A Deadly Grind (11 page)

The identity of the murdered man was nagging at her. He must have family somewhere, friends, relations, people who were worried because they hadn’t heard from him. Even if he had been trying to rob her, he was dead now. If they could just learn who he was, that would help figure out why he had been in her home, and why someone had wanted him dead. She shivered, but strode on through the sunshine toward the Inn.

The Queensville Inn had started life as another of the town’s Queen Anne houses, but had been expanded into an inn, with a long, modern, two-story addition that ran along Philmore Avenue. Lyle Stubbs, the current owner, had bought it seven years before when he’d retired from life in Detroit as a broker and financial advisor. Local pundits joked that he went from making money hand over fist to throwing it away in the same fashion. Running an inn in a Michigan village was no way to get rich, but the proximity to lots of amenities meant that he at least broke even most years.

Jaymie knew the Inn well, since she had worked there summers when she was in high school, but Lyle had changed it a lot. She went in the front door and approached the desk, which fronted the office; Lyle’s new lady friend, Edith, a fifty-something hairdresser from Ohio who he had met on the Internet, came out of the office and up to the desk.

“Now don’t you just look as cute as a button!” she said, cocking her head sideways. “That outfit is very neat!”

Jaymie grimaced, then caught herself. It was time to stop being so self-effacing. If people wanted to compliment her, she’d have to learn how to take it graciously for a change. “Thanks, Edith. I just came from the tea with some treats for Mrs. Stubbs. Is she awake?”

“Aw, that’s so nice of you! Sure, go on back,” the woman said, with a friendly smile. “You know the way? Past our place?”

“I do.” She went down the hall to the left of the office and looked around. It had been a while since she’d been there, but at least the hallways had not changed, beyond being repainted to a more neutral tan from the ironically water-stained aqua they had been. Maybe she should have gotten the room number, though, because she was starting to wonder if she knew which room was Mrs. Stubbs’s.

Ah, but there was the manager/owner’s suite, and just beyond that was Mrs. Stubbs’s room, number 107. She tapped lightly on the door and heard a faint “Come in.”

“Mrs. Stubbs?” She pushed open the door and entered.

The woman sat in a motorized wheelchair in the sunny window on the far side of the room. She had a large-print murder mystery on her lap; as Jaymie approached she could see that it was an Agatha Raisin mystery by M. C. Beaton.

“Hello, Mrs. Stubbs. Do you remember me?”

The woman squinted through her bifocals and furrowed her brow. “Even in that awful outfit I know you. You’re Alan and Joy’s youngest girl. Don’t look a bit like either of them.”

Mrs. Stubbs, she knew, was over ninety, and had a devoted servant in her oldest son, Lyle. Some whispered that was why he had never been able to sustain a long relationship: “Mother” demanded all his time. Years ago people had called her rude and overbearing, but now that she was so old, folks called her feisty and strong-willed. “How are you doing?” Jaymie perched unbidden on the edge of the nearby hospital-type bed to bring herself down to eye level for the woman.

“Well as can be expected. No one comes near me anymore. Might as well be dead, I suppose, the way folks forget I’m even here.”

“But the church ladies visit, and the Reverend Gillis, and the Heritage Society ladies, and—”

“I don’t need a list,” she said sharply. “Maybe it just seems like no one,” she admitted, staring out the window. “Used to be, if I wanted to see someone I could just go, walk anywhere. Went along to the farm market, or to see friends. I went over on the ferry to Johnsonville every week. Haven’t been over there in two years.”

Jaymie glimpsed a yawning cavern of loneliness in the old woman that touched her heart. And yet Mrs. Stubbs had created some of it herself. DeeDee confessed that she spent as little time with her mother-in-law as she had to because of the woman’s constant criticism. She was outspoken and hurt people’s feelings sometimes with her bluntness. But Jaymie couldn’t help but feel for the once-independent woman now reduced to dependence on the goodwill of relatives, neighbors and those paid to help her bathe, dress, eat and sleep. “Have you asked if anyone can accompany you over to Johnsonville? The ferry ought to be able to accommodate a motorized wheelchair.”

