Jakob was accompanying Jaymie into town, hauling the huge village Christmas tree in the extended box of his beat-up white pickup. Brock, Haskell and whoever else wanted to help were going to meet them in front of the Emporium. As Becca and Kevin did up the breakfast dishes, Jaymie grabbed the step stool and climbed to the top step, reaching for the vintage pudding mould from the rafters over the kitchen table. It was one of the two things missing in the diorama, which would be revealed that afternoon as the cider booth opened and the strolling carolers began their tasks. She already had the holly from the Queensville house, of course.
“You do find unique ways to store things,” Becca said over her shoulder.
“You do what you have to do,” Jaymie said, climbing back down. “There’s not a lot of horizontal space left in the cabin, so I make use of the vertical!”
Dishes done and put away, Kevin helped Becca on with her Harris Tweed peacoat, purchased in Scotland.
“Come on, Jocie,” Jaymie called over her shoulder as she checked to make sure she had everything: keys, cell phone, wallet, holly and pudding mould. And a partridge in a pear tree, she hummed to herself. “Aunt Becca and Uncle Kevin are waiting for you!”
Jocie and Jakob had returned from walking Hoppy. She unleashed the little dog to race off and find Lilibet. Since she was already dressed and ready, Becca and Kevin hustled Jocie out the door. Yawning, Jaymie took three containers of frozen treats out of the freezer to thaw, ready for giving away and selling at the cider booth, and put them in a cloth tote bag along with the pudding mould.
Thanksgiving through Christmas was life lived at an accelerated pace for Jaymie, even more so now with a husband and child, and the Friday night party had left her lagging. She was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort, but . . . she’d be fine.
Jakob ducked back in the door. “Are we ready to go? I’ve tied the tree down in the back of the truck. Can you follow in the SUV and make sure it isn’t moving around too much?”
“Sure,” she mumbled, holding her leather key fob in her mouth and hooking one arm through her purse strap as she fastened the toggles of her plaid parka with one hand and grabbed the canvas bag of treats with the other.
They drove slowly to Queensville, Jaymie watching the tree, which was securely fastened in the truck bed and up over the cab. It was eighteen or twenty feet tall and would take at least five or six people to erect. Jakob had already, wisely, strung lights around it and secured them to branches. Once they anchored it in the bucket sunk in the ground and tethered it, all that would be needed would be to plug it in that evening at the official tree lighting, hopefully. They were behind schedule, but everything should come together with cooperation.
The frosty promise of the night before was borne out in the frigid weather of the morning. She could have used one more cup of coffee, Jaymie thought as she parked near her husband’s truck in front of the village green. The first thing she noticed was that the fire-damaged cider booth had been cleared away, and there was a layer of sand on the spot, making a clean start. That was a good thing, she thought, but then turned away to watch the tree going up.
The town tree would normally have gone to the right of the cider booth, but that was before Jaymie had planned the Christmas Carol diorama. Now it would go across from the cider booth on another smaller V of public land. The benefit of that was that there was a telephone post close by, perfect for attaching the tree to. Kevin and Becca had volunteered to provide electricity from their own shop, which was closest to the new location for the town tree, so they would reel an outdoor extension cord to it before lighting it up and plug it into their store’s outdoor outlet. Haskell was already there in his faux working man overalls, talking to Bill Waterman. Johnny Stanko had been roped in and was standing by alone, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet to warm them. Brock Nibley was there, nominally, but he sat on his car bumper, head in his hands, the very image of a man regretful about the night before.
“That is a man with a serious hangover,” Jakob murmured to Jaymie as he walked with her toward the other men.
“The booze was free and his kids are at their Aunt Violet’s place for the weekend.”
“That explains his drinking . . . too much freedom. I’ve never known Brock to be much of a boozer.”
Valetta had emerged from the Emporium to watch as the guys hoisted the tree into the deepset holder that Jakob had already secured. There was much grunting and groaning, and even more calls of Is it straight? But eventually they got it upright and secured with ropes tied off to trees and the telephone pole. The guys shook hands all around and there was much clapping on the back and hearty laughter.
