“I’m sure you will.”
Haskell had texted her that he would be a little late and to let the alarm guy in the house, so when he pulled up in the lane, she got out of the van, wrapping her coat around herself as the wind tried to tear it away. At least it had stopped raining.
“Name’s Connor,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. He was an older man, fit, tall, bearded. He had a clipboard, but must have left his tools in his truck, emblazoned with the Wolverhampton Security logo.
She shook hands and said, “I’m Jaymie Leighton. We were supposed to be meeting the society president, Haskell Lockland, here, but he’s been held up. Will you be able to install it all today?”
“Sure will. I’m a two-man operation . . . or rather, a two-person operation, since my wife mans the phones and I do the work.”
She led the way in, and she flicked the switch, hoping the power would be on; the pendant light flickered but then lit and stayed lit. “Power’s not good out here when the wind comes up. I wasn’t sure it would be back on in time. It’s really spotty; does that make a difference to the security system?”
He was staring around the big hallway. “Wow, this place is huge. Uh, does it make a difference that the power is spotty? You should speak to your utility about that, but though it’s not great, we can make allowances. Your security is our number one priority. Now, let me walk around and maybe you can answer questions.”
“I’m not Haskell, and I can’t speak for the heritage society, but yes, I can answer a lot of questions.”
They walked through the house—first floor, including the back door, then up to the second.
“I heard about the murder,” Connor said, as he made notes about the number of windows on the second floor. He even poked his head into a tiny room that the heritage society intended to use as a storage closet for office supplies. No windows; no security risk.
She heard voices below . . . it was the Snoop Sisters again! Imogene’s voice was cutting and Mrs. Bellwood’s booming tone traveled. Jaymie said, “Yes, it was a terrible tragedy.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.
“Are there any windows up there?” he asked, eyeing the attic stairs.
“There are,” she said, thinking of the anonymous claim that Iago Dumpe had been seen climbing out of an upstairs window. Could that have been from the attic? Interesting thought. Why would he even be inside? And who would just happen to be down this lonely stretch of road to see him? “Will you excuse me a moment? I just need to check something downstairs, but I’ll be back up, and I’ll meet you in the attic, if you like.” She definitely wanted to see if anyone had used those windows to get in or out.
“I’ve got some more to do here, but then I will head up to the attic. I need to see the basement, too, because I have to figure out where to put the backup battery for power outages.”
“Okay.” Jaymie hustled downstairs, where she was greeted by two umbrellas open in the hallway, dripping on the hardwood. She pushed a mat under them, then followed familiar voices to the library.
The ladies were indeed there, and she was once again greeted by two geriatric bottoms and Rockport loafers. This time they had a flashlight and seemed to be examining the hardwood floor in the library beyond the perimeter of the Persian area rug. “What on earth are you doing?”
Mrs. Frump started up and bumped her head on a side table.
“Are you all right?” Jaymie asked, darting across the floor and helping her up. The woman lumbered to her feet, and Jaymie stuck out her hand to help Mrs. Bellwood up, too.
“Imogene got to watching old movies last night,” she said.
Jaymie glanced from woman to woman. “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that have to do with kneeling on the floor in the library?”
The wannabe Queen Victoria colored a faint pink on her fleshy cheeks and sent a reprimanding glance at her newly minted bosom buddy. “What Tree is trying to say is, if I were going to hide something valuable, I would make it someplace I could get at, but that no one else would think of.”
Mystified, Jaymie looked to Mrs. Bellwood for clarification.
“What Imogene is trying to say is, she got this crazy idea that there might be a hidey-hole in the hardwood.”
“Oh!” Jaymie said, her mouth staying an O of surprise for a moment. “So . . . what do you plan to do?” she asked, hoping no pickaxes or saws were going to be used.
“We’re going to check every inch of this hardwood floor and some of the others to see if Jane hid the Sultan’s Eye under the floor,” Mrs. Frump said, while Mrs. Bellwood sighed deeply.
