The mayor, Eddie Fletcher, an infrequent sight in Queensville lately as he sought a wider political arena, stood and talked to the detective. The fire chief joined them. Evan Nezer strode around the pines from his home and headed straight for the fire inspector and detective. He berated them for a moment, shaking one finger at them both.
The mayor put out one hand, touching his shoulder, trying to reassure him, it appeared. Nezer shook him off, then stomped over to Jaymie, Haskell and Mabel, his expression malice-filled. “I hope you bunch of plaguey do-gooders are happy now. I told everyone this whole thing is a fire hazard. And on my property!”
“I don’t remember you telling anyone it was a fire hazard, Evan,” Haskell said.
“It is not on your property, Mr. Nezer,” Mabel said, her tone steely. A plump little partridge of a woman in sober colors and perfectly permed curls, she was nonetheless doughty and fearless. “The booth is on public property. And it wasn’t a fire hazard any more than your house is.”
Jaymie stifled a smile. Atta girl, Mabel!
“Madam, you display your ignorance by opening your big, fat mouth.”
Gasping aloud, Jaymie stared at the man, appalled.
“I beg your pardon?” Mabel said, eyes wide.
“Beg all you want,” he sneered. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to it.”
“Sir, you go too far,” Haskell, who had stiffened into rigid dislike, said. “I will not tolerate rudeness to a lady.”
Nezer examined him up and down. “Gasbag,” he muttered.
Bella Nezer paced toward them from beyond the fringe of pines. She was in an elegant white wool wrap coat, her glossy dark hair pulled up into a chignon, revealing her glorious cheekbones and creamy complexion. “Evan, dear, behave yourself,” she said, taking his arm. She turned to the two members of the heritage society. “He doesn’t mean to be rude.”
Yes, he does, Jaymie thought. He appeared to enjoy being rude.
Her ungracious husband motioned to the burnt, soggy wreckage and grumbled, “Look at this ruin! It could have burnt down my trees, destroyed my house. Look at that . . . they hacked off branches!”
“To save your house. Would you rather they let the trees catch fire and spread to your home?” Mabel said.
Nezer ignored her. “Haskell, why don’t you take this whole damn circus and put it out at that house you all paid a fortune to renovate?”
Interesting, Jaymie thought. If Nezer was the one to set the fire, as Bill suspected, perhaps that was his goal, to induce the heritage society to relocate Dickens Days. “Mr. Nezer, the whole point of the Dickens Days festival is to get publicity for the Queensville Historic Manor,” Jaymie said. “Which, as you appear to know, is on the outskirts of town away from the tourism district. The holiday festival attracts people who have never been there; we hand out treats and flyers and free visit coupons to the house. We promote Queensville as a tourist destination, thereby fattening the town’s business coffers, and making some money for the society. It’s a win-win situation.”
“Ah, yes, there you are, old Sobersides’ sad-sack sidekick,” Nezer sneered, eyeing her up and down.
“Sobersides?”
“Waterman, old fart that he is. And you . . . you’re one of those plain hausfraus who throw yourselves into good works to force people to notice you.”
Bella stared off toward the Emporium, either appalled or uncaring about her husband’s rudeness. It was impossible to tell which by her deliberately neutral expression.
Nezer’s intent was to needle and offend Jaymie. Instead she felt nothing but minor irritation. He was a blind pimple of a person. “And you’re one of those sour sad little bullies who have a mean nickname for everyone, right?”
Mabel clapped her hands together in delight.
“I suppose that’s your only shot,” he said dismissively, stroking his beard and adjusting his glasses. “Too bad it is pathetically weak.” He turned away. “Come along, Bella,” he said, yanking her by the arm so she stumbled. “Let these bumbling ninnies try to recover from this.”
Jaymie was tempted to tell Haskell and Mabel what she had seen on the Emporium CCTV footage, but that was a recipe for disaster. In minutes it would be all over town that Nezer or someone from his house had set the fire, and as Valetta had pointed out, that was not certain . . . it wasn’t even probable. Instead she excused herself and walked away. Her phone pinged; it was a text from Nan thanking her for the scoop and asking what else she had. The editor appended a list of questions: What exactly had she seen? Who did she suspect? Was it arson? What was the heritage society going to do now? What was the fate of the Dickens Days festival?
