No Grater Danger

by Victoria Hamilton

  “She’s had a rough go, lately. We drove from Delaware down to Boca Raton to visit Mom and Dad,” Jaymie said. “Jocie adored the beach, but we think the ocean water got into her ears. She had a nasty ear infection in August that kept her from starting school immediately after Labor Day.” Jocie and other little people were prone to ear infections, but antibiotics had helped and she was almost all better, rapidly catching up in school. Only time would tell if she’d need tubes inserted in her ears to keep her from suffering hearing loss.

  “Poor little duckie,” Mrs. Stubbs said softly. “I miss having little ones around. I have two great-grands, but they live so far away. If Dee’s boys get started having kids I’ll enjoy it. Will you bring Jocie to see me soon?”

  “I sure will. She’d like that. Let’s do a proper tea party in your room sometime soon!” She paused, then continued, “Actually, Ms. Thorndike, Jocie’s principal, stopped me to talk yesterday. She’s initiating a learning through objects program at the school.” Jaymie explained what learning through objects was. “She suggested using items from the heritage house in the lessons. I jumped on it and said okay, but then started thinking . . . Haskell is so fussy about the house. Do you think he’ll be on board with having a bunch of kids there for a couple of hours, rather than just touring through?”

  “I’ll make sure he is,” Mrs. Stubbs said, her tone starchy. “I had plenty of trouble keeping him in line when he was young. He and Lyle were friends and he was always a nuisance.” She had volunteered for many years at Wolverhampton High through the seventies and eighties, while her boys were growing up. “I’ll remind him what a pain he was and how important learning opportunities are for the children.”

  Jaymie spoke about where she was going to start, with things related to the spice trade to explain global exploration and the spice route. “I’m going to have to beef up my collection of spice storage, graters, cookbooks and the like, though.”

  Mrs. Stubbs stroked Hoppy and he sighed a contented doggy sigh and curled into a tighter ball on her lap. “You should start with my cousin, Lois Perry.”

  “Huh. It’s funny how you see someone or hear of someone and all of a sudden you hear about them again and again!” Jaymie related that she had seen Miss Perry down by the dock in an argument with the developer.

  “That sounds like Lois. She’s spirited when it comes to our family history and legacy.”

  “What does she have to do with spices, though?”

  Mrs. Stubbs stared at her in dismay, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You really don’t know? Haven’t you ever heard of Captain Perry and the Nutmeg Palace?”

  “Well, I know about the Perry family a little; Perry Street, Perry Park and Perry Place are named for them . . . for your family.” The Perry name was ubiquitous in Queensville, and she knew they were among the founders of the town, and had something to do with shipping.

  “I’m disappointed. Thought you knew local history better than that.” Mrs. Stubbs loved to tell a good story, so this was a good excuse to relate some family history. “I’m a Perry by birth, as you know. Lois is a little younger than I; as a very little girl she was as much a stubborn pain in the bee-hind as she is now. Anyway, about the Perry family: back in the mid eighteen hundreds my some number of great-grandfathers, Captain Jonas Perry, who started working as a spice trader from the east, settled here in Queensville. Built a wood house first, but he liked to be better and higher up than everybody else, so he bought a big chunk of land on the prominence north of town and built himself what folks around here thought was a gaudy and unnecessarily large house for his family—just himself, his wife and three boys.

  “And the servants, of course. In those days everyone had servants, even if it was just a maid-of-all-work. The house is on the headland that looks north and south along the river, on what’s known as Winding Woods Lane now. Because of how big it was, and how many finials and gewgaws he put on it, folks around here started calling it the Palace. He liked to have the last laugh, did Jonas, so he went even more extravagant, added more gingerbread, and called it the Nutmeg Palace, built on his spice fortune. That’s what it’s been called ever since.”

  “I did not know all of that. It fits in perfect with the section on spice trade routes! Gives it a local spin.”

  “Lois is the official family guardian of the palace. There’s a book on the spice trade in America that mentions the Perry family; I’m sure she has a copy. She also has maps, rare botanical prints, and every kind of spice grinder, grater and the rest you could ever imagine.”

