On the left, through a doorway arched in dark-stained spindled gingerbread, there was a parlor with glass and oak cases filled with silver along one wall, as well as documents and botanical prints framed in rich dark wood clustered on the painted walls above them. There was an intricately carved fireplace along the far wall, and settees and chairs filling the space by the draped window. The furnishing in the parlor was antique, but not heavy Victorian. It looked, to Jaymie’s newly tutored gaze, to be art nouveau opulence, with leaf and vine motifs. As her eyes became accustomed to the clutter she began to discern intricate details in the home, like the carved nut shapes in the gingerbread, showing how the home was designed to be unique.
“Are you coming?” Miss Perry said, having returned to the hallway and glaring down it at Jaymie. “Don’t stand there gawping; come!”
Obediently she followed the woman down the long hall, past a dining room, through a worn and scuffed kitchen that looked like it had last been renovated in the fifties to a popular style and never touched since, to a small dim room off of it, what appeared to be Miss Perry’s lair. There was a recliner oriented toward a newer flat-screen television, another chair for a guest, and shelves with books along two other walls. There was a small TV table beside her chair that held an assortment of vitamin bottles and a weekly dosette, which held her prescription medications; it was divided into days of the week and times of day, as different drugs needed to be taken with meals and at bedtime.
This is where, for the most part, she probably lived. The woman put on a brave face but age was taking its toll, as it was with Jaymie’s beloved Grandma Leighton and good friend Mrs. Stubbs. Did she live here all alone? Jaymie considered what Georgina had told her about the theft the woman had endured and wondered if she was ever frightened.
As Miss Perry lowered herself into her chair with an oof of weariness, Jaymie moved the other chair to face hers and sat down too. She was about to open her mouth to ask about the home when the phone on the side table rang; it was a landline, one of those phones with the huge number buttons and a cordless handset.
“Hello? Who? Who? Speak up!” Miss Perry listened. “Oh, hello, Estelle . . . no, I told you, I’m still thinking about it and I don’t care if you’re on a schedule!” She hit the Off button and set the handset in the cradle on the TV table. “Used to be you could slam the phone down in someone’s ear and it had an impact,” she grumbled.
“Was that Estelle Arden?”
“You know her?”
“She’s on the heritage board,” Jaymie said. “I’m a member of the heritage society.”
“Which I cofounded umpteen years ago. Estelle is a pain in the bum, is what she is. She and that boyfriend of hers, Conrad what’s-his-name—”
“Conrad Reese?”
“That’s him.”
“I don’t think they’re a couple.”
“Hmph. They want to not only talk to me at length for their little project, but they want me to let people wander all over my property!” She sat up taller in her recliner, a glint of anger in her eyes. She glared at Jaymie and continued, “They’re writing some fool walking-tour pamphlet—”
“‘Walk Historic Queensville,’” Jaymie supplied. “It’s going to be a booklet to give folks self-guided walking tours of the town and area. The sale of it is to help the heritage society.”
“I don’t care if it’s to support bonobos in the Congo, I am not going to let those two into my house to case the joint, and I’m never going to let strangers wander all over my property pretending they’re tourists! I should have told her that, but I don’t like doing that on the phone. I’ll tell her in person.” White foam flecked her lips and a vein throbbed in her forehead. She plucked at the floral sleeve of her silky shirtwaist dress and pulled a handkerchief from it, like a geriatric magician, using it to dab at her mouth. “The only reason I let you in is because Martha said you were okay!”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Mrs. Stubbs is an old friend of my grandmother, Mrs. Lucy Leighton.”
“Lucille! I remember her. She’s older than I. So is Martha, by the way. They’re all older than I am,” she said with satisfaction. “But none of ’em have the responsibility of living in this museum. Sometimes I think I should sell it, but it’s our family heritage. It’s a legacy.” She was getting worked up, sitting forward in the chair, her tiny frame trembling with ire. “So are the land along the river and the marina shops, but everybody, including my niece, wants to tell me what to do with my property!”
“Miss Perry, may I make you a cup of tea?”
