Jaymie shook her head. “The family must be frantic by now.”
“I can’t imagine. You know, speaking of kids, Cody has had a rough go of it,” she said, scrolling down the page, returning to the subject foremost in her mind. “I downplay it because he never missed anything tangible, not like I did. I grew up dirt poor, but Cody and Mandy, my daughter, went to private schools, had the best of everything. But he’s the youngest, my baby. By the time he was a teenager my marriage was beyond rocky. His dad and I fought all the time. I was angry, impetuous, moody. Cody takes after me, believe it or not. He just came to live here in the summer after some trouble out of state, but he can’t seem to get it together. I was hoping he had, but this Shelby girl . . .” Nan sighed and shook her head. “Her whole family is trouble.”
“Does that necessarily mean she is?”
“I guess not, but with so many nice girls out there, why did he have to choose a Fretter?”
Jaymie understood what she meant. The name, locally, was synonymous with lawbreaking and fighting authority, because the children—there were four of them that Jaymie knew of—were always getting into trouble. Parents whispered that anything was better than their kid “going Fretter.” It didn’t mean that Shelby was a lost cause, but though Jaymie was playing devil’s advocate, she had her own qualms about the relationship. She knew what perhaps his mother didn’t, that he was already in deep. Just days before, Jaymie had seen the couple arguing. Cody had lashed out, striking Shelby hard.
Two
JAYMIE CHOSE NOT to tell Nan what she had seen of Cody’s behavior. Her editor was already worried enough. Twenty minutes later, with the box of pamphlets on the passenger seat, Jaymie headed back to Queensville, troubled by Nan’s worried expression. But the editor was a strong woman, and her son’s life was his own, to screw up or fix, whichever worked out. She just hoped for everyone concerned that Shelby Fretter and Cody Wainwright broke up; from the outside it looked like a toxic relationship.
At home she spent the afternoon researching recipes for her last Vintage Eats column before Christmas. She wanted it to be festive, but it had to be vintage, too. Her grandmother’s handwritten recipe book, a small three-ring binder with a well-worn black leather cover, was on the trestle table and she carefully leafed through it. It was old, from the late forties, fifties and into the early sixties. Some of it was actually falling apart, but turning the pages was like stepping back into her grandmother’s life in this very house, in the Queensville of that time period. Young Lucy Armitage Leighton, newly married, cut out recipes and wrote others down in long hand, earnestly planning meals for her small family. Jaymie’s dad, Alan, was grandma’s only child, but he had clearly been the light of her life, and still was!
The handwritten recipes were most interesting; she wrote in an elegant sloping cursive, and labeled the recipes, some as “family gems” that Jaymie assumed were passed down to her by someone else, perhaps her mother-in-law, the great-grandmother Jaymie had never met. The old binder contained magazine clippings of dresses, too, and crafts. It was a Leighton treasure, and Jaymie felt fortunate that her grandmother had entrusted it to her.
One recipe clipping in particular interested her. Advertised as “no-bake fruitcake,” it combined evaporated milk with candied fruits, marshmallows, crushed vanilla wafers and gingersnaps. What woman getting close to Christmas wouldn’t want to be able to whip up a no-bake fruitcake? Jaymie had heard it said that family was like fruitcake; it wasn’t the same without a few nuts. She smiled and set the recipe aside with her grocery list to try it out on the weekend. It would become her next column for the Wolverhampton Weekly Howler.
Her smile died, though, as she tried to erase Nan’s anxious expression from her memory. Jaymie felt like she was a late bloomer. Other women seemed to have it all together, while she was still figuring it out. One of those who had it all together, in her opinion, was Nan Goodenough, a tough New York editor who had started, Jaymie knew, as a newsroom intern straight out of high school in the sixties and went on to move up through the ranks until she was managing editor of New York Metro Life magazine before retiring and entering into a second marriage with Joe Goodenough. Until this morning, Jaymie had thought Nan invincible, tough as nails and unshakably confident, but now she had seen the editor’s vulnerability. It left her wondering, how much of what she took for granted about those she knew was just veneer? What happened when that surface was scratched?
