Cover
Breaking the Mould
Now that Thanksgiving’s behind her, vintage cookware enthusiast Jaymie Leighton Muller is excitedly making plans for the upcoming Dickens Days festival—the town’s month-long celebration leading up to Christmas. With a hot cider booth on the village green to warm the hearts and bodies of the townsfolk and a diorama featuring a scene from A Christmas Carol, things are shaping up for a festive season—until the town’s local Scrooge is found murdered, a vintage pudding mould covering his cracked skull.
Nearly everyone had a reason to dislike Evan Nezer—either for his bullying ways or his obnoxious arrogance—but with his body being found in Jaymie’s diorama, she’ll have to figure out who hated him enough to see him dead. With many suspects and even more secrets coming to the surface as she investigates, Jaymie feels buried by a blizzard of clues. But with Dickens Days on hold until the police can nab the killer, she’s determined to catch the culprit so the ghost of Evan Nezer doesn’t cast a pall over the whole Christmas season.
Title Page
Copyright
Breaking the Mould
Victoria Hamilton
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2018 by Donna Lea Simpson.
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs.
ISBN: 978-1-946069-88-7
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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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Vintage Eats
Books by Victoria Hamilton
About the Author
Dedication
For Bill H., WBE (World’s Best Editor), whose unfailing generosity, kindness and staggeringly good editing are endlessly appreciated. He invariably finds the weakness in a book, and with great kindness points it out. With even greater kindness he gives valuable hints on how to rectify it. I’ve become a better writer because of him.
Thank you, Bill.
Cast of Characters
in the Vintage Kitchen Mystery Series:
Jaymie Leighton Müller: newlywed, new stepmom, and collector of all things vintage kitchen-y!
Jakob Müller: her husband, dad to Jocie, Christmas tree farmer and junk store owner.
Jocie Müller: little little person (as she says!) and happy daughter to Jakob and Jaymie.
Dieter and Helmut Müller: Jakob’s oldest and next oldest brothers
Becca Brevard: Jaymie’s bossy older sister and co-owner of Queensville Fine Antiques, aka QFA.
Kevin Brevard: Becca’s husband and co-owner of QFA.
Georgina Brevard: Kevin’s older sister and manager of QFA.
Valetta Nibley: pharmacist and lifelong friend to Jaymie and Becca
Brock Nibley: Valetta’s older brother and Queensville’s best real estate agent.
Heidi Lockland: Jaymie’s friend.
Bernie Jenkins: Heidi’s best friend, Jaymie’s good friend and local police officer for the Queensville Township Police Department, aka QTPD
Mrs. Martha Stubbs: Jaymie’s elderly friend and confidante.
Bill Waterman: Queensville’s favorite handyman.
Austin Calhoun: Jaymie’s acquaintance from a past investigation and new Wolverhampton College (aka WC) student.
Mrs. Bellwood, Trip Findley, Haskell Lockland, Imogene Frump, Mabel Bloomsbury, Johnny Stanko: Queensvillians and Jaymie’s friends.
Detective Angela Vestry: QTPD’s first female detective.
Hoppy and Lilibet: Jaymie’s Yorkie-Poo and Jocie’s tiger-striped kitten.
in Breaking the Mould:
Mr. Evan Hollis Nezer: Tenured professor of economics at Wolverhampton College (WC) and noted author.
Mrs. Bella Nezer: his second wife and decorative accessory.
Mrs. Sarah Nezer: his ex-wife, mother of his son.
E. (Evan) Benjamin Nezer: aka Ben, his son, recently un-estranged.
Jacklyn Marley: Evan’s ghostwriter.
Erla Fancombe: Nezer housekeeper.
Finn Fancombe: Erla’s son and WC grad student and former master’s candidate.
Hazel Belcher: WC president.
Carter Crossley: WC provost.
Andy Markham: WC dean.
Pastor Vaughan Inkerman: WC interfaith chaplain and author of Living Your Best Life Through Scripture.
Amos: Wandering soul who collects booze bottles from recycling containers.
Shannon Parker: WC college student and Müller Christmas Tree Farm hire.
Epigraph
“If I could work my will,” said Scrooge indignantly, “Every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
One
A cold breeze swept along the main street in Queensville, Michigan. Jaymie Leighton Müller wrapped her jacket around her more tightly as she held the hand of her stepdaughter, Jocie. Though nine years old, Jocie was much smaller than other kids her age because a condition, achondroplasia dwarfism, had made her, as she put it, a little little person. They stood together opposite the triangle-shaped plot of land known to Queensvillians as the village green, and watched Bill Waterman, local handyman, at work. Preparations were under way for the holiday season, Jaymie’s favorite time of year. Other villagers were out in force, too, stringing white lights from pine tree to oak, hanging festive wreaths, and erecting wood cutout snowfolk and other displays on front lawns and porches.
