Breaking the Mould

by Victoria Hamilton

  Mrs. Stubbs frowned and picked at a chip on her saucer with one brittle, ridged nail. “And she’s never said anything in all that time? Interesting that she chooses now to say something, after he’s gone and can’t contradict her.”

  “But Mrs. Stubbs, we don’t know that she never told anyone else. I’m going to look the books up and see what was said about them at the time. But, in support of her claim, doesn’t it seem odd that a man who was apparently such a good author needed a ghostwriter for a book in his field?” She paused and frowned. “There are so many things I still don’t understand. Like . . . why did Sarah take such a poor settlement in the divorce? And why, if her books were published to such acclaim, is she, in her words, ‘just writing for herself’ now?” She didn’t feel comfortable talking about the note for Ben; not until she knew what was in it, anyway. Yes, she was going to read it. She realized she had already decided.

  “Did you ask her?”

  “I did but . . . she deflected, and I didn’t feel comfortable pushing her harder, given what had just happened.”

  “You’re a softie. It’s not easy to ask uncomfortable questions.”

  “It’s something I’m working on,” Jaymie admitted. “You’d be proud of how I handled Nan. I stood up to her, even though she still scares me a little.”

  “That woman is hard to take. I find her too pushy, even though I like pushy women.”

  “She’s good for me, Mrs. S. I’m learning to push back. I used to be afraid to stand my ground, but I’m getting there.” Jaymie pondered her conversation with Sarah Nezer, and voiced her thoughts, adding, “She still holds a lot of pain from that time in her life. It makes me wonder . . . was the drama when she found out Evan was dead just acting? Did she kill him?” Jaymie knew nothing about the night after the party. Nezer was in a nightshirt, so he was dressed for bed. And yet his body had been found outside. She had no clue, at this point, where he had been killed, but as cold as it was outside, he likely wouldn’t have been out in the night in his nightshirt, unless it was very briefly, say, to meet someone. She expressed some of her wonderings.

  “All good questions, my dear, to which I don’t have answers.”

  “I suppose I need to find out more, talk to more of the folks involved.” And to read the note Sarah wanted her son to have that night.

  “That would be a good place to start.”

  Jaymie told Mrs. Stubbs about the rest of the Nezer party, the varying conflicts, all centering around Evan Nezer. She mentioned the pastor and his physical altercation with his host.

  “Pastor Inkerman? Aha!” Mrs. Stubbs exclaimed, raising one arthritic finger in the air. “Very emotional fellow, am I right? Lois and I went to see him talk two weeks ago at a fall church social, and I understood he had written a book. Lois bought one, I believe, and he signed it. He seemed a nice young man, very genuine.”

  “He did seem nice when I met him. But . . . Nezer said something odd, when he was talking about him. He said that the pastor only wrote his book about living a best life through the scriptures to hide his affairs. What did that mean?”

  “Was he mudslinging to see what would stick? Some people are like that, and from what little I remember about the professor, he was careless about other people.”

  “True.” Was Nezer reliable? Jaymie wondered. Ideas and suspects were mounting. “Do you know where Pastor Inkerman came from, or anything about him?”

  “Don’t tell me the pastor is a suspect too?”

  “He did attack the professor. I can’t see him as a killer, but he does hate Nezer. If you find anything out about the pastor, let me know.” Jaymie sighed wearily and flexed her shoulders. Sitting with her friend was like visiting an oasis of peace away from the brutal crime that had occurred. Even though they had been talking about it and pondering a solution, it had given her a moment to reflect and regain her equilibrium. But . . . she couldn’t stay all afternoon. “I’d better get going. I’ll be back, and we can chat more!” Jaymie winked at her and departed.

  On her way out, she bought a couple of salads from the Queensville Inn restaurant, then walked back into the downtown area of the village, climbing the steps to her sister’s store. Becca, glasses on the end of her nose, was peering over them at a sales ledger. She looked up. “How are you, Jaymie? You okay?”

  “I guess. I’m tired. I’m crampy. I’m puzzled.” She smiled. “And I brought us lunch.”