  “That would be so awesome for the students!” Jaymie paused, watching her friend, starting to get sleepy in the warm autumnal sunshine. “You don’t think . . . would she—”

  “I’ll call her and set up a meeting for you,” Mrs. Stubbs said, her eyes closed, hand on Hoppy, cradling him. She opened one eye. “I can’t promise what she’ll agree to, but if you go with my blessing she’s more likely to loan you bits and bobs from the collection than if you go in cold.”

  “Thank you, thank you! My daughter thanks you. Her school thanks you!” She paused a beat. “Can you call her soon and maybe I can go out there this afternoon?”

  Mrs. Stubbs chuckled. “Never one to let moss grow under your feet, are you? Let’s go in, have a cup of tea, and I’ll call her.”

  Jaymie came away with a two p.m. meeting with Miss Lois Perry, and a bit of a headache. Life seemed to move so quickly at times. She had met and married Jakob much more quickly than she had ever thought possible, but they both knew it was right. She had always been flexible and adaptable: working at several different jobs, becoming a food columnist, aspiring to write a cookbook, marrying a man with his own range of businesses, becoming the mom of a soon-to-be nine-year-old . . . all required flexibility and adaptability at heightened levels.

  But she was adept at making every visit or trip serve many purposes; she might triple up with this new venture, helping Sybil with her learning through objects idea. Hopefully she could borrow items for the heritage house displays, use them to teach the kids in Jocie’s school about spice trade routes, and perhaps in doing so find a vintage recipe using spices for her “Vintage Eats” column.

  She returned to the house and deposited a sleepy Hoppy in his basket by the stove, where Lilibet was snoozing. Then she headed right back out again, walking over to her sister and brother-in-law’s new store, Queensville Fine Antiques. It was a lovely day to walk and reflect, the autumn sun warm on her face, neighbors out walking their dogs and doing yard work, chrysanthemums blooming in shades of gold and burgundy as red and yellow leaves drifted.

  The last year and a half had been a thrill ride in some ways. She could have done without the presence of murder in her life, though there was great satisfaction in helping the police solve them. But she could not have done without meeting and marrying Jakob and his little daughter, Jocie, and her closer relationship with her sister, and her sister’s new husband, Kevin. It was a good time to be alive, she often felt.

  She climbed the front steps and entered the antique shop, on time for her lesson in antiques from Kevin’s older sister, Georgina. “I’m here and ready to learn!”

  The woman looked up at Jaymie, checked her watch and frowned. She was two minutes late. Jaymie sighed but didn’t comment as she stowed her purse under the desk and took her place beside her teacher. Georgina was even more English than Kevin. Petite, dyed blonde and slim—she called herself well-preserved, and she was that—she managed the antique store for her brother and Becca, and lived in an apartment in back, which she complained about constantly. Becca took the complaints in stride and was trying to alter it to please her new sister-in-law.

  Becca wanted Jaymie schooled in fine antiques in case anything else happened like the event that had put Kevin and Becca’s honeymoon off until now, Georgina’s emergency gallbladder surgery and recovery, which had taken most of the summer. Though Georgina was better now, Becca wanted to be able to fall back on Jaymie to tak
e care of things if need be. Unfortunately, neither Georgina nor Kevin thought her antique knowledge was deep enough. Becca had been offended—not an unusual state for her, but this time it was on her younger sister’s behalf—but Jaymie, the more she learned, agreed with them.

  At first she couldn’t have told the difference between an étagère and an epergne, but she was beginning to get a grasp on that and much more: historical periods in antiques, from Georgian, Victorian, and Edwardian on through the more esoteric differences between art nouveau and art deco. She was learning how to recognize a silver hallmark and how to identify silver plate. Today’s lesson was in antique china: how to recognize quality; the different makers; and what to look at when appraising pieces.

  “Of course, you won’t be buying or appraising any yourself, but it doesn’t hurt for you to have an understanding of it,” Georgina said.

