White Colander Crime (8 page)

She was shivering, shaken to the core, and perhaps her shock showed on her face. “She was so badly hurt, Bill,” she said, wrapping the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, trying to warm up. “I hope she's going to be okay.”

His eyes misted and he put his arm around her shoulders. “I knew her when she was just a little thing; drove the school bus for a while, and she and her brother were always going at it hammer and tongs. But just let one of the other kids taunt one of 'em and they'd stick together.”

“Are they Lori's only kids?”

“Nah, she's got a couple of younger ones from Walt Wozny, her ex.”

“Did you see them tonight? They were all here: Lori, Shelby and I guess her brother?”

He nodded. “Yup. Lori and I talked for a few minutes. Shelby and Travis were arguing about something, I think it was some boyfriend of hers he didn't like, and some girl he'd been seeing. Anyway, they were going at it. She screamed at him to mind his own business and leave her love life out of it.”

Was Shelby defending Cody or Glenn? Or was there another boyfriend? Jaymie prayed that she would recover soon so she could tell the police who had done such an awful thing to her. It would be a long road to recovery, given how bad her injuries had looked to Jaymie, but she had family, and that was the most important relationship of all. “I'm so tired,” Jaymie said. “I have to be up early because I have to get everything ready for the manor house grand opening tomorrow.” She moved from foot to foot. “But I can't stop thinking about her. The poor girl! She was beaten badly, Bill. Very badly.”

“Let me walk you home. You seem kind of woozy.”

She was grateful. She had known Bill Waterman for years, but lately, with her work on the historic house, she had the chance to work alongside him. He was dependable, helpful and gracious, a real down-to-earth guy. “I appreciate it.”

He took her arm and walked her back to her place in silence. Jaymie realized for the first time how close to home this hit for Bill. It was his workshop, and more especially his storeroom, and he'd known Shelby as a child. “How do
you
feel?” she asked, as they turned down her street, one streetlight fluttering and going out as they walked past it.

“I understand now how you felt last spring when that fellow was killed on your back porch. It gets you in your gut, doesn't it?”

“It does,” she said feelingly, squeezing his arm to her side. “It feels like . . . oh, how to put it? It feels like it belongs to you somehow, like you need to see it solved.”

He nodded and sighed as they approached her front door. “Shelby will come through. She's a strong girl, a real sweetheart at the core of her, though she seems a kinda tough nut.”

She gave him a quick hug and said, “We'll keep sending good thoughts her way. And to her mom.” She paused. “Bill, one question. When I came up to the workshop tonight the storage room door was unlocked. I remember now that the padlock was hanging from the hasp, so it wasn't jimmied with a bolt cutter or anything. Did you leave the padlock undone?”

“I did
not
! It was locked up right and tight when I left it after fixing the speaker.”

“Who all has keys?”

“Me, you, Jewel and I keep an extra hidden.”

“Hidden where?”

He grimaced. “On top of the door frame, in case I forget mine or need someone to open up the storage for me.”

So, not as secure as Jaymie had thought. Anyone could have known about the extra key, or have even seen him get it down. Including Cody, who had been working with Bill that very day, coming and going from the workshop.

He patted her shoulder and turned to head away. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jaymie, at the manor. You get some sleep now, and everything will look brighter in the morning.”

•   •   •

I
T WAS EARLY
,
but the day was going to be a busy one. The phone was ringing and Jaymie hopped back to her bedroom from the bathroom on one foot, her slipper coming off at the heel. She plunked down on her bed as Hoppy barked and wobbled up the steps to get up on her bed on his own. “Hello?”

It was Valetta. “Jaymie, I just heard about last night. It's terrible!”

“It was awful, Val. I can't believe my rotten luck.”

“Well, sure, but poor Shelby!”

“Of course you're right,” Jaymie said, chastened. She sat down on the bed and petted Hoppy with her free hand. “Actually, I'm grateful I found her, or she would have lain there all night and may have died.”