“I ask enough of Lyle, and he’s the only one who would do it.”

Jaymie didn’t reply but was determined to either help the woman go over to Johnsonville one day or find someone else who wouldn’t mind doing it. Mrs. Stubbs had been a faithful congregant of the Queensville Methodist Church, and surely the church ladies would help. Or Trip Findley; he was every lady’s choice escort in the village both for his charming manners and his sprightly goodwill.

“How is your grandmother doing?” Mrs. Stubbs asked.

“She’s good. I was there just a couple of weeks ago, and we went out to lunch and shopping. She’s using a cane these days, but still not doing too badly.”

“Well, she’s just a youngster. I remember looking after her and her younger brother when she was little Lucy Armitage, in braids. Mischievous little imp.”

Jaymie smiled, saving that tidbit to tease her grandma with. A mischievous imp in braids! Mrs. Stubbs was not that much older than her grandmother, but when you’re in your teens any age difference seems vast. Time had flowed on, but not Mrs. Stubbs’s perception of little Lucy Armitage, she guessed. “We knew you had never missed the Queen’s Tea before,” she said, presenting the plastic container. “We can’t make up for that, but DeeDee sent me over with some of the treats we’re serving this year.”

The book slid, forgotten, from the old woman’s lap as she reached for the treats. She awkwardly pulled the lid off with gnarled, arthritic fingers and surveyed the contents. “One of Tansy Woodrow’s tarts,” she sighed in happi-
ness. “That child can bake! Always could. And some Battenberg . . . looks a little dry. And what’s this?” she asked, poking one knobby finger at a slice of cake.

“That’s my own rendition of Queen Elizabeth cake, Mrs. Stubbs,” Jaymie said, picking the book up off the plush maroon carpet and putting it on the nightstand. “I’d be interested in your opinion. I found the recipe in an old cookbook, but I’m not sure it turned out right.”

The woman broke off a piece, popped it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. She nodded. “About right, young lady. A little dry; let the dates soften longer next time. But not bad. Takes me back. Your grandmother must be proud of you! Most girls your age are too busy bed-hopping and taking drugs to cook!”

Jaymie bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Actually, cooking and home arts are making a comeback. Most of us—people my age—just want a good life, and some of that includes remembering the best things about the past.” It sounded a little stilted, but it was true.

At Mrs. Stubbs’s bidding, Jaymie made her a cup of tea at the little kitchenette counter along the far wall and brought it over to wash down the treats. Surprisingly, Jaymie found a kind of soul mate in Mrs. Stubbs, a kindred spirit. The old woman was able to fill her in on how some of the cookware from previous generations was used, and what some mysterious cooking terms from old recipes meant. Her grandmother had been able to tell her much, helping with the progress of
Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen
, but Mrs. Stubbs was older, even, and knew things from
her
grandmother that would truly help with old pre–World War I recipes. Jaymie checked her antique watch pin and found she’d been there almost an hour. “Mrs. Stubbs, if I have questions in future, can I come to you?”

“Just as long as you don’t come when I’m napping, after dinner. Woman my age . . . it’s not good to be woken up suddenly.” She smiled, a wry crinkling grin that rucked wrinkles around her mouth.

“I’ve got to go,” Jaymie said, standing. “Enjoy the treats, and I’ll come back for the container later tomorrow or Tuesday.”

Mrs. Stubbs chewed on another piece of Queen Elizabeth cake. “You can try out your old recipes on me, too. I miss good home cooking.”

Jaymie left knowing that, though she had known Mrs. Stubbs her whole life, now she had made a friend. The woman’s bluntness didn’t hurt her feelings—she had told Jaymie that she looked plain and frumpy in her maid’s outfit—and in return she felt just fine about saying no to the old woman’s excessive requests. Mrs. Stubbs had wanted her to come by the very next morning to pick up the container, but Jaymie knew she’d be too busy.

The woman was full of complaints, it was true. Living in an inn meant she never got home cooking, she had no private patio, she couldn’t garden because a landscaper took care of everything and the people upstairs were often noisy. Lyle purposely put the noisiest guests directly above her, just to spite her, Mrs. Stubbs said, then admitted she knew it wasn’t true. Lyle did his best, but he was busy.