“I was talking to Mrs. Stubbs about Mrs. Jane Dumpe,” Jaymie told them. “From her description the woman was dignified, a real matriarch. I just can’t picture her doing such a thing.”
The two women exchanged looks. “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Bellwood said. “I remember Jane very well. She got a little . . . odd in her last days.”
Jaymie remembered that even Mrs. Stubbs had said that. “Okay, carry on, then. Just don’t do any damage. I’ll be around for a while; the alarm fellow is here.”
“Oh, good!” Mrs. Frump exclaimed. “Then Tree and I can get the alarm code and come back whenever we want.”
Jaymie didn’t answer. She’d leave it to Haskell Lockland to make that decision, though she would strenuously recommend that as few people as possible have the code, especially given how easily Mrs. Frump had been foxed out of her key to the house. She ascended to the second floor, then opened the creaking door to the attic. “Connor, you up here?”
“Yup!” came the echoing voice.
She trotted up the dark stairs. She had been in the attic before briefly, just to help carry down boxes of junk that had belonged to the Dumpe family but which had been included in the purchase of the house. For a moment she worried about what would happen until the validity of the will was determined, but she pushed it out of her mind. She, at least, was convinced that it was a fake, and that pinpointed Prentiss Dumpe as a felon in her eyes and hopefully the eyes of the law.
Without Haskell’s looming presence she felt able to explore. The attic was one huge room with a vaulted ceiling that was fifteen feet high or more at the peak. The ceiling then steeply slanted to a very short kneewall only a few feet high. She hadn’t realized there were still so many boxes, which she could barely see by the light let in by windows at either end of the space.
Many hands were supposed to make light work, but it didn’t look like any of the hands had been employed this far up. Cobwebs draped in fluffy strings and dust coated every surface except where boxes had been dragged and searched. There was furniture, lamps and piles of dusty fabric, probably old drapes. Of course, they were all working on getting the downstairs ready for the soft opening, so it was no mystery why they hadn’t gotten to all the crates and cartons yet. They had only had access to the house for the last month or so, and much of the time had been spent making sure it was safe and getting the plumbing and electricity working.
She ascended the last couple of steps, taking it all in. “There is still a lot of stuff up here. I thought we’d gone through most of it but that doesn’t appear true in the slightest.”
Connor joined her and dusted off his hands. “I know. This isn’t the worst I’ve seen, though. I expected the boxes of old crap, but what’s with the plastic totes full of jeans and junk?”
“What?” she asked, staring at him in surprise.
“Behind the boxes; there’s a stash of stuff not as dusty as the rest. Modern plastic totes, you know? You wouldn’t even see them if you weren’t crawling around by the kneewalls, like I was.”
Jaymie stared at him blankly. Plastic totes of jeans? That didn’t make a bit of sense. “Show me.”
He ducked and got onto his knees, crawling behind some cardboard boxes. H
e shone a flashlight as Jaymie crawled in behind him. There were the totes he had mentioned, overflowing with folded jeans, boxes of electronics, video game systems . . . all kinds of stuff! It was just like the root cellar.
Like the root cellar full of stolen goods. “This explains a lot.” She thought furiously. This would account for Iago being seen climbing out of a window. And it tied him by association to the stuff that was stored in the root cellar. But which came first, the root cellar storage or the attic storage? Or both? “I have to call the police,” she said, awkwardly backing out, bumping into the guy, then scrambling up onto her feet. “This is stolen stuff. But I’m not going to let this stop the alarm installation; that is a must, even more so now. So go ahead.”
Haskell showed up shortly thereafter. Jaymie stayed a while, learning all she could about the new alarm system, then told Haskell she had to head home. He was in charge of learning the rest of what they needed to know about the alarm system and teaching her and the others, but she also took a pamphlet that Connor said explained everything about the system he was installing. He wrote in the code for her and told her to keep it safe. Jaymie then told Haskell about all the stuff in the attic, and he agreed that the police needed to know about it.