  Perched on two high stools behind the sales desk, the sisters slowly ate their salads and drank tea Becca had brewed in the tiny office off the showroom. There was an apartment in back where Georgina lived, but Becca tried never to enter her sister-in-law’s home unless invited. So she had a tiny fridge, coffee maker and electric kettle jammed in the corner of the office.

  “What was Mrs. Nezer like as a teacher? I’m curious.”

  “She was . . . cool,” Becca said, stabbing a chunk of iceberg lettuce. “I didn’t get her at first. I think I was taken aback by her enthusiasm. Kids don’t expect adults to get excited about anything, so it was surprising to me.”

  “How did the field trip to Harriette Arnow’s farm come about?”

  “It was kind of a field trip, but not really. It wasn’t official. It was like four girlfriends heading off on a spur-of-the-moment adventure. It was . . . the middle of February, I want to say? A Saturday. We were seniors and felt very grown-up, that she chose to take us. But it was ultimately a bust.”

  “Was it overnight?”

  “Good lord, no. You know where Washtenaw County is; the farm was an hour and a half or so away from here. It took a little longer going because we got lost.”

  “And it was just you, Val and Dee?”

  Becca chewed and swallowed the last bite of her salad and nodded. “Mrs. Nezer was pregnant, I remember. She had to stop several times to go to the bathroom.”

  “Did she already have Ben?”

  “I think so.”

  “That was her second pregnancy, then, the one that ended badly. So sad for her.” Jaymie explained what she knew.

  Becca teared up. She pushed her glasses up on her forehead and blotted her eyes with a tissue. “That’s awful. Poor woman. All we were told was that she had a breakdown and couldn’t work anymore. It sounds selfish, but I don’t believe I thought of her again.”

  “Kids have their own stuff. And it was your senior year, right? You were thinking of college.”

  “I guess. Dee was heading to nursing school and Val was already enrolled in pharmacy classes at U of M, but I had no clue what I was going to do. I felt like I was behind, the only one struggling.”

  “Maybe it’s a Leighton thing,” Jaymie said. “I felt the same way after high school, that all of my friends knew their future, and I was wandering. I went to college for English lit because I couldn’t think what else to do.”

  “It was Mom and Dad’s drama,” Becca said, referring to their parents’ marital troubles at different points through the years. “I know I never discussed my future or plans with them, not when theirs seemed in constant jeopardy. Though I’d never say that to them, especially not since they seem to finally have it all sorted out, in their seventies.” She drank the rest of her tea in one long gulp and set her cup aside. “Why all the questions? You don’t think Sarah Nezer killed her ex, do you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. He was not a nice fellow judging by every single person who knew him, including Mrs. Stubbs. And . . . she was close by that night . . . hiding in the bushes beside the front step.” She hadn’t shared that part of the story with Becca yet, but again she didn’t mention the note. It was looming large in her mind, the question marks around it. Sarah’s demand to have it back troubled her.

  “That doesn’t mean she killed him. Maybe she was spying on him and the second Mrs. Nezer. What would be her motive to kill him? It’s not going to get her any money.”

  “Belated revenge as a motive for murder? Jealousy over Ben now making up with his father?”

 
“Well, don’t go snooping around too much and get yourself in trouble.” She held up one hand as Jaymie was about to protest. “I know, I know; butt out. Anyway, I want to ask a favor. Since you’re here, can you mind the store for an hour? I want to dash back to the house and get a few items I brought from home. My assistant is convinced that some of my online stock will sell better in the store.” Heather, her Canadian assistant, was taking more and more responsibility for the online end of Becca’s business.

  “You go ahead. As long as I can use your computer, I’m good. And can you stop at the Emporium and tell Val where I am? I told Detective Vestry I’d stay in contact. They haven’t taken my whole statement yet.” Every time she recalled that Evan Nezer was dead she felt a jolt, a kind of “not again” feeling of dread welling up in her. Ever since she had first found a dead body in the summer porch of their Queensville home it had become a part of her world, like the negative energy of that happening attracted more negativity. Not that she ascribed to the theory of attraction, but it was bothersome. It felt like her own notoriety was making her a target, in this case leading to the killer planting Nezer in her lovely diorama.

