“I guess.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it, that you and Becca were clearing out the home of a girl she knew?”
“Not really funny. That was through the Mackenzie auction house, who are auctioning the contents for the estate. We’re old friends of the Mackenzies and go to all their auctions. I buy stuff for the historic house all the time through them, and I’ve done odd jobs for them in the past. Mr. Mackenzie has even started to contact me about vintage kitchen items coming up in sales. I’ve cleared out old houses before, so when it came to clearing out the Paget place, they thought of us. It was just chance that Becca decided to help.”
“So what’s going on with that house? Do you know?”
“On the record or off it?” Jaymie asked cautiously.
Nan hooted with laughter. “You’re learning. Off the record for now, then.”
“The chief trusts me not to give stuff away,” Jaymie explained. “He’s asked me, since I have a nose for this kind of thing and in this case know all the players, to sniff around.”
“Chief Ledbetter has been pretty noncommittal. All he’ll say is it’s early days yet.”
“Let me talk to the chief. I’ll see if there’s anything I can share. I think it’s safe to say that right now they’re investigating the house as a crime scene. But in the meantime . . . maybe you can give me some information.”
“Quid pro quo?”
“Quid what what?”
“How about, I scratch your back, you scratch mine.” She picked up her coffee stirrer again and jabbed it at Jaymie. “I trust you. I’ll give you anything we’ve got, if you’ll promise that whatever you can say, you’ll say to us first. The wire services are panting for this stuff—two teenage girls, cold case, missing over thirty years and found within forty-eight hours of each other—and it’s a chance for us to get our name out there. It’s tough sledding for newspapers these days. We need to get noticed.”
“Got it. Hey, I gave you the exclusive on our story of finding poor Delores, right?”
“Okay, I’ve been digging.” She turned to her computer and quickly moused around some documents. “The Pagets arrived in the area in March of 1968, according to school enrollment for Clifford Paget, who was sixteen at the time.”
“How did you find that out?” Jaymie asked.
Nan waggled her reddish arched eyebrows. “We have our ways. I’ve got some hints of employment for Jim—nicknamed Jimbo—Paget, though mainly, at least at first, he worked on the farm for an elderly woman who owned the house they lived in. There are a few mentions in newspaper archives on Mrs. Olga Paget. But I can’t find anything before that, no birth records that fit, no military service records, no work, no school . . . nothing. It’s weird, as if they arrived from another planet. I put my best researcher on this, and we got . . . nothing.”
“That’s pretty much what the chief said.”
“What does that tell you?” Nan watched her expectantly.
“Well, that they were using fake names, at the very least.”
“And what else?”
“They were hiding something from their past.”
“Bingo!” Nan pointed the stir stick at her.
Jaymie had been trying to figure out what could cause Delores to be murdered in her own home, as appeared to have happened. A crime, maybe; infant abduction? That would bring a lot of emotion to the family. Maybe that’s really why the chief was trying to find blood typing on Mr. and Mrs. Paget; he wanted to establish Delores’s family history.
But there were other things that were nagging at her, like how Clifford Paget creeped Becca out as a teenager, and Olga Paget’s disgusting remarks to Helmut about Delores’s physical development. It was not a healthy environment and there were other possibilities she didn’t even want to consider until she knew more. “Anything on Clifford Paget? He drowned in the nineties.”
“I found a bunch of stories on that. They never found his body.” She pulled up some articles on the disappearance. A grainy black-and-white photo of Clifford Paget sitting in a lawn chair, beer in hand, popped up. He was skinny and scruffy-looking, with a hangdog expression.
“I wondered about that.” Jaymie shook her head. “There are almost too many possibilities.”
“Almost,” Nan said with a twinkle in her eye. “But not quite.”
“What about Rhonda Welch? I know she was sent to a Christian boarding school days before she disappeared because her parents were going somewhere for a missionary job, or something. Where are they today?”
Nan brought up an archival newspaper clipping. “Her parents were embarking on a two-year mission to Kenya, but came back after learning their daughter—and only child—was missing. Their church offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to Rhonda’s discovery. It was never claimed, though lots of tips came in at the time.”
“What kind of tips?”
Nan read the pieces, her lips moving. She grabbed a flash drive and said, “I’ll put some of this stuff on this for you to look over.”
“And put the articles about Clifford Paget’s death on it . . . whatever you have. I’ll read it all.”
“From what I’ve read the tips were the usual missing person sightings of her in other towns as far away as San Francisco—we now know those were false—and some sightings of the car.”
“Was there ever a reward for Delores?”
Nan met her eyes and shook her head. “Nothing of note.”
“And the two cases of missing girls . . . weren’t they ever connected back then?”
“Only when it was supposed there might be a serial killer or rapist on the loose. But I think that idea faded. The police at the time seemed to figure it was a coincidence, two runaways decided on the same day for different reasons to take off.”
“That’s an awfully big coincidence.”
“But not impossible. There was a big murder case in late December that shoved the two girls’ disappearance off the front pages and out of people’s attention. That happens if no new leads come in.”
