Breaking the Mould

by Victoria Hamilton

  Uh-oh. “Why do you ask?”

  Vestry, no expression on her face, said, “Just answer the question, please. It’s pretty simple.”

  She had to say it, but at least she could keep the coat check student out of it. “Now that you mention it . . . I didn’t think this was important, but when my husband and I went into the office to get our coats—they were using it as a coat check room—I saw one of the servers at the computer.”

  “One of the servers?”

  “One of the casual servers the Nezers had hired.”

  “Did you recognize the server?”

  Jaymie took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “And . . . ?” Vestry prompted when Jaymie was silent for too long.

  Jaymie squirmed in her seat. “It was Jacklyn Marley.”

  “Did you ask her what she was doing?”

  “Have you asked her yourselves?”

  “Just answer the question, Ms. Müller.”

  Jaymie sighed. “I did. She told me there were . . . irregularities in how she was paid as a ghostwriter for Mr. Nezer’s book, and she was trying to discover if he was holding back information or revenue from her. I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea, but I didn’t turn her in. That was between them. My husband left it up to me whether to say anything, and I said we should leave it.”

  “You’re a good friend of Ms. Marley’s?” Vestry asked, seeming not surprised by the information.

  The nervous coat check girl had probably already told all. “No, I wouldn’t say that. We met briefly the other day.”

  “So why were you hiding her activities from us?”

  Jaymie sighed. One of Detective Vestry’s favorite questioning techniques was to imply collusion or coercion where none existed. “I wasn’t hiding anything, I didn’t mention it. If you can tell me why I would have thought it relevant, I’ll apologize for the omission.” She paused, watching the other woman’s chilly gray eyes. “What does her being on Nezer’s computer have to do with his murder?”

  “It was within a few hours of his death, or even less. She appears to have a substantial conflict with the victim and was looking for information by hacking into his computer.”

  Jaymie was silent; she made good points, but none of this had anything to do with her.

  “I’m left wondering what else haven’t you told us?”

  “Let’s see . . . I went to a farmers’ market yesterday. I saw my in-laws. I took a walk with my dog.” She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t relate every moment of the last forty-eight hours. How do I know what you’ll think I was hiding when I don’t feel like I’m hiding anything?” Jaymie was exasperated, and mortifyingly close to tears.

  “I don’t mean to badger you, Jaymie, but this is a murder investigation. You’re not stupid; you’re the polar opposite of stupid.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll admit something: I value your observations. This will go more smoothly if you tell us everything you know or think you may know. You’re a smart young woman and you’ve been through this before. You know what I mean. Stop worrying about incriminating anyone in particular and tell us what you’ve witnessed or thought of.”

  There was so much she had asked and heard and thought about, like Finn Fancombe and his activity protesting Nezer, and his badgering his mother to intercede and let him into the party, and how that related to his showing up later. And about Sarah Nezer accusing her ex-husband of stealing novels thirty years ago, and . . . what else? She shrugged helplessly, weary and discouraged. She could talk all day, but all of this was stuff the police could, and probably would, find out, and that Vestry would no doubt find irrelevant. Jaymie had been accused of telling them stuff that didn’t matter in the past, and now of withholding stuff. They couldn’t have it both ways. She was getting irritated. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “I feel like you’re hiding something, Jaymie. I thought we were past that.”

  She stayed silent and shook her head.

  Vestry’s mouth tightened into a grim, thin line. She waited, but when Jaymie didn’t say anything else she stood and looked down at Jaymie. “I’ll let the historical society know when you can dismantle that . . . what is it, diorama? Until then, stay away from it.” She stared down at Jaymie. “But I am surprised that you didn’t bother to tell us that the holly piercing Nezer’s heart was from your very own Queensville home backyard.”

  Fourteen

  Jaymie gasped, her breath squeezed from her lungs. “What do you m-mean? How is that . . . ?” She blinked and stared.

  “You reportedly openly invited people at the heritage meeting to come get some holly from your backyard.”

  “For decoration purposes.”

  “Someone wanted a festive corpse, I guess. They stole a stake from Bill Waterman’s workshop and a hunk of holly from your backyard. Either one—or both—of you took part in the murder, or someone is trying to implicate you, together or separately.”

  Jaymie jumped to her feet and grabbed her purse from the floor under her chair, shaking with anger. “Sure, why not . . . Bill and I conspired to kill him in the most festive way possible! We thought we’d leave his corpse in the diorama we spent hours and hours creating.” Tears stung her eyes. “And I did not invite people to come get holly. I told them to ask me and I’d cut them some!”

