Breaking the Mould

by Victoria Hamilton

  Finally Nan came back as if there had been no pause and said, “Jaymie, I hate to say it, but at some point you’re going to have to choose between being a newspaper writer and a police stooge.”

  “That’s a little harsh, Nan.”

  “Maybe, but I mean it. What have they done for you lately? I know your cozy relationship with Ledbetter is gone now that he’s retired, so what are you worrying about?”

  Her stomach twisted. She hated confrontation, but Bernie, her police officer friend, recently told her to grow a pair and stop worrying so much about what people thought of her. She squared her shoulders. “Nan, as much as I believe in freedom for the press, and how precious it is, I will not be bullied into giving you more information than I feel is right. It’s my decision to make, not yours. I only get this close to investigations because people in the police department trust me. If it comes down to choosing between you getting a scoop and the police catching the bad guy, then I’m going with the police every time. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  There was again silence on the other end of the line, and then Nan breathed out and chuckled, a rueful sound. “Okay. I guess I know where I stand.”

  Jaymie felt a moment’s remorse, but steeled herself. She knew in her gut this was right and resisted the urge to apologize. In a relentless campaign to out-scoop other papers and news media outlets Nan could be manipulative. Guilting Jaymie into revealing more than she should was not beyond her. “This has nothing to do with you, Nan. This has to do with me living with myself, and being a good citizen in this town. This has to do with justice and catching the bad guys. Or gals. I’ve been too close to too many killers and I won’t let one slip past the police because he or she found out what the police knew from my big mouth.” She paused, then added, “That sounded . . . pretentious. I’ll climb down off my soapbox now. I want you to understand where I’m coming from.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Nan said, and this time it sounded like she truly did and was irritated that she understood Jaymie’s position more than she’d admit. “But keep me in the loop. Let me know what you can when you can.”

  “I will.”

  They hung up and Jaymie continued up the road to the Emporium then stood, uncertain and undecided, hanging back. It was rare that at this stage, hours after finding the body, that she knew so many reasons why so many people would want to kill the deceased, but events of recent days and the party last night had shown her much.

  Pastor Inkerman loathed Nezer and had a violent altercation with him hours before the man’s death. Nezer had ensured that Finn Fancombe lost his academic career. Jacklyn Marley was owed money and had been hacking his computer hours before his death; who knew what had happened between them after Jaymie left? Evan had deprived his ex-wife, Sarah Nezer, of her literary children—her novels—and perhaps the affection of their son, who seemed to be toadying to his father in the few days before the man’s death. And that led her to consider Benjamin Nezer; had he been hiding his true feelings about his father, deciding to make up with him to make sure he didn’t lose out on a family inheritance?

  There were two more people of course, but Jaymie didn’t consider either of them viable suspects. The police would have to consider both Brock Nibley, who had a run-in with Nezer the night before, his business reputation sullied, and Bill Waterman, who had been uncharacteristically aggressive toward Nezer. Jaymie knew the handyman would never commit murder, but the police had video evidence that Bill had threatened Nezer. They couldn’t ignore it.

  As always, questions teemed in her mind. She circled the Emporium and mounted the outside steps, getting to the top and facing the scarred wood door, painted brown some years past but faded and battered by sun and wind. She knocked. Jacklyn Marley answered. She looked relaxed and happy, not at all as if she worried she was a suspect.

  “Hey, Jacklyn, can I come in?”

  “Sure. Entrez-vous, mon ami.”

  Jaymie followed her into a small living room lined with bookcases that were filled with books, interrupted only by a smallish flat-screen TV. Three doors to other rooms were all closed at the moment. There was a shabby sofa in the middle and a coffee table piled high with books. A laptop was open, and several notebooks filled with a nearly illegible scrawl were haphazardly spread across what was left of the tabletop, floor and a hassock. As her eyes became accustomed to the mess, Jaymie noticed a pair of white cats sitting on a ruby velvet pillow in a deep window. Both had turned to gaze at her, unblinking, one blue-eyed, one green-eyed.