Jaymie took the flash drive Nan handed her and stuck it in her purse. “I’m trying to wrap my mind around it. Which one was killed first? And why both of them?”
“That’s the question.” Nan paused and eyed Jaymie, tapping her coffee stirrer. “My first thought was, what about murder-suicide? I mean, that only works if Rhonda killed Delores, and then herself, but . . . maybe?”
Jaymie shook her head. “Not likely, Nan. Delores was killed in her home. I can’t even imagine a motive for Rhonda to go there, kill her, then kill herself by driving her car into the river. The Paget family seems a good place to start, though I can’t figure out how Rhonda ended up dead, if that’s the case. It doesn’t seem to hang together.”
“You make some good points. Look, I’ve got one of my reporters on this, but sometimes women are better at getting information out of older folks. I was thinking of handling it myself, but I’m not much better than he is. I have a couple of names here.” She scribbled some names and information on a piece of paper. “Mr. Welch died a couple of years ago, but Mrs. Welch is in her eighties and in a retirement home. And there’s a retired detective, Lenny MacDonald, who investigated both cases. He might remember something that will help.” Nan cracked a smile as she stuck out the piece of paper. “You missed your calling, kiddo; maybe you should have been an investigative reporter instead of a food writer.”
“Or maybe I should have become a private detective.” Jaymie smiled, staring at the names, phone numbers and addresses. “Though you know, it’s never too late for that.”
Eleven
JAYMIE WALKED BACK TO HER VAN, parked on a side street near the bakeshop, and threw her purse in, leaning against the door and looking up at the sky. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, worries, and curiosities.
Mostly worries, many of them minor.
She worried about the wedding shower; she had always disliked being the center of attention. There was nothing she cou
ld do about that but be appreciative that people wanted to come celebrate her and her sister’s marriages and try to enjoy the day. This was all about the love people had for Becca and her.
She worried about the wedding: so much cost and trouble! Slipping away to elope had been her number-one choice. She’d never been one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding her whole life, but her family would have been crushed if they hadn’t been invited to celebrate a special day with Jaymie, and so would Jakob’s. All she could do about that was plan a wedding in keeping with her and Jakob’s modest wishes, be grateful for her friends, and know that after it was all over she would have a family. That was most important. She was marrying a man who truly valued her for herself, and a daughter she already loved.
She worried about the murders, even though they were committed over thirty years ago. Those two teenage girls, with so many plans for a future they never got to experience; they deserved at least to have their killer brought to justice, even if that killer was also long dead. What she could do about this was help Chief Ledbetter solve them. She’d done it before, she could do it again.
She worried that Valetta was truly upset with her about Brock. She perked up . . . now that was something she could fix immediately. When she got back to Queensville she’d go talk to her friend. Surely their friendship would withstand the stress. Valetta must know that Jaymie would never purposely do anything to harm her or her family.
Calmer for having mulled it all over, she climbed in the van and checked her cell phone. There was a text from Bernie’s official police number, and it confirmed that Ms. Petty Welch would be pleased to talk to her. Anyone who would help solve her niece’s death was welcome. Jaymie jotted down the address and headed toward it, a place between Wolverhampton and Queensville, the home of Rhonda’s aunt.
• • •
November 1, 1984
PETTY WELCH SMOOTHED BACK her permed and hairsprayed mop of hair, tucking it behind one ear, and held the phone receiver up as she punched in the numbers. She loved doing her hair every day—teasing it into the exaggerated tangle that was fashionable—and wearing jangly earrings, but the earrings especially probably weren’t a good idea when you were on the phone as much as she was. She glanced around the room, a thicket of gray fabric cubicles, each holding a researcher or fact checker for the Detroit newspaper, then up at the big round glass-covered clock. It was five, and she wasn’t done at work until six. But she couldn’t wait. This was a personal call; if anyone found out she’d be in major crap, but with her brother and sister-in-law out of the country, Rhonda didn’t have anyone else to call for help. If her damn boss wasn’t such a dick, Petty would have gotten the call that came in to her earlier.
“Chance Houghton Christian Academy. How may I direct you?”
“Hello. My name is Petty Welch,” she murmured, turning away from the other cubicles as much as she could. The hum of voices and jangling of phones was a constant backdrop to her workday, and she was used to it. “My niece, Rhonda Welch, is a new student there. Her parents just left the country. I got a call from Rhonda earlier this afternoon at my work number, but no one passed the message on to me until now. May I speak with her?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Miss Welch, it is not unusual for students to be homesick the first few days of their residence with us and to try to engage family in their problems. It’s best to let us help them work it out. I’ll make note of your concern, but—”
Petty firmly said, “Rhonda is seventeen, not ten. If she called me, she had a damn good reason—”
“There is no need to swear at me, miss. Please keep your temper, or I will end this call.”
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “My apologies. But nonetheless, Rhonda is seventeen, not ten. She called me for some reason. With my brother out of the country, I would like to be there for my niece if she needs me. Would you be so kind as to find her and bring her to the phone?”
“I’ll see what the headmistress says.”
She was put on hold.
