A Deadly Grind (5 page)

The deep porcelain sink, a molded piece complete with porcelain backsplash, was topped by a window that opened onto the summer porch and overlooked the lawn through the big windows that lined the porch. She always left the dim light on over the sink. She finished her tea, rinsed the mug out and put it on the drain board with the other dishes, then drew the curtains, a tatty lace café-style set that was out of keeping with the vintage kitchen. She intended to replace them this summer, so maybe the vintage trims in the box of sewing oddments would come in handy after all.

Time for bed. She climbed the stairs, followed by Hoppy and the silently reappearing Denver, and stopped at Becca’s bedroom door, still the same room she had inhabited as a girl, though the décor had changed. It was now clean and simple, Becca’s preference. She disliked fuss and had a modern sensibility, so the room was decorated in white and ice blue, her childhood furniture painted with a stark white melamine. It was the opposite of Jaymie’s room, which was painted in warm butter-yellow and with an antique iron-frame bed covered with a quilt handmade by Mrs. Bellwood. Jaymie had won it in a church raffle and treasured it as a piece of local history.

Becca looked up from the box of Royal Crown Derby Old Imari dishes. “Aren’t these gorgeous?” she crooned, her voice hushed with reverence.

Jaymie joined her, sitting cross-legged on the bare wood floor and taking a dinner plate in her hands. Old Imari is gaudy, rich reds and blues ornamented by gold trim in an elaborate formal design; surprising that Becca liked it so much. Jaymie turned it over.

“Careful,
careful
!” Becca cried. “That plate is worth a few hundred dollars.”

“Wow. Not my taste, but it’s nice stuff.”

Becca shook her head and took the plate back. “Nice?
Nice?
I just can’t understand why you get so enthused about a box of old Pyrex and melamine dishes and a cocoa tin from 1938, but aren’t crazy about something as fabulous as this!”

Jaymie shrugged and struggled up off the floor. “To each his own, I guess. I love all the stuff that housewives used, and the cookbooks. It feels like real life to me. I imagine the hands of the woman who used them, how she pored over the cookbooks, carefully washed her Pyrex, handed out quick meals to her kids on melamine plates.” She hesitated, but then plunged ahead, saying, “Becca, I’ve written a cookbook.”

“You’ve what?”

Now she had her sister’s undivided attention. Becca’s eyes were round with wonder. “Grandma Leighton’s old cookbooks were up in the attic, and I brought a bunch of them down last winter. I started looking through them and just loved the recipes. I asked her about them, and she said they were family recipes passed down. So . . . I started compiling them, altering them for the modern kitchen, and some worked really well. Remember her buttermilk biscuits? And her sage and sausage stuffing?”

Becca regarded her with interest, staring up at her younger sister in the dim light. “How did I not know this? Why the secrecy?”

Jaymie shook her head. How could she remind Becca of the number of times she had ridiculed “little sister’s” ideas? Jaymie had learned to flesh things out and have a solid plan before telling Becca anything. In a way that had been a valuable tool, forcing her to become more critical of her own, sometimes impulsive, ideas and intentions. “Grandma Leighton and I talked about it. When I came up at Christmas and was so blue—about Joel and Heidi, and everything—she and I got to talking about the recipes. I had just found the box of cookbooks up in the attic at that point.”

“I didn’t even know they were there. I thought they were long gone.”

“I got fired up after talking to Grandma, and in January started working on them. Some of them had no real instructions, and for some, the instructions were so outdated, I had to rewrite them for a modern kitchen. I did that all winter, along with some research, then wrote some intros to the recipes. When I was up last month, Grandma looked at my final copy and loved it. So . . .” She took a deep breath. “An editor is looking at the proposal for
Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen
right now.”

Becca stared, her mouth open, and shook her head. “I had no idea!”

Warming up to her topic, letting her enthusiasm build, as it always did, Jaymie said, “And now I’m researching other recipes from vintage cookbooks, looking for ways to update them. If it works out, I’ll have enough for a second cookbook. I like using the real thing when I’m cooking, vintage Pyrex or Depression glass mixing bowls, old eggbeaters and wooden spoons. I want to use them for photographs to accompany the recipes, too.”