Her cell phone rang and she picked it up, glancing at the call display. “What’s up?”
Heidi Lockland, fiancée of Jaymie’s former boyfriend Joel, often called for advice, saying there was no one she could trust more than Jaymie. She babbled for a moment about something Joel had done to anger her, then got down to business. “You know the Dickens Days stuff going on?”
“Of course. I’m on the planning committee.”
“I was thinking of wearing the gown I had made for the Tea with the Queen event in the spring,” she said. “But it’s way too summery. Should I wear it? What can I do?”
Jaymie held the phone away and looked at it, then brought it back up to her ear. “Heidi, what are you talking about?”
“I’m going to be strolling with the singers tomorrow night and I want to wear a costume, but the ones the heritage society has given us are just plain awful. I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those hideous woolen coats, so I was thinking of wearing my dress, but it’s December and pretty cold.”
Jaymie bit her lip. Just when she needed a lift from fretfulness, there came Heidi! “Stop worrying. Even one of those woolen coats couldn’t make you look anything less than ravishing. And the whole idea is that the carol singers look similar, you know? Like something out of a Dickens novel.” Silence. This was not going over well. “Heidi, it’s December. In Michigan. And you’re always cold!”
Still silence.
Jaymie stifled a sigh and thought for a moment. “How about this: wear the dress. But go out to the manor. In the attic there’s a trunk with some red velvet cloaks trimmed in white fur. Wear one of those with some boots and you’ll be warm enough. Instead of singing, we’ll get you to hand out samples of the food we’re selling at the manor and the band shell.” Heidi was charming and pretty, sure to be a hit. She was also a truly lovely person on the inside, and kids seemed to adore her. It was actually a great idea. “That way you’ll be on your own, and the star attraction! Everyone loves free food.”
“I could carry an adorable basket filled with goodies!” she exclaimed. “Jaymsie, I just knew you would have an answer!”
“Glad I could help.” Jaymie had no sooner signed off than the phone rang again. It was Valetta.
“You do remember that you’re working tomorrow at the Emporium, right?”
“Val, seriously, when have I ever forgotten to come to work?” Valetta wasn’t as bad as Becca in the nagging department, but on rare occasions she did “mother” Jaymie. Valetta, Becca and another friend, Dee Stubbs, all fifteen years Jaymie’s senior, had gone to high school together and hung out as teenagers. Jaymie and Valetta were now true friends, bound by common interests, a shared work space in the Emporium and a love of Queensville, but every once in a while the older-sibling vibe came out in her tone.
“Okay, so you’ve never forgotten to come to work or one of your volunteer duties. But you sure are walking on clouds lately, and I thought you might develop love-amnesia.”
Jaymie felt her cheeks burn. That served her right for gushing about Jakob after going out with him on the weekend. Valetta was never going to let her live it down. “I’m not in love,” she said severely. “I just like him a whole lot.”
“Like, love, whatever. You’re in deep, kiddo, I can tell. Can’t say I blame you. If I had looked over the whole world, I don’t think I could have planned a guy better for you than Jakob Müller.”
Jaymie was silent. She had a sudden jolt of fear. Love had
never come easy for her, and as Val had noticed, she felt far too much already. Should she pull back? Was she letting her emotions run away with her? Everyone warned her that her fondness for romance novels meant that she was impractical and expected too much from real-life relationships. But she believed she had a levelheaded outlook on real-life romance. She had lost at love and lived to tell the story. And yet . . . if something came between her and Jakob, it would cut much more deeply than her previous disappointments.
Taking a deep breath, she settled herself. “Thanks, Valetta, but so far we’re just friends. Please don’t get ahead of me.”
“I won’t push, I promise.”
“And don’t tell Becca anything yet! I’ve only just met the guy. I don’t want anyone running off and planning a wedding for me. I’m taking this as it comes.”
Valetta was silent for a moment, then said, “Jaymie, honestly, do you think I’d blab to Becca? I thought you knew me better than that!”
