Bernie approached Morgan, bending over and touching her shoulder. “Mrs. Wallace, could we ask you a few questions, please?”
She looked up, dry-eyed, and nodded, following Bernie toward the house. Who weeps without producing actual tears? Jaymie, unsettled, watched her hop up the steps to the porch and perch on the railing as Bernie got out her notebook.
Lan Zane, back from his dog walking, watched her, then headed toward Jaymie. “You were here the other day, weren’t you? You helped wrangle Tiberius. How did you find the old gal, anyway?”
She was not about to answer nosy neighbor questions. “I hope she’s going to be okay,” Jaymie said, evading the question.
“Poor lady. I don’t hate her, you know,” he said, not meeting Jaymie’s eyes. “But she’s not an easy neighbor. Ask anyone. She doesn’t want anything to change. I’m all for the status quo, but she complains every time someone on the circle has a party, or gets a second car, or modernizes their home at all. She complained when Haskell put in central air, said the unit was noisy and made her backyard unlivable! She even went to the township about it. They had someone come out to test the noise and had to convince her it was within tolerance. And it’s not like she even uses the backyard except as a place to feed those damn stray cats!”
She eyed him with interest, finding him repellent yet fascinating. He claimed not to hate Miss Perry, and yet everything he said about her was negative. If what Morgan said was true and there was a wire across the stairs designed to trip Miss Perry, it had to have been placed there by someone who could sneak into her house and who either had a grudge against her or would benefit by her death. There were the obvious suspects, of course: Morgan Wallace or her husband, if they inherited; Haskell, not likely; Fergus Baird, the developer who so desperately wanted to buy the dockside properties; and Estelle Arden, with whom she had such a well-documented feud.
But Lan Zane, too; he had nothing but trouble with her, it appeared, though he wasn’t afraid to say it often and loudly. Presumably he wouldn’t have access to her home, though. Unless . . . neighbors often held keys to each other’s homes, to let in repair people, or water the plants. Were the Zanes and Miss Perry that close as neighbors? Jaymie doubted it.
The young police officer came back and told her she could move her vehicle now or even leave as long as the police knew how to contact her. She assured the fellow that the police did indeed know how to get in touch with her.
It was time for her to go. She was not going to get involved this time.
• • •
THE CHILI WAS AWESOME, Jocie said, accompanied by cheddar biscuits. Homework, bath, bed, and another day was done. Jaymie fell into bed with Jakob, weary in mind and spirit. As she cuddled under his arm, she looked up at him and scruffed his beard, then yawned. “I’m so tired! Such a long day; or maybe it just felt like it.”
“My superhero,” he teased, gently kissing her forehead. “Poor Miss Perry. You may have saved her life today.”
“I hope she’ll be okay. She was so pale, and her breathing was so shallow.” The blood . . . it was crusted in her hair, so she had been lying there for some time. How long? “She did not look good. I have to go into Wolverhampton tomorrow to see Nan about the column, so I may visit Miss Perry, if they’ll let me.”
“Good idea. It’ll make you feel better if you see her bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
She grinned. “Only my husband would use that old-fashioned term.”
• • •
A STEADY RAIN HAD SET IN OVERNIGHT and the gravel roads splashed mud up to the white exterior of the Explorer, but the drizzle stopped as Jaymie drove into Wolverhampton and found a parking space by Nan’s little blue sports car in the newspaper parking lot. By the time she got out of the SUV, watery sunshine was peeking through gaps in the clouds, and the fallish scent of wet poplar leaves perfumed the air even in town. The Wolverhampton Weekly Howler, for which she wrote her food column, was housed in a long, low red brick building that was once a factory. It held offices fronting the main street; the printing was done in the back. It was one of the very few local print weeklies still left. They did other printing too, like advertising flyers, posters, and pamphlets.
