Freezer I'll Shoot (A Vintage Kitchen Mystery)

PRAISE FOR VICTORIA HAMILTON’S NATIONAL BESTSELLING VINTAGE KITCHEN MYSTERIES

A Deadly Grind

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

—Susan Wittig Albert, national bestselling author of
The Darling Dahlias and the Texas Star

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

—
Library Journal

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

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

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

—
The Season

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

—
Novel Reflections

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

—
Lesa’s Book Critiques

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

—
Two Lips Reviews

“A great new series for cozy fans.”

—
Debbie’s Book Bag

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

—
The Mystery Reader

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Victoria Hamilton

Vintage Kitchen Mysteries

A DEADLY GRIND

BOWLED OVER

FREEZER I’LL SHOOT

Merry Muffin Mysteries

BRAN NEW DEATH

FREEZER
I’LL SHOOT

VICTORIA HAMILTON

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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FREEZER I’LL SHOOT

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

Copyright © 2013 by Donna Lea Simpson.

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®
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62658-0

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2013

Cover illustration by Robert Crawford.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

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

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

One

H
ER EAR GLUED
to the phone, Jaymie Leighton sat on the back porch of Rose Tree Cottage, listening to her mother while surveying the arriving merry band of plumbers that were set to rip up the cottage’s entire backyard. The plumbers had to drive their excavator through the Redmonds’ property, which faced the road behind the one Rose Tree Cottage was on, because it was the only way to access the Leightons’ backyard with heavy equipment without taking down trees. The little Bobcat was negotiating the slope carefully, while one of the men guided the driver.

“Mom, I have to go because—”

“And another thing, Jaymie,” the woman continued.

Jaymie covered her eyes with one hand. Ever since her parents had arrived in Queensville from Florida, Jaymie’s mom had been complaining nonstop about the “junk” that Jaymie collected—her precious (to her) vintage kitchenware collection—and cluttered the kitchen in the Leighton Queensville home. Every time they were in the kitchen together doing something, her mom would sigh and glare at the old tins, vintage bowls, painted enamelware, and other things that lined the tops of the cupboards. Joy Leighton grudgingly admitted that the Hoosier cabinet Jaymie had bought earlier in the summer wasn’t exactly in the way, but it was just another “junk magnet” and “dust catcher.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Jaymie’s mom had found a new focus for her complaints. “That
woman
is going to drive me to an early grave,” she said. “You’ve
got
to talk to Daniel and make him tell her to butt out of our family dinner plans! It’s none of her business.”

“That
woman
” was the mother of Daniel Collins, Jaymie’s kinda-sorta boyfriend. Jaymie looked down at her chipped fingernail polish and blew out a puff of air on a deep sigh. How to handle this? Daniel had invited his parents to come from Phoenix to visit his historic home, Stowe House, in Queensville. Jaymie’s parents had arrived at about the same time. Since the very first meeting, the men got along fine and golfed together often, but the women acted like cats, hissing and spitting each time they were forced to be together.

At first Jaymie had taken her mom’s side; Mrs. Collins was sharp and cold, it seemed to her. But when the two were in company together, there was no choosing between them as to manipulative behavior and catty comments. With planning under way for the annual Leighton family dinner, to which Daniel’s parents, as well as Becca’s (Jaymie’s sister) new beau, Kevin Brevard, had been invited, things were getting worse with every attempt to smooth things over.

Robin, the lead plumber and owner of the company, Robin Hood Plumbing, waved to her, then gathered his guys around, gesturing to the ravine part of the lot. Both the Leighton property and the Redmond property sloped down to a common area, a ravine that got soggy in spring, but was now, in August, dry and lush with green grass. The two properties were bound on both sides by a green belt of trees. Cottages and homes on either side were barely visible through the wooded lots.

“Mom, I don’t know what else I can tell you. Mrs. Collins has a point,” she said, going back to the argument from the day before. The two moms and Jaymie had gone on a disastrous shopping trip into Wolverhampton. The idea was shopping and lunch; what could be more soothing for three women? Instead the day had been a war of wills over whose vehicle to take, what shops to visit, and even where to have lunch. Jaymie was happy when it was over and they were on the way back to Queensville.