Jocie pulled her hand out of Jaymie’s and buried both of them in her coat sleeves, her breath coming out in puffs of white. “Are you warm enough, sweetie?” Jaymie asked, looking down at Jocie. Her daughter’s pudgy cheeks were rosy from the cold, and with her blonde ringlets jammed down by a pink tuque and her powder-pink padded jacket, she looked adorable.
“I guess,” she said. Her big brown eyes were fixed on Bill and his namesake grandson, Billy, who was nine as well and in Jocie’s class at school. He was a hand
some dark-skinned boy, his black hair cut close to his skull, and he helped Bill with quick, deft movements, a testament to years in the shop alongside his grandfather. He glanced over at Jocie, then ducked his head bashfully, like a silent hello.
Jocie started forward to join them, but Jaymie grasped her shoulder. “Not unless you’re invited. They’re working, and we don’t want to get in the way.”
“I wasn’t going to get in the way, I was going to help!”
“Unless you know what you’re doing, that’s also called getting in the way,” Jaymie said firmly. Jocie pouted, her lip starting to push out. Though she was generally sunny-tempered, she did have moments of stubbornness. “Jocie, we ask first, we don’t just assume we know what to do. It’s like in the kitchen, where you need to ask if you can use the cooking tools.”
“Your mom’s right,” Bill said with a kind smile. He was a tall man, into his seventies, but sturdy and strong. Dressed in overalls and a striped cap, he looked like a train engineer, appropriate since one of his hobbies was model train construction. “I’m swinging a hammer. Wouldn’t want you in the way of it, honey. Billy knows when to step back.”
She thought for a moment, then asked, “Can I stand with Billy?”
“Okay with you, Jaymie?”
She nodded. Jocie raced over and stood talking to Billy while his grandfather worked. The boy was pointing to things and explaining, and Jocie was paying close attention. Her father and grandfather often included her in their work, so she understood more than many kids her age would have.
It was the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend. Dickens Days was scheduled to start on Friday, and Jaymie was excited! The village of Queensville would soon be decked in white lights and festive ornaments for the annual Christmas festival, one of the year’s two fund-raisers for the local historical society. Helped by a couple of volunteers from the heritage society, Bill had moved the adorable cider house into its position on the village green, and now he was hammering nails back into place that had come loose in the move. From it, volunteers would dole out steaming cups of warm cider to folks who would wander from shop to shop while Victorian-garbed carolers strolled the village streets, pausing by the Victorian-style light posts to sing of holiday cheer and joyful celebration.
Unless . . . the village Scrooge ruined it all. That was a fly in the ointment this year, that the house behind the village green was now occupied by Professor Evan Hollis Nezer, when in past years it had been rented out by various casual occupants who hadn’t cared what was happening on their doorstep. Jaymie hoped Nezer didn’t cause them any grief.
Bill tethered a rope to a hook at the peak of the booth’s roof and pulled it taut behind the booth to a spot in the middle of a line of tall pines. Billy followed and handed him his hammer as Jocie returned to Jaymie’s side. Bill raised the heavy mallet, ready to pound a wooden stake into the ground to anchor the line.
A man bolted from among the pines and confronted the handyman, grabbing the wooden stake and throwing it through the open booth toward the road. Jaymie let out her breath, holding Jocie to her side with one arm. Her wish hadn’t come true.
“You’ve got no right to infringe on my property!” Evan Hollis Nezer shrieked, literally hopping mad.
“Hey, now . . . you shouldn’t be throwing that, especially not with kids around!” Bill stepped back and let go of the rope, gesturing toward his grandson nearby and Jocie with Jaymie.
Nezer’s property, on which his big Queen Anne historic home stood, abutted the Queensville village green. That greenspace had always been used as public land, central as it was in the village, within view of the Queensville Emporium and across from a small public parkette that was separated from other homes on the street by groves of trees. The Nezer property line was thought to be the line of pines in front of it, but there was no actual indication, no fence or barrier.
Red-faced, fists clenched, the property owner hopped up and down twice as he faced the Queensville handyman. “I don’t care who’s around, you can’t use my property. Get off!”
“Now, Mr. Nezer, it’s just a peg to tie a rope to, to keep the cider house stable. Nothing more. I promise.” Bill Waterman, calm and good-natured, loomed over the other fellow. His grandson had retrieved the stake and handed it back to his grandpa, who still held the mallet.
Nezer, who had longish silvery hair, a trim beard and mustache and brushed-silver-framed glasses, would have been distinguished-looking if not for the choleric expression on his face. “I don’t care. Cease and desist!” he demanded, his cheeks scarlet. “This moment!”