Startled and disarmed, she nodded and sat back in her chair. “Kettle’s on the stove, tea is over the sink. I don’t know where the teapot is; Morgan never bothers with one. She makes my tea in a mug, like a damned heathen!”
Jaymie knew old ladies—and young ladies—and tea was almost always the answer to anything upsetting. When Jocie found out she had to go to a doctor again for another round of medication she cried, but a tea party made her feel a little better. Jaymie took one wrong turn looking for where a teapot might be stored and found herself facing a back staircase, chilly and dusty, with dark paint on the stair that was worn in the center. It rose from an alcove—almost as big as a mudroom, but not as self-contained—that overlooked the back lawn through a window in the door. She then discovered a butler’s pantry, with looming shelves of serving ware. There she found a pretty rose-flowered teapot—an inexpensive Sadler, stained from years of use, but that was the best kind—and returned to the kitchen. She made a pot of tea, found mugs, sugar, spoons and milk and plopped it all on a dollar store tray that was on top of the elderly humming fridge. She carried the tray into the television room and set it down on a low table that was pushed against one set of bookcases.
Miss Perry had her eyes closed, but she opened them and said, “Two sugars and no milk.”
Jaymie fixed up their cups, set Miss Perry’s on her table, and sat down with her own. Where to start the conversation, she wondered. The lady seemed to have a lot on her mind, so she’d start there. “So Estelle and Conrad want you to allow people to come on your property during the walking tour.”
“My idiot neighbors have already allowed it, and they expect me to give them right-of-way across my property to go from Haskell’s house south of me to the Zanes on the north side.”
“I know Haskell well from the heritage society, of course. He’s also some kind of cousin to my friend Heidi Lockland.”
“Hmph. Pain in the bum.”
“I saw you all on the dock on Sunday, Haskell included. I was coming back from Heartbreak Island on the ferry with my daughter and saw you speaking with that developer, Fergus Baird.”
“Another pain in the bum. He wants to buy that land and tear down the buildings, build all new. I told him I’d rent him the two empty buildings, but he said no. Not my fault if he won’t compromise. Those places were built in the twenties by my folks. If they want to tear them down they’ll have to drive bulldozers over my cold, dead body.”
Jaymie felt a chill down her back. “Please don’t say that, Miss Perry.” She searched for something to change the subject from Baird’s evil plans. “Um . . . I understand that a few months ago you had a break-in and some silver was stolen. What happened?”
Between sips of tea, Miss Perry told her that one night while she slept upstairs, someone broke a window in the utility room, managed to unlock it and get through, and took a few items of great value. “They knew enough to pick and choose: an entire set of flatware; an epergne; a silver tray and fruit bowl. All sterling. Worth a fortune.”
“That would be pretty heavy,” Jaymie remarked. “What did the police say?”
“That I was lucky they didn’t kill me where I lay, and that I should get an alarm system or a big dog.”
“But you didn’t get either?”
She twisted and glared at Jaymie. “I am not going to be a prisoner in my own home, and those alarms are impossible . . . all number keypads an
d codes. One fellow came out and explained it to me, but you’d need a science degree to work it. And I hate dogs: big, dirty, expensive beasts. If the robbers kill me for my silver next time, so be it.” She sighed. “Besides, Morgan is terrified of dogs; if I got one she’d never come, and I depend on her.”
“So, the utility room is in the back of the house?”
“Exactly! Under the back stairs. One of my reasons for not wanting every yahoo in the world trotting across my land. How am I supposed to know who’s friend and who’s foe if every Tom, Dick and Harriet can claim they’re doing a walking tour? I’ve heard those awful ATVs out there too, even at night; those noisy vehicles tear up the waterfront and scare my cats.”
“You have cats?”
“I don’t have them, they have me,” she grumbled. “I feed ’em, anyway. Just a few strays. They’re not hurting anyone and they keep the mice away.”
Jaymie thought of asking about her visit to the antique store but decided against it. She had a mission and a reason to be there, and she needed to get on with it. “Miss Perry, the principal of my daughter’s elementary school, Sybil Thorndike, is trying to start a section on exploring history through objects, and I want to help her. My area is the kitchen, and we’re going to do a section on the spice trade and exploration. I would love to see your spice-related memorabilia and, if you decide it’s a good idea, borrow some for the heritage home displays so we can take the kids there for demonstrations.”
