A Deadly Grind Read online

  He nodded, then went back to examining the legs of the Hoosier, then scanning the room and the door.

  “What are you looking for?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, then shrugged. “Anything. I’m wondering if the killer was all the way up on the summer porch when he—or she—killed the victim, or whether they were still outside.”

  “I’m assuming the murderer must have been up in the summer porch if they grabbed the grinder, wrenched it off the work top and hit the fellow with it.”

  “That’s what we figure.”

  “But why the grinder? Why not whatever was used to pry the hinges off the summer porch door?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  Frustrated, she continued. “Oh, I have a lot more questions, Detective. Why was he breaking into my house? Was he with anyone? Dee said the guy at the Inn had been gone a lot since he came to town; what’s he been doing since he got to Queensville?”

  He looked up and a slight smile tugged up the corners of his mouth. “Want me to tell you everything I know?”

  “That would be great!”

  “Sure. I’d lose my job and taint the investigation, but what the hell, right?”

  “Oh.” She sighed.

  “What I want to know is, why your house? As you pointed out, the house on the other side of you is unoccupied right now, an easy target for a random thief. But this guy’s been in town for weeks, and as far as we know, hasn’t broken into any other place. What did he want from your house in particular? Did he get it, and his killer took it from him? That’s what we’re wondering.”

  “I started wondering the same thing,” she said, and as he looked at her with a skeptical expression, she added, “No, really. I bought a lot of stuff at the auction the other evening, and I wondered if there was something in the Hoosier or one of the boxes. I’ve searched the Hoosier . . . nothing. I’ve looked through the boxes, but unless it’s something I’m just not recognizing, there’s nothing there. But I hadn’t thought that he may have found what he was looking for, and the killer took it from him.”

  She examined his eyes, which held no clue of what he was thinking. “Look, I thought of something later that I maybe should have brought up before, but I didn’t even think of it in reference to the break-in and murder. I overheard a conversation at the sale that night about a valuable button. I bought a whole box of sewing stuff, including a bottle of buttons, out of curiosity. I looked at all the buttons, but can’t find a single one that looks valuable.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “If you still have the bottle, I should take it to the station and we’ll look through it, see if there’s anything ‘off’ about it.”

  “Okay. Have you notified Mr. McIntosh’s relatives yet about his death? That must be the worst part of the job. Where is he from?”

  “That, Ms. Leighton, is an excellent question,” the detective said, standing up. “He seems to be from nowhere. In fact, there is no Lachlan McIntosh, or at least, not one that is missing and fits the deceased’s description.”

  “So it’s not his real name.” Another dead end! She rose, and said, “I’ll get you that bottle of buttons.”

  She had to go up to the spare room to retrieve it, since that was where she kept sewing and craft supplies. As she passed her room she thought of the pavé pin on her dresser and fetched that, too. When she came back down, he was looking around her kitchen with an odd expression on his face.

  As she handed him the bottle, he said, “If I had to guess, I would have imagined this room as the kitchen of an eighty-year-old woman.”

  Her chin went up and she said, “I decorated it all myself. This is my collection.” She swept her arms around, indicating all the tins and bowls and kitchen implements. She paused for a moment, then said, “I’m a cookbook writer.” It was the first time she had said it out loud!

  “I guess it makes sense, then, all this old stuff.”

  And there she was again, feeling out of step and out of time with the world. No wonder she liked to read historical romances. “Detective Christian, there’s one more thing.” She held out her hand, palm flat, the pin in it. “I found this in my garden the day after the murder.”

  He looked it over. “Could it have been there before the murder?”

  “Sure. I suppose it could have been dropped there anytime in the last few weeks since I planted the holly bushes. I just thought . . .” She shrugged.

  He took it and examined it, but then shook his head. “I’ll make a note of it,” he said. “But I don’t imagine it’s connected at all.” He strode down the walk, but turned halfway down, walking backward, the buttons rattling around in the bottle. “I’ll have someone drop off a receipt for this. Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll get this guy, whoever he is.”