“I’m sorry, Val. I do know you better than to think you’d discuss this with her or anyone else, for that matter!” Because Valetta was a bit of a gossip, everyone thought she spilled every bit of news she heard, but the opposite was true. As the town’s pharmacist, she kept close to her vest most information and could be trusted not to leak anything important. Her gossip was confined to what was already known, or what had been publicly witnessed, and she heard far more than she spread.
“All right, then. See you tomorrow morning!”
Jaymie wrote out the no-bake fruitcake recipe, cut and packaged the cooled brownies, popped some in a tub to take to Jakob’s and raced up the creaky stairs, followed by a wobbly, chipper Hoppy, who yapped excitedly. What was she going to wear over to his house this evening? She wanted to look nice, but not like she was trying too hard. She’d need to be able to get down onto the floor if she ended up playing with Jocelyn. The child was adorable, but eerily mature. Maybe it seemed even more so because a form of dwarfism kept her tiny, more like a three-year-old in height than an eight-year-old. But Jakob did not baby her. Calm self-possession seemed her normal demeanor even in a moment of crisis like the one that had sent Jaymie to Jakob’s doorstep on a cold, black November evening just weeks before.
Jaymie tried on leggings and a long burgundy sweater, then changed into a long skirt and blouse, then changed back into the leggings and sweater. She regarded herself in her mirror and sighed. Her bottom was starting to widen again, something she was self-conscious about. She couldn’t decide if the leggings and long sweater made it better or worse.
Denver had climbed the stairs and sat in the middle of her crazy quilt glaring at her, his expression as annoyed as always. Though she wasn’t completely sold on having the animals sleep with her—Denver sprawled, taking up more than his fair share of the bed, and Hoppy snuffled and snored, lone front paw jerking with excited doggie dreams—Jaymie had finally caved and had Bill Waterman build a set of custom doggie stairs carpeted in pale blue for Hoppy. Now he could wobble up the stairs onto the bed and try to cuddle up to Denver, who grumpily put up with the little dog’s affectionate nature.
“You’ll have the house to yourself this evening, Denver,” she said over her shoulder. Hoppy was coming out to the log cabin with Jaymie, since she wanted to introduce Jocelyn to her little dog.
But right at that moment she still had more work to do. She threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, trotted downstairs and grabbed her keys and the colander centerpiece she had crafted. She was going to take the box of pamphlets over to where they would be stored, at Bill Waterman’s spacious workshop-slash-tool museum behind Jewel Dandridge’s repurposed vintage shop on the main street. The sharp bite of frosty air made her rethink her sweater and jacket, but as she locked the back door of the summer porch behind her, she decided if she just hustled, she’d warm up. She hastened down the flagstone path, closed the wrought-iron gate behind her, revved her rattletrap van, turned up the wheezy heater and pulled out of her parking space, down the lane and into the heart of town, just moments away.
Queensville was swiftly earning a reputation as a vintage and antique mecca. There was Jewel’s Junk, which featured funky finds and repurposed stuff. Jewel also created pieces out of “hurt” vintage items, thus there were kitchen utensil wind chimes and teacup bird feeders, among other rebuilt and made-over items. Just down from Jewel was another vintage furniture store, Cynthia Turbridge’s Cottage Shoppe, which sold shabby-chic furnishings and décor suited to the cottages that lined the banks of the St. Clair River on both sides of the border, as well as Lake St. Clair and beyond.
There was a rumor going around town that a mystery woman had bought a small cottage opposite those two shops and would fill it with more elegant antiques, including china, crystal, silver and jewelry. Only Jaymie and Valetta knew that the mystery woman was actually her sister, Becca, who was planning a store to hold much of her stock, as well as the gorgeous and stately antique furniture that would grace a more elegant home, like the Queen Anne they jointly owned. She ran a china-matching service out of her home in London, Ontario, a few miles inland from the lakes, but thought retail in Queensville would be a good extension and allow her to buy and sell even more. Her husband-to-be was another antique aficionado and loved old electronics, like Bakelite radios and vintage televisions, so the shop might sell those, too.