Jaymie made her way along the passage to the main desk, wondering about the fellow who was missing from the Inn, last name McIntosh. Common enough name, she supposed, but was he related in any way to Daniel’s friend Zell McIntosh?

“Edith, may I ask you a question?” Jaymie asked, pausing at the desk.

“’Bout what?”

“You have a guest, last name McIntosh . . . is he back in yet?”

“Lachlan McIntosh? Mmm, lemme see . . .”

The door opened and a couple came in as Jaymie waited. She recognized them. It was the pair from the estate auction, the Fosters; they had bought a painting but nothing else.

“I just can’t imagine where it went,” the woman said to her husband, adjusting the binoculars slung around her neck. “I can’t have just dropped it somewhere.”

“Stop fussing, Lynn,” the man said.

“Easy for you to say!”

Both stared at her in her maid’s uniform as they approached the desk. She must seem like a ghost from the Inn’s past life as a Victorian mansion. She smiled, and the man smiled back and nodded.

“I’m one of the servers at the Queensville Tea with the Queen,” Jaymie offered. “It’s an annual event to raise money for the heritage committee. We’re continuing tomorrow afternoon, the Canadian Victoria Day holiday; are you coming out for tea?”

“We hadn’t heard about it,” the gentleman admitted. He asked for any messages for room 207. Edith rustled around and said there were no messages. “Would you like to go to this tea, Lynn?” he asked his wife.

She shrugged, shifting her black suit jacket from one arm to the other. “If you want to, darling. We don’t have anything planned, I don’t think, until Tuesday.”

Jaymie plucked a pamphlet from the stack on the desk and handed it to them.

As the couple moved away toward the stairs, Edith said to Jaymie, “Found him, that McIntosh fellow you’re looking for! He’s still out, but it’s only been a couple of days. He’s been gone for a week at a time before, since he’s been staying here.”

“When did he arrive?”

Edith squinted at her. “You got a reason for asking? I think I’d better let Lyle answer your questions.”

“It’s not important,” Jaymie said. Her feet were now killing her and she wanted flip-flops or, better yet, slippers. “I need to leave a message for Lyle; can I have a pen and some paper?”

As she wrote a note to Lyle, telling him to check in with police about his missing guest right away, Edith grilled her about the murder and gasped in ecstatic horror at the few details Jaymie was willing to share. She had already been through the tale a dozen times.

“Just like a Stephen King movie, or something.”

“Except no giant rats or killer mists,” Jaymie joked. “Edith, it’s important that Lyle get this message right away when he gets in,” she said, waving the message paper around. “His missing guest might be my dead guy.”

That was the best tactic she could have used to make sure Edith passed her note along to Lyle. Her eyes widened until they were round, white showing all the way around her blue irises. “Really? I’ll make sure he gets this note right away.”

Jaymie turned and saw a shadow move on the stairs, but her jumpiness was unwarranted. It was just the woman from the older couple coming back down the stairs. She was now wearing the suit jacket of unrelieved black, its severity suiting her forbidding expression, and had left behind the binoculars. She ignored Jaymie, sailing right past her, heading toward the coffee shop, through the glass doors off the foyer.

“Bye, Edith; make sure Lyle gets that note,” Jaymie said, then rustled out of the Inn.

It was a
short walk, and her beloved home welcomed her. She still checked the whole house the moment she got in to make sure there were no intruders, but hopefully, in time, the horror of the night of the murder would ease. It would help if they found the murderer. She let Hoppy out, changed into shorts and a tank top, and sat out in the garden for a while, with Denver slinking under her chair to glare out at the world.

It had been an exhausting couple of days, she thought, staring up the lawn at her summer porch. She had kept busy, avoiding thinking about the grim occurrence on her property. She suspected Becca had been handling it by being busy, too, with DeeDee and other friends. But that wouldn’t do for Jaymie. She lived in their beautiful old family home, and had to make her peace with the brutal occurrence. She’d give herself a free pass tonight, but tomorrow she would tackle the boxes from the auction and try to regain her excitement over the goodies she had purchased, the Pyrex and cookbooks.