“The church is starting a donation to help Lori out.”

“Count me in for whatever you need. I'll check with the others and make sure Lori doesn't have to work at the manor but still gets paid. I don't want her to have to worry about anything but getting Shelby better.”

“Hold on a sec!” Valetta said. “I've got another call coming in.”

The phone went silent. Jaymie pulled her slippers off and wandered around her room with the phone to her ear, putting away a book, a contemporary Christmas tale she had finished the night before when she couldn't sleep, and getting out another to put by her bedside. A comfort read . . . Mary Balogh,
Christmas Beau
, an old Regency, and a second,
A Christmas Bride
. They would do. She selected the three books from her shelf and stacked them on her nightstand.

She glanced out the window. It had snowed overnight, but only an inch or two; it was blowing around until she couldn't even see her backyard at times. That made her clothing decision for the day easy. She would wear thermal leggings until she changed into her thirties-era housewife costume. This was a day she had been looking forward to for months, the official grand opening of the Queensville Historic Manor, but her enthusiasm was dampened as she thought of poor Shelby and her mom. The phone clicked again, and Valetta came back on the line.

“That was Dee,” she said. “Poor Shelby is in a coma.”

Jaymie was shocked. “Oh,
no
! Is it medically induced?”

“No, it's a result of a blow to the head, from what I understand. She was not only beaten, but hit her head on something.”

“Maybe the workbench,” Jaymie said, remembering the blood on the edge of it. And the shred of fabric caught in a splinter.

“She was conscious when she got to the hospital but lapsed into a coma during the night, Dee says.”

Jaymie squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, whispering a prayer. She opened her eyes. “I hope she comes out of it.”

“Me, too. I wonder if the police found out who did it yet?”

“I was hoping she'd be able to tell them. Maybe she did before she became comatose.”

“I guess we'll know if they arrest someone. I have to get going. I'm picking up William and Eva to take them shopping so Brock can get some work done. Eva wants to buy her dad a Christmas gift. What the heck do I tell a nine-year-old to get for her father?”

“Gloves. There isn't a man alive who has a complete pair of gloves or can keep track of them if he does have them.”

“Good thought! I'll inspect Brock when I see him and try to finagle out his glove situation.”

“Or maybe a personalized mug!”

“Ooh, I like that better. You know how I feel about mugs.”

Jaymie got dressed and walked Hoppy, fed the animals and baked some treats to take to the manor, all the while thinking of Shelby. Just as she was taking a tray of brownies out of the oven, the phone rang. It was Jakob!

“Hey,” she said softly, smiling just thinking about him.

“Hey,” he said, his tone husky. “I heard what happened last night, that girl being hurt and you finding her. Are you okay?”

“I'm all right. It was awful, but I'm grateful I found her. She was hurt so bad.” She told him what she had heard about Shelby lapsing into a coma. “Maybe the coma is her body's way of healing. I know doctors sometimes put someone in a coma so they can get better.”

“Poor kid.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I've been thinking about you all night.”

A warm glow kindled in her heart. “It was so nice to see you and Jocelyn. Are you at the store?”

“I am, and someone is with me and wants to say hello.”

There was a pause, and a high voice said, “Hello?”

“Hey, Jocie, how are you?”

“I'm very good, thank you,” she said, her manners impeccable. “Miss Jaymie, my oma asked if you would like a
Lebkuchen
.”

“Uh . . .” What did one say when one didn't know what you were being offered?

She heard a whisper, Jakob's voice in the background. Jocie protested, then came back on the line. “It's a spice cake, Daddy said to tell you, but I said you'd know what it is because you know how to bake.”

Ah, the reliance of a child on an adult's all knowingness! “I think I would love a
Lebkuchen
. My family is coming just before Christmas and I could share it with them.” A new tradition perhaps;
Lebkuchen
for Christmas.

“I'm putting Daddy back on. See you later!”