But Jakob had to run. He raced over to Jaymie, gave her an enthusiastic kiss, bending her backward, and with a grin waved at the crowd that watched and laughed. Flustered, Jaymie laughed too and patted her flaming cheeks. He headed to his truck and roared out of town. From there he’d check in at The Junk Stops Here and work for a couple of hours, then he’d pick up Helmut and head into Wolverhampton to an employment agency. They needed two casual laborers to help them cut trees for sale for the season. It was a big job demanding considerable physical stamina and a knack with tricky machinery, since they had a Christmas tree baler, which wrapped each tree into a tight netted bundle, making them easy to stack. No one they had used before was free so they’d have to train a couple of new workers. The better of the two would be kept on to help sell trees until Christmas.
Mrs. Bellwood and Imogene Frump arrived at the site as Bill Waterman, with the help of Johnny Stanko, using the handyman’s cart, arrived back on-site with the new cider booth. Bill kept ducking his head, looking through the line of pine trees toward the Nezer home, probably hoping the man of the house would notice what they were doing and come out to confront him. He and Johnny, with a little help from Jaymie, shoved the booth into place. It was considerably lighter than the previous incarnation. After directing Johnny on how to raise the custom-made shutter he had installed to open and close the booth, Bill set about hooking it up to the electricity.
The booth looked terrific, even better than the original. Bill had replicated the painting on the old one, and most people wouldn’t notice that it was a different structure. There was a festive atmosphere all around as villagers gathered to watch the excitement of the tree being put up and the new cider booth being installed. Some were eyeing the Nezer residence, taking bets on how long it would be before Evan erupted from the house in fury to castigate Bill. Odds were even on five minutes or less. Laughter filled the air, and even those who had to get going did so with calls of See you here later! The first evening of Dickens Days and the lighting of the tree would be exhilarating and busy.
But Jaymie had another task, adding the finishing touches to her diorama. Dickens Days needed a scene of Victorian Christmas frolic, she had thought, and what would be better than the part where the Cratchit family go into ecstasies over the plum pudding? That was how she had put it to the Dickens Days committee when pitching the idea a month ago.
She practically had the plum pudding section of A Christmas Carol memorized and had recited it at the meeting, looking for approval for her diorama:
In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered: flushed, but smiling proudly: with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage.
She retrieved the vintage pudding mould and holly from her truck. The mould was not an expensive one. She had been ready to use a brand-new mould because the idea of leaving a vintage piece in the diorama to easily be stolen was frightening for anyone who valued old stuff, as she did. But Jakob, knowing her yen for authenticity, had surprised her by finding in his storeroom an old dented one that no one would want even for a display. If she positioned
it perfectly in the background, no one would notice the ding. If it lasted, she’d keep it for next year. If it got stolen or ruined, oh well.
Bill had added a feature to the cider booth: music! A cheery chorus of “Jingle Bells” blared, and then softened as he adjusted the volume. The gathered villagers applauded and there was an impromptu Hip hip hooray for their local handyman. The air was frigid and the sky had closed in, clouds gathering overhead. There was a promise of snow that might fall for the first night of the festival. Jaymie smiled. Everything was going to be perfect, despite Evan Nezer’s Grinchy attempt to ruin it. He could not dim their Christmas cheer; like the Whos of Whoville, they would gather around the tree and sing together.
Jaymie unfastened the tarp from over the diorama; one corner was ripped, she noticed. Wind must have tugged it free. Weird. Hopefully nothing was ruined. She’d have to make sure all the volunteers knew to fasten the tarp every night at all corners. She flipped the tarp up over the roof of the diorama and tied it so it wouldn’t flap in the strengthening breeze, then stood back and looked it over. There was something wrong with the scene; the table had been moved, and the Tiny Tim mannequin had fallen over. Annoying. She went to push the table back into place, but it would not budge. She walked into the diorama and stared, a shriek of horror building in her throat.