But tonight she had a hot date lined up; three loads of laundry and her Mary Balogh romance novel.

Nine

J
AYMIE PEEKED OUT her back window before turning off her light for the night, and saw a police car sitting behind the house in the back alley. From her window she could see Trip Findley wander down his backyard, his motion detector light going on as he did so; he exited through his wooden gate, then leaned into the police car to talk to the officer. Jaymie had a much better night’s sleep and awoke refreshed.

It was another beautiful morning, an excellent harbinger for day two of the Tea. Jaymie took a steaming cup of coffee to the officer in the car, a young African-American woman this morning. The officer, Bernice Jenkins, thanked her, and Jaymie told her just to leave the empty mug by the back gate.

Jaymie bathed and slipped on fresh clothes. Letting Becca sleep, she retrieved the pavé pin she had found in her garden from her jewel box and slipped next door, down the back walk and through the gate—the officer had left by then, and the coffee cup was in the grass by the wrought-iron fence—to the bed-and-breakfast. Anna was sitting with a cold cup of coffee, head in her arms, weeping, when Jaymie came in.

“What’s wrong?” Jaymie asked, sitting down beside her friend.

Anna looked up. “I just don’t know if this is right,” she said, tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. Clive has to go back to Toronto today, and Tabby misses him
so
much when he’s gone all week, and . . . and I miss him, too!” She choked back a sob.

Jaymie got her a paper towel to blot the tears. “But you knew it was going to be like this when you bought the place, didn’t you?” she asked, trying to understand how Anna could be so unprepared for that aspect of her new life. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down.

Tears drying, Anna gazed down into her coffee cup and sighed. “Clive works long hours. Sometimes he doesn’t get home from the office until eleven or so. I just thought being separated all week would be no big deal, but . . . but I miscalculated. You know, when we lived together in Toronto, even if he got home at eleven, at least we had those night hours together, and breakfast in the morning.”

Jaymie nodded, finally getting it. You don’t know what you’ve got until you don’t have it anymore. Those few precious hours every day had been underestimated. “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

Anna shrugged. She turned her coffee cup around and around, sloshing a little over the edge. “Stick it out, I guess. We’ve sunk a lot of money into this, including my inheritance from my grandfather. And I made a commitment.”

Clive entered then, and sweeping her red curls back, dropped a kiss on his wife’s forehead. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down with them.

He was a handsome man, Jaymie reflected, examining his dark, smooth skin and chocolate eyes. But there was something more that made him attractive, beyond even his good looks, the faint Jamaican accent that flavored his speech and his elegant manners. He was attentive to Anna, even after several years of marriage, and demonstrated an unwavering support for her venture. How would he feel if he knew Anna was having doubts?

Which reminded Jaymie that the couple didn’t have much more time together before Clive had to go back to Toronto. It was a holiday Monday for Canadians, but he had a border crossing and a long drive ahead of him, so Jaymie should leave them alone. She jumped up, turned on the oven and scooped some of her premade Morning Glory muffin batter into a muffin tin. “Pop these in the oven once it’s preheated, Anna,” she said. “I’d better get moving.” She tossed the remnants of her coffee down the drain and put her mug in the dishwasher. “Did Tabby enjoy the tea yesterday?”

“Completely!” Clive said, as his wife set a cup of steaming coffee down in front of him. “We took photos of her against that hedge of white flowered shrubs, wearing her fairy wings.”

“And today she wants to come back again,” Anna said. She glanced down at Clive, her hand on his shoulder. “I told her maybe. If you’re leaving early, it might distract her from that.”

He put one hand over hers, and said, “You
know
I have to go on the early ferry. I’ve got an eight a.m. meeting tomorrow morning and I still have work to do to prepare.”

“The tea it is, then!” Anna said with a bright and fake smile. “Tabby and I will see you later,” she said to Jaymie.

“All right, I’m off. One thing, though,” Jaymie said, pulling the pin out of her pocket. “Did either of you lose this in my yard?” She handed it to Anna.

The young woman looked it over and shook her head in the negative. “What is it? An earring?”