But they had one more stop, the grocery store. While strolling the brightly lit aisles, Joy Leighton started talking about buying ribs for the family dinner that they were planning to hold at Rose Tree Cottage. It was tradition; the Leightons had one dinner there altogether every summer, and this year the Collinses were attending. But Mrs. Collins said that with the upcoming plumbing work on the cottage being more extensive than originally thought, maybe they should move the dinner to Daniel’s home, Stowe House.

You’d think the woman had made a unilateral declaration of war, because Joy Leighton’s face had gone pinched and white. A hushed argument in the air-conditioned chill of the grocery store had taken place, followed by an icy ride home, where the chill in the air was
not
just from the air-conditioning. Mrs. Collins’s round face had been set in a mulish expression, and her good-byes were perfunctory, to put it kindly. Abrupt, bordering on rude, was more accurate.

“Now you’re taking
her
side?” Jaymie’s mom said, her voice rising a decibel through the phone.

“I’m not taking Mrs. Collins’s side, Mom. I’m just saying . . . Stowe House
is
a lot bigger, and who knows if we’ll have the sewage system at Rose Tree Cottage back to functional. Robin told me just this morning that it’s even worse than we thought. Not only do they have to put in a new septic tank, they have to lay out a whole new leaching field.”

A week ago Jaymie had not even known what a “leaching field” was, and now she knew far too much. While her mother yammered on about the invidious Mrs. Collins, and why the “getting to know you” dinner Jaymie’s mom was planning just
had
to be held at Rose Tree Cottage, her mind wandered . . .

To her first column for the
Wolverhampton Weekly Howler
. Her fledgling cookbook,
Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen
, was never far from her mind, and to that end she was following the advice of the urbane and kindly editor at Adelaide Publishing. He had declined to publish it, as it was in no way ready for publication; nor was she. He told her some hard truths about cookbook publishing. The recipes were vital, the writing was important, but an editor was going to want to know what kind of name Jaymie had in the cooking world. And would she/could she promote the heck out of her cookbook, should it be published? How was she going to publicize it? What contacts did she have?

It had set her back on her heels at first. She had pictured getting the cookbook published, holding it in her hands, even seeing it on a bookstore shelf, and she had imagined all the work building up to publication. What she had not realized was that the real effort would come
after
the publication. To be competitive in the cookbook industry, she would need to vigorously make appearances, do a tour, even, and appear on cooking shows, talk shows, and local and national news programs.

She pondered it for a few weeks, wondering whether she was cut out for the world of cookbook publishing. It wasn’t that she was shy, exactly, but she was a small-town girl who liked a quiet life. She had gone away to college, but had returned to Queensville, Michigan, population a couple of thousand, at the first opportunity, before even testing the waters of career and/or job in the big city. It was her preference, but she had always supposed it made her rather cowardly, not to want what other girls seemed to want. After a few years, though, of soul searching, she had come to the conclusion that there was no shame in liking her life in Queensville, just as there would have been no shame in wanting something else. And so she had settled into a routine of holding down multiple jobs, with a jumbled schedule that would have driven some mad, and an unreliability of wages that was only tenable because beyond insurance, utilities and food, she had little else to pay for. She and her sister jointly owned the ancestral family home, and she managed the cottage rental.

Her cookbook venture was important to her, important enough that she must summon up all her courage and make her best attempt at success. To that end she had called the food editor, Nan Goodenough—also the owner’s wife—at the
Wolverhampton Weekly Howler
to ask about writing for them. To Jaymie’s delight, because she advertised in the
Howler
, Nan had heard of her as the innovative young businesswoman who had started Queensville Vintage Picnic, her basket rental business. It had started modestly enough as a simple service for tourists who could go to the Queensville Emporium and rent a picnic basket filled with vintage dishes and good food, everything they needed to enjoy an afternoon on the river, or a local day trip. It had rapidly expanded through the summer to include “destination” baskets to the local winery, a boat trip along the St. Clair, and an evening under the stars with the Queensville Quartet playing Scarlatti.