She went around from the parking lot, entered through the front, then was waved and buzzed past by the receptionist, who was on the phone taking an ad. Jaymie threaded through the open space toward her editor, past chattering groups of people and cubicles in which some few sat at computers doing research and writing. It wasn’t a large workforce, but it was an enthusiastic young one. Nan’s office was little more than another such cubicle surrounded by half walls and frosted glass to the ceiling, with no actual door. In one corner was her desk, more of a corner table, with a desktop computer and two monitors, file cabinets and a printer. Nan was on the phone, a landline, chewing on a pencil while rocking in her swivel desk chair. She motioned Jaymie to join her.
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . I know,” she said. “It’s a shi . . . scheisse show, right now, the whole political landscape. Yeah, I get it . . . of course. Okay. I’ll get back to you on that. Gotta go.” She hit the Off button and set the phone back in its cradle. “Jaymie! One of our usual crank callers,” she said, referring to the call. “I make nice with him because he also spends a lot on advertisements.”
“You know I’m learning German, right?” she said with a smile.
Nan threw her head back and guffawed. “Caught me. I know that word in ten languages and I had to choose German. So . . . did we have a meeting scheduled?”
“Yes, we did. A planning meeting for Christmas for ‘Vintage Eats.’ And you said you had something else to talk to me about.”
“Right . . . right!” Nan scrubbed her wiry reddish hair and looked wildly around her desk. “I had a piece of paper . . . where was it?” In the flurry of paper on her desk it could have been anything anywhere. “Ah, here it is!” Unerringly finding the one piece she wanted among the mess, she grabbed it, stared at it for a moment, then looked at Jaymie over the top of it. “How would you feel about promoting your column on a radio show about antiques?”
“Radio show? Does anyone do those anymore?”
“Sure, online, of course. You’d be surprised. People listen to them in their cars, on their phones . . . tablets . . . lots of ways. It’s nationally syndicated. Sid Farrell, the host, is great. He actually contacted me about you a couple of months ago but I lost track; he called the other day to remind me. He’d like to have you on to talk about vintage food prepared in vintage dishes.”
“How do we do that? Where do I go?” Jaymie asked, picturing sitting in a booth somewhere with headphones on across the desk from the host.
“You use your phone and talk to him.”
“Like . . . in my own home?”
“Yes! Sid Farrell’s an older gentleman who loves everything vintage and antique. Older gentleman,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Listen to me! We’re probably the same age. Joe loves listening to him. He says it takes him back to the good old days.” Joe was her husband, Joe Goodenough, the owner of the newspaper. In his seventies, he was more the figurehead of the paper now, the one who did corporate events and attended the Little League games of their sponsored team, the Wolverhampton Howling Wolves.
“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “Would people really be interested?”
“Jaymie, have you not been on social media these days? It seems like every other post has an image of The Beverly Hillbillies, or Pretty in Pink, or Pyrex dishes, and every single one of them says Click if you saw this and loved it or Click if you used this and miss it! It’s annoying. But they get hundreds of clicks and shares! It’s like everybody wants to live in the past anymore instead of making the present better.”
Jaymie struggled to hide a smile. Nan’s inner grump was showing.
“Besides, why don’t you let Sid decide what listeners will be interested in? Presumably he knows.”
“If you think it will help, I’ll do it,” she
said, before she could think her way out of it. Two years before she would have shied away, but not now. She was working toward her dream of a cookbook deal. The editor she had contacted told her she needed to make a bit of a name for herself if she was going to achieve it.
“Okay, I’ll pass your deets on to Sid and he’ll contact you. Or you contact him. Or whatever.”
After a half hour of planning out the next few months of ‘Vintage Eats’ and Nan giving her some advice for the radio show, Jaymie wandered downtown, leaving her SUV in the newspaper parking lot. It was now officially a beautiful fall day: blue sky, nip in the air, white puffy clouds slipping by. But she was still haunted by worry about Miss Perry. She headed to the flower shop, where she bought a bouquet in a vase, tucking it into the passenger seat of the Explorer. She then headed to the drugstore, where she picked out a small manicure kit and a mirror on a stand. From the magazine rack she grabbed the new edition of a popular antiques collecting magazine, a crossword puzzle book, and a Reader’s Digest, then she picked up a package of pens from Stationery.