  While Becca was gone, Jaymie did some research. Sarah Nezer and her tale of literary theft intrigued her. She looked up the two novels, Root of the Bitterfruit Tree and I Make This Solemn Vow. Bitterfruit was apparently a tale of “a middle-class woman’s fall from grace, and her voyage to a new understanding of her true place in American society.” It featured a failing teacher, maybe Sarah herself. And it had been hailed in one review as a triumph of feminist fiction: “Root of the Bitterfruit Tree is a reimagining of the landscape of America through the eyes of a woman emerging from middle-class expectations.” It had been shortlisted for a major literary award.

  I Make This Solemn Vow was described as a story about a woman’s struggle to please everyone, and her journey to understanding after her son was born that in doing so, she was giving pieces of herself away. It did not do as well, with some reviewers voicing their disappointment, saying it felt rushed, and that it needed another couple of drafts before it was ready for publication. It was an example of sophomore slump, another said. Evan Nezer showed great promise, so reviewers should expect great things from him in the future, a “brave new feminist voice from an unexpected source,” one opined.

  Unexpected source; no kidding.

  Sarah had said that the second book was in the rewrite stage when she had her breakdown and was hospitalized for a long period. That would explain the failings of the second book, compared to the laudatory reviews of the first book. Ultimately, Jaymie believed Sarah’s claim of having written the two books. Evan never wrote another novel, and given what little she knew about him, it was impossible to believe that he had written a masterwork of feminist fiction.

  She was about to start a new search when a result farther down the search engine page drew her eye. She clicked on it, and felt her mouth go dry. The epic feminist novel of the 1980s, Root of the Bitterfruit Tree, was in preproduction at a major Hollywood studio. Movie rights to the book had been sold for . . . her mouth dropped open.

  Half a million dollars.

  Half a million reasons why Sarah Nezer might want to kill her ex-husband.

  But . . . did she know her stolen novel was being made into a major motion picture? And how could Jaymie learn the truth behind that? She had been ready to write Sarah off as a suspect. Their conflict seemed too far in the past, and she appeared to be at peace in her new life. But this, learning that her stolen novel had netted a half million dollars, that was a powerful motive.

  Jaymie checked the Wolverhampton Weekly Howler website. A news report had been posted on the front page about Nezer’s death. WC Prof Nezer Offed, the headline succinctly stated. The story gave the bare bones of the events and the police statement, which acknowledged that the victim had been identified as Professor Evan Nezer, sixty-seven, of Queensville, survived by wife, Bella, son E. Benjamin Nezer, and ex-wife Sarah Nezer. The reporter gave a bio of the professor, including the two fiction books and his most recent work, a comparative study of Victorian economics and social conscience as portrayed in the works of Charles Dickens. The reporter had done his research; there was a link to a review of the recent book that called it an engaging read with a deeply flawed premise. From Jaymie’s view it seemed that the deeply flawed premise was all Nezer, so the “engaging read” part was likely all Jacklyn Marley.

  Becca breezed into the store and hoisted a box onto the counter. “So what’s all the commotion over at the Nezer house?” she asked.

  “Commotion?” Jaymie asked, closing down her browser and slipping off the stool. “Why, what’s up?”

  “I drove past and saw Bill Waterman and some young fellow in a confrontation.”

  “Oh, crap, what now? I’d better go. I’ll call you later.”

  She pulled on her coat as she raced out the door and trotted toward the village green. It didn’t look good. Bill Waterman’s opponent was Ben Nezer, who faced him, fists clenched. Jaymie pulled her coat closed as she ran, hoisting her purse up on her shoulder.

  “I got no problem with you, Ben. I told you that.” Bill stood facing the younger man, mallet in one hand, stake in the other. “But if you’re gonna start the same crap as your old man, then I’ll have to say something.”

  Jaymie shivered; if Bill had seen Nezer’s body with the holly stake driven into his chest he would not be doing what he was doing right now, gesticulating with the mallet and stake.

  “All I’m saying, old man, is that I mean to honor my dad’s last wishes, and that includes not letting you trespass on Nezer property for any reason!” The young man, his expression twisted in anger, moved aggressively closer to Bill.

  “Apple didn’t fall far from that nutty tree,” Bill grumbled and turned to walk away.

  “Coward!” Ben shouted after him.

  Bill turned. “What did you say, young man?”