Jaymie parked along the curb, set aside a stack of pamphlets to take on to the manor house and give to other vendors, and grabbed the heavy box, toting it awkwardly up the walk, past Jewel’s shop and back to Bill Waterman’s workshop, the size of a small barn, with a high rusty corrugated tin roof and barn wood walls. He had the big double sliding barn doors open as ventilation, and was bent over a paneled door on a sawhorse, painting pungent liquid stripper over it, the surface bubbling and crackling. He glanced up, saw her, and laid a sheet of plastic wrap over it, then grabbed a rag, wiping his hands swiftly.
“Jaymie, let me get that!” He was a big fellow, tall but slightly stooped, and with graying whiskers sprouting along his jaw and out of his ears. He usually wore overalls, but in deference to the frigidity of the weather, today wore a one-piece long-sleeved work coverall in dark blue over a thick sweater that peeked out of the top. His eyes were shrouded in wrinkles, but they were a bright winter-sky blue, and twinkled in the right light. He insisted on carrying the box for her and led her to an enclosed room, the warmest, driest part of his shop, where he stored his most valuable tools. Once inside, he set the box of pamphlets on a shelf, where it would stay for the duration of the Dickens Days festivities. He grabbed a spare key from a hook and handed it to her, saying, “I set this aside for you. Keep it safe. And don’t lose it! Only me, you and Jewel have a key, besides the spare. That way you can come get more pamphlets whenever you need them. You ordered more than this, I hope?”
As she added the key to her key chain, she followed him back out and waited while he locked the big padlock on the inner door. “Actually, I didn’t. I guess if things go as well as we plan, we’ll need more. A thousand seemed like a lot at the time.”
They moved to the front of the shed again, and then he carefully peeled the plastic off the door and began scraping the old dirty paint from the oak wood underneath. As toxic as the chemicals were, he didn’t don gloves. “I’d say we’ll need another five thousand. Don’t forget, the inn wants some, and every shop on Main Street, the Emporium, as well as ones to hand out. And a few places in Wolverhampton might take ’em, too.”
“You’re right,” she said, making a quick decision. “Better too many than not enough.” She pulled her cell phone, a gift Daniel gave her during their romance, out of her pocket and brought up Nan’s contact information. “It’s pricey, but if we want more we’ll have to order them now. Do you think five thousand?”
“That’ll do,” he said, grunting with the effort of scraping. “I’ll support you if Haskell gets tetchy,” he said, referring to Haskell Lockland, t
he heritage society president.
She concentrated as she texted Nan, asked for confirmation, then clicked the phone off. She looked out at the village from his shop, a great vantage point on a slight rise. It had been transformed in the last week. The cottage shops were decked with cedar garlands and wreaths, wound with red-and-green plaid ribbon. At night twinkle lights winked and blinked from the garland depths and the branches of the small fir trees around the shops. The Queensville Emporium had been swathed in festive trim, too. There were long evergreen garlands strung across the street at the main intersection and to the small village green where the information booth for Dickens Days was going to be set up.
All they needed was snow to make the Dickens Days festivities perfect. She sighed. “I guess I’d better get moving.”
“You let me know when you get the rest of the pamphlets. Or do you want me to pick them up in Wolverhampton when they’re ready? Seems you do a whole lot of driving with no one paying your mileage.”
“I don’t mind.” She hesitated, but then asked, “Did you know Nan Goodenough had a son who’s staying with her right now?”
His head snapped up and he stared at her, his mouth turned down. “I know him. He come around here asking for a job. Told him I got no use for those who don’t treat women right.”
She sighed. “You saw it, too? The way he treated his girlfriend?”
He nodded, tight-lipped. “Whacked her upside of the head.”
“Sounds like the same incident I saw. Don’t say anything to anyone, but I think he shoved his mom this morning.” She explained what she had heard at the newspaper office.
He shook his head. “Don’t like him. Don’t like any man treats a woman with less than respect.” He finished scraping the last bit of paint and grabbed a dirty rag, wiping some of the chemical off the oak door with a splash of mineral spirits, the pungent scent wafting on the fresh December breeze. But his dour look lightened and he winked at her. “There are some fellows out there who know a good woman when he’s found her. Like the Müller’s youngest, Jakob. Heard he’s sweet on a real nice girl.”
White Colander Crime Page 2