  “Of course,” Jaymie murmured, examining a mark on the back of a piece of Sèvres with a loupe, a jeweler’s tool that magnified them.

  The front showroom of Queensville Fine Antiques had been designed by Becca to make everything look much more valuable than it was. Glass cases holding hallmarked silver antique pieces lined one end of the showroom; Minton and Wedgwood china, and fragile prewar crystal, lined the other, sparkling under halogen lighting, bright but cool. Good pieces of furniture like a burled walnut étagère and a mahogany Duncan Phyfe dining set with lyre-back chairs took up the front space by the big picture window. Place settings of Royal Crown Derby Old Imari china and Acanthus patterned sterling silver flatware atop a vintage damask tablecloth dressed the table, while lovely ruby-colored crystal vases sparkled on an intricate Victorian étagère. The sales desk was a reclaimed, repurposed kitchen island made out of pickled-finish maple with a marble top. Georgina spent much of her time behind it answering questions on the phone, updating the store’s website and social media, and polishing silver. She had been involved in antiques her whole life, she had told Jaymie, and was as passionate still as she had been as a girl.

  She was deeply knowledgeable and Jaymie was enjoying her lessons, though Georgina was prickly at times and ill-tempered toward children, aloof and frosty any time Jocie was around. So far they had covered how to tell the difference between hand-painted design and transfer print on china, and even how to recognize a combination of techniques. Hand-painted was worth a lot more, and the primary rule of thumb Georgina offered was to look for tiny errors or dissimilarities in pieces, which indicated hand-painting. Jaymie correctly identified a piece of transfer-printed china by noting, under the loupe, the stippling, raised dots rather than brush strokes.

  Jaymie looked at her watch. “Oops, I’m going to have to get going, Georgina,” she said, handing her back the china plate. “I have to be out to Miss Lois Perry’s place by two. I don’t think she’d like it if I was late.”

  “Miss Perry? I’ve met the lady.”

  Her frosty tone stopped Jaymie in the act of grabbing her purse. She examined the woman’s face, her look meaningful, her blue eyes glacial behind large plastic-rimmed glasses. “Is there something I should know?”

  “Ask her why she came barging in here one day saying we had some of her family’s silver that had been stolen from her home.” Georgina’s tone was crisp and offended.

  Three

  “AS IF WE WOULD BUY from anyone suspect!” Georgina said with a sniff of contempt. “We are not a pawnshop.”

  “I didn’t hear about this!” Jaymie said.

  “It happened while you were on vacation.” She turned her computer monitor to face Jaymie. “She claimed this, a hallmarked set of Savoy by Buccellati that we bought, was hers.”

  Jaymie knew that Buccellati was an Italian maker of fine sterling silver flatware, among other things. On the Queensville Fine Antiques website they had listed the service for twelve plus serving pieces of flatware for eighteen thousand dollars. Jaymie gasped. Eighteen thousand dollars. She’d been told antiques had plummeted in value in the last fifteen years; apparently that was not true of sterling silver! “What happened?”

  “She called the police. They shut our establishment down for an afternoon. I was appalled and dreadfully embarrassed!” She was at her snippiest, mounted on the highest of high horses. “It was humiliating.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Why would they?” Georgina asked. “Nothing came of it. We had provenance. It’s not like we’re some flea market . . . or junk store.” She swiftly cut a glance at Jaymie as she turned the computer monitor back into place.

  That was a shot at The Junk Stops Here, Jakob’s store. With a big smile, Jaymie said, “I’ll stick to my junk shop Pyrex and melamine, thank you very much.”

  “Anyway . . . watch that woman,” Georgina said. “She’s not entirely balanced.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Jaymie retrieved her Explorer from home and drove back through town, past the Queensville Inn to River Road, which gently ascended from the village to a wooded prominence that overlooked the river. River Road moved away from the waterway briefly, circling around an enclave of historic, wealthy homes, most concealed from each other by bends, turns and trees. The neighborhood as a whole, made up of a loop—Winding Woods Lane—and two streets, was called Winding Woods. After curving around Winding Woods, River Road resumed its track along the St. Clair and descended to just above river level once more.