The villagers who had been decorating were attracted by the shouting. Dark-haired Cynthia Turbridge, owner of the Cottage Shoppe, and flame-haired Jewel Dandridge, proprietor of Jewel’s Junk, whispered together, joined by their shared employee, Petty Welch. Gracey Klausner stood in the Queensville Emporium window, arms folded across her chest, and gazed out. Others, who had been helping decorate, stood in groups chatting and watching the commotion.
Bill glanced around, passing one hand over his thin hair and beginning to look irritated. “It’s barely six inches on your property! You’ve lived here all your life and know it gets windy in our town in November and December. It comes off the river and sweeps through Queensville. Surely you don’t want the structure to blow over. It could hurt someone.” At six feet plus, Bill was a big guy, but despite the fact that he carried a rubber mallet and a long stake, which was incidentally pointed right at Nezer, he meant no harm. He stepped forward. “C’mon, Evan . . . let me—”
“Don’t you threaten me, Waterman!” the man screeched in alarm and backed away. He held one hand out in front of him. “I’ll sue you; I will!”
Billy’s eyes widened and he looked scared. Jaymie dropped Jocie’s hand and lurched forward. “Mr. Nezer, please, there are children present. Calm down!”
Belatedly it occurred to her that the worst thing to say to an excitable person was “calm down.” The man exploded in rage, his face turning even redder and puffing up alarmingly. “Don’t tell me what to do!”
Jocie watched in fascination. She moved forward and grabbed Jaymie’s hand.
“What, Jocie?”
“Why is he getting so red?” Jocie whispered.
“I’ll sue! I will sue, Waterman, I swear it!” Nezer shrieked, dancing like a marionette, arms flailing.
Jocie’s eyes lit up and she pulled away from Jaymie. She screeched with laughter, and began dancing around like Mr. Nezer. Billy turned and watched her, laughing out loud in glee. Some among the gathered crowd laughed too, and pointed at the man and the little girl, both dancing like maniacs.
Nezer stopped and shook his fists. “Waterman, and you, lady with that child . . . you’re both on notice. I’ll sue you for—”
“What, Mr. Nezer? What will you sue them for?” Valetta, her sweater wrapped around her and shivering, had come from the Queensville Emporium, where she ran the pharmacy. More folks had gathered to witness the spectacle. “For making fun of you? That’s not sue-able, I shouldn’t think.” She pushed her glasses up on her face. “Or you’d be suing everyone in town.”
Jaymie bit her lip, trying to keep from laughing at Valetta’s acerbic comment. A young woman about Jaymie’s age stood by Valetta and applauded, a grin on her face.
“Val, you’re not helping,” Jaymie muttered. “What are you doing at the pharmacy on a Sunday anyway?” she asked.
“Sick customer needed antibiotics.”
“Ah, I see. Jocie, please don’t antagonize the man anymore.” She grabbed her stepdaughter’s shoulder and pulled her close.
Nezer calmed and blinked, his face still red. He was a tidy man, dapper in his clothes—he wore a stylish gray wool trench coat with a red silk scarf under the collar—and with that silky mane of thinning gray hair. He had owned the house, a family inheritance, for a long time. Over the years he had rented it out as office space and a vacation rental. Most recently it had been rented to an accounting firm. But he
had sued the accounting company, and they had vacated the property rather than settle. Then he had been about to sell it in October. However, according to Brock Nibley, a local real estate agent, Valetta’s older brother, and the source of all of Jaymie’s information on the house, Nezer had tanked a sure sale by demanding more money, nitpicking contract details, refusing to do required work, and otherwise being a jerk. He eyed the gathered crowd, perhaps looking for supporters and finding none.
Jaymie set Jocie behind her and moved forward. “Mr. Nezer, honestly, Bill was doing what has always been done for the Dickens Days celebra—”
“Confound your Dickens Days! Humbug on it,” he said, his eyes a frigid blue. He stuck his thumbs in his lapels and strutted forward. “Why should your silly festival infringe on my property? I have rights, don’t I? And that includes the right not to be bothered by chanting and cider-swilling idiots traipsing over my property. And stakes being pounded in, damaging my turf! What about my rights? If you all don’t leave me and my property alone I’ll sue every solitary person in this town. Starting with you, Bill Waterman!” he said, jabbing a finger in the handyman’s direction. “I’ll end it all, or my name isn’t Evan Nezer!” He whirled and strode away.
Most of the crowd dispersed, knowing the show was over and feeling the icy chill of a late November day in Michigan seeping through their coats. It was time for home, and hot soup and hotter tea. Jaymie shivered, a presentiment of trouble chilling her as much as the cold wind.
“You go on home, Jaymie,” Bill said, an exasperated and weary expression on his face. He clapped his grandson on the shoulder. “Billy and I will head on home. That Nezer . . . he’s a bunch of hot air. I’ll continue tomorrow. Maybe I can rig something that doesn’t anchor it on his property.”
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