“No, it’s a pin of some sort, like a tack pin, or a tiepin.”

Clive shook his head, too. “Not mine! I don’t go for jewelry, except this,” he said, moving his wedding ring around his finger. “It looks real, though, and valuable.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Jaymie said, watching how the diamonds sparkled in the morning sunlight.

She returned home
and found a note from Becca; her sister had gone with Dee to pick up some junk left over from local garage sales. They’d spend the rest of the morning sorting through it for saleable gems. Dee’s online business had grown, so she needed a constant stream of new sixties and seventies kitsch. Jaymie knew Dee would keep her in mind if she found anything kitchen related.

Since they had been a relative success the day before, Jaymie baked a couple more Queen Elizabeth cakes and set them to cool on the counter. But she couldn’t avoid forever facing the bad associations she was beginning to have with the summer porch and the items she had bought at the auction. The poor man’s death, while awful and violent, would not keep her from living fully in the home she loved so much.

If only the weapon hadn’t been the grinder! Even if she got it back, would she ever be able to look at it again without remembering?

She took a deep breath and opened the door to the summer porch. Hoppy heard and scooted after her, awkwardly bobbing through the repaired back door, as Jaymie held it open for him. She turned and examined the sunny room. Luckily, the rag rug had sopped up most of the spillage from the deceased, and DeeDee had done such a good job of cleaning the rest that not a bit of the blood was left.

Who
was
the murdered man? What had he wanted in her home? Who had killed him? Those questions plagued her, but she would face them without fear. She was strong, she was capable; that was her mantra, and she repeated it as she surveyed the porch. It stretched the width of the house, with a wicker sofa and chairs beyond the Hoosier cabinet on the one side, and tables with wintered-over plants at the other end; scarlet geraniums thrived through the winter in the cool shelter of the summer porch.

She moved the boxes aside and examined the Hoosier cabinet. Could there be something inside of it that the dead guy had been looking for? The detective had said there were fingerprints on the Hoosier, but then there were fingerprints on everything, he admitted. She tugged on the tambour rolltop door, but it still would not budge. There was no way there could be something hidden in there that the thief would have wanted. That tambour had not been opened for many a year, so she didn’t even know yet if the cabinet had its original sets of glass jars and rolling pin.

She opened the cupboards again, and the drawers, searching for something, anything, that would explain the murder. Nothing in them. Not a
thing
. She even pulled the stuck flour sifter bin forward to peer down into it, but there was nothing in that, either. Tearing apart and cleaning the Hoosier would have to wait for another day, when she had more time. She should at least go through the boxes of things she had successfully bid on, the cookbooks, vintage Pyrex, and sewing odds and ends.

Sewing. Buttons. She stood, staring down at the boxes, her mouth open as the conversation she had overheard came back to her. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Those two people at the auction were concerned about a valuable button. Could a button be valuable enough to risk breaking into her home to steal? That didn’t make a bit of sense, not when she had gotten the sewing stuff for fifteen bucks, but it was worth a try. She pulled the sewing box off the Hoosier and sat cross-legged on the floor with the back door open, warm spring air wafting the scent of fresh cut grass from a neighbor’s yard over her.

She pulled open the cardboard flaps and sorted through the box. There were cards of rickrack trim, lace, bobbins and spools of thread, the old wooden kind. There were a couple of old patterns, cards of metal snaps, a few random zippers and some plastic cases of sewing machine needles, along with an old tomato-shaped pincushion. But among it all was a large Mason jar full of buttons; she spilled the contents into a tea towel across her lap. The buttons were vintage, no doubt about that; a few looked like they might be Bakelite, some were most definitely mother-of-pearl, but nothing caught her eye as being particularly valuable. There wasn’t a single one she could even suspect of being diamond or some other jewel, and none that looked older than the turn of the last century.

But would she know a valuable button if she saw it? Sometimes, in the vintage and antique business, the ugliest old cast-iron toy or a dirty woodworking tool could be worth more than a pristine piece of Depression-era glass. An unschooled eye might never catch the worth of something in the esoteric world of antique junk.