“That’s a really good idea!” Becca exclaimed. “When will you hear back from the publisher?”

Jaymie grimaced, rocking back and forth on the wood floor, listening to the hardwood creak. “I don’t know. I started out so green, but since then I’ve done a lot of re-search; it’s a long process. I’m just going to keep working on the new cookbook and not wait. So that’s why I want to set up the Hoosier and use it as a woman in the twenties and thirties and so on would use it. I want to
experience
how the kitchen of those days worked. I think it will help me get in touch with the recipes, understand them better. I’ll update them, but I still want them to have the feel of the old days and old ways.”

“I get you,” Becca said, nodding. “Wow, my sister, the cookbook author!”

“I hope,” Jaymie said, crossing her fingers.

“I’ll be visiting Grandma Leighton on Friday, probably.” Their grandmother had returned to Canada, the country of her birth, after their grandfather died thirty years ago, and lived near Becca in London, in a comfortable retirement home. “Can I talk to her about the cookbook?”

“Sure. Cat’s out of the bag now,” Jaymie said, with a half smile. She had been so nervous about telling Becca, but this had seemed like the right time, and she was glad she’d done it.

“But I still say you won’t find a spot in that overcrowded kitchen for the Hoosier.”

“Just watch me,” Jaymie said, as she exited and padded down the hall to her own room. “I know exactly where I’m putting it,” she said aloud, as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on her night attire, a T-shirt and shorts, tossing the clothes into the hamper by her wardrobe.

Sleep came quickly. Much later she began to dream, the auction replaying in her sleep. Someone kept whispering in her ear that her button was undone. Then she drifted into a dream of her Hoosier; it kept falling over, hitting the floor with a loud bang. She awoke with a start, her heart pounding. It was the dark and silent hours of the middle of the night. The loud bang had not been a dream, she thought, but something falling over downstairs.

She heard a shout from below and, groggily, not quite sure what was going on, she yelled, “Denver, get down off of the counter!” Darn cat; he’d broken a nice teapot once, in one of his nightly rambles on the kitchen counter. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, and put her foot down on Denver. Hoppy stood half-in and half-out of his basket, head cocked, listening to something.

So it was not the cat who was responsible for the noise, nor was it Hoppy, who took off and trotted out the door toward the staircase. Cats and dogs did not shout anyway, she realized as her mind cleared of its sleep fog.

“Jaymie, what was that?” Becca called out from her room, her voice thick with sleep.

At that same moment Jaymie heard another scream and a crash. She bolted to the head of the stairs, grabbing a potted ivy off the plant stand on the landing as she went, and was joined by Becca. Hoppy staggered down the stairs ahead of them, barking his little head off.

“What
was
that?” Becca repeated.

“If I knew, would I be standing here whispering to you, holding a potted plant as a weapon? I’m going down,” she said, and began down the stairs. “I don’t want Hoppy getting in trouble if it’s a burglar.”

“You and that damned dog!” Rebecca whispered, following.

Three

T
HE HOUSE WAS dead silent again, but there was another muted tinkle as Jaymie tiptoed through the hall, checking the den and guest bedroom as she crept toward the kitchen. Becca was behind her.

“Where’s Hoppy?” Jaymie whispered. “Why did he stop barking?” Panic surged through her and she hastened her pace.

“Turn a light on!” Becca whispered.

“No way. Not ’til I know what’s going on.” Jaymie threaded her way through the kitchen and around the trestle table, setting the potted plant down as she passed. She heard a noise and a muffled expletive from her older sister—and a scratching noise from the other side of the kitchen.

“Dammit, I stubbed my toe,” Becca muttered. “If you’d just turn a light on . . .”