Jaymie would respond later. Her mind turned to the heritage society’s problems; what would they do now that the cider booth was gone? She took shelter from the chill breeze by the Emporium porch; she had an idea forming and texted Jakob to ask a question. She also needed to talk to Bill. He was the only one who could answer if there was any hope for the shell of the booth. She slipped her phone in her coat pocket and trotted along the street, then up and across the grassy area between the Emporium and Jewel’s Junk, heading to Bill Waterman’s workshop. He was a handyman, yes, but he was also a talented woodworker who restored antiques, rebuilt pieces for Jewel and Cynthia, and made cabinets from scratch in his spare time. His volunteer work with the heritage society saved it thousands of dollars every year, and it was done solely to help preserve the town in which he had grown up.
She approached the big barn and slid one of the huge doors open slightly. That it was unlocked was a good sign. It meant Bill was somewhere on the premises.
“Yoo-hoo, Bill!” she called out, her voice echoing within.
“In here!”
She followed his voice, inhaling the aroma of wood, damp earth, and something else. He was in the dark depths with a task light on over his sawhorses, staining a lovely old set of drawers he had stripped. The pungent smell of shellac assailed her nostrils, and she breathed in deep. “I love the smell of fumes. Weird, right?”
He chuckled, his good humor returned. “My daughter says whenever she smells paint, stripper, shellac or vanish she thinks of me.”
“So what are we going to do, Bill? I don’t imagine the shell of the cider booth can be saved.”
“Nope. That ship has sailed out of the harbor and wrecked on jagged rocks.”
She laughed. “You sound more at peace now, Bill. You don’t like Nezer, do you?” Understatement of the year.
He shook his head. “Classic bully: mean, rude and unfit for human company.”
“Or animals.”
He smiled. “How that lovely woman, Bella, can stand him I do not know. He has names for everyone, did you know that?”
“I was getting that idea.”
“He calls his ex-wife Old Graytop.”
“What is wrong with him?”
Bill dipped his brush, spread a thin coat of shellac along the final raw strip and stood back, nodding. “He’s like the Grinch. Has a heart two sizes too small.”
“Or Scrooge. He actually said ‘humbug’ the other day!” Her phone pinged, and she took it out of her pocket. Aha! She looked up from her phone. “So, Bill, the cider booth can’t be saved and it’s too late to build one from scratch, but . . . what about repainting something already built?”
“What do you have in mind?”
She brought up the photo her husband had sent her in reply to her text, positioning the phone under Bill’s task light so he could see it. “Look at this. Jakob rescued a bunch of buildings from the old fairgrounds near Wolverhampton. Now they’re sitting in his warehouse taking up space. I laughed at him and asked him what he was going to do with them. He said he might be able to use them on the farm someday, you know, make one over into a roadside vegetable booth or something. But today I thought . . . could you repaint this one to be the new cider booth? It’s about the right size.”
He wiped his hands then took it from her, squinting at the screen
. The booth in question was about the right size, and though it had been a hot dog stand, the marquee on top could be repainted. A big smile lit up Bill’s homely, lined face. “Jaymie Leighton Müller, you are one smart cookie. This will be perfect, and the best part about it is, it’s going to drive Nezer bonkers when we tote that over and put it in place. How soon can we get it here so I can paint it?”
Six
Jaymie ran to speak with Haskell and Mabel. Among them they made the decision and arranged with Jakob to bring the booth out on his flatbed trailer right away. Bill hustled off to the nearby Lowe’s to get the paint he needed.
Meanwhile Detective Macadams had responded and Valetta was showing him the surveillance footage. An official investigation had begun.
Jaymie sat on a bench in Bill’s work shed and texted Nan some answers. She couldn’t comment on the fire, as that was a police matter, but Dickens Days would most certainly be going on, she wrote her editor. Nothing would stop it; they were all working together to ensure that.