Miss Perry gazed at her for a long minute. “I’m thinking about it. How would you protect the items?”
“The heritage home does have an alarm system and so far we’ve never had a theft.” Just a murder, but she wasn’t about to say that. “I was thinking of having our handyman build lockable cases like the one I had him make for the antique cleaver display I have mounted in the kitchen.”
She chuckled. “Didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, right?” She drank down the rest of her tea.
“Yes, and yours would be securely mounted on the wall, too, kind of double security.”
“Auntie Lois!” a voice rang out from the front. “Auntie Lois, I’m here!”
“Here, Morgan,” Miss Perry called out. “My great-niece checking in on me,” she said to Jaymie. “Don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s married to that Saunders Wallace, the car salesman fellow who advertises on TV so much, and she works in the dealership office.”
A young woman, thirtyish, with long straight blonde hair and wearing a sweater over a summery dress that clung to her plump, curvy figure, poked her head in the TV room door. “Oh! You have company. Sorry.”
Jaymie stood and held her hand out. “Jaymie Leighton. I came to talk to your aunt about her spice grater collection.”
“We haven’t gotten down to brass tacks yet,” Miss Perry said. “But I might be lending out some of the collection to the heritage house. That ought to shut Haskell up for a while.”
“Mr. Lockland just wants to let folks walk across the property along the riverfront, Auntie,” Morgan said. “You should let them do it. Be civic-minded!”
“Civic-minded . . . pfft!” Miss Perry said, waving one hand.
“You’re such a grumblepuss!” She flashed a bright smile at Jaymie, then grabbed the tray and exited with it, heading back to the kitchen and running some water.
Jaymie exchanged a look with Miss Perry, who sighed and shook her head. For the next while, as Morgan clanked around in the kitchen, Miss Perry told Jaymie about some of the family history. How Captain Jonas Perry circumnavigated the globe, finding new sources for the spices the family built their wealth on: star anise, cinnamon, allspice, cloves and the all-important nutmeg.
Every Georgian and Regency gentleman carried a nutmeg grater, she said. It was a sign of elegance, like snuff and a walking stick. Silver Georgian nutmeg graters in particular were valuable and highly collectible. Fascinated, since the Regency era was one of her favorite time periods to read about in the romance fiction she loved, Jaymie drank it all in.
After chatting a while Miss Perry shouted, “Morgan, Morgan!”
“Yes, Auntie Lois?” she said, poking her head back into the TV room.
“Can you get me the silver Georgian nutmeg grinders from the display case in the parlor?”
The young woman disappeared and came back with three objects, which she handed over to her aunt. “I’m going to throw a load of laundry in, Auntie, and start your dinner.”
“Thanks, dear.” Miss Perry turned back to Jaymie and handed her one item. “This one is Georgian, pure silver, and dates to the eighteenth century.”
Jaymie took it and turned it over and over. It was lovely, almost egg-shaped, made of smooth soft silver, with lines of carved rosettes in alternating bands. It twisted open in the middle to expose a grating surface. “Very neat. I’ve seen them in photos but never held one.”
She handed Jaymie another smaller one that was shaped like a nutmeg, except with a grater surface. Jaymie handed those two back and took the last.
“That one is plainer,” Miss Perry said, “but I like it.”
If Jaymie hadn’t known it was a nutmeg grater she would have assumed it was a small jewelry box or compact. It was oval and flat, with hallmarks on the underside and lovely carved vines on the top, with initials in the center: JMP. “Jonas Perry?”
Miss Perry nodded. “Jonas Magnus Perry.”
She took the lid off to expose the grater insert inside; the user would grate the nutmeg, then lift the grater insert out and sprinkle the spice over food. “These are lovely!”
“I won’t loan you the Perry grater, but some of the others, I will.” She heaved herself from her chair and reached for her aluminum cane. “Come see the displays, and bring those with you. We have some botanical prints from the seventeen hundreds and a book or two on the spice trade, as well as the pamphlet I wrote back in the eighties about the Perry family. Also an entire collection of various spice graters.”
