Queensville Historic Manor), so he could come out there if he wanted. This was not something she was looking forward to, but it was one of the things on her list.

She hastened the pace, feeling the need to get on with business. Bill would be there—he was painting the parlor—so he could give her a hand if she needed it. As she walked up to the house, though, she noticed several cars in the parking lot, and when she entered, letting Hoppy off his leash to have a free run of the house, she could hear two bickering voices.

“It wouldn’t be in there. Don’t be an idiot, Imogene!”

“Tree Bellwood, now you promised not to call me that anymore. It hurts my feelings.”

“Your feelings? Good heavens… if I hear one more word about your feelings I’ll fray them like silk embroidery yarn.” A muffled thump followed this announcement.

Good Lord, it was the Snoop Sisters redux. Jaymie took a deep breath and followed the squabbling to the library, a main-floor room that hadn’t yet been touched. A sight to behold greeted her: two woolen-trouser-clad bottoms and the soles of two pairs of sensible Rockport loafers.

“What on earth are you two doing?” Jaymie cried as Hoppy dashed across the Persian-carpeted floor toward the two older ladies. He danced around them, pushing at their bottoms with his one front paw. It was a grand game for the little Yorkie-Poo.

Mrs. Bellwood, always so dignified, fell over onto her rear and looked at Jaymie in astonishment. “We didn’t hear you, Jaymie.”

“Yes, we didn’t hear you,” Mrs. Frump echoed.

“If you were a proper young lady you would come and assist your elders and call off your dog!” Mrs. Bellwood griped.

At the oddest times Mrs. Bellwood’s Queen Victoria persona would overcome her and she would begin issuing orders in a terrible English accent, as if her mouth were full of marbles. A dedicated royalist, she had been copying Queen Elizabeth II for years and always watched her Christmas Day address to the Commonwealth nations, broadcast on Canada’s CBC Television. She took Queensville’s origins and the town’s connection to Canada, across the river, very seriously.

Jaymie helped her up.

“We’re looking for the Sultan’s Eye, of course,” Mrs. Bellwood said, as Jaymie then aided Mrs. Frump.

Jaymie glanced around the library. It was lined with bookshelves, and there were quite a few books left, beautiful leather-bound volumes. She hoped the heritage committee intended to keep the books exactly as they were, a testament to how literature endures. The bottom row had been taken out and stacked neatly to one side, as the two ladies searched for the mythical Sultan’s Eye.

“Do you really believe you’re going to find it?” Jaymie asked. “Do you think it even exists?”

“We’ve looked everywhere. I just don’t think it’s here, but some people,” Mrs. Frump said, giving Mrs. Bellwood a look, “won’t let it rest.”

“We haven’t explored every nook and cranny yet.” Mrs. Bellwood was unfazed by their lack of success so far.

“Can I get your opinion on the kitchen?” Jaymie asked, partially to ward off another argument. “Do you mind?”

Hoppy toddled awkwardly up the stairs to the second floor to explore, while Jaymie led the two ladies to her work in progress and they looked around. In Jaymie’s absence Mabel Bloombury had cleaned the window and put up the curtains she had made. They were crisp, and not the butter yellow she had expected. The material was white, with a pattern of cherries and ivy, and she actually loved it! So cheery and lively. Good on a dull November day. Curtains gave the room a more finished look than barren windows. “Mabel did a wonderful job!” she said, touching the fabric and adjusting the ruffles.

“It’s coming along,” Mrs. Bellwood said.

“Coming along,” Mrs. Frump echoed.

It wasn’t a resounding endorsement, but better than nothing. Jaymie emptied the box of kitchen tools she had bought at auction and laid them out. There were the usual strainers, an apple corer, some spatulas and other things that she knew, but there were other tools she did not recognize. “What is this?” she asked the ladies, holding up a long-handled item with wire spiraling around a spoon shape on the end.

“It’s a whip!” Mrs. Frump said.

“A what?”

“A whip… like a whisk,” Mrs. Bellwood said.

Jaymie made a whisking motion, then shook her head. “I don’t know if it would do the job. How about this?” she asked, holding up a long-handled tool that had a metal disk on the end with swirls cut out of it.

“That is a muddler… a potato muddler. Like a masher.”

Jaymie’s eyes widened. “Really? I never would have guessed that.” She now had a Vintage Eats column in her mind, one on long-lost vintage tools. “What about this?” she said, holding up a green-handled tool with three blades and a spring.

“That’s a Foley chopper,” Mrs. Bellwood answered, turning to examine the stitching on the curtains. “It was supposed to cut down the time it takes to chop herbs or nuts.”

Just then they heard the bang of the front door being slammed.

“Halloo!” shouted a voice Jaymie recognized. The two older women frowned and glanced at each other.

“It’s Joel,” Jaymie said. “He’s meeting me here.” She raised her voice and shouted, “In the kitchen!”

Mrs. Frump’s eyes widened and she looked at her new friend/enemy with a significant nod.

Mrs. Bellwood turned to Jaymie. “And why is he meeting you here?”

Jaymie sighed. “Just to talk, nothing more. We’re still friends, for heaven’s sake!” She walked out to the entry hall to greet him instead of waiting with the two ladies, and they shared an awkward hug. Joel had never quite looked like what he was, a pharmaceutical salesman who traveled a great deal. Strangers probably guessed he was an artist or musician, his hair a little too long, his clothes a little too casual. He looked tired and had stubble on his chin, but his light brown hair had been cut shorter than he used to wear it.

“Why did Heidi send me over here?” he asked.

“Let’s go sit on the porch,” she said, not wanting to be within earshot of two of the worst Queensville gossips. The floorboards creaked as they walked, and she saw two elderly faces peeking around the doorway from the kitchen.

They sat on the steps, Jaymie burrowing her hands in her coat sleeves, and talked about work and mutual friends. There had been a lot of changes in their little town in the last few months. Finally, getting chilled and not wanting to prolong things, Jaymie just launched into the reason she needed to talk to him. “So Joel, what’s the holdup with setting a date to get married? You were the one who asked Heidi, after all; why are you dragging your feet?”

“I am not dragging my feet,” he said.

Hoppy barked to come out, so Jaymie got up and let the little dog out with them. He crawled up on Joel’s lap and licked his chin. Joel cuddled him, petting the patch of fur that always stood in a tuft on the Yorkie-Poo’s head.

“Then what’s the holdup?” Jaymie prodded, trying not to watch his hands. He had nice hands, and she had always found them enticing: square, sensitive, eloquent. “You’re lucky a girl as nice as Heidi will have you,” she said, even more bluntly, trying to goad him into responding. “You should snatch her up before she changes her mind.”

He shook his head and gloomily squinted off in the distance, across the road where there was a marshy brushland stretch, brown and sage in the dim light of late autumn. “I should never have ditched you,” he said.

Jaymie stiffened in anger. “What did you say?” she asked, carefully.

Hoppy looked up at her, knowing the tone.

“Well, you know, Heidi is needy. You were so much more easygoing,” Joel said, scrambling to explain. “You never bugged me about marriage and crap like that.”

“You are unbelievable,” she said, standing, descending a step and facing him. Hoppy jumped off his lap and started investigating the porch. “You are truly unbelievable. I can’t believe you just said that. You are so lucky you’ve found a girl who loves you. I was an idiot for letting you get away with so much crap, you know that?”

“Don’t get huffy. I hate it when you get huffy.”

Huffy… that was a word to diminish the justice of her anger. She was done with being delicate. “Joel, who the heck is Cathy? What’s going on?”

He groaned and covered his face with both hands. “I don’t know what to do!”

“How about coming clean? Who is Cathy? And what does she have to do with you not setting a date to marry Heidi?”

He didn’t say anything for a long few moments. Jaymie let the silence stretch out, but finally she gently said, “Talk to me, Joel. If there’s a problem tell me.”

“I can’t marry Heidi,” he said, staring across the road. “I’m already married.”

Sixteen

“DID I HEAR you right? You’re married?” Jaymie said, her knees buckling. She sat back down next to him.

“Yup, you heard me right.” He grimaced and sighed.

Jaymie frowned down at her toes, then lifted her gaze and turned, knee up on the step, to glare at him. “You mean, all the time you lived with me you were married? You made me… you made me the other woman?” Fury bubbled up inside of her. “You are a real piece of work, Joel Anderson, do you know that?”

“Wait!” he exclaimed, hands up in the “stop” motion, splayed out toward her. “You have to hear me out!” He talked, weaving a tale of a youthful marriage and long separation. They weren’t “really even married anymore,” in his view. How could you call them married when he hadn’t seen Cathy for years?

Jaymie snorted in disbelief at that, but decided not to interrupt.

Recently Cathy, his wife, had contacted him; she said she wanted to reconcile. Or dissolve the marriage… for a price. He believed she had somehow caught wind of his engagement to Heidi Lockland, one of the famous New York Locklands, who owned a good block of Manhattan property and had real estate investments in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, among other cities. Cathy was basically blackmailing him to end their marriage, holding him hostage to his youthful indiscretion.

“She’s been cyberstalking me or something! Heidi uses all that social networking crap. I’ve always avoided it, but Heidi has my name and pictures of me on her profile. I think Cathy found me that way.”

Jaymie paused, as the story sank in, but then said, “This is why you never take girlfriends to meet your parents, because they know you’re still married! Is this the part where I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Really?”

“Have a heart, Jaymie,” he pleaded. “You were always the level-headed one; what am I going to do?”

“You have one option, and one option only: you tell Heidi the truth, and you do it now.” She shivered and rubbed her arms, angry and hurt and feeling betrayed. “Tell the truth, Joel, for once in your freaking life. And don’t ever say you should have stayed with me, because I don’t want you back. Not now, not ever. I don’t want anyone right now.”

She paused and examined that thought. It was true. She had been only five months into a broken heart when she started dating Daniel. Maybe that long a time should have been enough for her to get over it and move on, but she still felt the wound. It was healed over, but still there. She was just one of those who fall deeply when they fall in love, and that was okay. Now she knew the truth; she had to tell Daniel she wasn’t ready to get serious with anyone.

Peace spiraled through her, and she breathed deeply, the first long breath she had taken in a while. She had made her decision. She was happy in her life, with her family and friends. She was filled with gratitude for the path her life was taking. She had no desire to leave Queensville, and deep in her heart she did not see Daniel settling in her beautiful old Queen Anne home. There was a restlessness in his soul, and that would always feel like a reproach to her.

She glanced down at Joel, who looked like a puppy who had been kicked. More gently she said, “Tell Heidi the truth. She really loves you.” Pausing, she gripped his shoulder. “And I think she has things she needs to tell you, too,” she added, thinking about the fact that Heidi had not told her family about him and her plans to marry, though Joel didn’t yet know that. It was not a monumental betrayal like his had been, but it was important.

Joel covered her hand on his shoulder with his own. “You’re right, Jaymie.” He met her eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’m really sorry for how I treated you, you know. And if you not wanting anyone right now is because of me, I’m sorry. I really am.”

Don’t flatter yourself, she thought, but did not say. She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “You did me a favor, Joel—you woke me up. I was coasting on everyone else’s dreams, but now I’m finding my own. Go home. Talk to Heidi right now.”

When she reentered the house with Hoppy at her heels, it was to find that the two older women had been at the door, no doubt listening in. She suppressed a smile. “That information, if you overheard it, was for our ears only, ladies, until he confesses all and is forgiven. Okay?”

Mrs. Bellwood nodded and so did Mrs. Frump. The first lady touched Jaymie’s arm and said, “You do what you want, Jaymie, about everything in your life. Our generation… we didn’t know we had time. We didn’t know we had choices and could do other things. I’m not complaining; I loved my husband, and my children and grandkids are wonderful. I’m not sorry for the path I took. But there were other girls who weren’t so lucky. You do what you want when you want.”

“Thank you.”

The two exchanged looks and Mrs. Bellwood nodded to Mrs. Frump.

“Jaymie, have you heard about this other will?” Mrs. Bellwood asked. “The one leaving this house to Prentiss Dumpe?”

“I’m the one who found it in the kitchen cabinet. I wish I never did! I hope it’s not going to affect our purchase of the house.”

“But you see, it couldn’t have been there before,” Mrs. Frump said. “We didn’t know if we ought to tell Haskell; he may be a wee bit angry at us.”

“Why?”

“We already searched the kitchen, you see, before Bill painted it. We knew you’d be working in here, so we did it just after the meeting… you know… searched for the Sultan’s Eye. There was no will in the lower cupboard then.”

Jaymie felt thunderstruck, then hopeful. “Are you sure?” She had cleaned under the cupboards herself, and assumed she had just missed it, but now, if what they were saying was true…

Both women nodded.

“We did use a flashlight to search,” Mrs. Frump said, a dimple winking in her cheek. “And I got right down until I was practically inside the kitchen cabinets!”

“We’re sure,” Mrs. Bellwood added. “It wasn’t there.”

“Thank you,” Jaymie said. “And you should tell Haskell. It ought to help.” She thought a moment, then said, “Did either of you see my small case full of tools when you were searching?”

Both women shook their heads. Did that mean, Jaymie wondered, that whoever hid the will also took her tools? Not necessarily, but it was possible. Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump headed off to talk to—or at—Bill while he painted in the parlor. Jaymie worked alone in the kitchen and had it looking much better by the time she was done.

The Hoosier was in place, and on it were some Jade-ite mixing bowls. Jade-ite was a green glass used for dishes and mixing bowls that were mass-produced in the 1930s, ’40s and ’50s, in such a broad range of table and cookware that Jaymie had decided to furnish the whole kitchen in the stuff, and so had scoured vintage stores and flea markets. So far she had some mugs and mixing bowls, as well as a measuring bowl. But from her research she knew that there were vases, juicers, dinnerware sets, refrigerator dishes and more, all in the lovely soft green made by Anchor Hocking for its Fire-King line. It was a hot collectible, time appropriate and color appropriate for her—or rather, the heritage society’s—project.

But as wonderful as getting lost in the past was, there were still so many things plaguing her. Now that Heidi and Joel’s problems were hopefully back between the two of them where they belonged and no longer on her plate, Jaymie decided to tackle a couple of other things. She would start with a trip back to the Queensville Inn and another visit to Mrs. Stubbs.

She walked back to town with Hoppy, deposited her little dog at home, then strolled over to the inn. She made a brief visit to the kitchen, where she consulted with the chef, a French Canadian of superb talent, on the autumn basket offerings for her vintage picnic business. Two new enterprises were expanding her reach. Wolverhampton Winery was offering a special winter package that included a bonfire picnic on the beautiful grounds of the winery. And a lovely country bed-and-breakfast was partnering with her to offer fall and winter walk suggestions, with one of her picnic baskets on a wagon.

She wasn’t sure how many people would want to traipse through the woods hauling a Radio Flyer loaded with a picnic basket, but the owners of the bed-and-breakfast, which was also a Christmas tree farm, thought it was worth a try. They were featuring it as a country getaway in their advertising, trying to drum up more business in the slow season. They were hoping that day-trippers would come out with a basket, go into the pine woods, have their picnic, then cut down their own Christmas tree.

She returned to the front of the inn, said a brief hello to Lyle, who was working in the office behind the check-in desk, then headed to Mrs. Stubbs’s room. The elderly woman was again in her wheelchair, now by the window for best light, and this time reading an Anne Perry historical mystery, one of the Christmas series. Perry’s novels were some of the only mysteries Jaymie read, so they discussed her books briefly, before getting more serious.

Mrs. Stubbs watched her, her gaze still sharp, even with the cataracts that misted her one eye worse than the other. She was due for surgery to remove them, and everyone hoped for the best. But even with faulty sight, she was sharply observant. She tugged the sleeves of her velour jacket down over her bony wrists and pulled her lap blanket up, then eyed Jaymie and said, “You need to know something, am I right?”

Jaymie had decided this was one woman she could be wholly honest with, so she told her everything about the will, and added what Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump had confessed, about searching the cabinet earlier. “I’m pretty sure it’s a fake, now, but that means Prentiss Dumpe is trying to pull a fast one over on the society,” Jaymie said. “You saw him, how he acted at the meeting. It is possible, I suppose, that the will is real, but that he or someone else planted it in the cupboard so I’d find it. If I were Prentiss, I wouldn’t want to be the one presenting it to the court. Who would believe him, even if it was true?”

The older woman frowned into the light from the window, her expression one of concentration. “Tell me exactly what the will said. It was in Jane’s handwriting, correct?”

“Supposedly, but that would be one of the things checked by the court. You want the exact wording?”

The woman nodded.

“Let’s see if I can remember. It was dated July fifth, 1993, and said that she was revoking all other wills, that she was of sound mind and that she was leaving everything to her ‘beloved’ grandson, Prentiss Dumpe, on the condition that he not give ‘a single, solitary dime’ to Hazel Grinley Frump because…” Jaymie thought back to the wording. “Uh, because she—meaning Jane—had reason to believe that Hazel was robbing her blind and keeping her from seeing her lawyer. It specifically included land, house, antiques, jewels, everything.”

There was something else… ah! Grinley, Hazel Frump’s middle name… had that been misspelled? Yes! Jaymie had seen the full name spelled out once, when she was reading up on what little house history there was, and the will had the e in Grinley in the wrong spot. Though not definitive, that surely was not a mistake Mrs. Dumpe would make of a lifelong friend and companion. Jaymie mentioned this to Mrs. Stubbs, and she agreed.

“Hmph. The whole thing doesn’t sound like Jane,” Mrs. Stubbs went on. “First, her ‘beloved’ Prentiss? She did not like her grandson. Since her son and daughter-in-law died—Prentiss’s parents, you know—he had ignored her, even though she paid for his schooling so he could get a psychiatry degree. Nothing was ever enough for him. She once told me that she didn’t want to be one of those women to threaten their grandson with cutting him out of the will, but she was tempted to do just that.”

“Did she ever?”

“What, threaten him? I don’t think so.”

“What about the part about Hazel robbing her blind?”

Mrs. Stubbs shook her head. “If you knew Hazel, you’d know how ridiculous that was. Hazel was the kind who, if you went to lunch, had to split the check exactly, and if one person paid a penny too much, she would reimburse them.” She sat back and stared off into space. “But Jane got a little… odd in her last few years. Suspicious, you know. I don’t think she’d suspect Hazel of robbing her, but who knows? You get two old women in a confined space and there can be simmering resentments. It’s hell getting old. If there was any alternative, I’d take it.” She cast Jaymie a look. “Not that I’m saying I don’t want to be here. As long as I have books and tea, I’m happy enough, I suppose.”

“Is it possible, though, that Jane Dumpe did leave her estate to Prentiss?” Jaymie persisted. “Given what you say about her getting a little odd?”

Mrs. Stubbs shook her head. “She changed her will; I know that for sure. She had intended to leave him some of the estate, but then she cut him out entirely. She talked about it openly with her close friends, and I was one of those.”

“But maybe she decided she’d been too harsh and rewrote it, or maybe she got suspicious of Hazel Frump.”

“You didn’t know Jane. She never changed her mind once it was made up.”

Jaymie sighed. “Well, I’ll ask Haskell Lockland to talk to you, if you don’t mind. He needs to know what you’ve told me.”

She didn’t answer, and appeared lost in thought, staring toward the window. The drapes were drawn back, giving a view of the gardens behind the inn. Evergreen shrubs had been wrapped in burlap to protect them from the harsh Michigan winter, but there were still some wrought-iron patio tables and chair sets, and pots of late-blooming mums in vibrant bronze and yellow shades. A beam of sunlight lit up the yellow mums, then a gust of wind blew dried brown leaves across the flagstone patio, and the sunlight died as if someone had flicked a light switch.

Jaymie just waited, accustomed to her grandmother’s long silences when she was remembering something or thinking something over. She used the time to organize her thoughts and ponder the murder of Theo Carson. There were niggling details that plagued her. People kept talking about Isolde’s ambition; Cynthia had called her a barracuda, and even Nan had been bothered by her persistence, when that was generally an attribute the editor respected. Was it true that Isolde was only with Theo out of ambition? And if that was so, could that ambition lead to murder?

That didn’t make any sense. What had she gained by the writer’s death? It hadn’t furthered her own ambitions at all, and in fact had likely spoiled her plans to benefit from the author’s infatuation. If he had told his mother about her, he must have been serious in a way he was not with Cynthia. She could perhaps have finagled a byline on his book eventually. No, however Jaymie framed it, Isolde could not be Theo’s murderer, and that lent authenticity to her tale of being shoved in the car trunk.

But the missing cell phone… that was still bothering Jaymie. Who had it, and why had they texted her to come out to the house? Was she going to be the fall guy, or was she going to be another victim? Or both?

Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs said, “What did you say was the date on that will?”

