Don’t flatter yourself, she thought, but did not say. She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “You did me a favor, Joel—you woke me up. I was coasting on everyone else’s dreams, but now I’m finding my own. Go home. Talk to Heidi right now.”
When she reentered the house with Hoppy at her heels, it was to find that the two older women had been at the door, no doubt listening in. She suppressed a smile. “That information, if you overheard it, was for our ears only, ladies, until he confesses all and is forgiven. Okay?”
Mrs. Bellwood nodded and so did Mrs. Frump. The first lady touched Jaymie’s arm and said, “You do what you want, Jaymie, about everything in your life. Our generation . . . we didn’t know we had time. We didn’t know we had choices and could do other things. I’m not complaining; I loved my husband, and my children and grandkids are wonderful. I’m not sorry for the path I took. But there were other girls who weren’t so lucky. You do what you want when you want.”
“Thank you.”
The two exchanged looks and Mrs. Bellwood nodded to Mrs. Frump.
“Jaymie, have you heard about this other will?” Mrs. Bellwood asked. “The one leaving this house to Prentiss Dumpe?”
“I’m the one who found it in the kitchen cabinet. I wish I never did! I hope it’s not going to affect our purchase of the house.”
“But you see, it couldn’t have been there before,” Mrs. Frump said. “We didn’t know if we ought to tell Haskell; he may be a wee bit angry at us.”
“Why?”
“We already searched the kitchen, you see, before Bill painted it. We knew you’d be working in here, so we did it just after the meeting . . . you know . . . searched for the Sultan’s Eye. There was no will in the lower cupboard then.”
Jaymie felt thunderstruck, then hopeful. “Are you sure?” She had cleaned under the cupboards herself, and assumed she had just missed it, but now, if what they were saying was true . . .
Both women nodded.
“We did use a flashlight to search,” Mrs. Frump said, a dimple winking in her cheek. “And I got right down until I was practically inside the kitchen cabinets!”
“We’re sure,” Mrs. Bellwood added. “It wasn’t there.”
“Thank you,” Jaymie said. “And you should tell Haskell. It ought to help.” She thought a moment, then said, “Did either of you see my small case full of tools when you were searching?”
Both women shook their heads. Did that mean, Jaymie wondered, that whoever hid the will also took her tools? Not necessarily, but it was possible. Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump headed off to talk to—or at—Bill while he painted in the parlor. Jaymie worked alone in the kitchen and had it looking much better by the time she was done.
The Hoosier was in place, and on it were some Jade-ite mixing bowls. Jade-ite was a green glass used for dishes and mixing bowls that were mass-produced in the 1930s, ’40s and ’50s, in such a broad range of table and cookware that Jaymie had decided to furnish the whole kitchen in the stuff, and so had scoured vintage stores and flea markets. So far she had some mugs and mixing bowls, as well as a measuring bowl. But from her research she knew that there were vases, juicers, dinnerware sets, refrigerator dishes and more, all in the lovely soft green made by Anchor Hocking for its Fire-King line. It was a hot collectible, time appropriate and color appropriate for her—or rather, the heritage society’s—project.
But as wonderful as getting lost in the past was, there were still so many things plaguing her. Now that Heidi and Joel’s problems were hopefully back between the two of them where they belonged and no longer on her plate, Jaymie decided to tackle a couple of other things. She would start with a trip back to the Queensville Inn and another visit to Mrs. Stubbs.
She walked back to town with Hoppy, deposited her little dog at home, then strolled over to the inn. She made a brief visit to the kitchen, where she consulted with the chef, a French Canadian of superb talent, on the autumn basket offerings for her vintage picnic business. Two new enterprises were expanding her reach. Wolverhampton Winery was offering a special winter package that included a bonfire picnic on the beautiful grounds of the winery. And a lovely country bed-and-breakfast was partnering with her to offer fall and winter walk suggestions, with one of her picnic baskets on a wagon.