When the young woman came back on the line, there was a distinct difference in her tone, a deference, almost. “I’m sorry, but Miss Welch isn’t available right now, Miss . . . uh, Welch. The headmistress asked that you call back in an hour, if that’s okay?”
Petty looked up at the clock again. “Would six thirty be all right? I’ll be on the highway until about then. It’s a long drive home.” Surely whatever her niece was calling about could wait until then.
“Six thirty will be fine,” the young woman said, her tone relieved.
Petty hung up and stared at the phone for a long minute. She talked to dozens of people every day and had become proficient at reading voice tones. Why relief? One of her few friends in the department wandered by.
“What’s up with you?” she asked, pausing.
Petty, still staring at the phone, said, “I don’t know. I feel like something’s wrong, you know?”
“Whatever it is, happy hour will cure it. Drinks later?”
“No, I’d better not,” Petty said. “I have to drive home, and then I have to call my niece at boarding school to check in. I’ll feel better once I’ve talked to her.”
“Suit yourself.”
• • •
Late April—The Present
DAFFODILS NODDED IN THE SPRING SUNSHINE, and abundant greenery laden with buds was thickly planted in mulched beds. Petty Welch’s house was a perfect country cottage. It could have been taken out of the pages of an English fairy tale, constructed of cobbles and blue painted shingle. Jaymie parked in the lane and got out, standing for a moment to gaze at it, bathed in spring sunshine. It was the kind of home where you’d bet nothing bad had ever happened. A woman came out to the porch and shaded her eyes, waving to Jaymie as she approached the cottage.
“You must be Jaymie Leighton,” the woman said. She was petite, with damp, curly gray hair, and she wore wire-framed glasses. “Petty Welch,” she said, thrusting out her hand.
Jaymie shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”
“I read your column, ‘Vintage Eats.’ It takes me back to my grandmother’s house in the sixties. She’s the only reason I know how to cook today. Come in, come in!”
Jaymie stepped up onto the low cement porch, abutted by cobblestone pillars, and followed the woman through a screen door that slapped closed behind them with a creak and smack. They entered directly into a small living room with a huge picture window that overlooked the gardens outside.
The walls were painted pale blue and the room was decorated the way only a woman who lived alone could decorate. It was the essence of shabby chic, with sofas slipcovered in sturdy white broadcloth, white painted tables, the paint rubbed along the edges to show the raw wood underneath, and lots of pale blue lanterns, vases, and reed baskets. The fireplace mantel was painted white and over it hung an extravagant painting of cabbage roses in a glass vase. The overall effect of the design choices was breathtaking.
“Your home is lovely, like it’s out of a design magazine!” Jaymie said as Petty waved her toward an overstuffed chair.
“I’ll give you a tour after, if you like. I’d love to show you my collection of pastel Pyrex! You’re one of the few people who would appreciate it. It’s my passion, I will admit.”
Jaymie hesitated, but then forged ahead: “If you’ve got a collection, would you mind if I profiled it on my blog? I’m always interested in anything vintage and kitchen-related.”
“That would be so wonderful,” Petty said, blushing. She put her hands to her cheeks. “I was hoping you’d say something like that!”
Ten minutes later they settled with tea, served on a blue bar cart topped by a tray with a transfer of a Little Bo Peep–style lady, and in a pastel multicolored tea set. Jaymie wasn’t sure how to get down to the matter at hand, but Petty launched into the topic.
“You’re here about Rhonda.” Her expression sobered. “My niece. I can’t believe they found her, an
d so close to home! I knew she was dead.”
“How?”
“If she was alive she would have contacted me even if she was running away. She tried to, the day she disappeared, but I never got the message until much later in the day. I kept waiting for her to phone in the days after but . . . she never did.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “And she would have. We were close.”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Welch.”
“Petty, please,” she said with a quick smile that lingered on her lips only a second, then disappeared. “Rhonda and I had a special bond. I always felt sorry for her. My brother was a . . .” Her lips tightened. “I won’t speak ill of the dead. Roger passed away two years ago.”
“But your sister-in-law is still alive, I understand?”
“Yes. I feel bad for her. Iona only ever wanted to be a mother. She had several miscarriages, then had Rhonda and had to have a hysterectomy immediately from complications of the birth. Rhonda was her miracle child.”
“And yet they left her in a boarding school as they were taking off for two years.”
“My brother’s doing, not Iona’s. She didn’t want to go but Roger forced it on her, and her church’s command was that a wife must obey her husband. All she ever wanted was to keep house and dote on her daughter. Afterward she blamed him for Rhonda’s disappearance and it soured their marriage. Roger wouldn’t hear of divorce, so they lived together in misery for the last thirty more years.”
Jaymie frowned down into her teacup.
“I’m sorry to be blunt, but why are you asking about Rhonda? I’ve spoken to the police already and identified . . . identified some of Rhonda’s things from the car.” Her voice had thickened, and tears gleamed behind the glasses. “They were going to ask Iona to do it, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She’s been through so much in her life. Bad enough I had to break the news to her that Rhonda had been found. She always thought perhaps Rhonda had just left, gone off to make her way in the world.”
Leave It to Cleaver (A Vintage Kitchen Mystery Book 6) Page 11