  “That’s Alexandra and Rasputin,” Jacklyn said, after noticing the direction of Jaymie’s gaze. “Sister and brother. Raspy is the green-eyed love, and Lex is the blue-eyed doll. She’s deaf, but Raspy hears for both of them. It’s weird . . . I’ll call and they will both instantly come to me, even though the vet swears Lex is stone deaf.”

  “They’re beautiful. My daughter has a tiger-striped sweetie and I have a Yorkie-Poo, a rescue. I did have a tabby, Denver, but when I got married and moved I rehomed him with Valetta. He now lives like a king.” Jaymie found a spot on the edge of the hassock as Jacklyn plunked down in front of the laptop. “What are you working on?”

  “A couple of grant proposals. I need to make some dough, and soon.”

  A grant did not sound like a quick way to make money. The heritage society had applied for several, and it took months, sometimes years, to even get a rejection. But it was an opening. “Which brings me to what you were doing last night on Evan Nezer’s computer. Did you find out anything? Does . . . did Evan owe you money?”

  Jacklyn gazed at her steadily. “Are you going to tell the police about what I was doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The woman shrugged and went back to work.

  She wasn’t inclined to answer, and Jaymie couldn’t promise she’d keep quiet about Jacklyn’s illicit activities. “Did you find anything in all the stuff you copied from his computer?”

  “I . . . haven’t had a chance to look at it all yet.”

  The pause was telling. “What was Evan like to work with?” Jaymie asked, keeping in mind his theft of work from a woman he was married to. It had, for her, put his accusations against Finn Fancombe in a new light. If he would steal writing from his wife, why would he not steal from a student?

  “He was smart,” Jacklyn said. “He had his own worldview, and while he was arguing it, it was difficult to counter him. He believed that unfettered production and consumerism were the solution to every first world problem . . . unemployment, poverty, hunger . . . even inequities in education.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s complicated. Simply put, I guess it comes down to producing and selling more goods to create income that helps everyone eventually.” She shrugged. “I’ve tried to explain it before but it sounds dumb the way I put it.”

  “I don’t know a lot about the economy,” Jaymie admitted. “But I do know that in my grandmother’s time you used something until it fell apart, then you fixed it and went on using it, or someone else fixed it and went on using it. But industry has been producing more goods cheaply, and building in obsolescence.”

  “What can I say? He made a compelling argument. He believed a lot of things that on second thought had me shaking my head. But he sure made them sound good at the time.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Like . . . well, he thought shame was a good thing. That women should be ashamed of being pregnant out of wedlock, for example.”

  “That’s awful!” Jaymie said, taken aback.

  “I’m not defending the guy’s philosophy, I’m telling you what he thought.”

  “Interesting. How about him? Was he ashamed of carrying on behind his wife’s back and then splitting up with her to marry the woman he was carrying on with?”

  Jacklyn smiled. “He justified it by saying that Sarah was crazy, and he had a right to find some joy when he was married to a lunatic. I think he felt that shame was for other, lesser being
s.”

  That explained a lot. Nezer was someone who was content with twisting the rules when it suited him. “So Nezer talked about his affair and marriage to Bella while you worked on the book?”

  “Sure. He seemed completely at ease with his behavior and could justify everything. But then, he always was at ease with his behavior. Even when he was cheating people,” she said, her mouth twisted in bitterness.

  “Did you get along with him?” Jaymie asked, eyeing her with interest.

  “Sure,” she said, her gaze sliding over to her cats. She got up and crossed the room, dropping a kiss on both of their heads. “We got along fine.”

  Avoidance; that was interesting. Of course she didn’t get along with him. No one did, from her limited knowledge. So why was she lying? Of course, folks were usually careful not to speak ill of the dearly dispatched. “Except he didn’t pay you what he owed. Why didn’t you get paid up front? Isn’t that how ghostwriting usually works?”

