A Deadly Grind (12 page)

He nodded at her offer of tea; it was one of his charms, that he would drink tea, unlike most guys she knew who wrinkled their noses in disgust. “Y’know, I didn’t think you were being snarky yesterday,” he said, “when you made that comment to Heidi about princesses and servants.”

“You didn’t?” She got up and went in to put the kettle on.

“No,” he said, raising his voice so she could hear him. “Maybe other people don’t know you as well as I do, but I know it was just you putting your foot in your mouth. I explained it to Heidi, too. She didn’t get it at first. I don’t think she even realized it could have been construed as an insult.”

Jaymie poked her head back out and glared at Joel, who had stretched his legs out along the top step of the summer porch stairs. “Thanks so much for explaining to your new girlfriend that I insulted her but didn’t mean to.”

“She was bound to hear about it from someone,” he said, equably. “Better I explain it to her properly than let someone else, who would put an unkind spin on it.”

“Explain it to her? You are such a pompous jerk sometimes,” Jaymie said, eyeing him with surprise. “How did I never see that before?”

He smiled, the dimple in the corner of his mouth winking at her. “Smitten by my many charms?” He scruffed Hoppy under the chin and the little dog trembled with joy and whined.

“That must be it,” she rejoined, her tone dry. It was impossible to insult Joel Anderson, a trait she shared with him, as her feelings weren’t easily hurt either. Except by being dumped with no notice given. She went back as the kettle boiled and poured water over the Earl Grey tea leaves in her favorite Brown Betty teapot. Her hand was only shaking a little, and the urge to throw an ice pick at him had lessened with her realization that he was now inflicting his “wisdom” on Heidi, poor girl. What had she done to deserve that? Jaymie made up two cups and carried them out to the garden, slipping past Joel, down to the flagstone path. “I’ve made you some; you can drink it or not, as you like. I don’t know how you feel about Earl Grey. It seems to be a ‘love it’ or ‘hate it’ proposition.”

He sat down in the other Adirondack and accepted the cup. “I didn’t come here to argue. I came to thank you.”

“To
thank
me? For what?” Jaymie looked away; looking directly at him still hurt. Why, even now, when she didn’t think she would take him back if he wanted her, did it hurt? Maybe it was because she didn’t give herself away easily. She had committed body and soul to their relationship, but he up and left so quickly, and she still didn’t really know why. One day they were making love on a rainy Sunday afternoon, laughing and sharing intimate jokes, and literally the next day he was gone, to his new love.

How could anyone turn his emotions on and off that quickly? It still didn’t make sense to her, how he could make love to her and then leave the very next day. She read romance novels; she should have been prepared, she supposed. But she had thought Joel was the hero of her tale, not the heartless villain. She wanted to ask him why, and it seemed he wanted to explain, but something held her back; she didn’t think she could handle the truth, which she suspected was that he just didn’t love her like she loved him.

He frowned down into his cup. “I saw your face yesterday afternoon, when you made the decision to be kind to Heidi. I know you, Jaymsie,” he said, using his pet name for her, as he looked over to gaze steadily into her eyes. “I know it took a lot. You feel things deeply, and I should have known better than to leave you like I did, without giving you a chance to yell at me, or . . . or something.”

She breathed deeply, and said, “The
or something
being throwing an iron skillet at your head?” It was those moments, when he was being sincere, that he was most attractive, but she deflected lingering warm feelings with a dose of black humor.

Denver wandered out the open back door and down the lawn toward them, picking daintily through the rapidly growing grass. But unlike Hoppy, who was basking in the glow of Joel-love, the tabby took a sentinel position near Jaymie’s leg and glared a hole through Joel’s forehead in his determined cat manner.
You are dead to me, since you hurt Jaymie
, his penetrating green eyes seemed to say.

Joel hadn’t answered her sarcastic response; he just continued to massage the scarring where little Hoppy had lost a leg as a pup, before Jaymie had adopted him. She considered his words, sipping the fragrant brew, which she drank from a chipped china cup that she couldn’t bear to dispose of, since it was her grandma’s favorite.
Did
she feel things more deeply than others? She didn’t think so. Joel’s behavior would have been hurtful no matter who she was. She glanced at him as a thought occurred to her. Was he . . . no, it wasn’t possible. Was he
enjoying
the notion that he had the ability to hurt her so deeply?