“Hey, me again,” Jakob said. “My mom told me to tell you that if you're staying in Michigan, you're welcome at her home for Christmas Eve, or
Heiliger Abend
. That's when we do our big Christmas thing.”

She felt a tug at her heartstrings. “I won't be able to,” she said, with real regret. “I'll be on my way to Canada Christmas Eve morning. We're headed to London to have Christmas with my grandmother and sister, Becca.”

“Oh. Of course. We'll see you before then, though,” he said.

“I hope so.”

“I have to go. Take care today. I'll keep that girl in my thoughts and hope she recovers.”

As he hung up, Jaymie clicked the off button on the phone in a thoughtful frame of mind. As much as she looked forward to her family Christmas, she would have given much to be with Jakob and Jocie on Christmas Eve, and to meet his family, as nervous as that made her. It was frightening how fast that imminent meeting had become so important to her.

She roused herself from her reverie; today was a big day, one she had been working toward for a while, and she had to get moving and focus. Today was the grand opening of the Queensville Historic Manor.

Eight

S
HE WALKED, BECAUSE
she knew that if everything went as hoped, parking would be at a premium. The heritage committee had paid a local landscaping company to mow the field beside the manor and pound fence posts into the still unfrozen ground, along which they strung several rows of wire to form a parking lot. Volunteers would direct traffic and keep it relatively orderly.

As she approached she could see the blow-up gingerbread man, a menacing look on its manic face as it wavered and gesticulated in the wind that whipped down the country road. “Whatever it takes to get people through the door,” she muttered, averting her gaze. She trotted up the steps and entered the warm home, now a hive of activity as heritage society members did last-minute touches.

Jewel, of Jewel's Junk, was up on a tall ladder threading holly through the branches of the chandelier in the parlor, while Cynthia Turbridge, owner of the Cottage Shoppe, stood at the bottom, holding the ladder and making comments. They had both hired help for their shops in Queensville, committed to the historic home's opening success. Mabel Bloombury was placing a flameless menorah in the center of her lovely table. Everyone had agreed that there would be no historically correct real candles used; too much chance of someone forgetting one, or a child or clumsy adult tipping one over. Haskell Lockland, president of the heritage society, was directing, as usual, while managing to do nothing. Others were bustling about, racing up and down the stairs and tweaking the decorations.

“Jaymie! Thank heaven you're here,” Haskell said, striding toward her and taking her by the elbow. “What are we going to do about Lori Wozny? Can we expect her to work today? She was supposed to come out tonight and clean up the mess people will inevitably make. What are we going to do?”

“Mabel!” Jaymie called. “Jewel, Cynthia . . . Can you all come here?”

The women gathered in the hall and Jaymie explained her thoughts. In three minutes they had solved the crisis. Each would be responsible for their own area cleanup, and they would enlist others to help. Collectively they would clean the common areas and volunteer lounge. It would all be done. “And Lori should still be paid,” she added, meeting each woman's eyes. All nodded. “I don't want her having to worry while she's at Shelby's bedside.”

“I don't think that's at all appropriate,” Haskell said. “Bad precedent. We can't have anyone thinking they can work for us and get paid for not working!”

Mabel glared up at him. “Haskell Lockland, have a heart! Her daughter was horribly injured. I know for a fact that family is always one step away from poverty, and I can't imagine, at this time of year or any other, letting her worry for one minute about paying her bills and making a living while her daughter lies in a hospital bed in a coma.”

“I agree,” Jaymie said. “We can afford it, Haskell.”

“But she's barely started working for us!” he protested.

“I don't care if she started yesterday or has worked for us for years, it's all the same,” Cynthia said softly. She glanced at each one of them. “A wonderful part of living in this village for me has been the support in difficult times.”

Recently, Cynthia had some troubles that had resulted in her lapsing back into an addiction that she was now battling with the support of friends, new and old. Jewel took her arm, hugged it to her and nodded.

“I agree,” Jaymie said. “I say we pull from the emergency fund, pitch in ourselves and take it up at the next meeting.”