“Uh… the date? July fifth, 1993. Why?”

A slow smile crinkled the woman’s mouth. “That will could be real, I suppose, if you can explain to me how Jane wrote it on July fifth of that year while she was still in a coma in intensive care at Wolverhampton General from an accident that happened when she fell off a float in the Wolverhampton Fourth of July parade.” She chuckled, a congested rumble of sound. “Prentiss wouldn’t even have known about her accident, since he was in jail on a fraud charge, after which he almost lost his license. Jane never spoke to him again, and she certainly never wrote a will leaving him everything. She despised a cheater.”

Seventeen

JAYMIE HUMMED A tune while she made dinner for herself and Valetta. She had called Haskell Lockland from Mrs. Stubbs’s room and the gentleman came right over, asked Mrs. Stubbs all about it and was able, with the help of a collections assistant at the Wolverhampton Howler, to verify her story about Mrs. Dumpe’s July 4, 1993, accident. He called the court secretary to add a protest to the will he had filed and said he would be coming in the very next day with the society’s lawyer to file a challenge with proof why the will could not be valid.

Given the flimsy nature of the will itself, Haskell postulated that Prentiss had drafted and hidden the will in the kitchen. He probably did not expect it to stand up to a court review; Jaymie suggested that this was his attempt to put pressure on the heritage society. Given the deep pockets the heritage society now had from the sale of the valuable letter Jaymie had discovered in the spring, he likely thought the heritage society would try to buy him off. It was a reasonable assumption, given the time and money the society had already put into the historic house.

Why would he date it that exact date? Mrs. Stubbs grumbled that he probably figured that his being in jail would be an alibi proving that he could not have influenced the new will or had anything to do with it. Though conjecture, that made as much sense as anything.

He would find himself under investigation for forgery and fraud the next day. As she had a couple of other times when she had fresh information, Jaymie had left a message for Chief Ledbetter telling him all about it. Then she tacked on a question: Did the news change the investigation into the attack on her? Though she had pretty much written it off as a random house break-in, it was just possible that Prentiss had been in the house trying to hide the will and had panicked when he heard her in the kitchen.

She was making turkey roulettes from an old Betty Crocker recipe, but she thought instead of using minced raw onion and peppers, she’d sauté them before adding them. Also, she’d improve the dish by adding some cranberry sauce and a hint of poultry seasoning. She made the dough, rolled it out, chopped the leftover turkey from a breast she had roasted and sprinkled it thickly over the square of rolled dough. She then added some cranberry sauce, the sautéed onions and peppers, and lightly sprinkled it with poultry seasoning. She curled the sheet of dough into a long roll, cut it crosswise into thick slices and arranged them on a baking sheet, giving each a little space so they would brown on the sides. She decided she didn’t want them softer, or she would have crowded them on the sheet to keep them together.

She looked at the clock. Valetta would be there soon, so she popped the roulettes in the oven and made a salad and some turkey gravy. By the time her friend tapped on the back door the whole kitchen smelled like Thanksgiving. If it tasted as good as it smelled, it was going to be the perfect recipe to use in her Vintage Eats pre-Thanksgiving column for the Howler! Ways to use up turkey were always favorites with thrifty cooks.

Hoppy went nuts, of course, as Valetta entered, and Denver even got up out of his basket, stretched and sauntered over to greet the newcomer. Jaymie took the baking sheet out of the oven as Valetta slung her coat and purse over the doorknob and sat down.

“Honey, I’m home,” she joked. “Your kitchen always smells so good!” Valetta took her glasses off and set them aside until the fogginess from coming in out of the cold cleared. She sighed. “When I’m a very old lady I want you to come live with me so you can cook and I can eat. I won’t care if I get fat then.”

Jaymie laughed. “Maybe I’ll turn this place into a home for elderly gourmands.” She poured a light Riesling into two crystal wineglasses and they sat across the kitchen table from each other, scarfing down the roulettes and salad, then finishing with a piece of apple crisp. It was a good and satisfying dinner, but she had made a lot. Jaymie hoped she could find a home for the leftovers.

“So what is so sensitive you couldn’t talk about it on the phone?” Valetta said. “I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since last night.”

Jaymie piled the dishes in the sink with dish detergent, then ran hot water over them. “Let’s go sit in the parlor.”

“Wow, like real company?” she joked.

Jaymie rolled her eyes. “Come on, you two,” she said to the animals.

Once settled and with a fire burning, Jaymie curled up in a wing chair, while Valetta took the settee. Her home was a source of joy to Jaymie, and after a long day, walking through her front door to be welcomed by a home that felt like a family member was a singular comfort. It was important to her that her home was also a warm and welcoming place for friends, and so they seemed to find it. Valetta looked completely comfortable, with Hoppy curled up next to her.

Jaymie ordered her thoughts, then said, “You’re not going to believe this.” She told her friend about the confession Cynthia had made.

“I didn’t know she was an alcoholic,” Valetta said, gazing at her glass of wine. “That’s bad, to have blackouts.”

“I know. I think I’ll check on her tomorrow, after I work at the Emporium. But it’s the blood on her sweater that freaks me out. What could it be from?”

“And you say she doesn’t know where she went after the Cozy Inn?”

“She says she doesn’t remember at all, but she apparently wound up on a side road down near Algonac.”

“Quite a distance from Dumpe Manor,” Valetta said.

“That’s one reassuring fact. But I’d still prefer to know where the blood came from.”

Valetta stared at her glass of wine for a long minute. “Can I use your phone?” She talked for a few minutes, a disjointed conversation, then gave the person Jaymie’s number. She clicked the off button. “He’s going to call back.”

“Who is ‘he’?” Jaymie asked.

“Johnny Stanko,” she said, referring to a fellow who was briefly arrested in the summer for the murder of Jaymie’s one-time friend Kathy Cooper. He had been released when the real culprit was determined, after that man almost killed Jaymie.

“Johnny Stanko? Why him?”

“He’s been working as a cook and cleaner and busing tables at a bar on the highway. There aren’t too many that way, and it’s probably the same one Cynthia was at that night.”

“I couldn’t hear everything you said. You didn’t say anything about Cynthia, did you?” Jaymie asked, anxiously.

“Of course not! I just asked about that night, what went on.”

“I heard that part, but then you mumbled.”

Valetta gave her a look. “I never mumble.”

“Then maybe my hearing’s going,” Jaymie said, with a smile.

“Anyway, Johnny couldn’t talk because he’s working. He’ll call back on his break. I left it vague. I just said a friend had told me there was some trouble at his bar, and I was wondering what he had heard.”

“Okay.”

“You should know me better than to think I’d spill any details!” Valetta said.

They talked about other stuff for a while, then the phone rang. Valetta answered it, and there was a lot of “Uh-huh,” “Really?” and that sort of thing. After she said good-bye and hit the off button, her eyes held a worried look.

“So… what did you find out?”

“Johnny was there working that night, and he remembers a pretty, older woman wearing… guess what?”

“A soft pink sweater,” Jaymie filled in.

Valetta nodded. “She was tight when she walked in, but the bartender served her anyway, and she was drinking doubles, Johnnie Walker Red. Johnny remembers the booze because of the name. He cleared her table, and she flirted with him. In fact… she flirted with pretty much every guy in the place.”

“Oh, dear. What happened then?”

“Some guy got the wrong idea and started plying her with more booze and hitting on her hard. She was okay up to a point, but then he got fresh.”

“And?”

“Johnny stepped in,” Valetta said quietly. “He’s got his problems, but he’s a good guy, deep down, and he didn’t like to see a lady being manhandled. That’s pretty much what he said, that she was a real lady and deserved better. The guy objected, and they got in a fistfight. Johnny decked him and the guy went down hard. The owner wasn’t pleased.”

“Yikes.”

“He almost lost his job over it. Anyway, Cynthia slipped out while all this was going on, and drove off.”

“Drove away… but he knew she was drunk! Did he call the police?”

Valetta gave her a look. “After what he’s been through? He just got out of jail, then he was arrested and falsely charged with murder. Do you really think he’d feel comfortable calling the police?”

“You’re right, I know. But she could have killed someone!”

“Johnny would have been fired if he had called the cops on a customer, and he didn’t know Cynthia’s name or what her car looked like.” She shrugged. “I guess you could say he picks his battles.”

Jaymie thought about it for a long moment. Cynthia could have killed someone, she had just said. She had meant in an accident, but… Jaymie had read about cases of murder where the assailant claimed not to remember anything because of alcohol. Not Cynthia… that was just not possible in this case. “I suppose the blood on her sweater could have come from the fistfight. I mean, that’s one logical answer.”

“And she says she woke up on a side road near Algonac. She wouldn’t have driven all the way to Dumpe Manor on the off chance she’d meet Theo there,” Valetta said.

“But it’s still all so uncertain. I wish she could remember more.” She paused and frowned. “Or that I could rely on what she has said. We only have her word for it about where she ended up. Did Johnny say what time all of this happened?”

“I got the impression it was still earlyish in the evening. If she was drinking doubles it wouldn’t take long for her to get blotto. I guess the place was pretty full. It’s the kind of joint guys go, to play darts and pool, you know?”

Jaymie drank the last of her wine and set her glass down. “I need more information. A lot more.”

“Ask your friend the police chief,” Valetta said, smirking over at her.

“Ah, but the trouble is, the information I want is the very stuff he doesn’t have. And so it’s up to me to find it.”

Eighteen

JAYMIE BROUGHT VALETTA up to speed on everything else that had been happening. She was suitably interested.

“I was wondering about something else,” Jaymie said, glancing over at her friend.

“Shoot.”

“You said that Dick Schuster’s wife works with Brock, right?”

“Wife in name only… almost ex-wife. They’re both real estate agents, yes. Independent, but working for the same company.”

“What is she like? Have you met her?”

Valetta appeared torn how to answer. She took a long time, and said, “I’ve met her. She’s… okay.” She glanced over at Jaymie. “Look, I’ll tell you something, but it has to stay here.”

“Does it have anything to do with the murder?”

“Of course not! I wouldn’t ask you to keep something a secret if it did.”

“You’ve got it; I promise.”

“Brock and Dick’s almost-ex are dating, if you want to call it that.”

Jaymie remembered Heidi telling her about the gossip, that Brock was seeing a married woman. That must be the source of it. “I think people are already whispering about that. So you’ve met her; what’s she like?”

“I can’t say I blame her for breaking up with Dick Schuster. The man is a pill, says the pharmacist. But she’s…” She shook her head. “She makes all kinds of snarky remarks around me, about the pharmaceutical industry, and me being a ‘pill pusher.’”

“I guess she wasn’t happy with the services of Dr. Dumpe, right?” That wasn’t the kind of information that helped, but since she didn’t really know what she was looking for, Jaymie couldn’t blame Valetta. “Anyway, I guess that’s neither here nor there. If they’re divorcing, then Brock can date her all he wants.”

Valetta stayed silent, but her mouth twitched in distaste.

“Hear me out on something; Dick Schuster hated Theo Carson, but I couldn’t imagine a reason strong enough for him to kill the guy, right?”

Valetta shrugged. “Professional jealousy can get pretty strong, I imagine, since Theo is the one who got the writing contract over a local boy.”

“It seemed far-fetched to imagine that Dick would kill Theo, though. However… Dick also hates Prentiss Dumpe, after the fiasco of the marriage counseling that backfired.”

“Okay, all true, but I’m not following you.”

“This is where it gets complicated. Could Dick Schuster be responsible for planting the fake will and killing Theo, trying to make it look like Prentiss did it, thus getting rid of two evils in his life?”

Valetta snorted with laughter. “You really have been reading too much. That is a plot worthy of… well, worthy of I don’t know who.”

“So it was a shot in the dark,” Jaymie said with a smile. “Someone killed the guy, and it wasn’t me or you!”

They talked a little more, moving to personal topics. Jaymie fretted over her doubts about Daniel, Zack Christian and dating at all at this point in her life. She just wasn’t feeling it, for whatever reason.

“You need a breather from romance,” Valetta said. “Maybe it just isn’t the right time in your life for it.”

“That’s pretty much what I’ve been thinking. Daniel and I have been talking at odds for months, and neither one of us is happy now. Zach contacting me sent me for a loop, I guess. I dreamed about him and fantasized… even read a few contemporaries with a sexy cop as the hero!” She chuckled. “He really is a nice guy, but maybe not for me.”

Valetta helped her do the dishes, then headed home. After letting Hoppy out to do his business, writing down some notes about the turkey roulettes for her Vintage Eats column and checking her blog, Jaymie took a notebook to bed and tried to figure out what all was going on and why. She scribbled a list of interesting facts and questions.

1. Theo Carson claimed that under no circumstances would he go to Dumpe Manor alone, and yet he was apparently there alone when he was murdered. So… either he lied, or he was not alone, or something persuaded him to break his oath.

Jaymie stared at what she had written and added:

He would not technically have been going there alone if he thought he was meeting someone at the house.

2. Cynthia Turbridge had blood on her sweater the night Carson was murdered. However, she claimed to have no memory of the evening after leaving the Cozy Inn. Where was she after the fight at the next bar? She says she awoke on a side road near Algonac, but is that true? No proof.

Jaymie added a note to try to find out if Theo’s number was on Cynthia’s cell phone.

3. Isolde Rasmussen claimed that she was hit on the head by someone as she witnessed Theo’s murder. Who hit her on the head? Was she really locked in her trunk that night? Where is her cell phone?

4. Was the attack on me and the murder done by the same person? It was a similar weapon, so it’s possible.

5. Why was Theo killed?

She sat back and thought about that for a while. Not just who killed Theo, but why. Of course, she didn’t know every facet of his life. For all she knew—and given his charming personality—he could have had a dozen people out to get him. She could only formulate theories based on what she did know, and based on not just his murder, but where it took place. She tapped the bed with her pen and Hoppy looked up, a question in his little black eyes. “Go back to sleep, Hoppy. If I need help, I’ll let you know.”

Prentiss Dumpe, for one, had a fractious relationship with the writer. Carson was claiming that the family started out as slavers and were Nazi sympathizers during the Second World War. For someone as sensitive as the disgraced psychiatrist, those could be fighting words. For the same reason, Iago Dumpe could be a suspect. He was, after all, the person fingered as having been seen climbing from an upstairs window of Dumpe Manor. She made a note to find out more about Iago. Where was he the night of the murder?

Thinking of Iago reminded her that the alarm system was going in, and she was going to be one of the few to have the codes to it. She’d have to coordinate with Haskell Lockland as to who would have access and how.

Then there was Dick Schuster. The logic that made him a suspect was tortured, at the very least. But he had, in truth, leveled a pretty serious charge against the writer, that he had stolen his work and published it as his own. In the literary world plagiarism could ruin a career. So Jaymie had to consider that perhaps it wasn’t a case of Schuster wanting to get rid of Theo for that reason, but had Carson reacted badly to the accusations, and had they then fought? There was a marginal possibility there, but then, why would it all go down out at the historic home?

She turned it over in her mind. Dick Schuster was the kind of man who was willing to use any tools, legal or illegal, to get what he wanted. He had used the mere threat of publication as blackmail in the past, apparently successfully. That line of musing took her nowhere. Had he arranged to meet Carson out at the house to talk in private or something like that? But then… why a meat mallet from the house as a weapon? In fact that question went for the murder, period: who had taken the mallet out of the house with the intent to use it to kill Theo? Maybe the theory she had presented to Valetta, that Schuster had done it but had tried to implicate Prentiss, had some merit.

It was all such a mess in her mind!

There was one person she couldn’t ignore, as unlikely as it seemed to her personally. Cynthia Turbridge. Cynthia was livid, crushed, heartbroken about Carson dumping her for a younger woman. Given her dark history with alcohol, and her claims of a blackout, who knew what she had done? Jaymie squirmed out of bed and grabbed her tablet computer from the office—another techie gift from Daniel, one she kept simply because it had been for her birthday—and jumped back into bed, getting a dirty look from Denver and an inquisitive one from Hoppy. She brought up a browser (Daniel had insisted on installing Wi-Fi in the house as well, which Becca was pleased about) and did a little research on alcoholism and blackouts.

What she learned was fascinating, as well as frightening. Memory loss was a significant side effect of a blackout, but there were different types of memory loss. En bloc memory loss was characterized by a complete loss of memory during the blackout period, but the more common type was fragmentary memory loss, which was characterized by some complete areas of loss, and some fragments of memory that remained or came back. Interestingly enough, the drinker might not even be aware that there were periods missing from his or her memory.

Alcoholic blackout, as a matter of fact, had been used as a defense in numerous murder cases. People had driven for hours, shot and killed someone, then drove home, all while in an alcoholic fog. This was most common among long-time alcohol abusers; did Cynthia qualify, since she claimed she had been sober for years? Could one binge result in that kind of blackout?

She felt sorry for the woman. Relapse after a long period of sobriety must be disheartening. But it was important to find out… did this blackout of Cynthia’s have any stray memories that had popped up, or had she remembered some portion of the night, but didn’t want to talk about it? Had she truly been sober for years, as she said, or was she lying to save face?

One other important thought came to her on that topic: for Cynthia to kill Theo that night, she would have had to know where he was. Had she followed him, perhaps?

She set the tablet aside and snuggled down under the covers, as Hoppy turned and groaned and Denver grumbled.

And then there was Isolde Rasmussen. Jaymie went back to what she had been thinking of earlier. Everyone claimed she was a calculating and ambitious woman, but how did that square with murder? It didn’t make any sense, but still… Jaymie had a feeling she was hiding something. It could be involvement, or it could be something she knew that she didn’t want to talk about. That was the problem with an imaginative mind; Jaymie could think of too many possibilities. Had Isolde witnessed or overheard something, and intended to approach the person in question?

Jaymie sure hoped that wasn’t it. That was a dangerous course of action, and one she would never take. Over the last few months she had become wiser and more careful after a couple of close calls.

But there was another possibility with Isolde. Why had the woman just happened to be driving past Dumpe Manor the night Jaymie was attacked? Her stomach turned. Was it not possible that Isolde was both Jaymie’s attacker and Theo’s killer? After all, it was her cell phone that had summoned Jaymie to Theo’s murder scene. If she hadn’t had Valetta with her, she might have been murdered. Isolde’s possible culpability was one avenue she had to follow, for her own peace of mind… but not late at night, or she’d never sleep! Her brain was tied up in knots at the thought of all these suspects.

Enough murder and suspicion. She picked up her Regency anthology off the nightstand, huddling down in the bed to read. When she finally turned off the light a couple of hours later, she drifted to sleep dreaming of an old English manor house and a handsome viscount who wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and dance the night away.

Nineteen

THE DAY WAS going to be a long one. Jaymie headed to the Emporium early to do some catching up on the vintage picnic business. Jaymie and Valetta then opened the store and pharmacy counter right on time, at nine a.m. It wasn’t exactly bustling, but there was a steady stream of local customers coming in for prescriptions and groceries of the milk, bread and butter sort.

After their midmorning tea break and gossip, Valetta and Jaymie were both back to work. At about eleven thirty Dick Schuster came in for a prescription, then picked up some things and started toward the cash desk, basket of foodstuffs and random items in hand. This was an opportunity Jaymie hadn’t expected, to talk to someone who was intimately involved in the whole Debacle at Dumpe Manor, as she had begun to think of the controversies swirling around the history, who was going to write it and what was going to be in it.

She made a mental note to drop in to the bed-and-breakfast to talk to Theo Carson’s mother, because she was curious whether anything had been found in his papers, though the police would certainly have gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb. Jaymie was looking for something different, though, something not necessarily related to the murder but that could provide an oblique motive that only a historian or writer would see.

Schuster plunked his stuff down on the worn wooden counter, looked up and, seeing who was in front of him as cashier, dropped some items. He picked them up, then nervously shuffled them around, knocking down some candy bars that were in a display in front of the counter. He picked them up, too, and tossed them into a bin willy-nilly. She wondered why he seemed so nervous, but decided to capitalize on it to get him to talk. Nervous people often talked more than they should, in her experience.

After greeting him by name, she said, “So, you must be glad Theo Carson is out of the picture. Are you going to apply again for the job of writing the Dumpe family history?” She gathered his items together and started to sort them—slowly—then leisurely typed in a bar code number from a package of disposable razors. The Klausners had barely entered the twenty-first century by having a computerized cash register, but they hadn’t plunked down good money for a bar code scanner system yet. Nobody in Queensville was in that much of a hurry.

“Why would I do that?” He pushed the things together and something else fell off the counter. He bent to pick it up, his face red.

Jaymie tried to keep from smiling, and tried even harder not to show how interested she was in his nervousness. Was she facing Theo Carson’s murderer? He seemed too nervous and clumsy to kill someone in such a cold-blooded manner, but she had been fooled before.