The idea, once conceived, would not vanish. If it was true, it meant he really was a selfish jerk.
Was
it true? She mined all her intimate knowledge of Joel, and found nothing to contradict the idea. He did like the sound of his own voice and could be astonishingly self-involved, blind to the effect of his actions on others unless it somehow boosted his ego.

What the heck was it she had loved about the guy? That notion was the dash of icy water she needed to cool her warming feelings toward him.

Joel, perhaps sensing the unflattering direction of her thoughts, scuffed his feet in the grass, shifted uneasily, and said, “I see you’ve got that Hoosier cabinet you bought at the auction on the summer porch. You feeling okay after that guy was found dead?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m just peachy,” Jaymie said.
Her new grinder covered in blood
. She closed her eyes, willing herself to forget the image.

“Sorry,” Joel said, reaching out and touching her arm. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. Funny how those other two guys got in a fistfight over the Hoosier, though, at the auction.”

Jaymie’s curiosity was piqued, and she asked, “What did you see?”

“Well, first there was a scuffle, but that ended quickly. The two guys separated. I only got involved because one guy was yelling obscenities at Les Mackenzie. Really disrespectful. I poked one in the nose, when he pushed Heidi. Then before I knew it, two guys were hollering at each
other
and trading blows.”

“What did they look like?”

He shrugged. “You know me; I have lousy recall.”

“Oh, come on, Joel. You poked one in the nose and you can’t remember what he looks like?”

“Not too old, not too young, fairly well dressed. They broke it up and left, as far as I know. There was nothing outstanding about either of the guys, except the one I poked would have had a bloody nose!”

Jaymie pondered that for a moment, considering if it was possible that the fighting guys at the auction had something to do with the break-in. What were the chances? Probably slim. Some guys could fight over anything, and auctions brought out the competitive spirit in dealers and collectors. It wasn’t the first time a fistfight had broken out at an auction. “Did Heidi get a look at the guys fighting?”

“I don’t know. She might have. She’s more observant than I am.”

“Everyone seems to be more observant than you,” Jaymie responded.

“Well, one of them did shove her, the one I poked in the nose. I don’t know if he meant to push her, or if he was just trying to get at the other guy. I’ll ask her, if I think of it.” He gently set Hoppy down on the grass, put his cooling tea on the table between the chairs and stood, shaking dog fur off his jeans. “So, for future reference? Earl Grey, not for me. I’ve gotta go, and I know you’re busy for the rest of the day. I’ve got to leave on business today and . . . look . . .” He hesitated for a moment and stared down at Jaymie. “Can I ask you a big favor? Will you keep an eye on Heidi for me? She’s such an innocent, and she doesn’t really have any friends in Queensville. I don’t want anyone taking advantage of her, you know?”

Jaymie was dumbfounded; he wanted his ex-girlfriend to look after the current model, who was too young and innocent to fend for herself? In usual Joel fashion, he took her silence for acquiescence, leaned down to pet Denver, who hissed at him and turned his back, and then left with a quick wave, strolling down the stone pathway toward the back alley.

After he was out of sight, Jaymie shook her head. “Wow. Just . . . wow.”

But she didn’t have time to marvel, because as Joel drove away, a dark sedan pulled down her back lane, and from it emerged Detective Christian. She watched him enter her gate, carefully pull it closed behind him and stroll up the walk. How did he manage to look like a hero from a romance novel even with dark circles under his eyes and a grim set to his mouth?

And what could he possibly want?

Ten

“M
S. LEIGHTON,” HE said, as a greeting. “I’d like to have another look at your summer porch, if you don’t mind.”

Hoppy barked and danced around him in a wobbly pattern, while Denver hissed and slunk under the holly bushes.

“Sure, Detective,” Jaymie said, and led the way.