Jaymie ignored her, cautiously approaching the door to the summer porch. Hoppy scratched and pawed at the door, so that answered where he was, but the door was still closed and locked. The dim light over the sink didn’t reveal anyone moving. When she unlocked and opened the door to the summer porch, Hoppy darted past her and a cool night breeze wafted through the kitchen. That wasn’t right. The solid back door of the summer porch had been shut and locked before she went to bed.

Pausing, she listened, grabbing Becca’s arm to keep her from going farther. Absolute silence, except for a wheezing, snuffling sound. She released her sister and moved stealthily forward, grabbing a broom as she passed the corner by the kitchen cupboard.

Reaching out with her free hand as she moved to the door, she finally flicked on the overhead light. What she saw made her cry, “Becca, come here! Someone’s hurt.”

Hoppy was snuffling at a man who lay on the floor of the summer porch by the Hoosier cabinet. The upper and lower cabinet doors were all wide open, and Jaymie swiftly shut the bottom one so she could get at the fellow. A cardboard box rested partly on his bleeding head, broken china on and all around him. Jaymie tossed the broom away and knelt by him, pushing the cardboard box away.

“Becca, can you take Hoppy? There’s broken china all over the floor,” she said, pushing the little dog aside and brushing the shattered china and whole teacups and saucers from the injured man, a tinkle of china echoing in the quiet night. Was he breathing?

Rebecca cried out, picked up Hoppy, and then grabbed the cordless phone from the wall mount in the kitchen as Jaymie reached out and tried to help the man roll over. He didn’t budge, despite her efforts: a dead weight.

“Hey, mister?” she said, staring at the still man; he was a well-dressed fellow, wearing khaki slacks and a polo shirt under a cable-knit cardigan. Besides the bloody gash on his head and the blood that oozed in a messy stream from it, his nose was also crusted with old blood. Jaymie, dizzy and a little nauseous, wondered what the heck he had been doing on their summer porch. She glanced up and saw that the door was wide open and hung drunkenly from its hinges, which explained the night air drifting in. In the distance, someone’s dog was barking, which started a chorus of howls from the other dogs in town.

“C’mon, guy, please . . . wake up!” she said again, beginning to shake, and feeling weirdly unreal. Becca was babbling in the background, giving their address and details over the phone.

Jaymie looked up and out toward the backyard again, breathing deeply to quell a rising tide of dizziness; someone had pried the screen door off the hinges and popped the lock on the inside door to break in, and this guy was either the one who’d done it, or had tried to stop someone who did. She didn’t see any tool around that could have been used to do such damage to the door frame. Jaymie settled back on her heels, wondering what to do; was this guy friend or foe? Should she even be trying to revive him? Becca had set Hoppy down, and he came back and sniffed at the man’s loafer-covered feet, then nudged Jaymie’s hand as Denver slunk out to the summer porch and approached them.

“Jaymie, they want to know, is he conscious?” Becca asked, the receiver to her ear.

“No,” Jaymie said, her voice strange and hollow. “He’s . . .” She bent over to look at the man’s face. He was pale, too pale for life, and still, no movement of his chest. “I . . . I think he’s dead,” she said, her heart thudding and her stomach roiling.

“Jaymie, are you okay? Jaymie!” Becca cried, standing at the door with the phone to her ear. “My sister doesn’t look well,” she said to the 911 operator.

Jaymie felt herself sway, and sat down with a thump on the floor, staring at the still figure. “Becca, I’m okay, I just . . .” She retched and coughed.

In another moment Clive Jones, wearing just boxers, strode up the three steps to the summer porch. “Jaymie!” he yelped. “You okay?”

Jaymie looked up, as Becca babbled in the background to the 911 operator. She gazed steadily at Clive’s face, his dark eyes wide, the contrast between his white striped boxers and dark skin stark in the spill of light from the kitchen. “I think so.” She took a deep breath, calmed by his presence, and said, “Yes, I’m fine. But this poor guy isn’t. Clive, is he . . . is he dead? Can you tell?”

Composed as always, Clive immediately knelt down by the fellow, holding one long finger to the carotid artery and compressing lightly. He stilled for a long moment, then looked over at Jaymie. “He’s dead,” he said, his expression somber.