She again sorted the items, then checked to see which ones she had already typed in. “Well, we’re going to need someone to write the family and house history, and we didn’t have that much luck last time. We only had you and Theo Carson. Now that he’s out of the picture, it would be more likely you’d get the job. Don’t you think?”

“I… uh… I hadn’t thought of that.”

There was a pause. Jaymie wasted some time, examining the items, typing in codes, finding a bag. “I wasn’t a big fan of Theo Carson, you know,” she said, turning a can of tomatoes over, typing in the code, knowing that it wouldn’t work because she was typing it in wrong on purpose. The machine beeped, and she rolled her eyes and typed it in again. It beeped again; wrong! She looked up. “He was kind of a jerk.”

Anger burned in Schuster’s eyes. He shifted from foot to foot. “He sure was. I know what people are saying, you know. I know no one believes me that he stole my research for that book of his. But it’s true, every word. He stole it from me!”

“How did he steal it?” she asked, truly curious. She had thought he was just trashing the other man at the meeting, but he appeared genuinely irate.

“I don’t know, that’s just the thing.” He looked around, then leaned over the counter and whispered, his dark eyes wide and staring, perspiration breaking out in beads on his high forehead, “I think he hacked into my computer. We’d been to the same writing conferences, you see, and talked about the same subject. He must have guessed my passwords, stalked me online, then hacked me!”

She paused, examining him, the wild eyes, the trembling lips. “Did you do anything about it?”

“I tried, but no one would listen.” He wiped his mouth with one trembling hand. “Even the police wouldn’t do anything about it!”

“Well, you won’t have that problem again, will you?” She rang up a few more items from his basket. Though she didn’t know a lot about computers, she was virtually certain Theo Carson had not hacked into Schuster’s computer and stolen his work, but she was equally certain Schuster really believed he had. How had such conviction affected him? Enough to commit murder? Where did his paranoia come from?

She watched him as she typed in another bar code. He definitely seemed a bubble off level, as Bill Waterman would say. Did that make it more or less likely that he had killed Theo Carson? “Have you ever heard of a manuscript at Dumpe Manor, Mr. Schuster? I heard that there was some kind of secret family manuscript hidden somewhere.”

“Maybe. Why? Did you find it?”

He seemed casual, and it looked like he was making an effort to suppress his various nervous tics… in fact, he seemed to be trying to be too casual for someone who would definitely be interested in that information. She would bet that either he knew there was no such manuscript or he had already searched for it unsuccessfully.

“No, I didn’t find it,” she said and watched him. Would he be interested to know that she had, however, found a hidden will?

That had nothing to do with him, since Prentiss Dumpe was the only one who benefited. However, given his ongoing trouble with Prentiss, he would not want the man to benefit, no doubt. “I was curious, Mr. Schuster, what were you and Prentiss arguing about at the meeting?” she suddenly asked, as she continued to ring up the rest of his things, looking each item over as if it was the first time she had seen a package of razors, a bottle of cleaning solution or a toothbrush.

“Arguing? Uh… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You and Prentiss Dumpe. You were arguing at the meeting. I saw you; you had hold of his sleeve.”

“You’re wrong. Completely wrong. We weren’t arguing at all.” He spoke quickly, then added, “But I don’t like Prentiss much; never have.”

“Have you known each other long?”

He paused, then asked, “Why?”

“No reason,” she said and sighed. It was like talking to a suspicious teenager. But she couldn’t actually confront him about being in the doctor’s care. That was just too personal. “Anyway, now you can—” She stopped abruptly when she looked up and saw the throbbing vein in his forehead and the wild, bulging eyes. “Mr. Schuster, what’s wrong?”

“You think I killed Theo Carson!” he shouted.

“I what? How the heck did you get that idea?”

He backed away, bumping into a table of toys and knocking it over. “You do! You’re accusing me!” Tears gathered in his eyes. “I can’t believe it. I would never do anything like that! I have to go.”

“Mr. Schuster, I didn’t say that!” she called after him, as he headed toward the door. “Mr. Schuster, what about your groceries?”

He waved his hand back in a dismissive gesture and headed outside, stumbling as he went, slamming the door behind him, the bells jingling overhead. She was genuinely worried and dashed after him, threading her way around tables and displays, as did Valetta, having heard the commotion as she was locking up her pharmacy counter for a lunch break.

“What’s wrong with him?” Valetta called.

“I don’t know,” Jaymie said over her shoulder.

By the time she got to the veranda of the store, though, Schuster was already down the street, his head hunched, his shoulders rounded, his hands in his coat pockets. Valetta joined her and watched. Jaymie explained what had happened.

“Holy mackerel!” she said. “I wonder what that’s all about?”

“I wish I knew.”

It was lunchtime and the sky was clear. Even on a November day it was not bad out if you sat in the sun. There were a couple of sturdy weatherproof rocking chairs on the store veranda, so Jaymie and Valetta opted to have their lunch and tea there, to watch the goings-on in town. That way Jaymie could hustle into the store if she had a customer.

The Queensville Emporium, a century-old building—creaky floorboards, false front, and big picture windows on the veranda—was on a slight rise in the town. From the veranda, Jaymie could see all the way down Main Street, past Jewel’s Junk, Bill’s workshop and junk store in the shed behind, and on to Cynthia’s store, the Cottage Shoppe, which was a converted cottage-type home. She could see the corner of the Knit Knack Shack, a little yarn store in another converted cottage. You could even see past to the old houses, mostly Queen Anne interspersed with Colonial, and a few “one-and-a-half” cottages, which had a small second story, and so weren’t traditional cottages. Because the leaves were all off the trees, Jaymie could see the upper story of the Queensville Inn, a couple of streets over. The Emporium faced away from the river, so you couldn’t see Boardwalk Park, the docks, the marina or the humbler homes that descended to the riverfront.

But on a cold November day they were faced the right way to be protected from the wind and catch some sunshine. Jaymie had a thermos of leftover chicken noodle soup and a couple of turkey roulettes from the previous evening’s meal, which she had warmed up in the store microwave and shared with Valetta, who also had a thermos of soup. Both had tea made fresh and poured into a carafe to keep it hot.

They discussed Dick Schuster’s weird breakdown, but since neither knew what to make of the fellow’s accusations, they went on to chat desultorily about the murder and the historical society’s plans for the house and the will. Jaymie shared what she had written the night before.

“After work I think I’ll drop in at the bed-and-breakfast to see if Mrs. Carson needs anything. I want to find out if she has managed to get a hold of your brother to see Theo’s apartment yet.”

“Mmm, oh, yeah. She has,” Valetta said, after swallowing a mouthful of roulette. “In fact she’s probably there right now, or will be going there soon.”

Jaymie glared at her. “You didn’t tell me that!”

Valetta shrugged. “Forgot. You can’t do anything about it right now anyway.”

“You’re right.” Jaymie took another sip of soup and watched with a frown as Isolde Rasmussen walked down the street toward them. A car followed her, then screeched to a halt. Out of it came Theo Carson’s mother like an angry wasp out of a nest.

“Speak of the devil,” Valetta said.

“You! You did it,” Mrs. Carson shrieked at the younger woman. “I know you did!”

Isolde stepped back and the two women came to a halt face-to-face. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are or what you think I did,” she said, her voice carrying in the crisp autumn air.

“Who I am? You most certainly do know who I am, or you should, given that you’re sleeping with my son. Or… or you were! When he was a-a-alive!” Mrs. Carson burst into tears.

Isolde, appalled, stepped back. “I’m, uh, so sorry for your loss,” she said.

A couple of women who had been walking by pushing strollers stopped to watch.

“Sorry for my loss?” Mrs. Carson screeched. “You’re the one to blame. You did it; I know you did it!”

Jaymie stood, worried about a situation that was going from bad to worse. She could see from her vantage point that Cynthia Turbridge was outside of her shop watching. She wouldn’t be able to hear what was going on, but she could certainly see the confrontation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Isolde said, clutching her jacket around herself like it would shield her from crazy motherly grief.

“You killed my Theo!” It was a guttural wail from the depths of the woman’s soul.

A senior couple walking arm in arm stopped, identical concern on their faces. Jaymie wondered if she should intervene. More people joined the onlookers.

“You are freakin’ nuts, lady.” Isolde was trembling and had turned white. “I never touched him. I was hurt, too, in case you didn’t know!”

“Hah! I don’t believe that for a minute.” Mrs. Carson moved toward her, but Isolde backed up. Shaking her finger in the younger woman’s face, Theo’s mother shrieked, “You… you Jezebel, you user! You were just trying to ride his coattails. A successful author like my son… all you wanted was to piggyback your way to being published, too!”

“Me?” Isolde cried, incredulity on her pale, beautiful face. “I didn’t need his help. I have advanced degrees in comparative and classic literature! I’m an educated woman, not a self-trained hack like Theo.” Isolde lowered her chin and glared at Mrs. Carson. “You had better back off, lady.” She began to turn.

But Mrs. Carson launched herself at Isolde, flailing with her purse and fist.

“Uh-oh, definitely time to step in,” Jaymie muttered, as Valetta, too, stood and headed down the steps toward them. “You take Mrs. Carson,” Jaymie said to her friend.

Valetta successfully blocked, with her chin, one blow from the older woman’s purse, then grabbed her by the shoulders as the crowd that had gathered tried to help. Bill Waterman, who had raced over from his workshop, stepped up to help Valetta, and Jewel pelted out of her store saying she had called the police.

“Isolde, come with me!” Jaymie said, urgently, and guided her to the Emporium, where Mrs. Klausner now stood on the front veranda, arms folded over her narrow chest. She must have parked at the back and entered that way, because Jaymie hadn’t seen her arrive. “I’m going to take her home with me,” Jaymie said to Mrs. Klausner, of Isolde. The store owner nodded and serenely went to work in her store.

“I don’t understand that woman’s problem,” Isolde fumed, allowing Jaymie to guide her. She was trembling, and her cheeks were red with agitation.

Jaymie grabbed her purse and lunch things, shouted to Valetta that she’d call her later and led Isolde away. “You don’t understand? For heaven’s sake, the problem is her son is dead,” Jaymie said, leading the woman by the arm in the opposite direction from Valetta, who was still talking to a weeping Mrs. Carson.

Isolde looked chagrined, but didn’t comment. “Where are we going?” she said.

“To my house. I want to talk to you.”

Isolde meekly allowed herself to be led through Queensville, down Jaymie’s back lane and up to the door, which Jaymie unlocked. Hoppy skittered out like a house afire and headed to his little private sanctuary by the garage for a piddle. Denver strolled past them out the door, looking over his shoulder once, as if to say, Don’t mind the dog. The little savage doesn’t know how to use the indoor facilities.

“Come in,” Jaymie said, slinging her purse over a door handle. She waved toward the table and chairs. “Sit, and have a cup of tea. Or coffee. What do you drink?”

“How about a good stiff glögg,” Isolde said, sitting at the trestle table in the kitchen and covering her face with her hands, scrubbing her eyes.

“Sorry, no glögg and no aquavit. We’ll have tea.” She filled the kettle and put it on the stove, turning the knob so the flame leaped up under it. “You know, Mrs. Carson is deeply hurt. Put yourself in her shoes, having lost a son. She has to blame someone,” Jaymie said, sitting down opposite her guest.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have to blame me. I’m no praying mantis.”

The kettle whistled merrily so Jaymie jumped up, made a pot of tea and set a cup down in front of Isolde. “I don’t know how you take it,” she said, pushing the cream pitcher and sugar bowl across the table. She sat down opposite her again. Isolde seemed on the level about not killing Theo Carson, but there was so much else involved. “Did you ever find your cell phone? The one used to text me?”

“No. Why?”

“Just curious.” Jaymie watched her. “Someone used it to get me there, after all. If it wasn’t you, then who else had access to your phone?”

Isolde shrugged. She ladled sugar into the tea, whitened it with milk, then sipped and made a face.

“When did you lose track of it?”

“I don’t know. I had it, then I didn’t have it.” She wouldn’t meet Jaymie’s gaze.

Odd. “I never did get the whole story of that night, you know,” Jaymie said. “What exactly happened? Theo was over at your place, and…” She waited for the woman to fill in the rest.

Isolde shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Look, Theo Carson was an asshole, not a saint, as his mother clearly thinks. I would have dumped him in a New York minute if I didn’t think there was something he knew about that house, something he didn’t want anyone else to know.”

So, it wasn’t just ambition but the hope of something else that had kept her with the guy. Narrowing her eyes, she examined Isolde. “What exactly do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? You know the score; you did the same thing. I saw the national headlines when you found that Button Gwinnett letter in the Hoosier cabinet. You just happened to find it… riiight,” she drawled, with a knowing lift of her brows. “You were looking for it. Theo was the same. He was looking for something in that place, and I wanted to be there when he found it. He was not going to get all the glory for the find, and I am not going to stay a docent in a two-bit historical museum for the rest of my life!”

Twenty

THERE WAS NO use protesting that she had no clue what she was doing when she found the historically significant letter in the spring, Jaymie immediately decided. There had been a couple of interviews, and even a bit on her on CNN, but the furor had swiftly died down once it became obvious to the press that she really was as boring (in their eyes) as she seemed. Even dating multimillionaire Daniel Collins hadn’t been enough to keep her in the limelight, and she was relieved. But Isolde would never buy that.

“I have heard a few things about hidden stuff at the house. You say Theo believed it?” Jaymie didn’t. Folks had been through the house time and again, and squatters had salvaged everything of worth. They were extremely lucky that all the copper pipe and wiring hadn’t been stripped from the place, because that was the only thing of value left when the society bought it.

“He did,” Isolde said. “And the man, for all his faults, was not stupid. He wasn’t as smart as me, but he wasn’t stupid.”

“So you followed him that night?” She didn’t need to specify which night.

“He snuck out of my place when he thought I wasn’t aware.”

“Did you know right away where he was going?”

“I suspected.” She sat up straighter and looked around. “Hey, do you have anything to eat? I’m starving. And something to drink other than this?” She pushed the tea away.

Jaymie made up a plate of leftover turkey roulettes, some pickles and cheese and put a square of apple crisp in a bowl, then filled a glass with milk. As Isolde dug in, Jaymie asked, “Why did you suspect where he was going?”

“He was fixated on that place. And…” She frowned and took a sip of milk. “He got a call on his cell phone a few minutes before we… got comfortable. It seemed like he was in a hurry.”

“A hurry?”

“When we jumped in the sack,” she said, impatiently. “What do you think I meant? He rushed through, then snuck out.”

“What did you see as you drove up? Was there a car there? Two cars?”

“No cars… that’s what I couldn’t figure out, because I was sure he was at the house. I got out to see, and that’s when I got hit.”

That was another thing Jaymie did not know, what had happened to Theo’s car. Reason said, then, they were dealing with more than one culprit, if one supposed that the murderer or murderers had come in a vehicle as well, and took off with Theo’s car.

Did the police have it? Was there anything important in it, or any incriminating prints? She didn’t suppose even if she knew, it would help her figure out who did it; it was the kind of information the police could work from better than she could. “How many people did you see?”

“It was dark; who knows? One… two.” She took a big bite. “Look, why do you want to know all this anyway?” Isolde mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Jaymie looked away. The girl had the appearance of a Danish saint and the manners of… well, Jaymie had known truck drivers with daintier eating habits. “I found him,” she said. “And the weapon was one I handled. I can’t let it go.” She watched Isolde. “I feel tied to it, you know? And I wonder, was my attacker the same one who killed Theo? Was I close to being murdered, too?”

Isolde gulped down some more milk but said nothing. For someone who’d slept with the man, someone who’d spent so much time with him, she seemed unmoved by his death. Was that shock left over from having witnessed the murder? Or was she naturally cold? If she wasn’t going to respond to the emotional aspect, maybe Jaymie needed to pursue another line of questioning. Not that she was questioning, but… well, yeah. She was questioning Isolde. She had the uneasy feeling the chief wouldn’t approve of her going this far, but she had a stake in this, too, since the culprit was possibly the same person who had attacked her. “I’ve never asked you this, but why were you driving by the house that night when you found me?” Jaymie asked. “I mean, I’m grateful, but…”

The museum guide sighed and shrugged, chewing another mouthful of food. “That night I knew Theo was visiting his mom out of town, so I went out to the house to see if I could get in and look around without him. I knew he was looking for something, but I didn’t know what. That’s why he stole a key to Dumpe Manor, had it copied and then put it back.”

Jaymie sat up straight. “How did he do that?” Originally Isolde had said that Theo borrowed a key to get in.

“Are you kidding?” Isolde swallowed and chuckled, shaking her head. “You people are so trusting! Wolverhampton would never fall for some of the crap that goes on here. Bunch of newbies.” She eyed Jaymie. “Theo had access to people on the historical society, right? He was supposed to talk to them, blah, blah, blah, about the history of the Dumpe family. It was soooo easy for him to distract them while I lifted the key. He got it copied, then returned the key without anyone being the wiser.”

Jaymie stuffed down her building fury. “Who was the society member?”

Isolde rolled her eyes. “It was that annoying Mrs. Frump.”

“So, you helped him steal a key from Mrs. Frump. And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”

Isolde stiffened and sat up straight. “We just borrowed it. I told you that… that he borrowed a key. I wasn’t lying. We weren’t going to take anything.”

Jaymie held her tongue, though there were a hundred things she wanted to say, none of them nice. Stealing and copying a key was not borrowing, not by any definition. However, there was a lot more she wanted to know from Isolde. Sweetly, she said, “Would you like your apple crisp heated up? And with whipped cream?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Would you do that?”

Jaymie heated the apple crisp in the microwave and blanketed it with real whipped cream that melted and flowed over the steaming dessert.

Isolde dug in and heaved a spoonful into her mouth, rolling her eyes and chewing. “This is so good!”

“I never really got Theo,” Jaymie said, determined to get more information out of the woman. “Never understood him. He seemed really… egotistical. I thought you two were fond of each other, but you seemed to have a pretty clear view of him. What happened between him and your ex? I’ve heard stories, but I don’t know what’s true.”

“It was so embarrassing! This was last month. Theo and I were at a restaurant in Wolverhampton. We’d just started going out after he dumped that sad sack Cynthia. Anyway, Milton charged into the restaurant and made a huge scene and tried to haul me out by the arm. Theo stood up to him and got punched in the ear for his troubles.” She shrugged once again, an elegant hunch of one shoulder. “Milt ended up in jail, and stayed there because the attack meant he broke probation and a restraining order.”

So that was why the guy was still in jail, Jaymie thought, but… could he have talked someone else in jail into killing Theo? Surely the police would have thought about that, she figured. “Dick Schuster had some wild story about Theo stealing a manuscript from him, but it didn’t make much sense to me.”

Isolde swallowed and scooped up another spoonful of apple crisp. “That guy is a flake. He hated Theo, but there wasn’t a bit of merit in what he said. Theo never stole anything from Dick Schuster. I saw his notes; he was a pretty good researcher.”

“But you called him a hack writer to his mother.”

“I was mad. He didn’t have the degrees to back it up, but he was a decent enough writer. Let’s just say he knew how to write for the general public.”

That sounded like the snarky remark of a college-trained writer against an author who knew how to appeal to the masses, Jaymie thought, remembering Nan’s comments about Isolde’s pompous writing style. It sounded like she resented Theo; interesting thought. “How well did Theo know Dr. Prentiss Dumpe?”

“You mean that guy who says he should own the house? The one who was at the last heritage meeting?”

“Exactly.”

She frowned down at her bowl, playing with the apple crisp and whipped cream. “I think he interviewed the guy about the Dumpe family background. It’s in his notes.” She tilted her head to one side and frowned. “Theo was kind of secretive about what he found out.”

Jaymie didn’t miss the fact that Isolde said Theo was secretive, and yet she had seen his notes. The implication to Jaymie was that he had not shown her the notes, so she must have looked through his stuff. Since her ethical code did not forbid stealing—or rather, borrowing—a key, intellectual theft might not be beyond her, even though she claimed Theo didn’t indulge in it. Was she planning to try out for the now-vacant job of writer of the Dumpe Manor history? And if so, had she hastened Theo’s death? Far-fetched, but an interesting thought. However… it was far more likely that if Isolde had been involved in Theo’s death, it was for the elusive something that everyone was after at Dumpe Manor.

She eyed the younger woman, who scooped the last of the dessert into her mouth and drank the melted whipped cream. What a great cover story it would be to witness the murder, then be kidnapped and held in a trunk all night! An alibi and cover story all in one, and it could explain a host of forensic details, like blood transfer from Theo if the murderer or murderers had grabbed her. As far as Jaymie knew, Isolde was the only one who could tell them that there were possibly two assailants. She wondered if the police had forensic evidence to back up her statement that there were two attackers, but Jaymie would never be privy to that. Her hesitant friendship with the police chief only went so far. He had seemed interested in her speculations, and now she was speculating that Isolde Rasmussen killed Theo Carson for some reason, either professional ambition or just plain annoyance. What would he say if she told him that?