“Here, here,” Jewel, Cynthia and Mabel all echoed.

Haskell, with bad grace, said, “Fine. But I want it to be known that I disagree. That's how this country got soft, paying people to not work. Ridiculous. If you gals want to do the work, then go ahead. But the house must not suffer.” He turned and strode off somewhere else where his input would be vitally unimportant.

Jaymie rolled her eyes and the other women sighed, almost in unison. “Let's get this show on the road
gals
,” she said, with heavy emphasis.

She checked the kitchen, which still looked pristine, then trotted upstairs to the staff lounge, one of the old bedrooms with an attached bath and decent-sized wardrobe where clothes for the docents were kept. The room was bare bones, no décor at all to speak of, just a battered folding-leg table by one of the big windows, several discarded office chairs, a fridge, kettle, a countertop and some file cabinets. Haskell had demanded a proper office, so there was a small reading room for his use just down the hall. It and the staff rooms would be locked during opening times.

Jaymie grabbed her costume from a hanger in the wardrobe, slipped into the washroom, changed and then folded her clothes neatly, stowing them in the wardrobe on a shelf and pinning her house keys inside her costume. She glanced at herself in the mirror, her hair coiled in an old-fashioned hairdo and makeup limited to some lipstick. It would have to do. Her stomach roiled with excitement as she slipped down the back stairs to her lovely vintage kitchen. She stood in the center of it, turning in a complete circle, trying to see it from a stranger's perspective. Would anyone get why they were preserving this? Did anyone care?

The walls were a soft green with glossy off-white trim, and the floor black-and-white checkerboard tile. The cupboards were painted cream; the green-and-white Hoosier, untouched by her so it was still in its original state, and the green-and-white stove continued the color scheme. Jaymie tiptoed over to the window, pulled aside the lovely curtains Mabel had sewn, white with a pattern of cherries and ivy, and fastened them with the matching ties, then watched flakes of snow dance through the air.

Someone, a housewife or housekeeper, had done exactly this, she thought, looking anxiously out the window, wondering if her visitors would enjoy the festive goodies she was about to make. She turned away from the window and set up the oven to preheat, shivering at the cold, dressed in her unaccustomed just-below-the-knee-length housedress and hard oxfords.

They were to open at two and unbelievably there were folks lined up to get in. The mayor was in attendance, as well as a couple of councilors. The other ladies and gents who were volunteers were dressed in appropriate garb, as Jaymie was. Jewel wore an Edwardian tea gown, like a lady from Downton Abbey, while Cynthia wore a long-waisted twenties flapper-style dress and a feathered headpiece. Haskell had donned a tailcoat and top hat. All gathered on the porch, across which had been strung a blue ribbon that the frigid wind flipped and fluttered.

The mayor made a speech and Haskell made a much longer one, all while the volunteers stepped from foot to foot, freezing in the cold. All except Mabel, who had on an ancient fur stole over her shoulders, her hands stuffed in a muff.

Mayor Fletcher finally held up the brass scissors and said to the waiting crowd, “I now declare Queensville Historic Manor officially open!” He clipped the ribbon and there was polite applause from the crowd, which was anxiously waiting, kids chattering and folks craning their necks, trying to see inside the front door. They flooded into the warmth of the manor home.

Jewel was her charming self, the redhead's gregarious nature making her the perfect hostess, while Mabel, deeply knowledgeable about every aspect of fine dining in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, acted as the original homeowner, Mrs. Latimer Dumpe. Imogene Frump, as one of the few living relatives, was gowned in her rarely worn Queen Victoria getup, as was Mrs. Bellwood. Both ladies, still trying to one-up each other even though they had mended their broken friendship from years gone by, had arrived after the opening ceremonies.

Jaymie ruled the kitchen. She set her colander centerpiece on the kitchen table and rolled out sugar cookies on the Hoosier tabletop. Using vintage cookie cutters in star and angel shapes, she cut the cookies, sprinkled them with sugar and baked them in her new old oven. The first batch was burned, but after that she got into a rhythm and began turning them out in a nice pale golden color.