He hunched down in her summer porch, the floor creaking as he moved. She watched for a moment as he eyed the piece from different angles, then said, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and wondering not only who the guy is—”

“We know who he is now. Kind of.”

“Really?”

He looked up at her. “Lyle Stubbs came into the station and said that you left him a note to tell us about his missing guest, Lachlan McIntosh. Turns out his missing guest and the victim are one and the same. How did you know that?”

She felt a little thrill of nerves rush down her back, and she sat down on the top step of the summer porch. “I didn’t, but Dee Stubbs—Lyle’s sister-in-law and a friend of ours—mentioned at the tea yesterday that Lyle was supposed to go through his guest list and then talk to you, so when she mentioned that there was one guy missing, it made sense. If she’d said the same thing to anyone else they would have got it, too.”

He nodded, then went back to examining the legs of the Hoosier, then scanning the room and the door.

“What are you looking for?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, then shrugged. “Anything. I’m wondering if the killer was all the way up on the summer porch when he—or she—killed the victim, or whether they were still outside.”

“I’m assuming the murderer must have been up in the summer porch if they grabbed the grinder, wrenched it off the work top and hit the fellow with it.”

“That’s what we figure.”

“But why the grinder? Why not whatever was used to pry the hinges off the summer porch door?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

Frustrated, she continued. “Oh, I have a lot
more
questions, Detective. Why was he breaking into my house? Was he with anyone? Dee said the guy at the Inn had been gone a lot since he came to town; what’s he been doing since he got to Queensville?”

He looked up and a slight smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. “Want me to tell you everything I know?”

“That would be great!”

“Sure. I’d lose my job and taint the investigation, but what the hell, right?”

“Oh.” She sighed.

“What I want to know is, why your house? As you pointed out, the house on the other side of you is unoccupied right now, an easy target for a random thief. But this guy’s been in town for weeks, and as far as we know, hasn’t broken into any other place. What did he want from your house in particular? Did he get it, and his killer took it from him? That’s what we’re wondering.”

“I started wondering the same thing,” she said, and as he looked at her with a skeptical expression, she added, “No, really. I bought a lot of stuff at the auction the other evening, and I wondered if there was something in the Hoosier or one of the boxes. I’ve searched the Hoosier . . . nothing. I’ve looked through the boxes, but unless it’s something I’m just not recognizing, there’s nothing there. But I hadn’t thought that he may have found what he was looking for, and the killer took it from him.”

She examined his eyes, which held no clue of what he was thinking. “Look, I thought of something later that I maybe should have brought up before, but I didn’t even think of it in reference to the break-in and murder. I overheard a conversation at the sale that night about a valuable button. I bought a whole box of sewing stuff, including a bottle of buttons, out of curiosity. I looked at all the buttons, but can’t find a single one that looks valuable.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “If you still have the bottle, I should take it to the station and we’ll look through it, see if there’s anything ‘off’ about it.”

“Okay. Have you notified Mr. McIntosh’s relatives yet about his death? That must be the worst part of the job. Where is he from?”

“That, Ms. Leighton, is an excellent question,” the detective said, standing up. “He seems to be from nowhere. In fact, there is no Lachlan McIntosh, or at least, not one that is missing and fits the deceased’s description.”

“So it’s not his real name.” Another dead end! She rose, and said, “I’ll get you that bottle of buttons.”

She had to go up to the spare room to retrieve it, since that was where she kept sewing and craft supplies. As she passed her room she thought of the pavé pin on her dresser and fetched that, too. When she came back down, he was looking around her kitchen with an odd expression on his face.

As she handed him the bottle, he said, “If I had to guess, I would have imagined this room as the kitchen of an eighty-year-old woman.”

Her chin went up and she said, “I decorated it all myself. This is my collection.” She swept her arms around, indicating all the tins and bowls and kitchen implements. She paused for a moment, then said, “I’m a cookbook writer.” It was the first time she had said it out loud!

“I guess it makes sense, then, all this old stuff.”

And there she was again, feeling out of step and out of time with the world. No wonder she liked to read historical romances. “Detective Christian, there’s one more thing.” She held out her hand, palm flat, the pin in it. “I found this in my garden the day after the murder.”