  “Is there going to be a police car out back again tonight?” she called out, wrapping her arms around herself and hugging.

  “We can’t do it forever, but I’ll make sure there is, at least for tonight.”

  Jaymie returned inside and glanced at the clock in the kitchen. After two unexpected visitors, she was going to be late if she didn’t hustle. Today the tea would be busier than ever, since they had a couple hundred Canadian tourists—they would be bussed to Johnsonville, on the Canadian side of the river, then come over by ferry—scheduled. It might be a long, busy afternoon if the Heritage Society was lucky.

  The Heritage Society was very lucky indeed! The weather was perfect, even better than the day before, and the ferry made extra runs to carry all the eager, elderly Canadians, busloads of geriatric tea drinkers and staunch royalists fascinated by an American town’s take on high tea. It required everyone’s attention and quick moving to keep a watch and aid those who were using rollator walkers over the rough grass. Daniel was especially helpful, and Jaymie noted his thoughtfulness with appreciation. If she was looking for the polar opposite to Joel, she may have found him.

  The Queen’s Tea was not the only popular spot, because once they had tea, and while they were waiting for the ferry back, people strolled through the village and checked out Jewel’s Junk, Queensville Gems, and the Knit Knack Shack. The “Shack,” a posh parlor in one of the ubiquitous Queen Anne mansions along Main Street, sold wool and patterns for knitters, the ideal pastime for many the age of the tea drinkers, but also for the younger crowd among whom knitting and other handcrafts were becoming popular. Jaymie did not knit, but she did frequent Jewel’s Junk. It was a shop that specialized in “repurposed” vintage finds; Jaymie recommended it for those not knitting- or jewelry-inclined.

  Anna and Tabby attended, and Jaymie was pleased to see her friend looking a little more cheerful, as many of the old folks fussed over her beautiful daughter. Tabby preened and fluttered her wings, dancing around the tables like a tiny fairy among a party of elderly gnomes. As the day wore on and the tea organizers began to run out of some of the most requested delicacies, like Tansy’s tarts, Jaymie found herself serving more and more thin wedges of her Queen Elizabeth cake. It was a surprising hit, especially with the older Canadian women who found butter tarts and Battenberg cake too sweet.

  “You, girl!” one called out, waving to her.

  Jaymie came over, teapot at the ready. These women could drink gallons of plain black tea, and demanded infinite refills, so that was what she expected, but she was in for a surprise.

  “That girl,” she said, pointing over at Heidi, “said you made this Queen Elizabeth cake.”

  “I did,” Jaymie said, sketching a wave at Heidi, who bounced in her chair, grinned and waved back.

  “This, my dear, is the real deal, as you young people say,” she said, waving her fork in the air. “It’s delicious! Moist, full of flavor . . . wonderful.”

  Just that moment a wandering reporter, who had come over with the latest group from Johnsonville lookin
g for colorful Victoria Day photos, paused and listened in as the woman praised Jaymie’s accurate rendition of the old recipe.

  “Hey, can I take some photos?” he asked, eyeing her. He was armed with an intimidating-looking camera and various camera bags over his shoulders, but appeared cheerful and had an engaging smile. “You look like the most authentically dressed maid here, and your cake is a good angle.” He then interviewed both the tea drinkers and Jaymie—which she actually enjoyed, oddly enough—and asked for her phone number “to check on details later,” he said.

  When he walked away, the elderly ladies exchanged looks. “You have a new suitor, it seems,” one of them, with a distinct English accent, said.

  Of course Jaymie blushed—curses on her too-easily embarrassed physiology—then said, “Oh no, he was just being nice!”

  “It was more than being nice, my dear,” the original lady said. She nodded past Jaymie and added, “and I think that young man was not too pleased about the reporter’s interest. You have more than one anxious beau!”

  Jaymie glanced in the direction the woman was looking and saw Daniel just turning away. If he truly was interested in her, he was being low-key about it, but that was okay. Jaymie wasn’t sure how ready she was for dating and men, since she was just beginning to come to terms with Joel’s desertion.