But… could this beautiful, ethereal Scandinavian blonde actually commit such a brutal murder? Having seen her in a sleeveless blouse, Jaymie knew that the docent had impressive muscles on a taut frame; the mallet was steel headed, but meant for a woman to wield. It was definitely possible.

The phone rang, and Jaymie jumped up to answer. It was Valetta. “I can’t talk this minute. May I call you back?” she said, looking over her shoulder at her guest.

“Hmm… sounds interesting,” Valetta said. “I’m at work. Call me here.”

“I have to go out to meet the alarm installer and Haskell at the house, first, but I’ll call you when I get home.” Jaymie hung up and turned, but Isolde had stood and was putting her jacket back on.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Wait… I was going to ask—”

“I have to go to work. Thanks for the food. And for keeping that lunatic woman away from me. Talk to you later!” She was out the back door and gone in two seconds, before Jaymie could even respond.

Jaymie watched her jog down the back path. Hoppy bounced after her, then stood at the back gate and watched her scurry off down the lane, skirting the spot where she had reportedly been dropped off. She seemed to be in one heck of a hurry.

•   •   •

THE DAY HAD turned from brilliant fall warmth to November in its worst mood. That was so common that Michiganders tended to look up at the sun, nod knowingly and dress for a blizzard. The wind had come up, the trees tossed uneasily and the sky was the color of a new bruise. She had driven her van out to Dumpe Manor and was glad she had, since the house was without electricity at the moment, a hopefully brief blackout. It wasn’t uncommon for homes outside of the town proper, she had heard, to lose power, especially on windy days. She sat in her van waiting for both the power and the alarm installer.

She had put a call in to the police chief from her cell while she waited, and it chimed. She looked at the screen. Aha! “Chief Ledbetter! I’m glad you called me back,” Jaymie said.

“Well, I told you to keep in touch,” he said, a trifle wearily. “Can’t really blame you for taking me at my word, can I?”

Jaymie flushed, glad that he couldn’t see the chagrin on her face through the phone. She had been phoning quite a bit, but usually she didn’t talk to him, she just left him messages about her observations. He’d started it, with his impromptu visit and urge to share what she was thinking. She had told him, finally, about the will found in the kitchen cupboard, and about the Snoop Sisters’ search for the Sultan’s Eye, not that either of those things had anything to do with the murder. She had shared most random information she came across and even many of her nighttime musings.

“Has anything panned out?” she asked, before divulging the reason for her call. She stared up at the big historic house as the wind whipped the pine trees that lined the far side and rain pelted down obscuring the view. Her van was cozy enough, and Hoppy was curled up comfortably on the passenger seat. Haskell Lockland was supposed to be meeting her, and the security specialist was to come at three, so she hoped the electricity would come back on before then, or he would have a wasted trip. She checked her watch. She had a few minutes still, since she always arrived early for every appointment.

“Panned out? Well, now, we’ve used your tips and discovered a few things, but nothing particularly earthshaking.”

“Like what?” Jaymie asked, prying further.

He sighed, a long huff of sound. “Guess it can’t hurt you knowing. Alibis. That particular night was a busy one for all our folks, it seems.”

Jaymie held her breath, afraid to ask in case Cynthia Turbridge was one of the ones he had investigated. She had not told him about the Cottage Shoppe owner’s alcoholic binge, blackout and blood. It was inconceivable to her that Cynthia would kill anyone, much less someone she had seemed to genuinely love.

“Couple of ’em outright lied. Why do people lie to us, even when they’re not guilty?”

“Who do you mean?”

“His ex, the shop girl, Cynthia Turbridge. At first she told us she was home that night, but we knew for sure she wasn’t, since her snoopy neighbor, Mrs. Frump, saw her get in her car and leave. Wasn’t back when Mrs. Frump went to bed.”

Jaymie crossed her fingers and said, “But Mrs. Frump is an early-to-bed kind of woman.”

“True enough. The car was back in her driveway by eight a.m., but that don’t mean a thing. Why’d the woman lie?” He paused, and his voice changed subtly. “She sure was mad at Carson.”

“I just can’t see Cynthia Turbridge whacking Carson over the head,” she said, carefully sticking to the truth. There was something in his tone, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“Not so sure about that. And she had access to the weapon, let’s not forget that little detail. But there are others.”

“Like?”

“Take Prentiss and his charming son, Iago.”

She chuckled, and Hoppy looked up at her with a question in his sharp little eyes. “Charming… good description. What about them?”

The chief was silent for a long minute, the only sound his huffing breathing. “Okay, you did not hear this from me. Prentiss Dumpe said he was counseling a client.”

“But his license has been suspended, and… counseling someone at night? Since when?”

“My understanding is that he does not need his license to work as a therapist. Psychiatrist, yes, but therapist, no. Any gol-darn idiot can hang out a shingle and call himself—or herself—a therapist.”

“I have heard that before,” Jaymie admitted. “But I think it would go against him in a board review of his license, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he figures he’ll be losing his license to practice anyway. And for what it’s worth, the lady, interestingly enough, backed up his alibi.”

She paused a moment and wished she could see the chief’s face. There was still something there, some hint of something that she ought to pick up on. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me who his lady client was?”

“Can’t do that, but it is interesting.”

“Okay, so what about Prentiss’s son.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s got an alibi, of sorts, from a couple o’ low-life hood rats, two other pants-dragging miscreants I have seen more than once in the lockup. They were all having some kind of kegger in his old man’s backyard, and then played video games all night in the basement. So he says. The friends back him up, but these same guys would swear they were in Neverland if someone told them to.”

“And Dick Schuster?”

“Schuster. He on your radar? S’pose so. Anyway, he was home alone. He says.” He paused, and she could hear him breathing; heck, she could almost hear him thinking. “Interesting fella. Real interesting. Got some problems.”

Jaymie frowned. “Chief, I don’t want to peg him as the killer just because he’s got some psychological challenges.”

He grunted. “Nice way to put it. I’ll have to remember that… ‘psychological challenges’ instead of he’s nutty as a Snickers bar.”

Jaymie stayed silent; it seemed the best option, since she didn’t want to get on the chief’s bad side… yet. But it seemed cruel to paint those with mental health issues as “nutty.” When the silence extended too long, she said, “So, how closely have you looked into Isolde Rasmussen’s story? About being in the trunk of her own car?”

“Interesting thing about that. Forensics swept it, but there was no hair in there. Now, you’d expect some random hairs even if she wasn’t in the trunk, since it was her car, but nope. Not a thing.”

“Is that conclusive? I mean, do you think that means she wasn’t in it?”

“Not saying that. Anything’s possible. But I do not believe her story, not one little bit. I’d wager she was not in that trunk.”

“Where did you find her car?”

“Parked in her own driveway in Wolverhampton.”

Twenty-one

THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING. “It’s still possible that she told the truth and someone else took the car, dropped her in my back alley, then drove her car to Wolverhampton and parked it in her driveway.”

The chief was silent for a long minute, then said, “You’ve talked to her. Maybe you have some insight on something I was thinking. I was wondering if the whole story was a fabrication.”

“The whole story?”

“Maybe she wasn’t even there when he was killed and she was home, or at Theo’s place. Maybe she’s giving us some cock-and-bull story to cover up what really happened.”

“Like what?”

He was silent.

“You’re asking, could she have been in on it with the killer?”

“Didn’t say that, but go on.”

“Why would she spin a tale of being there?” Jaymie thought about it for a long minute as she watched the pine trees lean and bend with the wind and the rain patter on the windshield. “That would only make sense if she knew who the killer was, and the description she was going to give would point away from that person.” She shook her head. “If that was the case, I would think she’d give a very specific identification, something linked to one person, even a car, or something like that.”

“Kind of what my line of reasoning was,” the chief said.

“I guess it’s possible, but that’s an awful big risk to take.”

“She strikes me as a risk taker, though, and her story just doesn’t add up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jaymie said. “I talked to her an hour or so ago, and I just can’t get over the idea that she’s not too broken up over Theo’s death, for someone who was sleeping with him. And she’s hiding something; I’m sure of it. She’s the only eyewitness, and I wondered if she did it and made up the whole stuffed-in-the-trunk story to explain any forensic evidence… you know, like blood on her clothes, hair, that kind of thing. Everyone knows about that stuff nowadays.”

“That’s kinda what I was thinking; it would take cold calculation, but, like you said, she seems a pretty cool customer. We’ll have her come in again and answer more questions.”

“The other possibility is, she’s not in on it but knows who did it and is protecting them for some reason.”

He grunted, and she could hear the scratch of a pencil on paper as he made notes. “I had considered that.”

She opened her mouth to tell the chief about Cynthia and the blood—it seemed wrong to keep it from him, now that they had established some rapport—but she just couldn’t do it. It would feel like a betrayal of a very fragile woman.

“You got something to add?” he asked.

“No,” she said, crossing her fingers. “That’s it, for now. If I think of anything else, I’ll call.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Haskell had texted her that he would be a little late and to let the alarm guy in the house, so when he pulled up in the lane, she got out of the van, wrapping her coat around herself as the wind tried to tear it away. At least it had stopped raining.

“Name’s Connor,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. He was an older man, fit, tall, bearded. He had a clipboard, but must have left his tools in his truck, emblazoned with the Wolverhampton Security logo.

She shook hands and said, “I’m Jaymie Leighton. We were supposed to be meeting the society president, Haskell Lockland, here, but he’s been held up. Will you be able to install it all today?”

“Sure will. I’m a two-man operation… or rather, a two-person operation, since my wife mans the phones and I do the work.”

She led the way in, and she flicked the switch, hoping the power would be on; the pendant light flickered but then lit and stayed lit. “Power’s not good out here when the wind comes up. I wasn’t sure it would be back on in time. It’s really spotty; does that make a difference to the security system?”

He was staring around the big hallway. “Wow, this place is huge. Uh, does it make a difference that the power is spotty? You should speak to your utility about that, but though it’s not great, we can make allowances. Your security is our number one priority. Now, let me walk around and maybe you can answer questions.”

“I’m not Haskell, and I can’t speak for the heritage society, but yes, I can answer a lot of questions.”

They walked through the house—first floor, including the back door, then up to the second.

“I heard about the murder,” Connor said, as he made notes about the number of windows on the second floor. He even poked his head into a tiny room that the heritage society intended to use as a storage closet for office supplies. No windows; no security risk.

She heard voices below… it was the Snoop Sisters again! Imogene’s voice was cutting and Mrs. Bellwood’s booming tone traveled. Jaymie said, “Yes, it was a terrible tragedy.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.

“Are there any windows up there?” he asked, eyeing the attic stairs.

“There are,” she said, thinking of the anonymous claim that Iago Dumpe had been seen climbing out of an upstairs window. Could that have been from the attic? Interesting thought. Why would he even be inside? And who would just happen to be down this lonely stretch of road to see him? “Will you excuse me a moment? I just need to check something downstairs, but I’ll be back up, and I’ll meet you in the attic, if you like.” She definitely wanted to see if anyone had used those windows to get in or out.

“I’ve got some more to do here, but then I will head up to the attic. I need to see the basement, too, because I have to figure out where to put the backup battery for power outages.”

“Okay.” Jaymie hustled downstairs, where she was greeted by two umbrellas open in the hallway, dripping on the hardwood. She pushed a mat under them, then followed familiar voices to the library.

The ladies were indeed there, and she was once again greeted by two geriatric bottoms and Rockport loafers. This time they had a flashlight and seemed to be examining the hardwood floor in the library beyond the perimeter of the Persian area rug. “What on earth are you doing?”

Mrs. Frump started up and bumped her head on a side table.

“Are you all right?” Jaymie asked, darting across the floor and helping her up. The woman lumbered to her feet, and Jaymie stuck out her hand to help Mrs. Bellwood up, too.

“Imogene got to watching old movies last night,” she said.

Jaymie glanced from woman to woman. “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that have to do with kneeling on the floor in the library?”

The wannabe Queen Victoria colored a faint pink on her fleshy cheeks and sent a reprimanding glance at her newly minted bosom buddy. “What Tree is trying to say is, if I were going to hide something valuable, I would make it someplace I could get at, but that no one else would think of.”

Mystified, Jaymie looked to Mrs. Bellwood for clarification.

“What Imogene is trying to say is, she got this crazy idea that there might be a hidey-hole in the hardwood.”

“Oh!” Jaymie said, her mouth staying an O of surprise for a moment. “So… what do you plan to do?” she asked, hoping no pickaxes or saws were going to be used.

“We’re going to check every inch of this hardwood floor and some of the others to see if Jane hid the Sultan’s Eye under the floor,” Mrs. Frump said, while Mrs. Bellwood sighed deeply.

“I was talking to Mrs. Stubbs about Mrs. Jane Dumpe,” Jaymie told them. “From her description the woman was dignified, a real matriarch. I just can’t picture her doing such a thing.”

The two women exchanged looks. “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Bellwood said. “I remember Jane very well. She got a little… odd in her last days.”

Jaymie remembered that even Mrs. Stubbs had said that. “Okay, carry on, then. Just don’t do any damage. I’ll be around for a while; the alarm fellow is here.”

“Oh, good!” Mrs. Frump exclaimed. “Then Tree and I can get the alarm code and come back whenever we want.”

Jaymie didn’t answer. She’d leave it to Haskell Lockland to make that decision, though she would strenuously recommend that as few people as possible have the code, especially given how easily Mrs. Frump had been foxed out of her key to the house. She ascended to the second floor, then opened the creaking door to the attic. “Connor, you up here?”

“Yup!” came the echoing voice.

She trotted up the dark stairs. She had been in the attic before briefly, just to help carry down boxes of junk that had belonged to the Dumpe family but which had been included in the purchase of the house. For a moment she worried about what would happen until the validity of the will was determined, but she pushed it out of her mind. She, at least, was convinced that it was a fake, and that pinpointed Prentiss Dumpe as a felon in her eyes and hopefully the eyes of the law.

Without Haskell’s looming presence she felt able to explore. The attic was one huge room with a vaulted ceiling that was fifteen feet high or more at the peak. The ceiling then steeply slanted to a very short kneewall only a few feet high. She hadn’t realized there were still so many boxes, which she could barely see by the light let in by windows at either end of the space.

Many hands were supposed to make light work, but it didn’t look like any of the hands had been employed this far up. Cobwebs draped in fluffy strings and dust coated every surface except where boxes had been dragged and searched. There was furniture, lamps and piles of dusty fabric, probably old drapes. Of course, they were all working on getting the downstairs ready for the soft opening, so it was no mystery why they hadn’t gotten to all the crates and cartons yet. They had only had access to the house for the last month or so, and much of the time had been spent making sure it was safe and getting the plumbing and electricity working.

She ascended the last couple of steps, taking it all in. “There is still a lot of stuff up here. I thought we’d gone through most of it but that doesn’t appear true in the slightest.”

Connor joined her and dusted off his hands. “I know. This isn’t the worst I’ve seen, though. I expected the boxes of old crap, but what’s with the plastic totes full of jeans and junk?”

“What?” she asked, staring at him in surprise.

“Behind the boxes; there’s a stash of stuff not as dusty as the rest. Modern plastic totes, you know? You wouldn’t even see them if you weren’t crawling around by the kneewalls, like I was.”

Jaymie stared at him blankly. Plastic totes of jeans? That didn’t make a bit of sense. “Show me.”

He ducked and got onto his knees, crawling behind some cardboard boxes. He shone a flashlight as Jaymie crawled in behind him. There were the totes he had mentioned, overflowing with folded jeans, boxes of electronics, video game systems… all kinds of stuff! It was just like the root cellar.

Like the root cellar full of stolen goods. “This explains a lot.” She thought furiously. This would account for Iago being seen climbing out of a window. And it tied him by association to the stuff that was stored in the root cellar. But which came first, the root cellar storage or the attic storage? Or both? “I have to call the police,” she said, awkwardly backing out, bumping into the guy, then scrambling up onto her feet. “This is stolen stuff. But I’m not going to let this stop the alarm installation; that is a must, even more so now. So go ahead.”

Haskell showed up shortly thereafter. Jaymie stayed a while, learning all she could about the new alarm system, then told Haskell she had to head home. He was in charge of learning the rest of what they needed to know about the alarm system and teaching her and the others, but she also took a pamphlet that Connor said explained everything about the system he was installing. He wrote in the code for her and told her to keep it safe. Jaymie then told Haskell about all the stuff in the attic, and he agreed that the police needed to know about it.

She called them on her cell, and the detective said they’d be out while Haskell was still there. Jaymie then returned home, let Hoppy out into the yard and called the Emporium pharmacy counter.

Valetta was free. “So what is up with that Rasmussen woman?” she asked.

Jaymie told her all she had learned, then asked what happened with Mrs. Carson after Jaymie had hustled Isolde away.

“She cried. Wept. Bawled like a lost child!”

“I’m so sorry for her,” Jaymie said, her heart aching for the woman.

“Me, too,” Valetta said softly.

“What did you do?”

“Mrs. Klausner and I closed the store for a few minutes and made her a cup of tea, then talked to her. Well, I talked to her. Mrs. K knitted and looked on. I got her calmed down some.”

“Why did she launch herself at Isolde like that? Last I heard, Cynthia Turbridge was the wicked older woman and Isolde was the approved girlfriend that he was going to introduce to his mama.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say anything specific.”

“Well, what did you talk about?”

“You, mostly. She’s a real crime fanatic and reads all those weird stories online. From what I can tell she believes every one of them, too, even the loopy ‘royal family killed Princess Diana’ ones. I swear, I didn’t say you were Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher or anything, but she wants to talk to you. In fact, if you’ve got time now can you go over to the B and B?”

Mystified, Jaymie asked, “Why? What can I do?”

“Just go over and talk to her.”

“Okay.” Jaymie said good-bye, changed her clothes, let Hoppy back in and gave him some crunchies, then hopped over to the bed-and-breakfast, tapping on the front door.

Pam Driscoll answered, her eyes wide. “Mrs. Carson said if you came I was to show you up immediately. What’s going on?”

“I don’t really know,” Jaymie said. She ascended the stairs to the square landing that was the common area for the bed-and-breakfast rooms. There was a small courtesy table set up by the stair rail with a coffee urn and plastic-wrapped goodies for folks to enjoy. Mrs. Carson was in the Billie Jo room; the previous owners had named the place the Shady Rest after the old sitcom Petticoat Junction, so the rooms were named for the daughters and mom on the show. Jaymie tapped on the door.

Mrs. Carson, looking calmer and more rested, opened the door. “Oh, good, you’ve come. Shall we go?”

“Go where?”

The woman paused. “Oh dear. I thought the pharmacist would have explained. My sister can’t come until tomorrow, and anyway, I think it’s you I really need by my side. I want you to go with me to Theo’s room, to look it over and find clues to his death.”

Twenty-two

THERE WAS NO reason to protest, because it was exactly what she wanted to do, so Jaymie went with Mrs. Carson in her car, a luxury Lexus.

Theo’s mother said that her son was renting a studio apartment from Brock Nibley. Brock, being a real estate agent, dabbled as an investor and had a few properties, commercial and residential, in Queensville and Wolverhampton. They drove several blocks past the Queensville Inn through the old residential section of town, where the houses got bigger, and a little shabbier. This was an area where the huge old Queen Anne homes had been broken up into apartments and bachelor suites. It was close enough that Jaymie would have walked, but with the other woman, she wasn’t sure that was practical. Mrs. Carson was just seventyish, Jaymie guessed, and seemed in good health, but one never knew.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and Mrs. Carson, out of breath, got out a key, fitting it into the lock and opening the door to the apartment. The woman edged in as if it were a crime scene, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

“Did you have something specific in mind, Mrs. Carson? Or do you want me to just look around?”

“Whatever you think,” she said and sat down on the edge of the made bed.

It was a big room, with a sitting area by the window and a kind of kitchenette along one wall. There was a small sink, a counter, a hot plate, a microwave, bar fridge and coffeemaker. The double bed was centered on a wall, with a plush headboard and painting over it.

His luggage was sitting open on the dresser top. Jaymie glanced over at Theo’s mother, but she looked calm enough. “I’ll start by looking through his stuff. If you’d rather wait out in the car, that would be fine.”

“No, I’ll stay here. You may have questions. I have his mail, so I’ll look through that.”