Under the back edge of the table was a body, hairy legs sticking out from under a long linen nightshirt, and with an antique pudding mould placed like a cap on its head. Worst of all, a thick wooden stake pierced the chest, a big branch of glossy holly tied jauntily to the top. She ducked her head under the table to look; it was Evan Nezer! He had been handed a life sentence for his Scroogery, it seemed, for his part in the scene was unmistakably staged. She staggered backward, out of the diorama, faced the crowd of people and yelled, “Heeeelp!” before crumbling in a heap to weep in horror.
She quivered and wept into her hands as other people cried out at the sight that greeted them, and someone else called 911 on their cell phone, loudly, excitedly reciting the horrible, unbelievable details, and affirming that yes, the body was dead. And no, there was no doubt about it. Evan Nezer was dead as a doornail. But as Dickens so succinctly put it, it should be dead as a coffin nail, shouldn’t it?
And now she was mindlessly repeating Dickens bits in her brain to keep from visualizing the horrid spectacle. Jaymie shuddered. But the scene . . . it was too, too appropriate. It was like in the book, when Scrooge muttered, “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.”
• • •
“I’m completely baffled by how often this happens to you,” Detective Vestry said as Jaymie sat in the open door of an ambulance, grimly viewing the police working on the scene of her lovely diorama . . . which she would never be able to look at again. “You seem like such a nice girl, but you find dead bodies with astonishing regularity.”
“I’m starting to take it personally,” Jaymie said, choking back a sob. “I have to believe it is wrong place, wrong time, or I’ll go a little crazy.”
Bernie took the detective aside, but not so far that Jaymie couldn’t overhear the conversation. The new medical examiner, who had emerged from the diorama and removed her gloves, apparently conjectured that Nezer had been killed elsewhere and moved to the diorama. Thank goodness, Jaymie thought. For some obscure reason it made her feel better that Nezer had not been killed in her diorama. She caught Bernie’s glance toward her; her dear friend had made sure she heard that part, knowing it would matter to her. She smiled through tears and nodded, mouthing thank you.
The stake of holly, Bernie continued to the detective, had been hammered into his body well after his death. The medical examiner said her preliminary finding would be that the cause of death was a blow to the head . . . a blow with very odd markings to it.
Feeling numb, not sure what to do but feeling she had regained her equilibrium, Jaymie stood, made sure her legs were not wobbly, and began to walk away from the dreadful scene. Valetta bolted toward her and pushed her shoulder under Jaymie’s arm. “You should stay put, sit down. You’ve had a heck of a shock, kiddo.”
Jaymie sagged against her friend. “I can’t sit and do nothing. It keeps running in a loop, finding him like that. Val, who did this?” she said, turning and grabbing her by her cardigan-clad shoulders and staring into her eyes. “Why did they plant him in my diorama? Am I horribly selfish to be upset at that? What are we going to do? Dickens Days . . . tonight . . .” She shook her head, unable to continue.
“Come up to the porch of the Emporium and sit. You’ve had a shock; you need sugar. I’m going to get you a cup of hot sweet tea.”
From the porch of the Emporium, where she had spent many an afternoon tea break with Valetta, the elevated view allowed her to see not only the village green but beyond, even to the Nezer home. Jaymie wondered if Bella had been told yet, or Benjamin. She huddled in weary anxiety until Valetta pushed a hot cup of sugary black tea into her hands, then draped a shawl around her shoulders for added warmth. “You’re cold, my dear,” Val said, concern in her voice. “I could close down and take you to my place to warm up. I’m sure the detective would be okay with that.”
“I’m okay, Val.” She took a deep breath and sipped the sweet brew. It was helping. She felt steadier, calmer. “Who killed him, I wonder?” Jaymie mused, cradling the hot cup of tea. “He had so many people mad at him.”