She heard a commotion and rushed out into the chilly gloom. Jakob had arrived with the booth strapped into the back of his long-bed pickup; he expertly backed it up the hill and into the workshop, with much shouting and directing from the handyman. The two men, with Jaymie and Valetta’s help, wrestled it off the flatbed truck to sit in the middle of the concrete workshop floor. As Val returned to the pharmacy and Jakob helped Bill clean the booth to ready it for painting, Jaymie strolled to the door of the workshop and leaned against it, viewing her village from the slight rise.
The destroyed shell of the booth was a dark blot on the lovely outlook. Bill was certain that the cider booth had been set ablaze by Nezer, but Jaymie wasn’t so sure. However . . . who else had a motive? She mulled that over and couldn’t think of anyone else who had a problem with Dickens Days, which had become a lighthearted nondenominational celebration of the festive season. She turned back to look into the depths of the workshop and smiled. There was Jakob, up on a ladder, already starting to paint a primer coat. “You guys going to work here for a while?” she called out, her voice echoing in the cavernous depths.
“Don’t blame me,” Bill said, pointing his brush at her husband. “I told Jakob to go home, or back to work, but he said I needed help. So . . . I been told.”
“If you want to have any shot at all of having this ready to go Saturday, you need help, Bill,” Jakob said firmly, winking down at Jaymie. “I’ve got time today, and some tomorrow. Let’s knock this out in twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it. I have work on the diorama to finish.”
She returned to her SUV where it was parked along the street that led away from the downtown. Using a handcart, she moved the small table and chairs to the diorama, pulled off the tarp, and placed them inside. She then returned to her vehicle and retrieved some other bits and pieces. She set the box of decorations from her SUV on the ground beside the scene.
Bill was better than a mere workman, he was an artist. The diorama was a three-sided open structure with a floor and top . . . kind of like an open box set on its side. Bill had painted, on the inside walls, a scene from A Christmas Carol, the Cratchit dining room and parlor. It was like a backdrop for a play. There was a fireplace, with Tiny Tim’s crutch painted leaning against it. Mrs. Cratchit was depicted, her comically rounded face and rosy cheeks worthy of a book illustration; she had her hands up in the air, as if she was about to clap at her plum pudding’s delectability!
The police officer who was still guarding the burned-out cider booth looked on in puzzlement, but no one had said she couldn’t proceed, so she continued. Finn Fancombe skulked by at one point, but only paused and watched her working for a moment before moving on. Bella Nezer strolled by from the direction of the Nezer home, pulling on gray wool gloves. She was about to walk past toward the Emporium but she paused. “What is that supposed to be?” she asked.
Jaymie joined her on the sidewalk and surveyed her work so far, as she explained. “It’s the scene in A Christmas Carol when Scrooge is visited by the Spirit of Christmas Present and the ghost takes him to see the Cratchits’ Christmas. The plum pudding, bedizened with a sprig of holly, is set alight and served, to the delight of them all.”
“So that’s the Cratchit kitchen?” She eyed Jaymie’s set decoration.
The small wood table from The Junk Stops Here, along with two rickety chairs, were the largest furnishings. She had some chipped old china on the table, and a copper pot, with a glossy fake baked chicken in place of the goose. Something was missing, but she couldn’t think what. “It is, kind of. I mean, at their income level their home would have limited rooms, so the kitchen and parlor and dining room would likely all be one.” She glanced over at Bella. “I’m about to place the mannequins. The Bob Cratchit one is a little heavy. Can you help me with it?”
Bella looked surprised, but agreed, and followed Jaymie to the SUV.
“I’m so glad you’re lending me a hand,” Jaymie said, handing her one of Bob Cratchit’s arms. She giggled, but Bella seemed coolly unamused.
She and Jaymie hauled it from her SUV and pushed and prodded it until he was sitting in the chair at the head of the table, fork in hand. He was far too good-looking to be Bob Cratchit since he was a mannequin from the fashion department of a store. He had dark, crisply waving hair and a square jaw, and an intense model-gaze. But he’d have to do; lucky Mrs. Cratchit. Well, if Scrooge wouldn’t pay his bookkeeper more, maybe old Bob could model for the Burberry catalogue.