Jaymie started by looking through the closet, even going through his sport jacket pockets. Nothing. She then went through his suitcase, but there were just the usual clothes and toiletries. He was a neat man, which helped. But it seemed to her that there were things missing. Of course, the police had already been over the room, which could explain that. He had a cell phone charger set up, but his phone would likely be in police hands if it had been found.

There were also empty cases for a few things, like a laptop and a digital camera. Those would also be in police hands. However… as she dug into a file folder, she found a slim tablet. She wasn’t the most techie person in the world, but the last few months of blogging, taking photos and using her cell phone had made her more adept. It helped that this was the same brand of tablet Daniel had bought her, so she was already used to it. She glanced over at the man’s mother, but she was sitting looking down at the floor.

Jaymie turned on the tablet and began scrolling around. It was very much like rooting through someone’s luggage, only digitally.

“Have you found something?” Mrs. Carson said, eagerly.

“Uh, no,” Jaymie replied. The woman deflated and slumped, desultorily sorting through some mail with a listless attitude. Jaymie felt a little like a trained dog that was not performing as expected.

She set the tablet down and kept looking. People often hid the most interesting stuff in unusual places, but the room had been swept by the police, so there didn’t seem to be anything to find. She sat down by Theo’s mother and said as much. “The police are very thorough. I’m not surprised everything is clean.”

Jaymie picked up the tablet again. Theo apparently was addicted to online games, mostly poker, and liked to watch movies, particularly heist movies. He also had been using the tablet to access his email, since there were apps for that, and they didn’t appear to be password protected, leaping up when she hit “Check Email.” There were messages from Isolde. Interesting. She checked out the conversation, scanning through them.

They mostly consisted of Isolde complaining that Theo didn’t trust her and him reassuring her without giving her any of the pieces of information that she wanted, which was interesting, but didn’t get her any further in her quest to discover who would want Theo dead. Isolde did not benefit by his death, so it was of little use that she was trying to guilt him into giving her information.

She frowned as she accidentally hit an “About” section. The tablet registration came up. She stared in surprise. The tablet was registered to Brock Nibley! What would Theo Carson be doing with a tablet registered to Brock, his landlord and Valetta’s real estate agent brother?

“What is this?” Mrs. Carson said. She had an open brown padded envelope in one hand, and in the other… a cell phone. “Why would someone send Theo a cell phone?”

Jaymie looked over the package and then the cell phone. It was dead, the battery long gone, but it was a beautiful little phone, white, with a pretty skin. And on the skin were initials… I.R. Isolde Rasmussen. This was Isolde’s missing cell phone.

“I think that’s his girlfriend’s phone, the one that disappeared the night Theo was… the night he died.”

“What should I do with it?” the woman said, staring at the phone like it was a snake that might bite her.

“There’s only one thing to do: you have to turn it in to the police.”

She nodded.

“Mrs. Carson, can I ask you something? This morning you said to Isolde that you knew she killed your son. What made you think that?”

“I got to thinking over all we had talked of lately. I was against him staying here to do this work. Isn’t that what this age is supposed to be all about? Doing all your research online? But he felt he needed to stay in Queensville. He told me about that older woman, how he was dating her, but that she was whiny and needy and he was going to dump her.”

“Yes,” Jaymie said, keeping her anger stuffed down. Cynthia hadn’t deserved the treatment she had received.

“She wasn’t any use to him. He thought she was in with all the society members, but she had only joined a few months ago. Then he told me about this girl, this Isolde. She was smart, he said, and ambitious. But she wasn’t as smart as him. He said he knew something that was going on, but she didn’t and he wasn’t about to tell her. I just thought…” She looked off toward the window. “I just thought maybe she got tired of waiting for him to tell her what she wanted to know and so she killed him.”

Interesting that she had come to that conclusion, since it was close to what Jaymie had been discussing with the chief. “I don’t know how much of the truth she’s telling me, but Isolde thought he was looking for something in the house. Do you know what that was? Was it a manuscript or a piece of jewelry?”

She shook her head, frowning. “I don’t know. We never spoke of specifics. He just said he knew what was going on.”

Jaymie watched her for a moment. “I think I’ve found out all I can here. The police have been through carefully; if there were any clues they would have found and removed them. Why don’t you go back to the bed-and-breakfast for a rest? Take the phone back with you and call the police; tell them how you found it and give them everything, even the envelope.”

“I will. It will give me a chance to talk to the police chief again. Maybe he’ll know more.”

Mrs. Carson was exhausted and trembling with sadness. Jaymie took the tablet away with her, not sure how to tell Theo’s mother that it was possibly stolen. She wanted to check with Valetta first anyway, though, before calling the police about it. For all she knew, Brock had lent the tablet to Theo. She made sure the room was locked back up and they left.

Jaymie drove Mrs. Carson’s car and delivered the disconsolate woman back into Pam Driscoll’s nurturing care. Pam even told Mrs. Carson that when the time came, she’d be happy to help pack up her son’s belongings. Jaymie returned home and let Hoppy out into the chilly November air. Haskell had left a message on her phone that the system was in place and armed, so the house should now be safe from intruders, as he put it.

Jaymie sat on the summer porch and read through the information about the alarm system as the sun sank in the west, a ball of red, leaving a glow over everything. She needed to know exactly what to do to set the system, since she fully intended to be there a lot in the next two weeks, alone or with others. Once she read the information through, she felt she understood. She hoped she understood.

Restless and consumed by what she had been thinking and talking about every day for the last while, she grabbed the cordless and made a phone call. Isolde was at work—that was where she had been hurrying when she left Jaymie’s home earlier—but between tours of Wolverhampton Historical Museum, when Jaymie called.

“Can we talk?” Jaymie asked.

“About what?” the woman said, her tone odd.

“About the information you wanted from Theo, the information he wouldn’t give you.”

There was silence on the other end, but finally Isolde said, her voice trembling with conviction, “Have you been snooping through my emails? How did you do that? I had nothing to do with Theo’s death, you know. I swear it. But I think I know who did.”

Jaymie felt fear knot in her stomach. “Who?”

“As if I’d tell you! You’ll hog all the glory. I’m going to get something out of this if it kills me.”

The knot wrenched. “You need to go to the police, Isolde. Don’t mess around with this. If you have information—”

“No way. They’re not going to get the identity of the killer until I find a way to get Theo’s notebooks.”

“His notebooks? Why?” Jaymie scanned her brain, trying to imagine any place in his room that she had missed, any place that could conceal notebooks.

“He knew something about stuff going down at Dumpe Manor.”

Jaymie thought for a long minute. “You mean the will? Or having to do with the family?” She thought, but didn’t say, the cache of stolen goods? “What exactly are you talking about?”

“The will? What will? What are you talking about?” Isolde said.

Jaymie shook her head and stared at her phone. “Isolde, can we meet and talk? Come over here. We need to clear the air.”

Silence.

“I’ll feed you!” she offered.

There was still silence on the other end. But finally Isolde said, “No. I am not sharing this information, especially with you. Look, I’m working, I gotta go.”

“Isolde, wait!” But it was too late. The line was dead. Jaymie sat down at the kitchen table and considered what the woman had said. Theo had known about what was going down at Dumpe Manor. What did that even mean?

The stolen goods in the attic and root cellar—didn’t that have to be what he was talking about? That part of the mystery didn’t seem to jibe with what she knew of Theo, but what if it was about that all along? What if that was how he got Brock’s tablet… it was stolen property! And what if whoever was using the place as a handy drop-off for stolen goods decided Theo Carson was getting too darn snoopy for his own good?

She grabbed the phone and called Valetta.

“What’s up, kiddo? I gotta hurry… I’m just locking up now and I have to go to Brock’s to babysit tonight.”

“I won’t keep you. Maybe if you see Brock tonight you can ask him about a tablet.”

“A tablet? What, drugs?”

“No! You know… a tablet computer. Did he have one? Does he still have it?”

“I don’t need to ask him… he’s been complaining about it. It was stolen from his car a couple of weeks ago.”

•   •   •

WHAT TO DO? How to figure this out? There were too many questions and so few answers. Jaymie paced to her kitchen window and looked out at the descending sun. There was nothing left out in the root cellar now, she knew. Everything had been confiscated by the police, and Iago was being watched carefully. She was certain he was the thief who was storing the stolen goods in the Dumpe Manor attic and the root cellar, but that didn’t mean he was Theo’s killer.

It was still light enough that she could take another look around. There were things clattering around in her brain and maybe a drive would blow out the cobwebs and help her think. She was beginning to have a sense that Isolde was more involved than she let on. The police chief’s questions about where she actually was and what she had truly seen the night of the murder left Jaymie unnerved.

A wind had come up and now battered at her back window. Denver grumbled and turned around in his little bed by the stove, while Hoppy climbed in with him. For once the cat didn’t growl, but actually let him curl up, too, in the warmest spot in the house.

Michigan, where you can get four seasons in one day, Jaymie thought. Of course, didn’t almost everyone say that about their own weather? There was the old joke about if you didn’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes, and she had heard it from Ontarians, Minnesotans and Michiganians. This day, which had started sunny, was quickly turning into an old Gordon Lightfoot song, with the gales of November battering on her back door.

She realized she had already made the decision to do some more snooping. She briefly thought of Daniel’s admonition not to go out alone. It wasn’t that she didn’t think there was danger out there in the real world, it was just that she was not going to be cowed into hiding in her home without a big strong man to take care of her. If she got in trouble she’d figure a way out of it or pay the consequences; she would not be reckless, but she would not be intimidated, either. People took calculated risks every day; some called it fun, jumping from airplanes, riding horses, scuba diving, parasailing.

Jaymie snooped.

It was too windy and too cold to walk, though, so she’d take the van out to the house.

She loved how her house looked in fall. She looked it over as she unlocked her van, parked in the back alley by the garage. There was still a light on in the kitchen and it glowed, making the house seem a warm, inviting place. The grass was still green, and the holly bushes along the fence that bordered her property and the bed-and-breakfast struck a festive note for the season that was still a few weeks away. She paused, thinking, did she really want to go out in the cold and wind that night? Why not just make some cocoa and sit in the parlor with a good book?

However… how would she concentrate on even the best book with all this stuff hanging over her head? She needed answers. They may not be found at the historic house, but it was as good a place as any to start looking. She got in, gunned her engine and headed down the lane to the road out of town, away from the river.

As she drove, she pondered the random things that were troubling her. Where had Isolde’s cell phone come from? The packaging was neat and so was the writing on the envelope, tidy block letters with no embellishment. The package had been mailed from the post office in Marine City and… Marine City. Like a weird echo in her mind, she heard Jewel saying, about their Monday buying trip and stop in Marine City, “Cynthia had to mail something or other, so I went to an antique store…”

Had to mail something… but how did she get Isolde’s cell phone?

Jaymie pulled up in front of Dumpe Manor and sat staring at the road. If she could still safely assume that Cynthia Turbridge was not the culprit, there was only one answer: the cell phone had been in her car. Finding it would have terrified Cynthia. The knowledge of that lost night, the fear that she had done something horrendous: that would have driven her to conceal her discovery, to just mail it where she thought it might be found.

However, if she was guilty she might still do the same thing, just to get the cell phone out of her possession. She shook her head; surely if she had murdered Theo, then found Isolde’s cell phone in her car, she would just have dropped it in a Dumpster out of town, not mailed it to Theo’s address. Before she went home Jaymie thought she’d take a little side trip to Cynthia’s to get the truth out of her.

She pulled up the lane and regarded the house, bathed in the slanting light of November sunset. It got dark so early now; she had forgotten how early. One minute the sun hung low in the sky, and the next it was dark. Why was she even here? She sat staring at the house, looking up to the peak and thinking about the security expert who had installed the alarm system. He had told her that the ways into the house were various, and a locked door was not going to stop a break-in. Nothing could stop someone determined to break in, and even a security system was only as good as the people who used it. He had strenuously advised against giving out the entry methods and codes to too many people, saying it defeated the purpose.

But Lockland was equally certain that every member of the society should have access to the house if they hoped to get it up and running on time. Jaymie had read the pamphlet thoroughly, and thought she understood how the security panel worked, but would Imogene Frump or Mrs. Bellwood get it?

She went back to the problem at hand: who had killed Theo Carson? It all came down to why the author was at the house that night, and who had texted Jaymie to come out as well. Isolde had claimed not to know who took her cell phone, but the most obvious answer was Theo, and that would answer Jaymie’s puzzlement over him going to the house alone, when he had seemed so adamant against that. He hadn’t intended to be out there alone. He had figured on getting Jaymie there with a text supposedly from Isolde.

Everyone thought she was a snoop, and he must have bought into that. He certainly implied it in their conversation at the meeting. But why did he want her there? She tapped the steering wheel. He was looking for something, and she had a knack for finding things. Ergo, he had hoped to appeal to her famous snoopiness. Maybe he intended to confide in her and ask for her help. Isolde had seemed certain that Jaymie had sought and purposely found the valuable letter back in the spring, even though it had been pure dumb luck.

But then… why had he ended up dead? Someone hadn’t wanted him in the house searching it. It could be because of the stolen goods, but those were hidden pretty well. It would take a determined snoop with a lot of time to find those totes, the few that were left. No, it was… her eyes widened. It was all about the spurious will. Theo might find it, and he was exactly the wrong person. Not wanting to be caught snooping, he could just destroy it, or take it away with him.

If that was true, then this all came down to Prentiss Dumpe. He wanted the will discovered in a controlled manner by the right person; he must have been keeping an eye on the house. He didn’t like or trust Theo, and so figured Theo, feeling the same about him, would destroy the will because it benefited Prentiss. She remembered something, suddenly… an antacid wrapper in the garage when she had searched it, and Prentiss munching on candy from a roll at the heritage society meeting. He had broken into the garage and was hanging around there, watching the house, waiting until someone discovered the will. In fact, he had likely put it in the kitchen cabinet because of Jaymie’s vaunted sleuthing skills and habit of finding things. He intended to use her supposed skills to bolster his claim to the house.

He probably thought it would be funny if she was the one to help him establish his claim.

Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror as a car pulled in behind her. Momentarily blinded, she felt a frisson of fear as the car stopped and was turned off. Someone got out and strolled up to the driver’s side of her van. She tensed, but the face that appeared was Dick Schuster’s. He motioned for her to roll down her window.

She hesitated, but he was talking, so she rolled it down. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He came closer. “I wanted to apologize!”

“For what?”

“For earlier in the store. I was upset. I get wound up and…” He shook his head and looked down at the ground.

“You didn’t really think I was accusing you of murder, did you?” she asked.

He looked back up, and his eyes were gleaming with tears. “I don’t know. It’s been such an awful time. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing everything. You don’t know what it’s like to go through a divorce, and then, when people start accusing you of being a weirdo…” He shrugged.

“Who’s accusing you of being a weirdo?” she asked.

“Oh, just everyone,” he said, his small mouth twisting in bitterness. “It’s all Prentiss’s fault.”

Jaymie eyed him. He looked so forlorn, she did feel sorry for him. “I’ve heard that he was your therapist for a while.”

“Not a very good one. I’d better get going.” He turned away.

Jaymie debated with herself, but made a hasty decision. “Wait, Dick! Hold on.” She got out of the van and chased after him. He knew Prentiss Dumpe better than she did, and maybe he could help her figure out if the man really was the murderer of Theo Carson, as Jaymie was becoming convinced, or if she was wrong.

He stopped and turned, a frown on his face. “What is it?” He had his cell phone in hand and looked back down, hitting numbers and letters on the keypad.

How to ask? “I don’t know Dr. Dumpe very well, but he strikes me as being a deceptive person. Is that true, in your experience?”

Schuster trembled slightly. “I think he is probably the most vile person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“I heard he caused problems with your wife.”

The man froze, his eyeglasses glimmering in the slanting sunlight, concealing his eyes. “Who told you that?”

“I… don’t remember.”

A car passed on the road. Schuster sighed. “My wife and I had problems even before Prentiss, but he sure didn’t help. Anyway, I gotta go.”

“Wait!” She scrambled to think of what she wanted to know, now that she had him there. There was only one thing, really. “This is important, Dick. Do you think Prentiss Dumpe could have killed Theo Carson?”

Schuster’s eyes widened. “Do you think so?”

It almost sounded like hope in his voice, but he didn’t seem to have an opinion. Well, it was a faint hope anyway. “I don’t know. I guess I’d better go do what I came here to do.”

“What was that?”

She hesitated, then said, “I wanted to be sure the security system is armed and working right. Just worried about it, I guess, with all the problems we’ve been having.”

“I’ll let you get to it, then,” he said, and he retreated to his car, cell phone out again.

Jaymie headed up to the house and climbed the stairs. There should be a small LED light in the sidelight window if the system was armed correctly. Because of the sheer number of people who would be going in and out, the security expert felt it best to make sure there was a way for those who understood the system to be able to tell at a glance that it was working, but it was information that was going to be limited to herself, Haskell Lockland and Bill Waterman.

It wasn’t there. From what she understood from the literature, there were two possibilities. If the power was out, then the system would go on battery power and the “armed” light would be the first energy-saving sacrifice. Or… it could just be that whoever had been in the house last—even Haskell—may not have correctly armed the system. She sighed and got out her key. There was only one way to find out which it was. If it was the latter she would need to jump through the hoops detailed in the pamphlet.

She let herself in and turned on the hall light, as the security alarm began to beep. There was no beautiful burst of light from the pendant, though. She flicked it up and down. Nothing. So, that definitely explained the lack of a light; the wind had taken the power out. It wouldn’t be the first time, but the power generally came back on within a half hour.

She needed to input the security code, now that she had unlocked the door, or the alarm would sound at the offices of Wolverhampton Security. Darn it! It was starting to get dark, the combination of early sunset and a gloomy sky causing a more complete duskiness than was usual for that time of day. She peered at the keypad, very faintly illuminated from the backup battery power.

A bang startled her and she jumped, her heart pounding as the alarm system kept up its steady beep-beep-beep. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come out here. She just needed to disarm the system, rearm it and leave. Luckily, Connor had recommended an extended entry delay time to give older and vision-challenged society members time to punch in the number; she had four minutes, and she might need every second. She could barely see the keypad. A flashlight would help; she had one in the glove box of her van. She’d get her cell phone at the same time to call Connor and make sure she was doing things right. She headed toward the front door, stumbling a little as she tripped on a rug, and ran into a solid wall. A solid wall that smelled of sweat and grunted in anger. Jaymie righted herself and stared directly at the shadowy face of Prentiss Dumpe. “Prentiss! What are you doing here?”

Twenty-three

“I SAW YOUR VAN parked out front and was worried about you. Is everything all right, my dear?”

She swallowed. Prentiss was the last person she wanted to see, given what she now believed, so she needed to stay focused and get out. His face was obscured by the shadows and he emanated heat and a musky odor.

“I was just here to make sure the alarm system was up and working, but it seems that the electricity is out, and I… I can’t remember what the security expert said about power outages,” she lied. “I guess I’ll call Haskell and ask him.” If only she had her cell phone in her hand.

“Now, why would you want to do that?” he asked, his tone mocking. “You’re far more clever than that rooster Haskell Lockland. In fact you’re far too clever, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” she said feverishly. If only she was as clever as people seemed to think she was.

If she was quicker on the uptake she would have figured out right away that the “lady client” Prentiss was claiming to see as a therapist must be Cynthia Turbridge. The tricky part was that she understood that Cynthia’s alibi to the police was that she was home alone that night, but Jaymie had since remembered one small phrase the chief used; everything turned on that. He’d said that she had claimed to be home at first; that implied a change of story, which telling the police that she was actually meeting her therapist would cover. Judging by what Jaymie had witnessed at the meeting, Prentiss seemed to have her securely in his pocket. But if that was true, and that was what he told the police—that he was busy that evening counseling Cynthia—Jaymie knew what no one else did, that Cynthia was in no shape that night to be seen or counseled by anyone.

“I had, uh, better go back to my van,” she said uneasily, but when she moved to go around him in the dark, he blocked her. Her nerves hummed with anxiety, the beeping of the alarm system in time with her thumping heart.

Prentiss had lied, but because Jaymie had not told the chief everything she knew, the police didn’t know that Cynthia, in backing up his story, had told a whopper. A lie about an alibi was no big deal, she supposed—even innocent people lied, as Chief Ledbetter had told her once—but in this case, if Jaymie was right, Prentiss Dumpe needed to conceal where he was that night. But why would Cynthia say what wasn’t true? The easy answer to that was that when the police confronted her with the fact that her car was gone out of her driveway that night, she likely saw it as a way to conceal her own whereabouts.

It was a foolish thing to do, because she was pretty sure Prentiss was here at Dumpe Manor killing a pesky troublemaker, Theo Carson, either to conceal what he and his son were up to or to keep the wrong person from finding the will. By propping up his alibi Cynthia had become an accessory to his crime. And now he was here again, with yet another pesky troublemaker… herself. She did not want to end up like Theo.