“Should we . . . should we try CPR?” Jaymie asked.

“Let’s try,” he said. “I don’t think there’s much hope, but . . .” He turned the guy over onto his back and began chest compressions, counting out loud. Then he bent over and tried to breathe into the guy’s lungs. When he looked up again, his cheek smeared in blood, he asked, “What happened here? Was this a break-in?”

“I wish I knew,” Jaymie said. She dashed back into the kitchen and got a tea towel, saying, “He was like this when we found him.” Apply pressure to the wound, first aid advertisements always said. She knelt at his side and put her tea towel to his head wound, looking away, trying not to notice the red sopping into the towel.

It seemed obvious. The busted door, the box of broken and spilled teacups and saucers that used to be atop the Hoosier: this guy, or someone else, had broken in to rob them, and the falling box had killed him. Or . . . she sharpened her gaze and stared at the dead man. He had been facedown with his head turned to one side. Shattered china was everywhere, but the blood dripping from his head wound indicated that something much heavier than a box full of teacups had hit him. It couldn’t have been that! But what?

Clive kept working, and put his finger to the man’s throat. He shook his head and stood. “He’s long gone, Jaymie. There’s no bringing him back,” he said, stepping in to the kitchen to the sink and washing his hands of the blood that had stained them from his efforts at lifesaving.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Jaymie stared and stared, unable to form complete thoughts. The guy was dead, but how? There was nothing but shattered teacups scattered around. Death by Doulton? Murder by Minton?

The police and paramedics arrived at about the same time, sirens and lights creating a chaotic barrage of sight and sound in the narrow back alley. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, were first on the scene, then the paramedics. Paramedics went to work on the fellow, nodding as Clive told them what he had done to try to revive the man. More cops arrived, and Jaymie heard a female voice give orders for them to fan out in the neighborhood looking for an assailant and the weapon. So Becca must have gotten the full message through to the 911 operator. It was as obvious, then, to the police as it was to Jaymie, that the dead man had been hit by something heavier than a box of teacups.

When it became obvious to the paramedics that there was no helping the fellow, the police took over, sending Jaymie into the kitchen to stand with Rebecca and Clive. The three stood for a while in a huddle, silent at first, and Jaymie held Hoppy in her arms to keep him out of trouble. He was quivering with excitement. Denver had disappeared back into the house, unnerved by the commotion.

“Who do you think he is?” Rebecca asked. “Have you ever seen him before, Jaymie?”

She shook her head and shuddered. “He’s so pale, and the blood . . .” She could smell it, the metallic tang, the organic scent of death, filling her nostrils.

“Why would someone break into your place?” Clive asked, his arms over his bare chest. He lifted one bare foot and pulled a sliver of china out of it. Frowning at it, he set it on the kitchen counter. “And what is that all over the floor of the summer porch?”

“That is the remains of a box of teacups Rebecca bought yesterday,” Jaymie said quietly, flicking a glance at the clock. It was almost four in the morning. “They were supposed to be for the Tea with the Queen fundraiser tomorrow afternoon. She brought enough, but when she saw the box at the Bourne auction it seemed like a good idea.”

“If not for this year, for next year. I can always use more teacups and saucers,” Becca said.

“This is your first year in Queensville for the Tea with the Queen,” Jaymie said to Clive. He and Anna had just bought the bed-and-breakfast next door, the Shady Rest, in January, to run as a family business. “Customers can actually buy the teacup and saucer set that they use, if they like. We get a few every year who do, as a souvenir.”

“Are they valuable?”

Becca snorted. “No, they’re mostly Royal Albert or Royal Vale . . . junk, in the china world.”

“But pretty,” Jaymie said, defending the shattered pottery. She thought for a moment and glanced toward the door where officers examined the summer porch and the backyard beyond, the wide arc of flashlights cutting through the night blackness. She could hear an officer upstairs searching; she and Becca had, of course, given the police permission to investigate the entire house, though it seemed obvious to her that the burglar had not made it past the kitchen door, which had still been locked when she’d come down. With the banality of their conversation, her mind was beginning to work again.