  The couple that Jaymie recognized from the Queensville Inn took a seat at one of the empty tables, and Jaymie went to serve them. Once they had given their order, she said, “I’m glad you came today! Did you find anything interesting at the auction Friday evening?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” the man said. When he smiled, it creased his seamed cheeks into friendly lines. He was faultlessly dressed in brown tweed dress slacks and a butter-yellow Oxford-style shirt, and had a sweater slung casually over his shoulders. “We went there thinking there were to be antiques, but we ended up acquiring an oil painting that may be an unknown Cropsey. If so, it is a most fortuitous find!”

  Jaymie looked at him, and wondered. Should she have heard of Cropsey?

  “Jasper Francis Cropsey,” the woman explained, watching Jaymie’s face. She had a low pleasant voice, throaty, a “whiskey” voice, Jaymie’s grandmother always called it. “He spent some time in Ann Arbor, a painter from the Hudson River School.”

  “Of course, that Cropsey,” Jaymie said, and rushed off to get their tea and treats. She canvassed DeeDee and some of the others, but they had never heard of Cropsey either, so she didn’t feel so bad. When she returned to the couple to offer a plate of goodies, they introduced themselves as Lynn and Nathan Foster. She didn’t mention that, as it was a small town, she already knew their names.

  But she did remind them that she had been the one who suggested the tea to them, the day before, which they acknowledged, thanking her. “I hope you’re enjoying your time in Queensville?” Jaymie said, moving from one foot to another. It was late in the afternoon, and the black shoes were beginning to pinch again.

  “It is a delightful village,” Nathan said, beaming with gentle good humor. “We’ve extended our visit here indefinitely. Quite the relief after some of the tourist traps, you know, places that have no real interest, but are built around some spurious claim to fame.”

  “Queensville has no claim to fame at all,” Jaymie deadpanned, then told them if there was anything else they wanted, to let her know.

  “By the way, what did you buy at the auction?” Lynn Foster asked, with a polite air of interest. She was what would be called a handsome woman, fortyish, dark hair pulled back into a chignon, and wearing a gorgeous gray suit—Chanel, or something like it—with a sparkly pin on the lapel.

  “I bought a lot,” Jaymie admitted, shifting her tea tray to her hip. “A box of kitchen stuff, cookbooks, a box of sewing stuff with a bottle of old buttons in it and a Hoosier cabinet.”

  “Buttons?” Lynn glanced over at her husband. “What kind of buttons?”

  Nonplussed, Jaymie paused, then said, “Uh, sewing buttons.” What other kind of buttons were there?

  “A Hoosier? I know what that is!” Nathan Foster said. “It’s a type of kitchen cabinet, is it not?” As Jaymie nodded, he went on, “In fact, I think my grandmother had one at the old farmhouse. You know, the old homestead in upstate New York,” he said to his wife, who nodded, but appeared to have lost interest in the conversation.

  Jaymie moved on to serve others. Another couple of hours and she’d be done. As she served and chatted and cleared, she noticed Detective Christian circulating among the tables and glancing around. She turned away; all she needed to be completely humiliated was for the elegant detective to see her in her awful maid’s outfit. His comments in her kitchen about it being the room of an eighty-year-old wasn’t the first time she had felt out of step with the world. Joel had always said she was a homespun girl in a polyester society, but sometimes Jaymie wished she were a little more like the effortlessly elegant Heidi.

  After another half hour, she saw that Nathan Foster was alone at his table reading a book. That was not the point of the tea; they were not Starbucks, for crying out loud! She approached and asked if he was done with his tea. He nodded absently and went on reading as she cleared his dirty cup, saucer and cake plate.

  “Mr. Foster, we have other guests waiting for a table.” Determined to defeat the blush that was even now beginning to creep up her neck, she said, “Would you object to sharing?” She looked pointedly at the three empty chairs.