“I really need to go,” she said, shivering with a mixture of fear and cold. She again moved to get past him, but he put out one arm. She no longer wanted to disarm the alarm system. In fact, it might just be her best chance at getting out of this dangerous spot she had gotten herself into.

“I think I ought to explain my son to you, Jaymie,” he said, his tone oily with attempted charm. “I know he makes an unfortunate impression, but he is just acting out his anger at a system that doesn’t value his unique perspective on life.”

“There’s no need to explain Iago, Prentiss,” she said, an edge in her voice. What a load of rot. “He’s a thief. That’s no reflection on you. Now… I’m cold. I need to get back to my van.” She steeled herself to push past him.

He grabbed her arms, his grip surprisingly strong. “You’re not going anywhere. I don’t appreciate that you got my son in trouble. He was picked up for questioning this afternoon by some damn nosy woman detective who asked all kinds of questions about stolen property. I have no doubt that came from you. I’ve heard about your little excursion out to the root cellar. When are you going to learn to stop snooping? It’s almost pathological, this need you have to know everyone’s business.”

She tried to hold her tongue. The biggest misperception folks had of her was that she must be a busybody, since she had found three—make that four—dead bodies in such a short time. She’d been jokingly called Nancy Drew and Jessica Fletcher. Even Daniel had told her to “try to keep out of trouble.” But she didn’t go looking for trouble, it just found her!

Holding her tongue wasn’t her nature. She squinted, trying to see his eyes in the dimness of the cavernous entrance, the cold wind sweeping in the open door, as his grip began to numb her. “You wanted me to snoop, though, right? You depended on me finding that fake will. The will that’s going to put you in jail for fraud, if not murder!” Her voice was trembling by the time she was done. She tried to wrench her arms from his grasp, but he was too strong.

“You just won’t learn, will you?” he said, his breath minty from chalky antacid. “That was Theo’s problem. Thought he could blackmail me.”

“Blackmail?”

“Greedy son of a… wanted in on poor Iago’s little business venture.”

“That’s where he got Brock Nibley’s tablet,” Jaymie said.

“Among other things.”

Jaymie was startled. Theo had tried to bargain with this sociopath and his wastrel son?

“If he had abided by my rules he would have been just fine, but no, the weasel had to keep snooping!”

“You didn’t have to kill him! Murderer!”

“Why are you calling me a murderer?” he said with a sneer. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

If she was going to live to snoop another day she needed to get out of this fix. In a situation like this—and she had been in a couple—it was always difficult to know whether to be aggressive or placating. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. “Let’s just agree to disagree, shall we, Prentiss? I have to go.” She tried to push back, but suddenly there was someone else in the doorway. It was Dick Schuster! “Dick!” she cried in relief, as the doctor finally released her from his grasp. “Prentiss seems to have a problem with me. Will you walk me out to my car?”

“Yes, Dick, why don’t you do that?” Prentiss said with a smirk. “Or is that too difficult a task for someone of your limited abilities? Look what happened the last time I asked you to perform the simple task of keeping Theo Carson out of my house.”

That was the exact moment when Jaymie knew she was really in trouble.

Dick whined, “I wish you wouldn’t treat me like that, Dr. Dumpe.”

They were in it together. Prentiss was the person Dick had been texting or calling minutes ago, no doubt. It was dark and getting darker, and there was no way she was going to let these clowns take her hostage or worse. Talk or action—which was better? “So, Dick, you’re the good doctor’s lackey?”

Prentiss spoke up. “Poor fellow lacks impulse control, and that’s how Theo died, isn’t it, Dickie? He was supposed to knock Carson out to keep him out of the house, not kill him!”

A chill raced down her back. “Like he did with me,” she said.

“Yes, indeed… like he did with you. Even though if he’d had a lick of sense he would have just waited until you left the house on your own.”

“But that darned writer… he stole my work!” Schuster whined. “You told me I needed to assert myself with him, Doctor. Said I needed to be firm.”

“Dick, I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it,” Jaymie said, her teeth chattering. “Help me out of this and I’ll tell the police that!” As if.

He made a noise in his throat, a kind of anxious humming.

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’d lose everything, Dick, as if you haven’t already. You need me to help you get your life back!” Prentiss said.

Keep them talking, keep them talking… the alarm beeped on. “So you had Dick kill Theo, is that it? He used you, Dick!” she said. “He wanted you to kill Theo! It’s his fault!”

There was a pause, and she thought she might have him, but then Prentiss spoke again.

“He did it, and I have his bloody clothes to prove it. Common sense and self-control are problems stemming from your lack of confidence, right, Dick?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Or so your wife has always told me.”

So why confront me tonight? Jaymie wondered, her gaze shifting from shadowy figure to shadowy figure. Why not let her just snoop around and go away, now that it was all out in the open? There was only one answer: they had been looking for a way to dispose of her troublesome self, and she had just given them that opportunity. She would be dead, and everything she had learned, every single thing she had speculated in the last hour, would be lost.

Or not! There was a time for negotiation, and a time for action.

She shoved Prentiss into Dick and pushed past them, dashing out the front door, down the steps and to her van, jumping in and turning the key. Thank heavens she was not in some horror flick, because the motor leaped to life right away and she began backing down the driveway, only to find that she was hemmed in by both Prentiss’s car and Dick Schuster’s. “Damn!” she shouted, hammering on the steering wheel.

As the two men raced toward her van, Schuster carrying a baseball bat, she quickly considered her options and thought of a great one. She urged her van forward, up the lane, and managed to swerve to miss Schuster, though he swung the bat and connected with her left front headlight. She drove up onto the lawn and around the back of the house. The beam from her one remaining headlight bobbed crazily, a slice of light flickering across the siding of the house as she jounced over bumps, ran down a bench and raced through a fledgling garden, then into the field beyond the expansive yard.

As she drove with one hand, she got her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 911, forgetting, of course, the method Daniel had input for her. It was simpler just to remember 911. Connected, she babbled as much of the story as she could, but she had to swerve to miss a fencepost, and the cell phone was knocked out of her hand and slid off the seat onto the floor. A swift look in her rearview mirror told her she was being followed, but by only one car. Hoping her cell phone was still connected she shouted out her direction. As she turned to the road and aimed for the access area that bridged the ditch, she saw why only one car had followed. The other was poised on the road, ready to cut her off if she decided to go that way, toward town.

She did her best to crank around the wheel of her van and start the opposite way, but the vehicle that had followed her was circling to the road in that direction. Her thoughts darted this way and that as she looked for a way out. Though it went against everything she had originally thought, these two were working together.

She had been thinking Prentiss and Iago Dumpe were the only culprits. Iago had been using the attic as a storage spot for his stolen goods empire and had been in the midst of moving it all to the root cellar when she found it. Prentiss, she figured, or Iago, had been the one to hide the fake will in the kitchen cupboard, not realizing that the Snoop Sisters had already searched it thoroughly and could attest that there was nothing there when they looked.

But in reality Dick Schuster, under Prentiss’s control either by psychological manipulation or drug-induced exploitation, was the doctor’s right-hand man.

There was no time to figure out the rest of the story now. Every action movie she had ever seen flashed through Jaymie’s mind; this was the point where the action suspended for a brief moment, and everyone held their breath. She assumed the other two drivers were trying to figure out what she was about to do next, and she had only moments to make a decision before one of them forced her hand. One car was behind her, and one was in front.

She was a very good driver, much better than anyone else she knew, but the van was lumbering and not in the best condition. Still, the fact remained: she was a very good driver. There was no time for her to turn, to point the car back to Queensville. So her best option was to charge through and get to the highway, then circle back to town. She gunned the motor, clutched the wheel and charged. This was going to be a game of chicken.

She drove, drove, drove… and the other driver—Prentiss, she thought—gave in, swerving into the ditch as she charged down the gravel road away from town. She floored it.

Prentiss had made it clear that Dick had killed Theo. Jaymie had conjectured, from their interactions, that he loathed the doctor, but just because Dick was working for Prentiss did not mean that still wasn’t true. Valetta had let slip that in her opinion Prentiss overmedicated his patients. Was that one of the charges that had gotten his license suspended? Some medications caused paranoia, and Dick did seem paranoid; he was a classic example of someone who was fragile and fell under the influence of a stronger, more devious mind.

She drove. It was dark now, but there were still headlights in her rearview mirror. If she could just get to Marsh Road she could double back and get to the Queensville police station on the riverside highway on the way to Wolverhampton. Her heart was still thudding, but she forced herself to breathe deeply and plan ahead. As if sensing her intention to drive her way out of trouble, the driver behind her roared up and she felt an awful, shuddering bump to her rear, like a clumsy attempt at a PIT maneuver.

She struggled to regain control and clenched her fists tighter on the wheel, her breathing quickening. They were not going to best her; she’d been in tight situations before and always got out. Still… doubts assailed her. Yes, she’d been in tough situations, but never on the road in a vehicle and alone. She checked her rearview mirror; damn! She hammered the wheel. The driver was still following, and the car seemed closer than it had been a few moments ago.

Forget about the police station or Queensville; she just needed to find a house with people, but it had to be the right place. There had to be someone home, or she would be putting herself in jeopardy for nothing. She sped up and navigated a tricky corner onto the highway with ease, the van’s back end sliding just a bit before she stopped it from fishtailing. She was quickly leaving behind the area she knew best, but she had been driving since before she was legal and knew she could handle it, come what may. There was a side road that she hadn’t been down in some time… maybe it would be just as mystifying to her follower.

She swung onto a gravel road. She was used to gravel roads, but a lot of townsfolk wouldn’t drive them; it was all too easy to skid out of control if you didn’t know what you were doing. Her van was clumsy, but she knew it well. There, ahead… she could see a dwelling with faint light showing through curtains. She sped up to get some distance between her and her follower, then abruptly slowed and swung into the driveway, bouncing down the slope and skidding on the gravel drive as she jammed the brake. The other car rocketed past, and she flung herself from the van and ran to the door, beating on it. “Help, I’ve been followed! Call the police!”

At the last minute she thought… What if they don’t let me in? What then? If she lived in the country would she let someone in if they were beating on her door and shouting? No. They might be in the sticks, but stuff still happened in the sticks.

However, the door was flung open and a big, dark-haired fellow in jeans and a flannel shirt with a dish towel slung over his arm stepped out and said, “What’s going on?”

She looked up into dark brown eyes set in a stubbly, masculine face. Trembling all over, she said, “I don’t have time to explain.” Her tone was too close to hysterical; she could hear her pursuer coming back along the gravel road toward the house. “I’m being followed. I need to come in to use your phone to call the police. I called on my cell, but I’m not sure I got through and I don’t dare go back out to get it.”

He appeared indecisive for a moment and looked back over his shoulder.

A child’s voice called out, “Daddy? Who is it?”

Just then the car pulled into the drive, not quickly but as if the driver were coming for a visit, with all the time in the world.

“Please!” Jaymie pleaded, grabbing the man’s forearm. He was reassuringly solid. “This guy is crazy and he’s a killer,” she muttered, pitching her voice low so as not to alarm the child. “Just let me call the cops from here!”

The car door slammed and Prentiss’s voice cut through the night. “Jaymie, this is Doctor Dumpe. Let me help you, my dear! We need to get you back to the psych ward so you won’t hurt yourself… again.”

Twenty-four

JAYMIE’S HEART THUDDED and she looked over her shoulder.

Prentiss strolled toward them from the gloom, his hands out in a beseeching gesture. “I’m so sorry you’ve been disturbed, sir, but this young lady needs my help. I’m her psychiatrist; she’s suffering a psychotic break after a prolonged period of stress. My apologies, but I really need to take her to the hospital so she can be treated properly before she becomes a danger to herself or others.”

“Please don’t believe him,” Jaymie murmured, looking up into the brown eyes.

A child appeared beneath the man’s elbow, blond curls drooped over an adorable elfin face. “Who are you?” she asked.

She took a deep breath. “My name is Jaymie. What’s yours?” She tried to calm her trembling, but it didn’t help. She could hear Prentiss walk on the gravel path toward the porch. As long as she had been in her van, she had felt in control of her fate, but she couldn’t drive forever.

“Jocelyn Eleanor Müller,” the child said, no hint of baby lisp, even though she looked about three.

“What a pretty name!” Jaymie looked up into the man’s eyes. She lowered her voice again and said, “My name is Jaymie Leighton. I live in Queensville and I’m not his patient. He is a psychiatrist, it’s true, but…” She looked down at the child’s face and tried to find the right words. “But he’s a… a dangerous man.”

“Jaymie, you need to come with me,” Prentiss said, his words measured, his voice closer and clearer in the frigid air. He mounted the steps, the wood creaking under his weight.

The householder held her gaze for a long moment. He matched her low tone as he replied, “My name is Jakob Müller, and I believe you.” His words were comforting. “Hey, friend,” he said, raising his voice and putting his arm around Jaymie’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just take a seat on the porch. The lady is coming inside and we’ll sort this out.” Prentiss started to protest, but Jakob raised his voice and talked over him. “A few minutes more or less won’t make a difference.”

He pulled her inside and shut the door, snicking the lock into place and leaning back against it. “Jocie, why don’t you go put the kettle on so we can make tea for our guest?”

Jaymie, stunned by the turn of events, watched in surprise as the little girl toddled off. “Isn’t she a little young to be putting a kettle on?”

“She is eight years old.” He eyed her; his tone had not been impolite, but there had been reproof.

Jaymie kept her mouth shut. Eight? The child appeared the size of a three-year-old, but that was neither here nor there at this moment. She blinked rapidly, and the fog of fear began to lift as her rescuer gently took her arm and led her forward into a big open room with rustic log walls. To the left the ceiling lowered to create a kitchen space; Jocelyn was up on a stool and with deft movements put a kettle on a lit burner. It occurred to Jaymie suddenly that Jocelyn was a little person, compact but every bit her age, and perhaps, given the gravity of her manner, a little overly mature for eight.

Taking a deep breath, her heart rate subsiding, Jaymie looked around and noted that the kitchen was decorated with antiques: an old rocking chair with a handmade quilt thrown over it, a trestle table with only a bowl of fall flowers as decoration, a pepper and coffee mill collection, which was gathered on a shelf over the old-fashioned stove. Rustic kitchen implements from many years ago hung from a pot rack over the trestle table alongside copper pots and cast-iron frying pans. If she had a few minutes she’d check it all out, but her gaze swung to the right, to an expansive family room with a gigantic stone fireplace and two chairs pulled up in front of the fire, lit on this chilly November evening. She shivered.

He had been silent while she looked around, but now Jakob said, “You’re cold. Come sit by the fire. I would get the phone but the electricity is out—it won’t work without it—and my cell phone is dead right now. I was going to charge it up, but the electricity has been out for a while.”

As he guided her to the fireside, Jaymie noticed for the first time that the only light in the place was from the fire and some lanterns hung from hooks on the supporting log posts dotted through the space. She sat down in a soft, comfortable chair that made her want to curl up and vegetate. But this was not home, and she was in danger.

“What am I going to do?” she asked, more of herself than Jakob. Jaymie had thought her troubles were over, but now she was not only still in trouble, she had potentially put this man’s child and whomever else was here in danger.

“Tell me what happened,” he said. His tone was assured and calm.

The warmth started to seep into her. She was grateful that this once, she had not brought her little dog into danger, and that it was just her. She stared into the man’s long-lashed brown eyes, and then glanced back where his little daughter was efficiently getting out a teapot and filling it with hot water from the kettle. The child was adept, more than most kids even at eight.

“You probably heard the news; a week or so ago I found the body of Theo Carson, a writer, at the historic home in Queensville.” She briefly told him the rest of the story, and what she now believed about Prentiss Dumpe and Dick Schuster working together.

There was a knock at the door at the exact moment she finished, and Jakob crossed the floor toward the door, putting out one hand to keep his daughter at bay. She watched, her eyes wide, with a stillness uncommon in children. Jaymie followed and stood by his elbow.

“I’m very sorry to intrude,” Prentiss said through the door. “But I’m freezing out here. Could I at least come in and warm up? We can talk this all over.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I don’t know what tales that girl, Jaymie, is spinning, but you must know…” He paused, then raised his voice and continued. “I don’t like to say it, Jaymie, but I must. Sir, the young woman is delusional and possibly violent. She has been unbalanced by recent events, and I’m afraid for her. I see you have a child; don’t be fooled by Miss Leighton’s semblance of a sane person. She could harm you both, and I couldn’t live with myself if that happened!”

It was surreal and frightening how rational he sounded, and how irrational she must seem. Jakob did not meet her gaze, so she couldn’t tell if he was buying what Prentiss was selling. She heard the low thrum of another motor, which quickly cut. “Dick Schuster!” she exclaimed, shaking all over. “That’s his car. He’s in on it with Prentiss, just as I told you.”

Jocelyn examined her with a calm, brown-eyed gaze so much like her father’s it made Jaymie blink. “Is he a bad man?” she asked.

What should she say? Jaymie looked to Jakob, and he smiled slightly, a crooked, engaging expression.

“Sweetie, why don’t you get your photo album out?” he said, instead of answering. “Maybe Jaymie would like to see some of your pictures, like the ones from Halloween.”

Her eyes lit up. “I was a princess!” she said, with a bounce. “And I went to a party and I won for my costume!”

Jaymie’s eyes filled with tears, and she took in a shaky breath. This place, this family… it was all so normal, and yet she had brought them this horribly abnormal visitation of danger. But the reassurance of Jakob’s composed demeanor gave her courage. Despite all obstacles, she would prevail. “I’d love to see the pictures!” she exclaimed.

“Go get your photo album,” her father urged, and he gave Jocelyn a little push. She skipped off to some cupboards in the hall past the kitchen.

“You have to believe me,” Jaymie repeated. “He’s dangerous.”

He nodded. “You will just have to wait, Doctor,” Jakob said through the door. “Go back to your car if you’re cold, and I will tell you what I have decided soon enough.”

He led her back to the fireside and pushed her gently down into the chair. He sat, too, but moved forward, leaning with his elbows on his knees so he could speak quietly. “I believe you; you don’t need to try to convince me. I’ve known men like him.” His mouth tightened in a grimace, but he didn’t say anything further about that. “If you say he’s a quack, I believe you.”

“He’s worse than a quack, Jakob, he’s dangerous,” she said, grabbing his flannel-clad arm. “I meant every word I said. They talked about the murder in front of me, so they can’t afford to let me get out of here alive.” Saying it felt so melodramatic, but there was not a word that was not true. If not for one thing, she would already be dead: Prentiss hadn’t counted on Jaymie being decisive.

He covered her hand on his arm; she looked down at it, broad with brown hairs across the back, roughened by work. “It’s okay. We’ll take care of it together.” He stood and straightened. “We’ll hold them off and figure something out.”

She was not alone in this, and her heart lightened. Jakob seemed to be one of those men who are good with animals and children and anyone scared; he oozed confidence and reassurance. Jocelyn skipped out, carrying a big scrapbook album.

Jakob said, “Jaymie, why don’t you sit on the rug in front of the fire with Jocelyn so she can show you her scrapbook?”

There was weight in his words. She examined his eyes; he didn’t intend to go out there, she hoped. The way Prentiss was talking he planned to make Jaymie look like the villain of the piece. He could do some serious damage and still claim that. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to her. She shivered and said, “You’re not going to… to…” She stopped, afraid to say more.

Jakob shook his head slightly, and she relaxed.

“I will never put my child or myself at risk unnecessarily. Now… sit. Let my daughter show you her scrapbook. Warm yourself by the fire.”

Jaymie slipped down to the rug in front of the fire and felt the warmth bathe her face. Her mind raced. What could she do? Prentiss and Schuster couldn’t kill her in front of this man and his child, right? Every possible solution she could think of seemed to lead down a dangerous road. Normally when she was in a desperate situation she didn’t have time to think, and maybe that was a blessing, because her fears were inventing dangers. What if Prentiss blocked the doors and set the house on fire? No one would ever know what had happened. It would just be one of those things… a family that had a fire and lanterns going because of a power outage, and it got out of control.

Jocelyn carried her scrapbook over, then plopped down on the floor, her little legs splayed out. Jakob was near the door listening; he had the same stillness about him as his daughter, a rare calm energy.

Jaymie sat cross-legged in front of Jocelyn. It had not escaped her notice that by sitting down on the rug she and the little girl were concealed from the door by the big easy chairs. The child opened the scrapbook and proceeded to point out pictures and explain who and what they featured. Jocelyn was in tumbling classes, it appeared from the photos, and took music lessons. But though Jaymie tried to pay attention, this was no time to be caught unawares.