She wasn’t sure how many people would want to traipse through the woods hauling a Radio Flyer loaded with a picnic basket, but the owners of the bed-and-breakfast, which was also a Christmas tree farm, thought it was worth a try. They were featuring it as a country getaway in their advertising, trying to drum up more business in the slow season. They were hoping that day-trippers would come out with a basket, go into the pine woods, have their picnic, then cut down their own Christmas tree.
She returned to the front of the inn, said a brief hello to Lyle, who was working in the office behind the check-in desk, then headed to Mrs. Stubbs’s room. The elderly woman was again in her wheelchair, now by the window for best light, and this time reading an Anne Perry historical mystery, one of the Christmas series. Perry’s novels were some of the only mysteries Jaymie read, so they discussed her books briefly, before getting more serious.
Mrs. Stubbs watched her, her gaze still sharp, even with the cataracts that misted her one eye worse than the other. She was due for surgery to remove them, and everyone hoped for the best. But even with faulty sight, she was sharply observant. She tugged the sleeves of her velour jacket down over her bony wrists and pulled her lap blanket up, then eyed Jaymie and said, “You need to know something, am I right?”
Jaymie had decided this was one woman she could be wholly honest with, so she told her everything about the will, and added what Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump had confessed, about searching the cabinet earlier. “I’m pretty sure it’s a fake, now, but that means Prentiss Dumpe is trying to pull a fast one over on the society,” Jaymie said. “You saw him, how he acted at the meeting. It is possible, I suppose, that the will is real, but that he or someone else planted it in the cupboard so I’d find it. If I were Prentiss, I wouldn’t want to be the one presenting it to the court. Who would believe him, even if it was true?”
The older woman frowned into the light from the window, her expression one of concentration. “Tell me exactly what the will said. It was in Jane’s handwriting, correct?”
“Supposedly, but that would be one of the things checked by the court. You want the exact wording?”
The woman nodded.
“Let’s see if I can remember. It was dated July fifth, 1993, and said that she was revoking all other wills, that she was of sound mind and that she was leaving everything to her ‘beloved’ grandson, Prentiss Dumpe, on the condition that he not give ‘a single, solitary dime’ to Hazel Grinley Frump because . . .” Jaymie thought back to the wording. “Uh, because she—meaning Jane—had reason to believe that Hazel was robbing her blind and keeping her from seeing her lawyer. It specifically included land, house, antiques, jewels, everything.”
There was something else . . . ah! Grinley, Hazel Frump’s middle name . . . had that been misspelled? Yes! Jaymie had seen the full name spelled out once, when she was reading up on what little house history there was, and the will had the e in Grinley in the wrong spot. Though not definitive, that surely was not a mistake Mrs. Dumpe would make of a lifelong friend and companion. Jaymie mentioned this to Mrs. Stubbs, and she agreed.
“Hmph. The whole thing doesn’t sound like Jane,” Mrs. Stubbs went on. “First, her ‘beloved’ Prentiss? She did not like her grandson. Since her son and daughter-in-law died—Prentiss’s parents, you know—he had ignored her, even though she paid for his schooling so he could get a psychiatry degree. Nothing was ever enough for him. She once told me that she didn’t want to be one of those women to threaten their grandson with cutting him out of the will, but she was tempted to do just that.”
“Did she ever?”
“Wha
t, threaten him? I don’t think so.”
“What about the part about Hazel robbing her blind?”
Mrs. Stubbs shook her head. “If you knew Hazel, you’d know how ridiculous that was. Hazel was the kind who, if you went to lunch, had to split the check exactly, and if one person paid a penny too much, she would reimburse them.” She sat back and stared off into space. “But Jane got a little . . . odd in her last few years. Suspicious, you know. I don’t think she’d suspect Hazel of robbing her, but who knows? You get two old women in a confined space and there can be simmering resentments. It’s hell getting old. If there was any alternative, I’d take it.” She cast Jaymie a look. “Not that I’m saying I don’t want to be here. As long as I have books and tea, I’m happy enough, I suppose.”
“Is it possible, though, that Jane Dumpe did leave her estate to Prentiss?” Jaymie persisted. “Given what you say about her getting a little odd?”