  Jacklyn straightened and turned to look at Jaymie. “He did give me a small fee up front, but then convinced me I’d make more if I agreed to work for a cut of the royalties. It’s an unusual deal for a ghostwriter, but he made it sound good. I should have known better.” She squinted at Jaymie and pursed her lips. “What is this all about? Do you think I killed him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re asking a lot of questions. Are you done quizzing me now? I’d like to get back to this,” she said, waving her hand at the computer.

  That had devolved rather quickly before she got to the part when she asked Jacklyn where she was after the party the night before. Jaymie looked around the apartment. “I’ll let you go, then,” she said, but didn’t move. That, she had found in the past, worked ninety percent of the time; talk about leaving, then change the subject. “Will you decorate for Christmas?”

  “No. I only need to look out my window to see décor, right?” Jacklyn drifted over to her front windows that looked out over the village green. “It’s such a pretty town,” she said wistfully.

  “Did you take the job serving at the Nezer party just to hack into Evan’s computer?”

  “Pretty much,” she said, sitting down on the sofa.

  “What time did you come home?”

  “Okay, enough of the third degree,” she said, slamming her laptop shut and crossing her arms. She sat back and glared at Jaymie. “Just say it! Say you suspect me. Say it!”

  “Jacklyn, I was wondering if you saw anything,” Jaymie said, waving at her window. “You have this perfect view of the village green. His body was found in a display I set up. I’m taking it a little personally.”

  She calmed immediately and uncrossed her arms, relaxing. “It was probably somewhere convenient to dump the body.”

  Well, no . . . whoever had dumped him there had set up the scene for maximum effect, but she couldn’t say that. “Did you see anything at all?”

  “Not a thing. I was beat. I came home, fed the cats and went to bed.”

  “What time?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  Jacklyn smiled. “His wife. Who else?”

  “Which one, ex or current?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it? Fury or gain; which is the motive this time? I have to get back to work, Jaymie.” She opened her computer back up.

  “I have to say, Jacklyn . . . I did hear that Evan got you fired from your teaching job at the college. That, combined with him refusing to pay you . . . people have been killed for less.” Jaymie was astounded at herself, having the nerve to say that.

  Jacklyn stared, her expression stony. “You can let yourself out.”

  Eleven

  A pointed comment like that could not be ignored. Jaymie wrapped her coat more tightly around herself as she descended, a cold wind blowing up the stairs. She needed a friend’s company right that moment, someone to talk to, to confide in. Valetta was busy in her pharmacy, three people lined up at the counter when Jaymie snuck a peek. She got out her phone as she exited the Emporium, but slipped it back in her purse, unused. She didn’t want to pull Jakob away from work at this busy time of year.

  But there was one person who would not only be overjoyed to see her but would be thirsty for information on the murder. Someone she could trust implicitly. Someone who might know the players better than anyone else in town.

  Mrs. Stubbs was, as usual at that time in the morning, sitting in her room near the window in her mobility wheelchair, book on her lap. It was a Sue Grafton, Q is for Quarry. But she wasn’t reading, she was looking out the sliding doors to her private patio and beyond, to the tumbling brown leaves along the lawn, and one small oak, still stubbornly clinging to its leaves.

  “Hey, Mrs. S.!” Jaymie said and gave her a hug.

  The woman’s eyes were watering, and she swiped at them with a tissue she held in her hands. When Jaymie commented on the book and the tears, asking if they were related, she nodded. “So sad that that woman died, and yet an old lady like me lingers on.”

  Such melancholy—something Mrs. Stubbs was occasionally prey to—could not be allowed to continue. The book-loving world of devoted readers had lost a giant in Sue Grafton; there was no getting around it. But . . . “I for one don’t think Ms. Grafton would want you or any one of her readers to be downhearted. I think she’d love and appreciate that you are still reading her books.”

  The woman sighed and nodded, setting the book aside, careful to ensure her bookmark stayed in place. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I know I am,” Jaymie said gently, dropping a kiss on her friend’s forehead.