  “Oh, oh!” He rose and bowed, formally. “I do apologize, young lady. I did not realize there were still those who had not had tea. I will depart, if I can find my wife. You didn’t happen to see Lynn in the last half hour, did you?”

  “No.” Jaymie signaled to DeeDee to let another group have the table.

  But Nathan Foster only walked a little way away. He looked around, blinking.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Foster?”

  “I don’t know where my wife has gone,” he said, his tone plaintive.

  “Perhaps she went to find a bathroom?”

  He shook his head. “She’s been doing this lately, leaving and not telling me where she’s going. I’ve even awoken in the middle of the night to find she’s gone. For a walk, she says.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jaymie said, not sure what else to say.

  He sighed heavily. “Perhaps I can sit for a while and wait for her?”

  Jaymie took pity on him, and dragged one of the lawn chairs to a shady spot, and there he sat, reading and waiting for his wandering wife.

  Eleven

  FINALLY IT WAS over. Lynn Foster had retrieved her befuddled husband, and the last guests, Canadian and otherwise, had straggled off to their homes, or the ferry, or the public parking lot behind the community center on the edge of town. Quite a few of the tea lovers would be stopping at Tansy’s Tarts on Heartbreak Island to buy a dozen pecan or butter tarts, because they were, as everyone expected they would be, the hit of the tea. Jaymie was more than satisfied with the compliments on her “authentic” Queen Elizabeth cake.

  The Heritage Society ladies were all gone, dragging off looking exhausted and gray, to drink tea on their own front porches. The indomitable Mabel Bloombury, eighty if she was a day, had volunteered to take all the linens with her to wash and put away for another year. As Rebecca had suspected, not a single person had said a thing about the napkins, though Jaymie had seen quite a few of the older ladies fingering the polyester suspiciously.

  DeeDee and some of the other women had stayed to help clean up, and some had even roped in their menfolk to stack tables on the porch. Becca and DeeDee were laughing together as they piled teacups and plates into a tub to take home and wash. Jaymie unpinned her hair from the atrocious bun and shook it out just as Heidi shyly approached.

  “Your Queen Elizabeth cake was a hit, Jaymie. I wish I was more like you. Yo
u really contributed, and everyone appreciated it.”

  Not quite knowing what to say, Jaymie shrugged. “You played a wonderful Princess Beatrice,” she said.

  “That just involved dressing up and acting a part. I’ve done that all my life. Do you think . . . could you teach me how to cook sometime?”

  Jaymie was saved from answering when Zell McIntosh, who had been looking around with a frown, caught sight of Heidi and trotted over to them.

  “There you are!” he said. “I told you not to get lost. I’ll take you home.”

  “Oooh, thank you,” she said looking up at him. “My feet hurt so bad!” She lifted her frothy skirt to show off ivory buttoned shoes, very Victorian looking.

  “I’ll rub them for you, shall I?” he said, with a playful leer.

  She giggled and batted his arm playfully. “You are so bad!”

  And Joel had worried about her being alone and defenseless?

  “Zell,” Daniel said, strolling toward them. “You going to stay and help me get these tables up to the attic?”

  “It can wait a few, can’t it?” he said, his dark eyes gleaming, as he slung his arm casually over Heidi’s shoulders. Heidi shrugged, and he pulled his arm away.

  “A few what, minutes? Hours?” When Zell didn’t answer, Daniel sighed and said, “Yeah, I guess. What’s up?”

  “I’m just escorting la princesse home,” he said, with an exaggerated sweeping bow.

  Jaymie rolled her eyes and Daniel caught it, grinning at her in conspiratorial glee.

  “Okay. Take Heidi home.” He started to turn away, but then looked back at his friend, and said, “Did Trev text you? I just got another message from him, and he said something about a ‘big score’ and being tied up, and it seemed like he thought I’d know what he meant. What does that mean?”

  “I haven’t a clue, old man. You know Trev . . . always on some scheme. That’s what’s holding him up, I guess.”