She was heading down the treats aisle with her basket, wondering if Miss Perry was a sweets fan, when the door opened and a couple entered. It was Fergus Baird; his lanky figure and colorful wardrobe were unmistakable. Today his slacks were pale blue and he wore a sweater that was pastel shades blended in an ombré mix.
Jaymie couldn’t tell who the woman was until she turned. Thunderstruck, she recognized Morgan Perry Wallace; she and Baird were engaged in a fierce and very intimate-appearing argument. He pulled her aside, shook his finger in her face, and then kissed her hard, right there in the perfume aisle. Jaymie stumbled and knocked against a chip display. Morgan looked over, saw her, and broke away from Baird, rubbing her mouth with her hand and darting from the store.
None of my business, Jaymie thought, and made her purchases. Baird, oblivious, followed Morgan out, and Jaymie soon followed. When the young woman saw Jaymie, she shrugged off Baird’s arm over her shoulder and approached.
“I guess you’re wondering what that was about,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. She swept her blonde hair aside and pulled her trench coat closer around, shivering at the light wind that had come up.
“It’s none of my business,” Jaymie replied mildly. “How is your aunt? Is it okay if I go up and see her?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Morgan asked.
Jaymie, taken aback, said, “I’ve been thinking about her a lot overnight. Hoping she’s okay. I did find her, after all. Is she all right?”
She nodded, but her expression was uncertain. “The doctors think she’ll be okay, but they have to keep her for a while. She got such a knock on the head and there is some . . . some blood pooled in the brain cavity. Apparently that’s not as bad as it sounds because when we get older our brain shrinks, leaving more room in the brain cavity, so there won’t be as much pressure as there would be if she was younger. Who knew your brain shrinks when you get old?”
“I didn’t.”
“Me neither. Anyway, hopefully her body can reabsorb the blood, or something like that, and she’ll recover.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Not yet. I just left there about an hour ago.”
“Can I visit her anyway?”
“I guess,” Morgan said uncertainly. She looked over at Baird, and then back at Jaymie, clearly still wondering if she ought to explain.
“I won’t stay long. I want to give her some flowers and magazines.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Jaymie smiled. “I’d best get going, then. See you around, Morgan.” She walked away, but when she looked back Morgan was still watching her leave with that uncertain expression on her round face. It did leave Jaymie wondering . . . what was Morgan Perry Wallace doing kissing Fergus Baird, who was locked in a fierce land battle with her great-aunt?
Seven
“I SWEAR TO YOU, I’m not going to get involved!”
Valetta howled with laughter as she sat on the stoop of the Queensville Emporium, mug of thermos tea wrapped in her hands, empty lunch bag beside her. Today’s mug, one of a score or more given to her by friends and family that lauded her career, read Keep Calm & Thank Your Pharmacist. “Right. I don’t believe you, Jaymie.” Sunlight glinted off her thick glasses as she pushed back her curly thick dark hair, threaded heavily with silver now. “I’m sorry, but even I’m curious about what is going on with that crew. You know you’re not going to leave this alone.”
“I have quite enough on my plate as it is,” Jaymie said, then drained the last of her own tea, letting the mug dangle from her finger by its handle. She had shared an early lunch with her friend, half of Valetta’s sandwich and a couple of Tansy Tarts butter tarts, which the Emporium now sold. Tansy Tarts, on Heartbreak Island, had been seducing American consumers with the Canadian sweet treat for over ten years now, but Tansy had recently started broadening her base of butter tart addicts.
“When has that ever stopped you?” Val said.
Jaymie rolled her eyes. “I swore to Morgan that I wasn’t interested in the slightest about why she, a supposedly happily married woman, was kissing the much older and wealthy property developer who is locked in a pitched battle with her supposedly dearly loved great-aunt. In the drugstore. After being up to the hospital to see said aunt, who someone has tried to kill.” She frowned and sighed. “I don’t get it, and I am curious. I can’t help that.”