  “I said you’re a coward who murdered my father. You’re a bully and a sneak. You killed him because he dared stand up to you!”

  Jaymie was afraid Bill would attack him, but the handyman appeared devastated. “Killed him? Me? I . . . I . . .” His lined face twisted in a grimace and his skin paled.

  “Bill, Bill!” Jaymie rushed over to him, supporting him as he staggered back. “Someone call 911!”

  Twelve

  The Christmas tree stood as a forlorn icon of a season that could not be started yet, not when there had been a murder, and a well-known and loved Queensvillian was being carted to the hospital, victim of a possible heart attack. Valetta volunteered to call Bill’s family—he had kids, one who lived in Wolverhampton and actually worked at the hospital—and others who would want to be informed.

  While Val paced back and forth on the pavement below the store talking to Bill’s family, Jaymie sat on the steps of the Emporium, huddled in her coat, shivering and teary. The immediate aftermath of Bill’s medical emergency had been a blur, but one moment stood out. Ben Nezer, who had so violently lost his father just that morning, stood frozen in place as the paramedics worked on the handyman. He looked stricken, his face twisted in anguish. She felt for him; he had just lost his father. Maybe he even felt remorse for Bill’s sudden illness.

  She was about to go to him, to reassure him that he could not have known what the confrontation would do to Bill, when a large luxury car rolled up by him. Ben went over to it and had a word through the open window with the passenger, then whirled, heading through the pine trees toward the Nezer house. As the car pivoted on a three-point turn, Jaymie got a look at the driver. It was one of the two college gentlemen from the party the night before. The car headed back the way it had come, no doubt to park by the house.

  Her phone beeped; it was a call from Jakob.

  “Jaymie, are you okay? I just heard! I’ve been working all morning and didn’t . . . but Mr. Nezer is dead? And in your diorama? Oh, liebchen, I’m so sorry.”

  His warm, rich
voice, so full of love, undid her. He got what she had been afraid to say out loud, that Evan Nezer lying dead in her lovely diorama felt like a slap across her face. To say it aloud had felt . . . insensitive to the real tragedy, a human life lost. But her husband got it without her saying a word. She choked back a sob and took a long shuddering breath. “I’m okay, Jakob, truly, I am. I’ve been with Val and Becca and visited Mrs. Stubbs.”

  “Come home, sweetheart, come home.”

  “I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I’ll fret.”

  “I’ll put you to work, then. There’s nothing better for the soul than physical labor.”

  She smiled as tears welled. It was practically the Müller family motto: through work we will heal! “You just want someone to help cut trees!” she said with a watery chuckle.

  “That too.”

  “I’ll come. I have a couple of things to do first.”

  She breathed in deeply. She knew Bella Nezer, despite her collapse, had not been taken to the hospital but had returned to her home in the care of Erla Fancombe. Jaymie walked to the house, circled it and approached the back door. She rapped on it. A moment later Erla, her cheeks bright red, her eyes clouded and her manner brisk, answered.

  “Erla, how are you?” Jaymie asked, foot on the doorstep.

  “I’m fine. Who are you?”

  “I’m Jaymie Leighton. I was here as a guest last night. I wandered into the kitchen with my friends momentarily.”

  She squinted, then nodded. “Okay. Didn’t recognize you out of fancy dress and with your hair down. Look, I don’t have a moment to chat. Guests . . . of all days! Folks from the college and I—” A signal buzzed and she looked over her shoulder with a deep put-upon sigh. “That’s Mrs. Nezer now.”

  A year ago or so Jaymie wouldn’t have been able to do this, but now she was bolder. “Mrs. Fancombe—Erla—it’s not fair that you’re stuck with all of this work on a day like today, and after an exhausting evening last night! Let me help. I’m experienced in the kitchen and can take care of things while you help Mrs. Nezer and Ben deal with the college folks.” She confidently moved past and glanced around the kitchen. She grabbed an apron from a rack by the door and picked up the kettle. “Tea, for college sorts, I think?” she said, glancing over at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Belcher is among them, I imagine. And there’s probably sherry in the parlor. You take care of that. I expect they’ll need to consult with Mrs. Nezer about what to do, now that Mr. Nezer is gone. I’ll make tea, coffee, and help put together trays. You carry and wait on them.”