“And now for the pièce de résistance,” Jaymie said, racing and skipping back to the SUV and getting the last item. She hauled the mannequin to the scene and placed little Tiny Tim—a child mannequin—at the table and adjusted his newsboy-style cap on his wig, tugging it askew to a rakish slant. The lad was overlooking the big, fake plum pudding Jaymie and Jocie had made using papier-mâché over a balloon. Painted a rich chocolate brown, it was adorned with blobs of color to represent almonds and figs. She had Jocie stick glistening red plastic cabochons all over it to represent candied cherries, and they had glued construction paper flames to it. She placed it on a chipped plate and stood back.
“Darn!” she explained. “It needs a couple of things. I forgot to get the holly to deck it with, and . . . something is missing.” She twisted her mouth into a grimace. “What the heck is missing? I’ll need to think about it.”
Bella stared at it for a moment.
“What do you think?” Jaymie asked.
“It’s . . . odd,” the woman replied. “I have to go now. If I’m going to get everything done in time for the party I can’t waste a minute.” She turned, walked up to the Emporium and disappeared inside.
“Well, all right then,” Jaymie muttered. There was still more to do. She opened the tote that held the strings of lights and pulled them out. Using zip ties, she strung them around the sides and top of the diorama, then ran a long outdoor extension cord to the electrical outlet, sneaking under the yellow crime scene tape to do it. The burnt smell of the booth was acrid in her nose, and she backed off, turning back to her joyful little diorama. Too bad it looked so bleak from the outside, the plywood dull. Too late to do anything about that now.
She finally remembered what was missing: the pudding mould! She had a cheap damaged vintage one at home that would do, and she wouldn’t worry about it being stolen. Everything in the scene was placed with that thought, that anything portable might be stolen. She had doubles of everything: more chipped china, more rickety chairs. She even had access to a couple of extra mannequins if she needed them, though she hoped she wouldn’t. With any luck father and son would stay in place over the holidays. She patted Tiny Tim’s thin shoulder. The best thing about A Christmas Carol, to her, was its inclusion of a little boy bravely struggling with a disability, and a family that stuck together, no matter what.
She dusted off her hands, finally, and stood back to examine the scene. If she thought of anything else, it would have t
o wait until Saturday morning, when Dickens Days would officially kick off. She sure hoped the fellows could get the cider booth done by then. Now it was time to replace her hastily rigged twist tie closures. She got out her tool kit and hammered pilot holes, then screwed in hooks for the corners of the open side of the diorama. She hooked the corner grommets of the tarp on those, then used pieces of nylon rope to tie the tarp securely to the holes Bill had already drilled all along the top. She then packed up her tool kit and put it back in her vehicle.
Time to go home, but first she wanted to see how Bill and Jakob were coming along. They had a crowd of onlookers at the door to Bill’s workshop. Haskell Lockland bustled up and pushed through the crowd, not noticing Jaymie as he elbowed past her. Ostentatiously dressed in crisp new workmen’s overalls, available at any home improvement store, he held a brand-new paint brush. “I’m here to help save Dickens Days, my fellow workmen!”
Jaymie bit back a snicker. Good to know that now that Haskell Lockland had shown up in crisp new overalls, which would likely never see a spot of paint, everything would get done.
• • •
Friday was another busy day. Cynthia and Jewel had been fighting over who would have Petty help them when, so Jaymie stepped in and offered her services. She worked all morning helping Cynthia arrange Christmas displays. She stopped in on Georgina at Queensville Fine Antiques and moved the table in the front window and vacuumed, something the older woman, slight and fine-boned, wasn’t strong enough to do. She snuck looks at her, and sniffed her breath when she got close enough. No gin breath that she could tell, and the slim woman certainly didn’t stagger or slur. Georgina might drink like a sailor on shore leave, but every single day every gray curled hair was in place, her sweater set and ironed trousers were impeccably neat and her pearls in place.
Georgina finally said, as Jaymie hovered close, “What is wrong with you today, girl?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” Jaymie said, moving away hastily. “Hey, will you be coming to the start of Dickens Days tomorrow evening?” she asked, hoping to become friendlier with the frosty woman.
Breaking the Mould Page 7