He looked it over. “Could it have been there before the murder?”

“Sure. I suppose it could have been dropped there anytime in the last few weeks since I planted the holly bushes. I just thought . . .” She shrugged.

He took it and examined it, but then shook his head. “I’ll make a note of it,” he said. “But I don’t imagine it’s connected at all.” He strode down the walk, but turned halfway down, walking backward, the buttons rattling around in the bottle. “I’ll have someone drop off a receipt for this. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll get this guy, whoever he is.”

“Is there going to be a police car out back again tonight?” she called out, wrapping her arms around herself and hugging.

“We can’t do it forever, but I’ll make sure there is, at least for tonight.”

Jaymie returned inside and glanced at the clock in the kitchen. After two unexpected visitors, she was going to be late if she didn’t hustle. Today the tea would be busier than ever, since they had a couple hundred Canadian tourists—they would be bussed to Johnsonville, on the Canadian side of the river, then come over by ferry—scheduled. It might be a long, busy afternoon if the Heritage Society was lucky.

The Heritage Society
was very lucky indeed! The weather was perfect, even better than the day before, and the ferry made extra runs to carry all the eager, elderly Canadians, busloads of geriatric tea drinkers and staunch royalists fascinated by an American town’s take on high tea. It required everyone’s attention and quick moving to keep a watch and aid those who were using rollator walkers over the rough grass. Daniel was especially helpful, and Jaymie noted his thoughtfulness with appreciation. If she was looking for the polar opposite to Joel, she may have found him.

The Queen’s Tea was not the only popular spot, because once they had tea, and while they were waiting for the ferry back, people strolled through the village and checked out Jewel’s Junk, Queensville Gems, and the Knit Knack Shack. The “Shack,” a posh parlor in one of the ubiquitous Queen Anne mansions along Main Street, sold wool and patterns for knitters, the ideal pastime for many the age of the tea drinkers, but also for the younger crowd among whom knitting and other handcrafts were becoming popular. Jaymie did not knit, but she did frequent Jewel’s Junk. It was a shop that specialized in “repurposed” vintage finds; Jaymie recommended it for those not knitting- or jewelry-inclined.

Anna and Tabby attended, and Jaymie was pleased to see her friend looking a little more cheerful, as many of the old folks fussed over her beautiful daughter. Tabby preened and fluttered her wings, dancing around the tables like a tiny fairy among a party of elderly gnomes. As the day wore on and the tea organizers began to run out of some of the most requested delicacies, like Tansy’s tarts, Jaymie found herself serving more and more thin wedges of her Queen Elizabeth cake. It was a surprising hit, especially with the older Canadian women who found butter tarts and Battenberg cake too sweet.

“You, girl!” one called out, waving to her.

Jaymie came over, teapot at the ready. These women could drink gallons of plain black tea, and demanded infinite refills, so that was what she expected, but she was in for a surprise.

“That girl,” she said, pointing over at Heidi, “said you made this Queen Elizabeth cake.”

“I did,” Jaymie said, sketching a wave at Heidi, who bounced in her chair, grinned and waved back.

“This, my dear, is the real deal, as you young people say,” she said, waving her fork in the air. “It’s delicious! Moist, full of flavor . . . wonderful.”

Just that moment a wandering reporter, who had come over with the latest group from Johnsonville looking for colorful Victoria Day photos, paused and listened in as the woman praised Jaymie’s accurate rendition of the old recipe.

“Hey, can I take some photos?” he asked, eyeing her. He was armed with an intimidating-looking camera and various camera bags over his shoulders, but appeared cheerful and had an engaging smile. “You look like the most authentically dressed maid here, and your cake is a good angle.” He then interviewed both the tea drinkers and Jaymie—which she actually enjoyed, oddly enough—and asked for her phone number “to check on details later,” he said.

When he walked away, the elderly ladies exchanged looks. “You have a new suitor, it seems,” one of them, with a distinct English accent, said.

Of course Jaymie blushed—curses on her too-easily embarrassed physiology—then said, “Oh no, he was just being nice!”