She called them on her cell, and the detective said they’d be out while Haskell was still there. Jaymie then returned home, let Hoppy out into the yard and called the Emporium pharmacy counter.
Valetta was free. “So what is up with that Rasmussen woman?” she asked.
Jaymie told her all she had learned, then asked what happened with Mrs. Carson after Jaymie had hustled Isolde away.
“She cried. Wept. Bawled like a lost child!”
“I’m so sorry for her,” Jaymie said, her heart aching for the woman.
“Me, too,” Valetta said softly.
“What did you do?”
“Mrs. Klausner and I closed the store for a few minutes and made her a cup of tea, then talked to her. Well, I talked to her. Mrs. K knitted and looked on. I got her calmed down some.”
“Why did she launch herself at Isolde like that? Last I heard, Cynthia Turbridge was the wicked older woman and Isolde was the approved girlfriend that he was going to introduce to his mama.”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say anything specific.”
“Well, what did you talk about?”
“You, mostly. She’s a real crime fanatic and reads all those weird stories online. From what I can tell she believes every one of them, too, even the loopy ‘royal family killed Princess Diana’ ones. I swear, I didn’t say you were Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher or anything, but she wants to talk to you. In fact, if you’ve got time now can you go over to the B and B?”
Mystified, Jaymie asked, “Why? What can I do?”
“Just go over and talk to her.”
“Okay.” Jaymie said good-bye, changed her clothes, let Hoppy back in and gave him some crunchies, then hopped over to the bed-and-breakfast, tapping on the front door.
Pam Driscoll answered, her eyes wide. “Mrs. Carson said if you came I was to show you up immediately. What’s going on?”
“I don’t really know,” Jaymie said. She ascended the stairs to the square landing that was the common area for the bed-and-breakfast rooms. There was a small courtesy table set up by the stair rail with a coffee urn and plastic-wrapped goodies for folks to enjoy. Mrs. Carson was in the Billie Jo room; the previous owners had named the place the Shady Rest after the old sitcom Petticoat Junction, so the rooms were named for the daughters and mom on the show. Jaymie tapped on the door.
Mrs. Carson, looking calmer and more rested, opened the door. “Oh, good, you’ve come. Shall we go?”
“Go where?”
The woman paused. “Oh dear. I thought the pharmacist would have explained. My sister can’t come until tomorrow, and anyway, I think it’s you I really need by my side. I want you to go with me to Theo’s room, to look it over and find clues to his death.”
Twenty-two
THERE WAS NO reason to protest, because it was exactly what she wanted to do, so Jaymie went with Mrs. Carson in her car, a luxury Lexus.
Theo’s mother said that her son was renting a studio apartment from Brock Nibley. Brock, being a real estate agent, dabbled as an investor and had a few properties, commercial and residential, in Queensville and Wolverhampton. They drove several blocks past the Queensville Inn through the old residential section of town, where the houses got bigger, and a little shabbier. This was an area where the huge old Queen Anne homes had been broken up into apartments and bachelor suites. It was close enough that Jaymie would have walked, but with the other woman, she wasn’t sure that was practical. Mrs. Carson was just seventyish, Jaymie guessed, and seemed in good health, but one never knew.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and Mrs. Carson, out of breath, got out a key, fitting it into the lock and opening the door to the apartment. The woman edged in as if it were a crime scene, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“Did you have something specific in mind, Mrs. Carson? Or do you want me to just look around?”
“Whatever you think,” she said and sat down on the edge of the made bed.
It was a big room, with a sitting area by the window and a kind of kitchenette along one wall. There was a small sink, a counter, a hot plate, a microwave, bar fridge and coffeemaker. The double bed was centered on a wall, with a plush headboard and painting over it.
His luggage was sitting open on the dresser top. Jaymie glanced over at Theo’s mother, but she looked calm enough. “I’ll start by looking through his stuff. If you’d rather wait out in the car, that would be fine.”