Mrs. Stubbs shook her head. “She changed her will; I know that for sure. She had intended to leave him some of the estate, but then she cut him out entirely. She talked about it openly with her close friends, and I was one of those.”
“But maybe she decided she’d been too harsh and rewrote it, or maybe she got suspicious of Hazel Frump.”
“You didn’t know Jane. She never changed her mind once it was made up.”
Jaymie sighed. “Well, I’ll ask Haskell Lockland to talk to you, if you don’t mind. He needs to know what you’ve told me.”
She didn’t answer, and appeared lost in thought, staring toward the window. The drapes were drawn back, giving a view of the gardens behind the inn. Evergreen shrubs had been wrapped in burlap to protect them from the harsh Michigan winter, but there were still some wrought-iron patio tables and chair sets, and pots of late-blooming mums in vibrant bronze and yellow shades. A beam of sunlight lit up the yellow mums, then a gust of wind blew dried brown leaves across the flagstone patio, and the sunlight died as if someone had flicked a light switch.
Jaymie just waited, accustomed to her grandmother’s long silences when she was remembering something or thinking something over. She used the time to organize her thoughts and ponder the murder of Theo Carson. There were niggling details that plagued her. People kept talking about Isolde’s ambition; Cynthia had called her a barracuda, and even Nan had been bothered by her persistence, when that was generally an attribute the editor respected. Was it true that Isolde was only with Theo out of ambition? And if that was so, could that ambition lead to murder?
That didn’t make any sense. What had she gained by the writer’s death? It hadn’t furthered her own ambitions at all, and in fact had likely spoiled her plans to benefit from the author’s infatuation. If he had told his mother about her, he must have been serious in a way he was not with Cynthia. She could perhaps have finagled a byline on his book eventually. No, however Jaymie framed it, Isolde could not be Theo’s murderer, and that lent authenticity to her tale of being shoved in the car trunk.
But the missing cell phone . . . that was still bothering Jaymie. Who had it, and why had they texted her to come out to the house? Was she going to be the fall guy, or was she going to be another victim? Or both?
Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs said, “What did you say was the date on that will?”
“Uh . . . the date? July fifth, 1993. Why?”
A slow smile crinkled the woman’s mouth. “That will could be real, I suppose, if you can explain to me how Jane wrote it on July fifth of that year while she was still in a coma in intensive care at Wolverhampton General from an accident that happened when she fell off a float in the Wolverhampton Fourth of July parade.” She chuckled, a congested rumble of sound. “Prentiss wouldn’t even have known about her accident, since he was in jail on a fraud charge, after which he almost lost his license. Jane never spoke to him again, and she certainly never wrote a will leaving him everything. She despised a cheater.”
Seventeen
JAYMIE HUMMED A tune while she made dinner for herself and Valetta. She had called Haskell Lockland from Mrs. Stubbs’s room and the gentleman came right over, asked Mrs. Stubbs all about it and was able, with the help of a collections assistant at the Wolverhampton Howler, to verify her story about Mrs. Dumpe’s July 4, 1993, accident. He called the court secretary to add a protest to the will he had filed and said he would be coming in the very next day with the society’s lawyer to file a challenge with proof why the will could not be valid.
Given the flimsy nature of the will itself, Haskell postulated that Prentiss had drafted and hidden the will in the kitchen. He probably did not expect it to stand up to a court review; Jaymie suggested that this was his attempt to put pressure on the heritage society. Given the deep pockets the heritage society now had from the sale of the valuable letter Jaymie had discovered in the spring, he likely thought the heritage society would try to buy him off. It was a reasonable assumption, given the time and money the society had already put into the historic house.
Why would he date it that exact date? Mrs. Stubbs grumbled that he probably figured that his being in jail would be an alibi proving that he could not have influenced the new will or had anything to do with it. Though conjecture, that made as much sense as anything.
He would find himself under investigation for forgery and fraud the next day. As she had a couple of other times when she had fresh information, Jaymie had left a message for Chief Ledbetter telling him all about it. Then she tacked on a question: Did the news change the investigation into the attack on her? Though she had pretty much written it off as a random house break-in, it was just possible that Prentiss had been in the house trying to hide the will and had panicked when he heard her in the kitchen.