“I’ve never put you down for your curiosity, my friend,” Valetta said, bumping her shoulder. “To me it’s one of your most endearing traits.” Valetta was often Jaymie’s sidekick in investigation, her Watson, her Hastings, her Bess and George rolled into one.
But attempted murder on an elderly woman was not entertaining, nor was murder ever. Jaymie didn’t take it lightly and only tried to help when she thought she could do so without interfering in the official police investigations. “Poor Miss Perry. Val, you should have seen her in that hospital bed! She’s so bruised and battered. It broke my heart. She didn’t regain consciousness while I was there.” Jaymie had needed the comfort of a familiar face after that, and had come rushing back to Queensville and the one person to whom she could openly talk about what she was wondering.
Well, the one of two, she thought. Jakob was also supportive; he never told her to stay out of other folks’ business. In fact, he seemed to think she was superwoman, who could do anything she set her mind to. But then, she felt the same away about him. He had his hands full today, though, interviewing potential employees for The Junk Stops Here. He needed a couple of strong, trustworthy guys or gals who could handle money, talk to customers, and load and unload heavy furniture, whatever he required.
“I think I’ll go see her again tomorrow.” She paused a beat and glanced at Valetta. “I did in passing wonder who inherits if Miss Perry dies?”
“I don’t know, but I know who would know.”
“Who?” Jaymie asked, dreading the answer.
“Brock.”
It was true; as a real estate agent Brock kept his finger on the economic pulse of their town, and knew who owned what, who owed what, and who inherited from whom. Jaymie groaned. “Please please please don’t ask him!”
“It’s the only way to quickly find out. I won’t say you want to know.” Valetta picked up her phone from the board porch, nodding to some locals wandering by, dogs straining on their leashes, and punched in the number. She chatted for a minute then hung up and pushed her glasses up on her nose, looking smug as she met Jaymie’s gaze.
“So . . . who?” Jaymie said impatiently.
“Morgan Perry Wallace. The whole shebang: the house, the property, and the dockside shops.”
• • •
JAYMIE DROVE BACK TO WOLVERHAMPTON for part two of her day. Townships in Michigan perform many functions: regulating fire protection, police services, tax assessment, and election administration. They also control parks and park services, public water and sewers, as we
ll as trash collection. But the function Jaymie was concerned with that day was land zoning and land use policy.
In the mid-nineties the township offices outgrew the old building on the main street in Wolverhampton, moving to a purpose-built structure on a side street on the far end of town. Jaymie was heading there to gather information for the Müllers concerning zoning on the land they proposed buying. Brock Nibley was the property owners’ real estate agent and was giving them guidance; she knew he was knowledgeable, but he was working for the other side. She preferred to know what she was talking about and so . . . research to be sure the purchase was worth their time and money.
The township office was a low nondescript building, red brick, with tinted windows and a covered entry. Inside was a warren of hallways leading to the various sections, well indicated by signs. She made her way to the zoning department, and with the help of a chatty township clerk—a plump, frizzy-haired older woman she had met before at auctions and yard sales—Jaymie obtained a map of the land around the Müller farm and environs, coded in colors from light green for agricultural use to dark blue for heavy industrial use. The clerk gave her a package with information and copies of the zoning regulations, and also gave her advice on how to access more online.
Jaymie moved to some tables where a few other people were doing research. She laid out the map and could see already that almost without a break the whole area was zoned agricultural, though Jakob’s Christmas tree farm was marked as being zoned “Specialty Farm,” with allowance for direct-from-the-farm sales. The Müllers had already gone through some rezoning and knew enough to make this work.
It seemed likely that the township would have no qualms about zoning more of the land as Specialty Farm; however, Jaymie didn’t think it was safe to make that assumption. If they were going to buy the farmland for the Müller Christmas Acres of Fun, or whatever they ended up calling it, they would need to have some assurance that the township would cooperate with rezoning it to commercial. A permanent store was a far different thing than a seasonal Christmas tree operation.
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