Information was power, so she took the best ones and went to her computer, upstairs in the spare room—that was where
Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen
had been born—and Googled “valuable buttons.” She found out there actually was a national button society for collectors, and loads of useful information, but frankly, none of the buttons she had seemed of particular value. Even the so-called pearl buttons—mother-of-pearl, of course—were worth only a buck or two each. She shut down the computer and went back downstairs to rummage through the rest of the box of oddments to see if there were any political campaign buttons, which apparently could be even more valuable than sewing buttons, but came up empty-handed.

Stymied at last, she decided to stow the whole box of sewing items up in the craft room and move on to take care of the rest of the items. The cookbooks were easy; she carried the whole lot to her cookbook shelf in the kitchen, a small wire shelf that had once been a display unit in a store. There just wasn’t enough room, so she had to find a new way to stack them, and place a few more above on top of the cupboards. Sooner or later she was going to have to winnow the wheat from the chaff and get rid of some, but that would be after the Queen’s Tea, when she had more time to really look through them.

Rummaging through the box of vintage Pyrex and other cookware was pure joy. She carried the box into the kitchen and opened it up. Luckily, it had not been disturbed in the break-in, so the items were as they had been left two nights before. Jaymie had done a little research, as her appreciation for vintage cookware grew to obsession, and knew that the ingenious wife of a Corning Glass Works engineer, who asked her hubby to bring home a dish made of the heat-resistant glass the company was working on, was in a sense the mother of the casserole dishes, mixing bowls and refrigerator dishes that would become the ultimate in modern convenience. Recognizing a growing market, Corning Glass Works began manufacturing a line of mixing bowls and glass containers to store leftovers in the icebox.

The first refrigerator dishes, in primary colors to match the mixing bowl sets, had glass lids and came in a set of three sizes: a large one that many mistook for a casserole dish, a medium one that looked about the right size for a pound of butter, and two smaller ones. Jaymie already had a couple, but there was always room for more. She spread the goodies out on the trestle table and examined her treasure trove. There were a couple of the small red refrigerator dishes—only one had its lid, but the finish was in remarkably good condition, better than what she had—and one of the medium blue ones. She now only needed the largest yellow one and some glass lids to complete a set.

One could buy a complete set online, but a lot of the fun in collecting, for Jaymie, was in finding lonely pieces for next to nothing and creating a complete, valuable set. That was how she had built her Primary Colors Pyrex bowl collection, one piece at a time. She frowned as she examined her treasure. The lid of the red dish was unlike the one she already had, the grooves differently spaced. She’d have to research that later. Perhaps the company had varied the design over the years.

The rest of the box contents consisted of some canning utensils, knives, old mason jars, canning rings and one large, clear glass Pyrex mixing bowl, too modern to be interesting to Jaymie. She’d foist that off on someone else, probably Anna. She took the box back to the summer porch and sat on a stool to sort through the utensils, deciding which to keep and which to pass on. Hoppy—in the backyard, of course—started barking, and a male voice called out her name. Her heart started thudding erratically, but it was just Joel coming up the stone walk from the back lane.

“Geez, Joel,” she said, one hand over her heart, “you scared the bejeebers out of me!”

“Only you, of all the girls your age, would use the word
bejeebers
,” he said, smiling as he came up the two steps and sat down at the top. Hoppy had followed him and jumped into his jean-clad lap, gazing up at him adoringly. The breakup had almost been harder on Hoppy than Jaymie. The little dog loved Joel so much.

“I get it, I get it . . . I’m just an old-fashioned gal.” She said it with what she hoped was no rancor, while wondering what had made him show up on her doorstep. He hadn’t set foot on her property since he’d left on a cold, rainy December day.

“It’s a charming kind of anachronistic quirk, that’s all.”

As her heart slowed back down to normal, she finished what she was doing, then looked up to find him regarding her solemnly.

“What?”

“I never apologized or explained, did I?” he said.

He thought of that more than six months after walking out? Six
months
? She said, “Do you want coffee or tea? I was just about to make some Earl Grey, and then I have to get moving for the Queen’s Tea. It takes a while to climb into that hideous maid’s outfit.”