She kept expecting Valetta or Jakob and Jocie to visit, but they didn't. Maybe it was for the best, she decided, as she cleaned up mess after mess, because she didn't have a single moment to talk. Families, hungry for pre-Christmas kid-friendly things to do, streamed through nonstop. She handed out the sugar cookies she was baking and helped kids decorate them with colored icing and sprinkles, trying to keep the dusting of crumbs to a minimum.

After a few hours she was wretchedly tired and overdone with people, but then Haskell blustered, “Jaymie, there's a photographer here from the
Wolverhampton Weekly Howler
. Pose with your stove.” He introduced her to a young fellow in a parka, galoshes and glasses, holding a fancy camera by the lens. The guy smirked at her outfit and rolled his eyes at the kids jostling his arm.

Her careful coiffure now askew and dark dress dusted with flour, Jaymie took a deep breath, smiled and greeted the photographer. So Nan had come through after all, she thought, and her smile faltered as she thought of poor Shelby, lying comatose in a hospital bed with her anxious mother hovering over her. Nan would have someone covering the incident in Queensville. She eyed the photographer. He might even have been dispatched to take photos of the crime scene, but she couldn't ask him what he knew or what he'd seen, not with tourists present, anyway.

He took shots of her bending over helping a winsome child decorate a cookie; Jaymie fervently hoped he didn't angle it so her butt looked huge. As the last person drifted out of the kitchen, the photographer asked her to stand by the Hoosier, which was decked again with the white colander holding her own holly. She smiled and held up her floury rolling pin.

“Great,” he said, with no enthusiasm. “We're done.” He glanced around. Haskell had gotten antsy with the presence of children and had retreated, and the last of the families seemed to have drifted off, so it was just her and the photographer. “You're Jaymie Leighton, right? That girl who keeps finding bodies and who works for the paper?”

“Sure,” she said, frowning at him in irritation.

“Nan is
really
mad at you. She told me to tell you she's been trying to call you all afternoon.”

“Mad at
me
?” she said, alarmed. “Why?”

His expression was sly, and confirmed her immediate dislike of him. “I heard her with the boss. She was screaming that after all she's done for you why would you backstab her that way and tell the cops you saw her son at the scene of the crime? She says Cody told her that he was working last evening at the Christmas tree farm and wasn't anywhere near Queensville.”

Jaymie's breath caught. “But I didn't say that, not exactly. I didn't say I saw him at the scene of the crime.”

He shrugged. “All I know is Cody Wainwright has been arrested for assault. I took a photo of him when they had him do a perp walk after picking him up at the Christmas tree place. Nan is out of her mind, mad as blazes, mostly at you.”

•   •   •

A
FTER
SWIFTLY
CLEANING
up the kitchen and helping with the rest of the house, Jaymie caught a ride back to town with Mabel Bloombury, who cast troubled looks at her all the way. Mabel and the others knew what was wrong—that her editor's son had been arrested for the assault on Shelby Fretter—but as they all cleaned the house they respected her need to process it in silence.

She told Mabel she'd see her the next day, the second of the grand-opening weekend, then stood and waved good-bye at her front door. She turned, fumbling in her purse for the key, and at that moment her lights, on a timer, came on to help her see. She entered and locked the door behind her as Hoppy wuffled and wriggled at her feet. She let out a desperate-to-piddle puppy and a nonchalant Denver as the snow thickened. Normally, on an evening like this, she would be looking forward to curling up by the fire in the parlor with a book and cup of tea. Like many readers she had a few books going at the same time, so besides the romances on her bedside nightstand, there was a biography of C. S. Lewis waiting on a table by the settee. But after such a harrowing twenty-four hours she couldn't even think straight, much less look forward to anything. On the phone was an angry sputtering message from Nan, and another from Detective Vestry to call the police station, but she ignored them both and called Jakob first.