“No, I’ll stay here. You may have questions. I have his mail, so I’ll look through that.”
Jaymie started by looking through the closet, even going through his sport jacket pockets. Nothing. She then went through his suitcase, but there were just the usual clothes and toiletries. He was a neat man, which helped. But it seemed to her that there were things missing. Of course, the police had already been over the room, which could explain that. He had a cell phone charger set up, but his phone would likely be in police hands if it had been found.
There were also empty cases for a few things, like a laptop and a digital camera. Those would also be in police hands. However . . . as she dug into a file folder, she found a slim tablet. She wasn’t the most techie person in the world, but the last few months of blogging, taking photos and using her cell phone had made her more adept. It helped that this was the same brand of tablet Daniel had bought her, so she was already used to it. She glanced over at the man’s mother, but she was sitting looking down at the floor.
Jaymie turned on the tablet and began scrolling around. It was very much like rooting through someone’s luggage, only digitally.
“Have you found something?” Mrs. Carson said, eagerly.
“Uh, no,” Jaymie replied. The woman deflated and slumped, desultorily sorting through some mail with a listless attitude. Jaymie felt a little like a trained dog that was not performing as expected.
She set the tablet down and kept looking. People often hid the most interesting stuff in unusual places, but the room had been swept by the police, so there didn’t seem to be anything to find. She sat down by Theo’s mother and said as much. “The police are very thorough. I’m not surprised everything is clean.”
Jaymie picked up the tablet again. Theo apparently was addicted to online games, mostly poker, and liked to watch movies, particularly heist movies. He also had been using the tablet to access his email, since there were apps for that, and they didn’t appear to be password protected, leaping up when she hit “Check Email.” There were messages from Isolde. Interesting. She checked out the conversation, scanning through them.
They mostly consisted of Isolde complaining that Theo didn’t trust her and h
im reassuring her without giving her any of the pieces of information that she wanted, which was interesting, but didn’t get her any further in her quest to discover who would want Theo dead. Isolde did not benefit by his death, so it was of little use that she was trying to guilt him into giving her information.
She frowned as she accidentally hit an “About” section. The tablet registration came up. She stared in surprise. The tablet was registered to Brock Nibley! What would Theo Carson be doing with a tablet registered to Brock, his landlord and Valetta’s real estate agent brother?
“What is this?” Mrs. Carson said. She had an open brown padded envelope in one hand, and in the other . . . a cell phone. “Why would someone send Theo a cell phone?”
Jaymie looked over the package and then the cell phone. It was dead, the battery long gone, but it was a beautiful little phone, white, with a pretty skin. And on the skin were initials . . . I.R. Isolde Rasmussen. This was Isolde’s missing cell phone.
“I think that’s his girlfriend’s phone, the one that disappeared the night Theo was . . . the night he died.”
“What should I do with it?” the woman said, staring at the phone like it was a snake that might bite her.
“There’s only one thing to do: you have to turn it in to the police.”
She nodded.
“Mrs. Carson, can I ask you something? This morning you said to Isolde that you knew she killed your son. What made you think that?”
“I got to thinking over all we had talked of lately. I was against him staying here to do this work. Isn’t that what this age is supposed to be all about? Doing all your research online? But he felt he needed to stay in Queensville. He told me about that older woman, how he was dating her, but that she was whiny and needy and he was going to dump her.”
“Yes,” Jaymie said, keeping her anger stuffed down. Cynthia hadn’t deserved the treatment she had received.
“She wasn’t any use to him. He thought she was in with all the society members, but she had only joined a few months ago. Then he told me about this girl, this Isolde. She was smart, he said, and ambitious. But she wasn’t as smart as him. He said he knew something that was going on, but she didn’t and he wasn’t about to tell her. I just thought . . .” She looked off toward the window. “I just thought maybe she got tired of waiting for him to tell her what she wanted to know and so she killed him.”
No Mallets Intended Page 22