She led the way very slowly to the front room and for another half hour wandered around it, touching familiar objects and telling Jaymie all about how the Perrys came to settle in Michigan and build the Nutmeg Palace. She showed her the paintings and botanical prints, framed on the wall above the cases, and a few books mentioning the Perrys, as well as the spice trade in America.
As they perused the cases, Jaymie set the nutmeg graters back in place on the deep blue velvet case lining among the others, the empty spaces and cradles indicating where each was missing. There was an amazing array of shapes and sizes, from the ones Jaymie had already seen to ones shaped like acorns, walnuts, cylinders and boxes. There was every material, from carved rosewood and mahogany, brass, silver, aluminum and steel, and a lovely enameled beauty. There were colonial spice graters made of tin, and odd ones with turn handles, like miniature meat grinders.
“This is an amazing collection, Miss Perry.”
“Every Perry generation has added to it. It’s been fun telling you about it,” the woman said, leaning heavily on her cane.
“I’m afraid I’ve worn you out,” Jaymie said. “I’ll let you think about what we can borrow, and come back another day.”
“Give me a few days to consider. Meanwhile, you talk to Haskell. I want a guarantee from him that he’ll be responsible for them.”
Jaymie quailed at the thought. She and Haskell got along all right, but she hadn’t run the idea for the school tie-in past him yet. She exited the parlor toward the front door, turned and said, “Thank you, Miss Perry. You’ve been so gracious. My daughter’s class will benefit greatly.”
The woman chuckled, the sound a dry rasp. “It’s all in the approach. If those heritage society folks would serve me tea and listen to my stories I’d probably say yes to a lot more of their requests!”
Jaymie laughed with her, opened the door and stepped out to the porch. A very large barking dog charged up the stairs and lunged at her. She stumbled backward.
“Tiberius, down!” a man shout
ed.
Miss Perry erupted from the hallway out onto the porch, almost falling over as she flailed with her cane. “Langlow Zane, you get that destructive mutt off my property before I get out the shotgun!”
“Miss Perry, he got loose, that’s all!” the man said as he raced after the large hound, which had bounded down from the porch and now seemed to think the chase was a grand idea. It leaped about, evading capture. “He’s a playful pup. He’s not hurting anyone.”
“Bullfeathers!” Miss Perry shouted, her voice shaking with anger, as Jaymie descended the front steps to the sidewalk. “You walk that mutt off leash all the time and it poops on my property. You don’t even bother scooping it!”
“That is not our Tiberius!” the man said, straightening. He was tall and slim, late fifties, likely, with tidy white hair, one lock falling over his forehead. His clothing was sporty, a polo shirt and tan chinos belted with a woven leather belt, topped by an expensive red Columbia windbreaker jacket, open, the zipper bottom flapping in the breeze. He wore tan leather docker shoes.
Jaymie recognized him; he belonged to the sailing club. He and his wife, Phillipa, had a cottage on Heartbreak Island. The dog took his master’s preoccupation as license and bounded down the walk beside Miss Perry’s house toward the backyard. He lunged and busted through the gate, which whacked against the house, then the dog disappeared.
“Get that unholy hellhound off my property!” Miss Perry shrieked. She had turned from a lovely, silver-haired laughing elderly lady to a red-faced harridan in seconds. She tottered to the rounded end of the wooden porch and leaned over, peering down the sidewalk that ran to the back of the property. “Get him away from here before he hurts my kitties!”
Jaymie sped into action, sprinting past Lan Zane—the dog owner’s face was set in a resentful grimace, and he seemed in no hurry to comply—through the open wooden gate and to the backyard. The pooch was racing around, pausing occasionally to sniff at bushes, but easily evaded her outstretched hand when she dove for him. A cat erupted from under some hydrangea, yowling and rocketing across the yard, the dog in full pursuit, snapping at the cat’s flailing tail. “Tiberius!” Jaymie yelled. “Tiberius, no!” The yelling made no impact, but the cat had found safety and disappeared from sight into a thick box hedge along the back edge of the yard.
No Grater Danger Page 4