Her nerves were humming, and she was conscious of her host’s movements, even though for a big man, he moved quietly. Jakob checked all the windows to be sure they were locked, then went to the door. “Doctor, are you still there?” There was no answer. Jakob looked over at Jaymie and put his finger to his lips.

Above them the sound of glass breaking made Jaymie start up in fear. She exchanged a look with Jakob, then said, brightly, “Jocelyn, you know what I’d really like to do? I love to play hide-and-seek.” She thought that if the child were concealed she could not be a target. “How about you find some place to hide down here, and I’ll count to a hundred and come find you, okay?”

“That is a good idea,” Jakob said, sending her a warm smile.

Jocelyn jumped up, willing, it seemed, to interrupt her scrapbook explanations for an impromptu game. She trotted off, and Jaymie could hear her crawl into one of the hall closets. Perfect. Jakob had already picked up a heavy pepper mill from his collection, and he hefted it in his hand.

There was a sound upstairs, a heavy thump. That exact moment lights came on, the television in the corner blinked to life with a cackle of kids’ show noise and a clock radio somewhere blipped on with an alt rock song and a beeping alarm.

“Thank goodness!” Jaymie cried. Jakob grabbed the telephone handset and tossed it to her. She dialed 911, as her host waited at the bottom of the stairs, listening to a thumping sound from upstairs.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” came a calm female voice over the telephone.

“I need police! A man is threatening me. I’m trapped in a house, and he’s broken in upstairs.”

“Your location, please?”

“Uh… I’m not sure of the address!”

“Tell them Müller Christmas Tree Farm on Pine Ridge Road!” Jakob said.

Jaymie repeated what he said, unnerved by the sounds she was hearing, a commotion on the stairs. Dick Schuster, disheveled and panting, lunged down the stairs at Jakob, joined by Prentiss, who hopped down the last steps and dashed around the two tumbling men toward Jaymie.

“Why did you make this so complicated?” he grunted, grabbing her arm and tugging her toward the door. The telephone clattered out of her hands and onto the wood floor. “Now we’ll have to make this convoluted, a home invasion, and you, left for dead somewhere, probably by the same nasty criminals.”

That threat galvanized her; Prentiss Dumpe was not going to hurt this father and daughter. As he tried to pin her arms behind her back Jaymie twisted, her arm twisting, too, pain shooting through it. But it gave her room to make a fist and she punched Prentiss in the ear with her free hand. She could hear Dick Schuster struggling with Jakob. The fellow was smaller than Jakob, but desperate and shrieking with anger.

There was a sudden screech of pain, and Jaymie, still flailing at Prentiss, who was crying out at the blows being rained down on him, saw a wondrous sight: Jocie had a mop in her hand and she was whaling away at Dick Schuster with all the might in her little body. She was hitting her father, too, but Dick was so confused and terrorized that he covered his head with both hands, releasing Jakob, who knocked him out with a well-placed kick and came to Jaymie’s aid.

As he grabbed Prentiss from behind, pinioning both arms behind his back, Jaymie heard the welcome wail of sirens. Blinking light filled the cabin, flashing through the uncurtained kitchen window and across the log walls. A megaphone screamed to life, a loud voice commanding them all to come out with their hands up. Gladly Jaymie complied, as did Jakob, frog-marching Prentiss in front of him.

A half hour of confusion followed as the Michigan State Police took over the scene. Jaymie had a lot of explaining to do, and Jakob almost got himself into trouble when he protested at how his little girl was being spoken to. But in the end Prentiss and a still-unconscious Schuster were taken away. Courtesy of an MSP officer who let her use his phone, Jaymie spoke to Chief Ledbetter and found out the alarm company had alerted them to the “break-in” at the historic house. They then put that together with her panicked cell phone call as she drove away from the scene, traced Jaymie’s cell phone GPS to the cabin and alerted state troopers, who were just then getting her confused and garbled 911 call. It had all happened much more quickly than it seemed, the whole episode taking just a little over a half hour.

Finally Jaymie sat, drinking a cup of tea in a chair by the fireplace, as Jakob came back from putting his overexcited daughter to bed. He slumped down in the matching chair.

“Are you all right?” Jaymie asked, hands wrapped around the mug.

“That was awful,” he said, shoving his big hands into his unruly mass of dark hair. “I was so afraid for my little Jocie, and then she turns into the heroine of the day. She could have been hurt so easily.” His voice broke and he shuddered.

A Michigan trooper approached and cleared her throat. “Ma’am,” she said to Jaymie, “we need you to come with us to headquarters. Chief Ledbetter of the Queensville force is going to meet us there so we can sort things out and settle jurisdictional issues.”

Jaymie jumped up and Jakob rose, too. He walked them to the door. They had already settled that Jakob would go to the state police headquarters the next day to give a formal statement, since he had flatly refused to do more that night than give them his informal statement.

“I hope Jocelyn will be okay,” Jaymie said, turning and looking up into Jakob’s weary face. She wanted to touch his scruffy cheek, to thank him for his help, to say how grateful she was, but she wasn’t sure how. “I’m so sorry I intruded on you like that, but I was frightened and didn’t know where to go.”

“You came to the right place,” he said, squeezing her arm.

And then she had to go. She looked back over her shoulder and saw him standing in the doorway, scruffing his chin and watching, his gaze thoughtful. He waved, and she wished she could run back to the cabin and curl up in front of the fire again.

Twenty-five

AFTER A CONFUSING conversation that went long into the night at the Michigan State Police satellite station, Chief Ledbetter was actually the one who drove Jaymie home, telling her she was too tired and it was too late, and he’d make sure she got her van back the next day. She sat in her back lane in his car and stared at her home. It had been a horrendously long day. Home looked odd to her, as if she had been away on a long trip and come back to find everything altered.

“I’m not sure why I feel so… so strange.”

“You’ve been through a lot these last few months, Jaymie,” he said, moving slightly to rest his paunch more comfortably behind the steering wheel. “I always tell new recruits to expect to change more in the first few months of police work than they ever will. Nothing alters you like a firsthand view of crimes.”

Jaymie stared up at her house. “Chief, I have something I need to tell you, something important that I should have told you a while ago. I didn’t because it was someone else’s story, and I felt she should be telling you.”

“Does it have to do with Cynthia Turbridge and the bloody sweater?”

She looked over at him, his profile reminiscent of Hitchcock’s, the double chin, the plump cheeks. “Actually, yes. How did you know about it?”

“Mrs. Turbridge came to the station last evening and had me called in. Said she’d only talk to me. Told me everything about her little blackout evening, and told me you knew, but that she had sworn you to secrecy.” He looked over at her. “Would have helped if you’d told me.”

“But she didn’t kill Theo Carson,” she said, stubbornly, ignoring the little voice in her head that said he was right.

“I believe—and now that we have those two in custody we may be able to find out—that one of them met up with her when she was on that bender, and saw a chance to use her car.”

“Oh.” Jaymie thought it through. “I wonder if, instead of Dick or Prentiss, it was Iago. He’s the type who might be in a bar, right? I speculated that he was looking for a way to move his merchandise out of the house; maybe that was his intent, to use her car to finish up the last of the stuff in the attic.”

“Why not use his pa’s car?”

Jaymie thought for a moment, her tired mind going in circles before settling down. “Well, his father had the car, that we already know.”

“Might just have to put the thumbscrews to young Iago for the whole scoop. You know, we did a trace on the commenter who posted about Iago being seen climbing out of the Dumpe Manor window. Do you know who it was?”

Jaymie glanced over at him, waiting.

“Richard, aka Dick Schuster.”

Jaymie digested that information. “I’ll bet it was just a way to get the guy in trouble, and by extension, cause trouble for Prentiss. What a weird, sick relationship those two have.”

The chief nodded, sleepily. “Yup, that’s what we figure. Dick might have thought he could stop the whole merry-go-round he was on if Prentiss had other problems to take care of.”

“Why didn’t he just say no to Prentiss? If he had, Theo would still be alive.”

Chief Ledbetter slowly shook his head, his jowls wobbling. “Easy to say for you. We’ve been looking into those two gentlemen’s history. Dick Schuster has had a lifetime of troubles, and the rotten doctor took advantage. He knew how to place Schuster in a type of bondage every bit as strong as shackles.”

“Unfortunately, I think Theo brought some of this on himself,” Jaymie said, just then remembering to tell the chief about the stolen tablet, and what she had learned about it being a bribe for Theo to stay quiet. “I don’t think he knew who he was dealing with. He thought he could blackmail them and still do what he wanted, still sneak into the house and look for the Dumpe family manuscript.”

“You think that’s what Theo was after?”

She nodded. “I do; he was really ambitious, and desperate to match the success of his first book. Isolde believes that, too. Chief, if you knew some of this earlier, would it have helped put those two away?”

He shrugged, his big shoulders rolling. “Probably not. Couldn’t arrest them for murder before they did it, right? Might have gotten Iago on theft, but he’d be out on bail by now anyway.”

“I guess all you would have had on Prentiss would have been the suspected fraud with the will.” She sighed with some relief. “Nothing I knew would have helped you get them earlier.”

“That is not for you to think, young lady,” he admonished. “Could be true, but we might have gotten lucky if we’d known for sure that Prentiss’s alibi was a fake.”

“I just thought…” She trailed off and stared out into the darkness, longing to be already inside with her puppy and cat. But she still felt the need to explain herself. His opinion of her mattered. “I couldn’t turn Cynthia in, not when I promised not to. It didn’t seem right. But I told her to come to you.”

“I know. But we’d already spoken to Mrs. Turbridge. When I told her we knew she was not home that night, and that Dr. Dumpe said she was with him, she confirmed it. If I’d known what she’d told you earlier, it may have helped.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaymie said, feeling weepy all of a sudden. “I really am. I just… I knew in my gut Cynthia didn’t do it, but I was worried about her.”

“You try to help people too much. You have got to let them figure things out for themselves. Tell the truth and shame the devil, my mother always said.”

“She sounds like my grandmother.”

“If you had told us about her, we could have broken Prentiss’s alibi and brought him back in for questioning. I don’t think Mrs. Turbridge realized what it meant, that he needed an alibi. That fella had a way of controlling his patients. When she finally saw what was up with him, she couldn’t very well back out.” He paused and looked her over. “You, young lady, get out and go to bed, go to sleep. You look about done in.”

Tears flooded her eyes. “I’m overdone, for sure. I’m so lucky I ended up at Jakob’s house, but I was afraid I’d put him and his daughter in danger.”

“You did what you had to do. Might have saved your own life, ’cause there’s no saying you would have made it all the way to the police station without being run off the road. They were getting desperate. I’d rather you had a fighting chance than be rolled over, trapped in your van or worse.” He paused, then said, gruffly, “I feel like I put you in danger myself, you know, coming over here and giving you the impression I was asking for help. I was just trying to figure out what you knew, see if you had any information you didn’t even know you had, if you get my meaning.”

“None of this is your fault. I got smug, figuring I could look after myself because I’ve done it before. I’m sorry about that. How many times do I have to learn the same lesson? It won’t happen again.” She said good night and felt some comfort that the chief waited in the lane until she had let Hoppy out to piddle. But when she finally went into the house, she saw the message light was blinking on her phone. The call display didn’t tell her anything; it wasn’t a number she recognized. She hit the message button, and Isolde’s voice filled the kitchen.

“Jaymie, I don’t know what to do! I’m out at Dumpe Manor looking for… wait… I think I may have—”

The message broke off there, but there was a muffled screech. What the heck? With shaking hands Jaymie called the Queensville police and in two minutes Chief Ledbetter was in her back alley again. She grabbed her coat and ran out to him. “Chief,” she said, out of breath, leaning over his car window. “Isolde may be in trouble, or… I don’t know!” She explained what she had heard, and he agreed that time was of the essence. He radioed for backup, but they took off to the historic house and were there in two minutes.

“Chief, that message came just about the time I was on my way out there. She wouldn’t be in the house, not with the security system armed. I don’t think it was any coincidence that Dick Schuster was there right when I was.” She thought for a moment as they pulled up the lane. “I hope she’s okay,” she said, her voice choked. “But I think we need to look for her… maybe even out at the root cellar.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” he grumbled, heaving himself out of the driver’s seat and grabbing a huge flashlight.

Jaymie dashed up to the garage, first, and looked in, but Isolde was not there, so to the root cellar they must go.

It was cold… so cold! Snowflakes fluttered down in the bobbing beam of the flashlight as the police chief and Jaymie hustled across the frozen field, with the chief sweeping the beam of light across the dark field in an arc, in case Isolde was somewhere out in the open. That was why he hadn’t driven, he told Jaymie; he was afraid she was out in the open and didn’t want to risk running her over.

But when they got to the root cellar, Jaymie stared at the door. “I guess we should look in there.”

“I’ll go,” he said.

She gave him a look. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, Chief, but that door isn’t… that is…” How to say tactfully that there was no way he could get into the root cellar.

“The door isn’t big enough for me,” he said, bluntly. “Okay. So we wait for backup.”

“No, I’m sorry but I won’t leave her there alone another minute.” She took the flashlight and ducked into the door, playing the beam into the dank interior. There, cowering in a corner, was a moaning and shivering Isolde Rasmussen. “She’s here, and she’s okay!” Jaymie shouted.

Jaymie helped her out of the root cellar and they both held her up as they walked back to the car. As she shivered in the chief’s car waiting for the ambulance, Isolde confirmed much of what they had speculated, and more they didn’t know. She said Theo Carson had had an inkling something was going on with the house, but he didn’t know what.

She told them that he’d started out looking for the legendary Dumpe manuscript, but in one of his perusals of the house must have come across some of the stolen goods, Isolde thought, because once when they were there, he went up to the attic but wouldn’t let her follow. He told her there was nothing of interest there but she had a feeling he was lying.

And that was why she had followed him the night of the murder. Theo did indeed take her cell phone, Isolde said. Why he texted Jaymie was a mystery, but Jaymie had a feeling it was his intention to get her out there to try to figure out what she knew, and what else there was in the house.

“Isolde, you told me that Theo got a phone call that night and seemed rushed. Who do you think called him?”

She shook her head. “It had to be one of them, right?”

Jaymie thought and met the police chief’s eyes. “I wonder if Dick or Prentiss called him to lure him out there, and told him to get me out there, too. He would not have known what they intended. He’d know that I’d be more likely to respond to a text from Isolde than from him.”

With a heavy sigh, the chief nodded. “We have Isolde’s phone, but we’ve never found Carson’s,” he said. “We might never be able to prove that. Could be important, so we’ll do our damnedest. Would prove premeditation right there.”

As the ambulance arrived, Isolde told them what little else she knew. Because at that point she thought Theo had found something important and was trying to exclude her from the fame, she followed him out there. When she pulled up to the house, she saw exactly what she told the police she saw. She hadn’t lied to them about any of that. She couldn’t tell if there was one man or two at the scene. She was hit from behind and knocked out; that seemed to indicate, to Jaymie at least, that Iago Dumpe probably was there that night and, as she had speculated, had Cynthia Turbridge’s car, maybe parked down the road or behind the garage.

Isolde was bundled into the trunk of a car, likely Cynthia’s, because the blood on Cynthia’s sweater must have rubbed off the clothes of the actual murderer, Dick Schuster. Forensics would eventually reveal what had happened. Isolde had been out cold and did not know anything until she was dropped off in town, coincidentally (or on purpose, who would ever know?) near Jaymie’s home. With the information they now had it would be a shortcut to the truth for the police, and to the prosecution of the unholy trio of Dick Schuster, Prentiss Dumpe and his son, Iago.

Who would have thought that three of the suspects would be working together?

Earlier that day, after Jaymie talked to Isolde on the phone at the Wolverhampton Historical Museum, Isolde had called Prentiss Dumpe, whom she suspected of the murder, and asked him if he had the Dumpe manuscript Theo had been looking for. She was stupid enough to threaten him, implying she had really seen something that night, even though she hadn’t. He told her he had hidden the manuscript in the garage at the historic house. She could have it if she would just keep her mouth shut.

In retrospect it was obviously a ploy to control her movements, but she fell right in with his plan. Recklessly, she went there directly from work. When the papers weren’t where Prentiss said they were, she called Jaymie’s house, using the pay-as-you-go cell phone she had bought to replace her missing one. She was calling Jaymie to ask her to meet her and help search, on the principle that shared glory was better than no glory, when Prentiss and Dick confronted her.

Who knew what they had intended? Isolde heard enough that she thought they planned to kill her and make it look like a remorseful suicide, hoping to throw the police off the trail of the three henchmen, but when they found out she had just called Jaymie, they decided to bundle Isolde off into the root cellar and wait to see what happened. Jaymie did show up, but not in response to the phone call she must have just missed.

The rest, Jaymie knew. One thing for sure, if she had been home and gotten that call from Isolde, she would not have gone to the house, she would have called the police. Isolde was a more reckless version of herself, and she was a little ashamed at the danger she had put herself in at times. Daniel was, to some extent, right to warn her to be careful, and she’d tell him that next time she talked to him.

Isolde appeared to be recovering nicely, but the EMTs were going to take her to the hospital as a precaution. The chief hoped to be able to reconstruct some of the night’s activities using Prentiss’s and Dick’s seized cell phones. They could tell a lot from the timing and number of phone calls and text messages between them.

An hour later Jaymie was finally home again, as snow lightly dusted the holly bushes and grass, and whirled in dancing swirls in the soft glow of her back porch light. She went in, greeted by a blinky, sleepy Hoppy, and turned off the kitchen light. She heard Chief Ledbetter’s police car engine thrum with a throaty murmur as the car pulled away.

She collapsed in bed, both her critters curled up beside her in the dark, Hoppy’s twitching and snoring strangely comforting. Something in her universe had shifted and she wasn’t sure what it was, despite the chief telling her it was the crimes she had seen committed, the turmoil she had witnessed firsthand. Maybe she was just overwrought, and that was why she felt so odd, so muddled and emotional. She must have fallen deeply asleep, because she awoke with a start; it was morning and her phone was ringing.

“H’lo?” she muttered, cradling the handset against her cheek.

“Jaymie, are you all right? Are you okay? My God, what happened?”

“Valetta?” She looked over at the clock. “What time is it? I can’t see.”

Her friend was calmer when she next spoke. “If you’ve been sleeping, you must be okay. Do you want to call me when you’re awake? I’m at home. Or I could just come over.”

An hour later after a hot shower, she was finishing up her story to Valetta, who sat at her table, mug in hand. At the same time she fielded phone calls and explained her night to various people. Nan, her editor at the Howler, was one of the first and said she was sending a reporter over to talk to Jaymie. That was not what she wanted to do—talk about events with a reporter—but what could she say to the woman who had been so helpful to her budding career as a food writer?

“I can’t believe those two, Prentiss and Dick, were in it together,” Valetta said, shaking her head and then gulping down the last of her tea. “How did they come to be in cahoots?”

“As unpleasant as he seemed to be to me, the doctor had some folks under his spell. Prentiss Dumpe is a master manipulator, or he is if you’re as troubled and afraid as Dick Schuster. The guy started out as a patient, I guess, trying to get his marriage back on track, but after his wife dumped him—pardon the pun—he ended up under the doctor’s thumb, totally controlled and manipulated by Prentiss. There even may be some pharmacological manipulation in there somewhere,” she said, shooting a sideways glance at Valetta, who remained stone-faced. “You’re not going to say anything?”

Valetta shrugged. “I may or may not have called the licensing board on Dr. Prentiss Dumpe once or twice when I got worried about the meds he was ordering for his patients.”

“Okay, I won’t press. I know that’s private. Anyway, it’s all kind of a jumbled mess. I think it got that way because of three crooks and a bunch of snoops, like me and Theo. I’m sure the police know more than I do about some aspects, by now, but a few things are clear. Prentiss knew about his son’s side business, stealing everything he could get his hands on. It’s been going on for a while. He seemed to feel it was their right to make use of Dumpe Manor as a storage facility, but then when the society finalized the real estate deal in October, that left them with too short a time to get all the stuff out, especially with all the folks going in and out at all hours.”

“All the stolen stuff. They were moving it to the root cellar, right?”

Jaymie nodded. “Until I discovered that hiding place, which left them with nowhere. That’s why they ended up with a bunch of stuff still in the attic, shoved back so far it wouldn’t have been found for a while if it hadn’t been for the alarm guy. I think Prentiss was hoping that the discovery of the will would put a halt to all this business about fixing up and opening the home in early December. That may even have been some of the motive behind planting the fake will.”

“Okay, back up, back up. So… why did you end up bonked on the head in the first place? And who did it?”