  She made tea then, wondering how she could cheer Mrs. Stubbs up, and brought it on a tray with mugs to the small table. Mrs. Stubbs used the joystick of her mobility chair to wheel up to it. “How about I tell you what we’re doing for Christmas? Grandma Leighton is coming to Queensville this year, and she’ll be staying right here at the inn. We booked the same ground-floor room for her as last year. That means you’ll be able to visit! Invite Miss Perry this time, and her niece Morgan. The whole family is going to be doing Christmas dinner in the restaurant, and we’d love for you to join us. Grandma would like that.”

  Mrs. Stubbs smiled and put her hand over Jaymie’s, veins crisscrossing it, showing as raised blue paths veiled by thin spotted skin, soft and smooth as silk. “My dear, I can see right through you, you know, trying to cheer me up. But I’m all right, just a few aches and pains and feeling old, nothing new.” She took in a deep breath and sat up straight. “If I am to continue, I may as well go on with a smile on my face. Now, I heard a garbled account from Edith about some excitement in the village green this morning. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

  And so as they shared tea, Jaymie did, all the way through, every scrap, even details she had not told anyone else. Her old friend could keep a secret. She talked about the murder, and about the two Mrs. Nezers’ collapses, and following Sarah Nezer home and talking to her. “You often volunteered at the high school back then. Sarah Nezer was a teacher there in the eighties.”

  “I remember her well; Miss Laughton, as she was still called. English literature was her specialty, though she also taught American literature. She preferred it, if I recall. I liked her, though not many did, I’m afraid. She was very modern, untidy, disheveled. She wore loud flowered pantsuits with big shoulders, and she had big hair and big ideas. Very opinionated.” She smiled. “I have always liked opinionated women, but most on the school board did not. She saw herself as a Miss Jean Brodie, I think.”

  “Miss Jean Brodie? Who is that?”

  “My dear girl, do you mean you’ve never read the book or seen the movie The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie?” Mrs. Stubbs’s hooded, watery eyes held surprised mirth. “It’s about a teacher who takes certain students under her wing, hoping to turn them into prodigies of a sort. She thought herself a cut above all the other teachers.” She shook her h
ead. “Sarah was like that, one reason many of the teachers didn’t like her either.”

  “Valetta liked her a lot.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Valetta has always had a tolerance for unusual folk, and a taste for trailblazers.”

  Jaymie picked up her tea mug and drained it, beginning to feel more human. Talking to Mrs. Stubbs had that effect on her; she was a most reliable and trustworthy sounding board. “Sarah Nezer says she had a breakdown after she lost her second child.”

  “I knew about her troubles and felt sorry for her. Maybe not having any friends among the staff explains why she tried to make friends out of some of the girls. As strong as she seemed and as bold, it appeared to me that her attempts to make herself out to be better than the other teachers was because she felt so very inadequate on so many fronts. I blame her husband for that.” She paused and took a long sip of tea, sighing with satisfaction. “She took hit after hit. She had her son, and then, just as she had regained her balance and came back to teaching, she got pregnant again. That ended badly, as you say.”

  “You referred to her husband. Did you ever meet Evan Nezer, back then or since?”

  “I did meet him, at school events. He was a bully and a tyrant. I can’t imagine how Sarah coped, married to someone like that.”

  “I think it broke her, for a time,” Jaymie mused, then looked up at her friend. “She told me something and I don’t know what to think. Evan Nezer was a tenured professor at Wolverhampton College.”

  “Yes, I knew that. He was there even then, thirty years ago. I always wondered why, if he was as highly regarded as he said he was in his field of economic theory, he was content to teach at a little backwater nothing of an academic establishment.”

  “Hmm, yes . . . I’ll have to tell you about my conversation, such as it was, with his ghostwriter, Jacklyn Marley. But anyway, that wasn’t what I was talking about. He apparently had a couple of highly regarded novels published in the late eighties. Sarah claims she was the true writer. He stole them from her and had them published while she was in a fog after her miscarriage and breakdown.”