Something wasn’t right about the scene, other than the obvious: a dead guy and smashed teacups. The other boxes she had purchased were off the Hoosier as well, the cookbooks scattered across the floor and the box of sewing oddments on the top step. Why? Who had moved the boxes from the Hoosier, and for what purpose? And why were the Hoosier’s cupboard doors open?

“Sir, look here!” a female officer shouted. She played her flashlight around the shadowy corners of the summer porch. “Could be the murder weapon!”

Jaymie bolted forward with another uniformed officer and followed the beam of light. On the board floor of the porch, in the shadows between windows, lay the heavy steel meat grinder she had loosely attached to the Hoosier work top. As the beam of light settled on it, Jaymie could see that it was smeared with dark fluid . . . the victim’s blood.

“No!” she whispered, and turned away.

“Jaymie come back,” Becca said, grabbing her T-shirt sleeve and pulling her away as the police crowded around.

Her sister made her sit down in one of the kitchen chairs, an old wood farm chair that had one wobbly leg. That is where a police officer found them. He was a tall fellow with a grave expression on his clean-shaven face. “Sergeant MacAdams,” he said. “May I ask you folks a few questions? Who lives here?”

Jaymie and Rebecca both put up their hands. The officer established their co-ownership, then asked to speak with them all separately, Rebecca first; he led her to the library and, after ten minutes or so, he came back to get Jaymie. She followed him through the kitchen door to the hall and into the library, still furnished for its original purpose, with tall built-in bookcases lining the walls and a cushioned seat set into the window. She put Hoppy down and wearily sank into a chair by the fireplace. Hoppy demanded to come up on her lap, so she cradled him again as he curled up in her arms, trembling.

“Do you know the deceased?”

“No. Who is he?” Jaymie asked, sitting back in the chair and petting the Yorkie-Poo’s head.

“Could you just take me through what happened?”

Jaymie thought a moment. “Well, Becca and I went to bed about eleven or eleven-thirty, I guess.”

He jotted down notes in a coil-bound notebook. “That’s your sister?”

“Yes. We had come back from the Bourne estate auction near Wolverhampton, and we were both tired. I woke up to Hoppy barking and a shout and a crash—”

“Hoppy is your dog?”

She nodded.

“In what order?”

“Huh?”

“Was it in that order, the dog barking, then a shout, then a crash?”

Jaymie stopped and stared into the fireplace, the original coal fire grate from when the house was built. “No, that’s not quite how it happened.” She was silent for a moment, organizing her thoughts. “I was sound asleep but heard
something
that woke me up. A shout, maybe?” She mused. “Or maybe the sound of the back door being pried off its hinges? I don’t know. I think it was something banging, like falling down. Anyway, I thought the noise was Hoppy at first, but Hoppy and Denver—Denver’s my cat—were both in my room. Then I heard a shout, and
then
the crash.”

“And then?”

“We met in the upstairs hall, Becca and I. She asked me what the noise was, and I said I didn’t know. I grabbed a potted plant as we came down the stairs. Hoppy had bolted ahead of us and started barking. We followed Hoppy’s noise into the kitchen. I went toward the back door.”

“Why?”

“Why? The noise I’d heard came from the summer porch.”

“Everything was dark?” he asked, pencil poised over his notepad.

Jaymie nodded, but got what he meant. He wondered why she hadn’t turned any lights on as she went through the house. “I never turn lights on when I come down at night. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I could find my way through it blindfolded, but Becca stubbed her toe on the table leg, I think. Anyway, I was worried about my dog, but if there was a prowler, I didn’t want them to see me.”

“So you went toward the back door?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have headed out the front door, but, like I said, Hoppy had darted into the kitchen, and I was worried about him. Anyway, when I got into the kitchen I could kind of see, by the light over the sink—I leave that on all night, but it’s only, like, fifteen watts—that there was no one in the kitchen. In fact, the door between the kitchen and the summer porch was still locked.”