Nan had asked her to come in to her office in Wolverhampton to talk; after an hour chatting about the basket business, her vintage kitchenware collection and everything else under the sun—including the two murders that had occurred within a month or so of each other in quiet little Queensville—Jaymie was stunned and pleased to walk out of the
Howler
office with a tentative weekly column called “Vintage Eats.”

“If you give me something worth printing, then we’ll go ahead,” Nan said, in her brisk, New York pull-no-punches manner. She had “retired” when she married the owner of the
Howler
, and was now
just
the editor of the Lifestyles section, where once she had been the editor of a major lifestyle magazine in New York.

Jaymie wanted her first column to be perfect, but was afraid she’d gotten in over her head. What to write? She reluctantly admitted to herself that Nan intimidated her. How could she ever produce something good enough for Nan Goodenough?

“Jaymie, are you listening to me?” her mother asked.

Jaymie started, and Hoppy, her little three-legged Yorkie-Poo, yapped at her from inside the door of the cottage, where he was locked so he wouldn’t get into trouble with the plumbers and heavy machinery. She had pretty much forgotten her mom was even on the line, the voice in her ear becoming the drone of a pesky mosquito. “Yes, of course I’m listening, Mom.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Argh. Fess-up time. Or not. Confessing that she had not been listening would prolong the conversation, and she was not in the mood to be chastised. “Mom, I have to go. The plumbers are signaling me. Can we just see how this plumbing issue goes and resolve the family dinner thing later? I
really
gotta go! I’ll see you tomorrow, when I come back to Queensville.” She clicked off, heaving a deep sigh of relief that she was staying at the cottage overnight. Robin had promised that the work would be done in twenty-four hours. Maybe. He hoped.

She slid the screen door of the cottage open, to set the phone inside; Hoppy saw his chance and dashed out between her feet. Jaymie hopped back out, trying to catch hold of Hoppy’s collar, but he thought that was a marvelous game, and dashed around the tiny deck, then down the steps to the patio below. Ruby Redmond, the vigorous fiftysomething co-owner (with her brother, Garnet) of the cottage behind the Leightons’ Rose Tree Cottage, as well as the Ice House restaurant, down near the marina, waved at Jaymie from her back porch. Hoppy saw his favorite woman in the whole world wave, and just knew she was inviting him over for treats!

He yipped a greeting to the biscuit lady, as he probably thought of Ruby, and dashed down the lawn, weaving around the machinery and giving Jaymie heart palpitations. “Hoppy, come back here,” she yelled, racing after him, circling around the excavator that was moving to the center of the sloped back lawn, getting into position to start tearing up turf. Huffing a bit from the climb up the hill, Jaymie approached the Redmonds’ back patio, where Hoppy danced and yapped at Ruby’s feet.

“Sorry about that,” Ruby said, fishing a biscuit out of her hoodie pocket, as Hoppy wobbled up to her, panting and wagging his whole body.

“Not your fault he’s in doggie love,” Jaymie said, watching Hoppy dance around for the biscuit.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right? Not that I know that from experience,” she said, with a rueful chuckle.

Jaymie examined the woman while she made a fuss over Hoppy, who rolled around in the dewed grass, wriggling in glee, crunching on biscuit chunks that Ruby broke up for him. Ruby was tall and angular and had the deeply tanned face that came from being a sailor. Her short hair stood up in a shock of iron gray, and she never wore makeup. Her clothes were jean shorts and polo shirts most of the time, with a pair of Top-Siders. She and her brother, Garnet, the skipper of the
Heartbreak Kid
—Garnet resembled his sister in being tall and lanky, as well as deeply tanned—were the annual winners of the Heartbreak Island leg of the St. Clair River Regatta. She had never married, gossip had it, and Jaymie wondered, but didn’t want to pry, whether there was some long-ago love that kept her from finding happiness. When the siblings arrived several years before, they seemed to ease into Heartbreak Island society with no ruffles, and they ran the renovated restaurant with competent grace.