  When the Queensville Heritage Society had first started looking for a house to buy and convert to a historic home attraction, they had considered one in Winding Woods, but the homes, most over a hundred and thirty years old, were out of the society’s price range, every single one elegantly outfitted and perfectly preserved, like wealthy dowagers with precise surgical facelifts every half century or so. Instead the heritage society had been fortunate to purchase Dumpe House, now the Queensville Historic Manor, away from the river and slightly out of town. They got it for a song and had renovated it to a high standard, including fire safety upgrades, new wiring and other modern amenities. It was a good purchase since it was on a large parcel of land with room to add parking and build a historic interpretation center. That wouldn’t have been possible in Winding Woods.

  The best view of the river was commanded by the star home of Winding Woods, stately in its regal splendor and isolation, the residence known as the Nutmeg Palace. It was a large, intricately painted Queen Anne–style home, the first, Mrs. Stubbs had told her, and therefore the oldest. Though it sat on the highest prominence overlooking the St. Clair River, because of the heavy woods surrounding it only the widow’s walk and turret rooms were visible until one rounded the bend of Winding Woods Lane, the great loop off of River Road that was the highest, furthest point of Winding Woods, with Laurel and Linden streets the only others in the enclave.

  When she pulled up and turned off the engine, Jaymie sat staring at the house for a few minutes, trying to take it all in. It was magnificent. Bewildering. It was, in fact, a tumult to the senses, an explosion of gingerbread, gabling, scrollwork, coffered panels, paneled friezes, porches sticking out hither and thither, all adorned with an intricate color scheme of mauves and lavender accented with charcoal. Turrets! A widow’s walk! Every detail screamed Victorian, and in 1850 was likely a marvel for the locals. Back then, it would have been clearly visible from almost anywhere, since the trees had all been chopped down so construction could proceed.

  Since then, of course, every effort had been made to restore the wooded splendor to Winding Woods Lane, and so trees were abundant. Even across from the homes was a circular glade of laurel and linden trees, along with thick undergrowth and pleasant, shaded walks. Each home along the lane felt secluded and private, even from the others.

  To the right of the Nutmeg Palace was a sidewalk leading around to the back of the house, lined with an overgrown hedge of japonica that straggled over the walk, already shadowed by a bow window overhang. It would be like walking through a tunnel of branches and architecture. Th
e backyard was concealed by a wooden gate that had seen better days, the wood bleached to a gray pitted appearance. The grass was overgrown, and there was a spirea bush that crowded the walk. Jaymie remembered that on the other side of the hedge was Haskell Lockland’s home, which she had passed driving up.

  She climbed the creaky front steps slowly, passed through a semicircular wooden arch, crossed the board porch and lifted the knocker on the double oak door. Before she could release it, the door was pulled open and Miss Lois Perry stood in the doorway leaning heavily on her cane, a plain, serviceable aluminum one today.

  “You’re Jaymie Leighton,” she said, her voice scratchy and curt.

  “I am. Mrs. Stubbs called and you said I could come by at two to talk to you.”

  “Something about school, or your daughter or . . . something.” She turned away and hobbled down the hall toward the back of the house.

  Jaymie stood for a moment on the threshold, but deciding that was all the invitation she would receive, she followed, closing the big door behind her. She paused and looked around her. The entryway was spacious enough but felt smaller because of the overpowering décor and lack of lighting. The walls were papered in a busy pattern of vines in browns and golds, and there were all manner of furnishings, including an enormous Victorian mirrored hall tree laden with coats and hats and a holder full of canes and umbrellas. Across from that was a carved mahogany table holding a china dish on a stand and an oil lantern.

  The hall felt even more crowded because of the elaborate wood gingerbread details that topped the arches and the oak staircase that turned ninety degrees on a landing and ascended out of sight. On the right, beyond the staircase, overlooking the porch, was the turret area, which simply held a semicircular bench with fussy patterned cushions, and draped windows, the gloom preventing her from seeing much but that.