At that moment Jacklyn Marley drifted closer, her gaze fixed on the scene, arms crossed over her chest, mitted hands under her arms.
“Like her. Last I saw her she was at Evan’s computer stealing data from him,” Jaymie whispered, her gaze not leaving the woman.
“What?” Valetta hissed, plunking down in the matching Adirondack.
Jaymie told her friend what she had seen the night before, Jacklyn hacking Evan Nezer’s computer for proof he was defrauding her of royalties.
“How could he do that?” Valetta asked.
She shrugged. “She said her agreement was with him, not the publishing company, so it’s up to him to uphold his part of the bargain. I have to believe she has some kind of contract. Who would do all that work without one?”
“But who drew up the contract? Maybe she didn’t know him that well before she signed. What we know about him now is that he’s sue-happy. And he’s a lawyer; if he drew it up you have to know it favored him.”
Jaymie nodded, watching Jacklyn, who appeared rattled and upset, as she must be if she knew what was going on. “At any rate, she says she needs proof that he is making money from the book sales. With him dead, it may be a lot easier to negotiate with his estate than with him.”
“Still . . . that’s a heck of a stretch from hacking to murder.”
“Depends on what she found,” Jaymie said, sipping her tea.
Sarah Nezer, in jeans and a parka, riding an old-fashioned bike, stopped, putting her foot down on the dew-slick grass by the street. Imogene Frump and Mrs. Bellwood were standing and watching the goings-on. Sarah leaned in and said something to them.
Mrs. Bellwood loudly said, “It’s that Evan Nezer character, the fellow who is always suing the town. He was murdered and thrown in Jaymie’s lovely diorama.”
Sarah staggered sideways, then threw the bike down and hustled over to the ambulance. “Is it true? Evan’s dead? I want to see him!” she said loudly, the words carrying up to Jaymie and Val. A paramedic touched her shoulder and murmured something to her. She cried out and sank down onto the road. The paramedic beckoned to his partner and they attended to the collapsed woman, one laying her down and putting a cushion under her head while the other undid the top button of her sweater.
“Ma’am, ma’am, can you hear me?” the first one said as he tried to rouse her, checking her pulse.
A supercilious grin on her face, Jacklyn Marley turned and spotted Jaymie. Her smile died, her eyes widened, and she bustled away around
to the side of the Emporium. The sound of her clumping boots up the exterior stairs thudded through the air.
Sarah was now sitting up, while a paramedic squatted beside her talking to her. His partner had gotten a compress out of the ambulance and held it to her head. Her color was improving already.
“It looks like she’s going to be okay. It must have been a shock to her.”
“I guess we can stroke her off the list of suspects,” Valetta said jokingly.
“Maybe. Unless she’s a pretty good actress.” Jaymie watched the woman, who put one hand to her forehead and nodded at something the paramedic said. She was not weeping; she looked dazed as she stood, with his help, and climbed up to sit on a gurney the other paramedic had hauled out of the ambulance. “Val, I heard that Sarah didn’t get anything in the divorce. Why is that? Shouldn’t she have gotten a fifty-fifty split?”
Valetta shrugged. “Michigan isn’t a community property state, it’s an equitable distribution state. But I think that means if the couple works out an agreement of less or more than fifty-fifty the judge will go along with it.”
“Why wouldn’t she ask for her share? She’s apparently destitute.” Jaymie considered what she’d said. “We know what Nezer is like, though. Maybe he had something on her, some . . . scandal. Something to hold over her head.”
“Maybe. We have no way of knowing. Why are you thinking of that?”
“You already said it, about Sarah being—or not being—a suspect.”
“I was joking!”
Jaymie shrugged and drained her tea and set her mug aside. “You know how my mind works. Someone killed Nezer,” she said, her voice quivering. “They then planted him in my lovely diorama with a stake of holly through his heart and a pudding mould over his head, and . . .” She stopped and sat up straight. “Wait, where did that pudding mould come from?”
Breaking the Mould Page 11