She was making turkey roulettes from an old Betty Crocker recipe, but she thought instead of using minced raw onion and peppers, she’d sauté them before adding them. Also, she’d improve the dish by adding some cranberry sauce and a hint of poultry seasoning. She made the dough, rolled it out, chopped the leftover turkey from a breast she had roasted and sprinkled it thickly over the square of rolled dough. She then added some cranberry sauce, the sautéed onions and peppers, and lightly sprinkled it with poultry seasoning. She curled the sheet of dough into a long roll, cut it crosswise into thick slices and arranged them on a baking sheet, giving each a little space so they would brown on the sides. She decided she didn’t want them softer, or she would have crowded them on the sheet to keep them together.
She looked at the clock. Valetta would be there soon, so she popped the roulettes in the oven and made a salad and some turkey gravy. By the time her friend tapped on the back door the whole kitchen smelled like Thanksgiving. If it tasted as good as it smelled, it was going to be the perfect recipe to use in her Vintage Eats pre-Thanksgiving column for the Howler! Ways to use up turkey were always favorites with thrifty cooks.
Hoppy went nuts, of course, as Valetta entered, and Denver even got up out of his basket, stretched and sauntered over to greet the newcomer. Jaymie took the baking sheet out of the oven as Valetta slung her coat and purse over the doorknob and sat down.
“Honey, I’m home,” she joked. “Your kitchen always smells so good!” Valetta took her glasses off and set them aside until the fogginess from coming in out of the cold cleared. She sighed. “When I’m a very old lady I want you to come live with me so you can cook and I can eat. I won’t care if I get fat then.”
Jaymie laughed. “Maybe I’ll turn this place into a home for elderly gourmands.” She poured a light Riesling into two crystal wineglasses and they sat across the kitchen table from each other, scarfing down the roulettes and salad, then finishing with a piece of apple crisp. It was a good and satisfying dinner, but she had made a lot. Jaymie hoped she could find a home for the leftovers.
“So what is so sensitive you couldn’t talk about it on the phone?” Valetta said. “I’ve been dying of curiosity ever since last night.”
Jaymie piled the dishes in the sink with dish detergent, then ran hot water over them. “Let’s go sit in the parlor.”
“Wow, like real company?” she joked.
Jaymie rolled her eyes. “Come on, you two,” she said to the animals.
Once settled and with a fire burning, Jaymie curled up in a wing chair, while Valetta took the settee. Her home was a source of joy to Jaymie, and after a long day, walking through her front door to be welcomed by a home that felt like a family member was a singular comfort. It was important to her that her home was also a warm and welcoming place for friends, and so they seemed to find it. Valetta looked completely comfortable, with Hoppy curled up next to her.
Jaymie ordered her thoughts, then said, “You’re not going to believe this.” She told her friend about the confession Cynthia had made.
“I didn’t know she was an alcoholic,” Valetta said, gazing at her glass of wine. “That’s bad, to have blackouts.”
“I know. I think I’ll check on her tomorrow, after I work at the Emporium. But it’s the blood on her sweater that freaks me out. What could it be from?”
“And you say she doesn’t know where she went after the Cozy Inn?”
“She says she doesn’t remember at all, but she apparently wound up on a side road down near Algonac.”
“Quite a distance from Dumpe Manor,” Valetta said.
“That’s one reassuring fact. But I’d still prefer to know where the blood came from.”
Valetta stared at her glass of wine for a long minute. “Can I use your phone?” She talked for a few minutes, a disjointed conversation, then gave the person Jaymie’s number. She clicked the off button. “He’s going to call back.”
“Who is ‘he’?” Jaymie asked.
“Johnny Stanko,” she said, referring to a fellow who was briefly arrested in the summer for the murder of Jaymie’s one-time friend Kathy Cooper. He had been released when the real culprit was determined, after that man almost killed Jaymie.
No Mallets Intended Page 18