“It was all about the will. Schuster was supposed to be planting it, but got scared when he heard me, so he grabbed the first weapon he could find and hit me on the head. Isolde was coming to the house to check it out. Theo was out of town and she was hoping to search the house for whatever it was he was hiding from her. Luckily, she helped me. So the will had to be planted later—I figure that’s when Dick took the other mallet, the one he used to kill Theo—but he and Prentiss didn’t know that Imogene and Mrs. Bellwood had already thoroughly searched the kitchen cupboard. I’ll bet they took my tool kit, too, because it hasn’t turned up since.”

“This was a mess, wasn’t it?”

Jaymie nodded. Valetta didn’t know the half of it. “The chief now knows about Cynthia, and we’ve figured out they used her car while she was passed out, then parked it near Algonac to confuse her. It had to be a maze of cars that night, before you and I got there, because they also had Theo’s and Isolde’s! I still don’t know where Theo’s car is or was, but I suppose the police do. There were three of them, so I guess they worked it out. They had a plan, I suppose, but Isolde and I kept mucking it up. It’s lucky for Cynthia she didn’t wake up while all this was going on, or she’d probably be dead. I think they were hoping she’d think she was guilty and end up arrested and her car searched for forensic evidence.”

The phone rang, and Jaymie jumped up to get it.

“Jaymie, I’ve been trying to call your cell phone,” Daniel said, exasperation in his tone. “What is the point of me giving you a cell phone, if you never answer it?”

“Well, hi, Daniel. Nice to hear from you, too,” she said, rolling her eyes at Valetta.

Her friend got up. “I’ll just let myself out, okay? I’ve got a million things to do today, but I’ll call you later.” Valetta waved and left.

“So, what’s up?” Jaymie said to Daniel, not wanting to get into everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. She didn’t comment on the cell phone and where it was now, still in her van until the police retrieved it for her.

“I really need to talk to you, Jaymie, but I’d rather video chat, okay? Go up to your office and log on. We need to… I need to see you to talk to you.” He spoke quickly and left no room for argument.

That was weird, Jaymie thought as she hung up. He knew she wasn’t overly fond of video chatting because it made her self-conscious, and she couldn’t wander around and do stuff with the phone glued to her ear like she usually did when talking to him. But it sounded important. She hoped he wasn’t going to push her again about an answer on the subject of marriage and dating. She was most definitely not in the mood today. Every part of her body ached, and she was exhausted.

She logged on to her computer and clicked on the video chat link, and up popped Daniel, in his home office in Phoenix. He looked worried and tired. “Hey, you okay?” Jaymie asked, concerned and hoping he hadn’t had bad news of some sort. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“We have to talk, and I don’t know how to say this,” he said, looking miserable. He fidgeted, moving restlessly and looking to the right and left.

His glasses glinted in a desk light, and she couldn’t see his expression. Her stomach twisted. “Daniel, what’s wrong? Just tell me!”

He paused and looked down. There was a voice somewhere, and he looked over his shoulder, then back at her. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this. Trish and I—you remember we talked about Trish, my ex?—we got back together. We’re… Jaymie, we’re getting married over Thanksgiving weekend.”

Jaymie shook her head and almost laughed. “Come on, Daniel. Whatever you have to say, you don’t have to make something up so that it doesn’t seem as bad.”

There was a long silence. He shifted awkwardly, disappearing out of sight and reappearing. Then he looked her in the eye and said, “It’s true, Jaymie. You always asked if I was over Trish, and it turns out I wasn’t. I was desperate to get married, and I really like you, but—”

A face appeared over his shoulder, a woman in her midthirties, dark hair cut in a bob. “Hi, Jaymie,” she said. “You don’t know me, but I’m Trish. Look, Daniel’s not saying it right. I was an idiot to break up with him, and I learned my lesson. I called him, talked to him, and we met up. Turns out neither of us is over the other, and so… to cut to the chase, we’re getting married. Sorry, but I don’t think you really wanted him anyway.” She squeezed Daniel’s shoulders and looked at him, then kissed his cheek. “He’s my geek now.”

Stunned, Jaymie sat back, hardly able to breathe, tears welling up in her eyes. Hoppy had climbed the steps and was waiting at her knee, trying to get her attention, but she gently pushed him away. “You can’t be serious,” she finally said, her tears drying even before they ran down her cheeks. She was shocked, but oddly enough, not unhappy.

No answer from either of them. Daniel looked miserable and ashamed.

“Just give it some time and you’ll get it,” Trish said, her tone hard and brittle. “When Debbie told me Danny was trying to get you to marry him, I knew I needed to move in or lose him for good.”

“Debbie… oh, Mrs. Collins!” Jaymie sat back again, still scrambling for answers. Mrs. Collins had been bitterly angry at Trish. However, Trish had one thing Jaymie didn’t, and that was a home in Phoenix, and therefore a reason for Daniel to stay put. By contacting Trish, Daniel’s mother had guaranteed her son would stay in Phoenix, and had perhaps moved to secure grandchildren and a life that would keep him close to home.

Words she had said to Heidi about Joel came back to her; you can’t “steal” a man if he’s in love. She took a deep breath and watched Daniel. The poor guy looked absolutely despondent. “Daniel, you know I want what’s best for you, right?” she said. “I only want you to be happy.”

A beam of hope lifted his expression. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Sure. And the same back at you.”

“Will she make you happy?”

He nodded. “As long as I know you’re okay.”

Jaymie had some doubts about Daniel’s future happiness married to Trish, but he was an adult, and it was his life. “I’m better than okay. I would have said no,” she said. “I’d made up my mind in the last week. I’m not ready. This happened at the right time, and if you’re happy, I’m happy for you.” It was the honest truth. She took a deep breath.

He looked relieved, and tears actually watered in his eyes. “Thanks, Jaymie. You don’t know how much this means to me. I was so afraid to hurt you like Joel did.”

“Are you happy to be getting married so quickly?”

He nodded. “I am. Trish gets me… she always did.”

“Friends?” Jaymie said.

“Friends,” Daniel replied.

They signed off and Jaymie sat for a moment, assimilating the vast change that had occurred in her life in just the last few minutes. She was free, and that was good. And now she had to get on with her day.

As she descended, she heard a tap at the door. Bernie was there, holding out Jaymie’s car keys and cell phone. “Do you have a minute?” Jaymie asked.

Bernie did. She wasn’t working, she just drove Jaymie’s van over as a favor to the chief, she said, so she came in and they sat in the parlor with tea. Bernie liked Earl Grey, and Jaymie enjoyed it as a change, so they sipped together.

“Have you heard from Heidi in the last few days?” Jaymie asked, after they had gone over everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, including the latest, Daniel’s breakup by video chat. “How are she and Joel doing?”

“Better, I think, thanks to you. That was an awful shock, though, right?”

“What, that he was married?”

Bernie nodded.

“Awful. I hope Heidi’s not too upset.”

“No, that’s what she isn’t,” Bernie said, squinting and cuddling a happy Hoppy on her lap. Denver had come in and was snoozing in his basket by the fireplace. “I think she’s relieved it isn’t another woman, you know? I mean, that he’s not in love with another woman. Joel is off seeing about a divorce, and Heidi has gone to the city to talk to her parents about Joel. They won’t make the Christmas deadline to get married, but they’ll be okay.”

“Finally!” Jaymie sighed. “Now I can get out of their relationship, where I don’t belong.”

After Bernie left, Jaymie checked her cell phone. There was another text from Zack, just along the lines of “Call me,” so since she was on a roll she decided to take a chance. She clicked through, and he answered.

“Hey, how are you?” he said. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Not so much,” she said with a chuckle. Given everything that had happened, that was laughable. “What’s up?” she asked, wondering if he was going to ask her out. Did he like her that way? Was he interested? She wasn’t sure of her own feelings, nor what she’d say if he did ask. He was a nice fellow, but…

They chatted for a few minutes. He loved his new job with the Detroit force; it was a real challenge, and he felt like he was making a difference. And his life was better than it had been for a long while. “Thanks to you, I decided to handle a few things in my life.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yeah. You always face life head-on. That’s what’s cool about you. Anyway, I caught up with some old friends. Turns out I was mistaken about a few things. There was this girl…”

He broke off, and Jaymie rolled her eyes. What was it with her? Men seemed to want to confide in her, make her their best buddy, ask for advice. “There was this girl…” Jaymie repeated back to him. “And?”

“She was the reason I got in trouble in Chicago. She was a material witness in an important case I was a detective on, and we got involved, but that ended when I got fired. Things went bad, and the case never made it to court. The DA said that my involvement with the witness tainted the evidence. I thought she’d blame me, and I left town. Anyway, I called her a few weeks ago, and we got to talking. We’re seeing each other now.”

Jaymie sighed. “That’s good,” she said, almost to herself. “That is really good. I’m so pleased for you, Zack, I really am.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, but they didn’t have a lot to talk about. Jaymie certainly didn’t want to talk about what had been going on in her life; it was all too confusing. But once she hung up, she realized that she felt more at peace than she had for a long time. Resolving issues seemed to have that effect on her.

She had always known deep in her heart that she and Zack didn’t have enough in common to date, as hunky as she found him. He was one more guy with itchy feet, and that didn’t appeal to her. She wanted solidity, stability, roots, not wings. She wanted a sense of home. “And this is it,” she said out loud, looking around the kitchen. “I’m home, and I’m happy.”

Hoppy danced around at her feet.

She leaned over and scruffed his cheeks. “I said I’m happy, not Hoppy! Let’s go for a walk through our town, maybe go visit Mrs. Stubbs.”

Twenty-six

A SNOWY THANKSGIVING CAME and went. She had a riotous turkey dinner with Bernie, Heidi and Valetta, during which much wine was drunk, many toasts made and thanks given for friends and safety and happiness. It was a real girls’ weekend that meant the dinner together on Thanksgiving, Jaymie and Valetta working at the Emporium on Black Friday—in Queensville the biggest shopping day of the year meant the usual trickle of locals plus a couple of Johnsonville Canadians over on the ferry—and continued with karaoke at Bernie’s newly redecorated home on Saturday night. Jaymie sang a duet with Bernie that was so bad, it was good. Sunday she went to church with Valetta, then to the historic house to catch up on the last odds and ends that needed to be done.

Her mom and dad called; they were happy and healthy, always a good thing. She talked to Grandma Leighton and Becca, who had dinner with Kevin at a local restaurant. Her blog gained another few followers, and she worked some on the vintage recipe book. Another Howler column came out, with the recipe for the turkey roulettes and absolutely no mention of mallets of any kind. Eventually she would do an article on them, but right now they gave her the heebie-jeebies.

The first of December, the Monday after Thanksgiving, dawned with another day at the historic house for Jaymie. Dickens Days had officially started in Queensville, and they were having the soft opening of Queensville Historic Manor the next weekend, then a grand open house the week after. She needed to get the last few things done before then. She had little time and still much to do, including working on her costume. Mabel was making her a pinafore-style apron, which she would wear over an appropriate Depression-era dress as she busied herself in the kitchen. Bill Waterman had made the deal on the stove he had seen and was having the owner of the Junk Stops Here bring it in his truck.

It was freezing, and the house would not warm up, partly because people kept going in and out, leaving the door open half the time. Jaymie had on a ratty old sweater she kept in her van for emergencies, as well as baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, appropriate clothes for what she had been doing, rooting around in the junk left up in the attic.

The house was full of people and noise. Cynthia Turbridge was there, and she looked better. Jewel was keeping an eagle eye on her friend and accompanied her almost everywhere. Valetta had told Jaymie over Thanksgiving that, in an astonishing turn of events, Cynthia and Johnny Stanko were becoming friends. He was not the kind of guy Jaymie would have pictured with elegant Cynthia, but one never knew. He had proved to be more gentleman than the lout who’d attacked her, that was for sure. They could at least be sober buddies, as both had had their problems with alcohol.

While she waited for the stove, Jaymie stood in the middle of the black-and-white-tiled floor and looked around the kitchen of the Queensville Historic Manor. It was almost done. The green and cream color palette was a little chilly, but she would warm it up with the displays she had planned of kitchen implements and some vintage Christmas décor she just happened to own. She was using a lot of her own vintage kitchen tools, many of them red handled, to go with the Christmas theme they would be creating.

Bill said he figured he could have the stove hooked up and working that very day, if it all went smoothly. Jaymie hoped to wear her costume for the open house, baking Christmas cookies as folks toured. This would all help her move toward her goal of becoming a knowledgeable and locally well-known resource on vintage cooking and kitchens, part of her overall scheme of getting a cookbook published.

She heard a rumble outside and pulled open the kitchen curtains. A truck with a big side panel that proclaimed THE JUNK STOPS HERE pulled up the drive. Jaymie was so excited she jumped from foot to foot. It was probably the same excitement felt by a bygone housewife when a new stove was about to arrive. Bill was guiding the driver, and Jaymie opened the back door, taking a deep breath of frigid air as she stepped down to the step where Theo Carson had died. She had avoided this entrance lately, but she couldn’t keep doing that. Bill himself had pointed that out to her, saying there had been several folks who’d died in the house, but it didn’t mean those rooms were shut forever. It was a part of life, and even if Theo’s death was not natural, they had to keep going, and keep moving ahead.

She was just glad Bill didn’t say, Theo would have wanted it that way, because the historian’s death did not change the fact that he was self-centered and a bit of a jerk. He would have wanted a shrine at the door, she thought. That was perhaps unkind to think, but she was a realist. She felt very sorry for Mrs. Carson, but that woman had attained some peace, she said, by the capture of the culprits. She had turned over Theo’s research notebooks to the historical society—he had hidden them under the mattress in his room, so he and Isolde had probably even slept on them more than once—and headed back to Cleveland and, Jaymie hoped, the loving embrace of her family.

Bill jumped up into the truck and helped the proprietor unload the stove while Jaymie propped the door open with a box and made way, laying cardboard on her brand-new, era-appropriate tile floor. She danced back and forth, guiding, chattering and chuckling over the green and white beauty that would soon be operational. She paused to thank the proprietor of the Junk Stops Here and turned, looking up at him. Her breath caught in her throat. “Jakob!” she cried. “Jakob Müller!”

“Jaymie Leighton,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, but I didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances.”

Her feelings were doing somersaults and she was giddy, light-headed even. She stared up at him, the scruffy chin, the intelligent brown eyes, the thatch of thick, black hair, the flannel-clad arm that reached out to her. She took his offered hand and they stopped for a long moment, staring at each other, hands clasped. His was warm, and the warmth transferred to her; her cheeks flooded with heat. “I am so glad to see you,” she finally said, her voice husky, as she shook his hand. “I wanted to visit you, but I wasn’t sure… that is… how is Jocelyn? She wasn’t… upset by everything that happened, was she?”

“My little Jocie seemed to think it was some kind of joke,” he said with a frown, shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to tell her the truth, that we really were in danger.”

“No, best she think it was just a game.” Jaymie was at a loss for words, but her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. Everything lurched in her world, and she wished she had taken a little time over her appearance that morning, instead of just pulling her long hair up in a ponytail and donning her grubbiest clothes.

Bill Waterman cleared his throat. “If you let me at it, I can begin to hook the stove up, Jaymie.”

She moved aside, and Bill, with Jakob’s help, moved the stove into place. Bill hooked up the gas, and everyone gathered, including Cynthia, Jewel and the Snoop Sisters, to witness it working. Jaymie, her breath held, turned the knob, then lit it with a long match. It sprang to a flame and burned steady! She jumped up and down and clapped.

“It works! Oh, Bill, it works! You’re a genius.” She hugged him and he smiled.

“You really do like the old ways and the old stuff, huh?” Jakob said, watching her face.

“I do. I collect vintage kitchen stuff mostly, but anything old is cool! I noticed everything at your house and wished I had a chance to examine it all.”

“Yeah, I collect, too. It all has so much… I don’t know how to say it: heart? Meaning?”

“It’s like these things had a life before I got them,” Jaymie said, waving her hand toward the counter littered with vintage tools and baking sheets, colanders and even the mallets. “They can teach me more about the old days than any book, even though I love reading.”

He smiled at her. “I’ve always felt like I was born seventy years too late. Why don’t you come out sometime and check out my collection?” He paused and cleared his throat. “You know, Jocie talks about you. She told me she never did get a chance to show you all her pictures. And you could come to the store and see if there’s anything there for this house.”

“Or for my own collection,” Jaymie said, oddly breathless as she stared into his brown eyes.

“If you came back out to the cabin, though, you could get a Christmas tree. I sell them; just one of my businesses. But I’d like to give you one, a nice one.”

“I’d like that.”

Imogene Frump cleared her throat, but Mrs. Bellwood dug her in the ribs with her elbow. “Let’s leave these two to talk,” she said, taking Bill Waterman’s arm. “Now, Bill,” she said, tugging him toward the hall, “Imogene and I have been thinking of the Sultan’s Eye, you know, and we were wondering if there was a secret compartment in the wall. Jane was tricky, you know. Maybe you can tell us if anything looks unusual…”

They sauntered from the room, their words becoming indistinct. Cynthia caught Jaymie’s eye and winked, before heading out of the room with Jewel. Jaymie felt her cheeks color and burn even hotter, that old curse, the too-easy blushing, coming back in a flood.

“Do you want to go grab a coffee?” Jakob said, taking her hand again. “I’d love to talk some more. I’ve got some books at the store you might like, you know, old books with some mention of the Dumpe family, and the history of the house.”

“I’d like that,” she said, staring up into his eyes. “I’d like that very much.”

“I would, too,” he said, squeezing her hand. “It’s a date.”

FROM JAYMIE’S VINTAGE KITCHEN

Hello and Happy Holidays, whatever holiday you may be celebrating! If you’re like me, you always have lots more turkey left after Thanksgiving than you know what to do with. Of course I make soup with the carcass, but the white meat languishes after everyone is fed up with turkey sandwiches. In the fifties, thrifty cooks didn’t waste a morsel, and with larger families, they were looking for ways to make protein stretch. Too much chicken became Chicken a la King or Creamed Chicken on Toast, but what about turkey?

I found a great old Betty Crocker recipe and made a bunch of changes, so here is my adapted version of their turkey roulettes!

Turkey Roulettes

Adapted from a Betty Crocker recipe from the 1950s

DOUGH

2 cups sifted all-purpose flour

3 teaspoons double-acting baking powder (Note from Jaymie: I made twice, using regular baking powder once, and then double acting. I didn’t notice much difference, though the double acting baking powder may have made the roulettes a little more tender.)

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

4 tablespoons shortening

2⁄3–3⁄4 cup milk (enough to make soft dough)

FILLING

1^1⁄2–2 cups leftover turkey (or chicken), chopped into bite-sized pieces

2–3 tablespoons gravy

You could also use in the filling:

Poultry seasoning aka stuffing seasoning or rubbed sage

Some leftover cranberry sauce, if desired, thinned

Leftover vegetables, like corn or diced carrots, or some sautéed diced onions

1—Put oven on to preheat at 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

2—Sift flour, baking powder and salt together.

3—Cut in shortening using pastry blender or two knives until mixture looks like dry oatmeal.

4—Stir in milk until dough holds together, then knead very lightly on floured surface.

5—Roll the dough out until it makes a 9” × 18” rectangle.

6—Mix together turkey and gravy, then spread uniformly on the dough. If you want, you can drizzle some thinned cranberry sauce over it, or sprinkle some corn or other veggies or lightly sprinkle the whole with poultry seasoning. I’m not sure I’d do all of those things, but go for it if you want!

7—Roll up tightly, beginning at wide side. Seal well by pinching edge of dough into roll.

8—Cut into 12 slices, about 1½-inch thick, then arrange, cut side up, in well-greased pan, close together for roulettes with soft sides, or with spaces in between for roulettes with crusty sides. *Note: Mine didn’t spread as much as the photo from the recipe I used shows, so next time I think I will smoosh the rolls down in the pan a little before baking, just to make them spread out a little. I baked them apart, and the crust was a lovely golden brown.

9—Bake for 15–20 minutes. Serve with hot gravy, allowing at least 2 roulettes per serving.

This is essentially a tea biscuit or baking powder biscuit crust, so be sure the folks you are feeding like tea biscuits! I don’t really think of this as a dinner item, but I do think it is ideal for a luncheon with friends, or an afternoon get-together near Thanksgiving or Christmas. It would be awesome for a holiday pot luck!

Denver the Crabby Tabby told me that the filling was yummy, but asked why I wasted perfectly good turkey by putting it in something! Next time I’ll just give him some of the filling in a dish.

Hope you enjoy it!

So long for now from Jaymie’s Vintage Kitchen.

*Original recipe found on this vintage site: http://www.chronicallyvintage.com/2012/12/betty-crocker-delicious-vintage-recipe.html