Victoria Hamilton - Vintage Kitchen 04 - No Mallets Intended (12 page)

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

T
HE
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.