“It was more than being nice, my dear,” the original lady said. She nodded past Jaymie and added, “and I think that young man was not too pleased about the reporter’s interest. You have more than one anxious beau!”

Jaymie glanced in the direction the woman was looking and saw Daniel just turning away. If he truly was interested in her, he was being low-key about it, but that was okay. Jaymie wasn’t sure how ready she was for dating and men, since she was just beginning to come to terms with Joel’s desertion.

The couple that Jaymie recognized from the Queensville Inn took a seat at one of the empty tables, and Jaymie went to serve them. Once they had given their order, she said, “I’m glad you came today! Did you find anything interesting at the auction Friday evening?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” the man said. When he smiled, it creased his seamed cheeks into friendly lines. He was faultlessly dressed in brown tweed dress slacks and a butter-yellow Oxford-style shirt, and had a sweater slung casually over his shoulders. “We went there thinking there were to be antiques, but we ended up acquiring an oil painting that may be an unknown Cropsey. If so, it is a most fortuitous find!”

Jaymie looked at him, and wondered. Should she have heard of Cropsey?

“Jasper Francis Cropsey,” the woman explained, watching Jaymie’s face. She had a low pleasant voice, throaty, a “whiskey” voice, Jaymie’s grandmother always called it. “He spent some time in Ann Arbor, a painter from the Hudson River School.”

“Of course,
that
Cropsey,” Jaymie said, and rushed off to get their tea and treats. She canvassed DeeDee and some of the others, but they had never heard of Cropsey either, so she didn’t feel so bad. When she returned to the couple to offer a plate of goodies, they introduced themselves as Lynn and Nathan Foster. She didn’t mention that, as it was a small town, she already knew their names.

But she did remind them that she had been the one who suggested the tea to them, the day before, which they acknowledged, thanking her. “I hope you’re enjoying your time in Queensville?” Jaymie said, moving from one foot to another. It was late in the afternoon, and the black shoes were beginning to pinch again.

“It is a delightful village,” Nathan said, beaming with gentle good humor. “We’ve extended our visit here indefinitely. Quite the relief after some of the tourist traps, you know, places that have no real interest, but are built around some spurious claim to fame.”

“Queensville has no claim to fame at all,” Jaymie deadpanned, then told them if there was anything else they wanted, to let her know.

“By the way, what did
you
buy at the auction?” Lynn Foster asked, with a polite air of interest. She was what would be called a handsome woman, fortyish, dark hair pulled back into a chignon, and wearing a gorgeous gray suit—Chanel, or something like it—with a sparkly pin on the lapel.

“I bought a lot,” Jaymie admitted, shifting her tea tray to her hip. “A box of kitchen stuff, cookbooks, a box of sewing stuff with a bottle of old buttons in it and a Hoosier cabinet.”

“Buttons?” Lynn glanced over at her husband. “What kind of buttons?”

Nonplussed, Jaymie paused, then said, “Uh, sewing buttons.” What other kind of buttons were there?

“A Hoosier? I know what that is!” Nathan Foster said. “It’s a type of kitchen cabinet, is it not?” As Jaymie nodded, he went on, “In fact, I think my grandmother had one at the old farmhouse. You know, the old homestead in upstate New York,” he said to his wife, who nodded, but appeared to have lost interest in the conversation.

Jaymie moved on to serve others. Another couple of hours and she’d be done. As she served and chatted and cleared, she noticed Detective Christian circulating among the tables and glancing around. She turned away; all she needed to be completely humiliated was for the elegant detective to see her in her awful maid’s outfit. His comments in her kitchen about it being the room of an eighty-year-old wasn’t the first time she had felt out of step with the world. Joel had always said she was a homespun girl in a polyester society, but sometimes Jaymie wished she were a little more like the effortlessly elegant Heidi.

After another half hour, she saw that Nathan Foster was alone at his table reading a book. That was not the point of the tea; they were not Starbucks, for crying out loud! She approached and asked if he was done with his tea. He nodded absently and went on reading as she cleared his dirty cup, saucer and cake plate.