  Her anger died a little as she turned her thoughts to the heritage meeting. She took in a deep, shuddering breath. “So, Detective, do you think whoever killed him was at that heritage meeting?” She clutched her purse to her chest and leaned back against the wall. “Bella and Ben Nezer were there, as well as Jacklyn Marley.”

  “We’re not wedded to the theory that whoever did it was there, but they knew that your property had holly, and where it was, and where to find a wooden stake. Someone involved in either the killing or in the moving of the corpse had heard about your generous offer and knew—or could find out—where your house was.”

  “But why? Why would they do that? To the body, I mean, and . . . and to me, to take the holly from my backyard. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s possible that they wanted the holly to make a point and didn’t know where else to get it. Your backyard is private and so it seemed ideal. But think about it, who would go to that length? Anyone come to mind?”

  Jaymie plunked back down on the hard chair and considered it. “It seems to me that whoever did that, the killer or an accomplice, wanted to point the finger at someone. But that doesn’t make sense. That’s my diorama, and I didn’t have a problem with Evan.” She frowned and looked down at her nails, pulling at a loose piece of skin. “But Bill Waterman built my diorama and helped me set it up. And you haven’t found out who set fire to the cider booth yet. Could it be the same person? The arsonist and the killer? And were they trying to single Bill out, maybe?”

  “We don’t have evidence of that at this point. I’d appreciate it, Jaymie, if you would seriously and deeply think about this, and give us any information or thoughts you may have. I don’t mean to make you feel that I don’t trust you, however . . . I don’t believe you’re telling me everything. This is an ugly one; it almost looks like the person wanted not only to kill Evan Nezer but to kill Dickens Days too. Or—I hate to say this, but I want to warn you—it could be a pointed warning to you. Or a challenge. You’ve become notorious in these parts for your inventiveness in helping the police solve crime. A local hero, of sorts.”

  “I . . . I never fancied myself a local hero,” Jaymie said faintly.

  “Regardless, there it is. I spoke to Chief Ledbetter and he’s a little worried.”

  Her heart thudded. Chief Ledbetter, her old friend. She hadn’t seen him for a while. “You spoke to him?”

  “I’d be crazy to ignore his experience and wisdom. I consult with him sometimes.” She was silent for a minute. “Look, Jaymie, I’m not going to pressure you. Yet. But if you think of anything you forgot to tell us, we’d be happy to hear it. In the meantime, we have a team
at your Queensville house investigating the yard. We ought to be done in a few hours.”

  “Are you sure the holly came from my backyard?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw bunches of it at the farmers’ market on the weekend. There are other places to get it, including florists, this time of year.”

  “We’re considering every source. Why don’t you go over there now and let us know if your holly looks like it’s been damaged. It would help. We have someone there investigating right now.”

  “Okay, but wait . . . I’ll tell you everything I’ve thought of, but it doesn’t amount to much at this point.” The detective sat back down across from her and Jaymie told her about Finn Fancombe at the back door of the Nezer residence, and how she’d heard he charged in later, and how Nezer had spoken to him. She told the detective everything else she had considered and wondered about.

  Except for one thing: she said nothing about Sarah Nezer’s books being stolen by her ex-late-husband and the lucrative movie options on them. She wasn’t sure why she held that back, but she was deeply conflicted about it. It felt like it would be a betrayal of a vulnerable woman who had suffered so much. And yet there was the note to Ben . . . she didn’t know what to think.

  By the time she left the police station, her mood was somber, her thoughts in a turmoil. She drove over to the Queensville house to find Becca and Kevin in the parking lane talking to Bernie, who was taking notes while a police photographer took pictures. Trip Findley, their back-lane neighbor, wandered through his back gate and joined them as Jaymie parked along his fence. There were two police cars taking up other spaces, and an area by their wrought iron fence cordoned off.

  She joined her sister and brother-in-law and got caught up. She stood on tiptoe and peered at her holly hedge, planted two years before. She gasped. “They’ve cut a huge chunk out of the middle! Who did that?”

  “I thought you did it,” Becca said.

  “Seriously, Becca, why would I? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this. When did it happen?”

  Becca was silent for a long moment and exchanged a glance with Kevin. “Well, here’s the thing—”

  “You don’t know! How can you not know?”

  Becca sighed. “I didn’t notice it until today. Not everyone notices every little thing, Jaymie.”

  Jaymie caught the stifled smile Bernie was trying to hide. “Okay, I get it. You’ve probably come home most often in the dark. It gets dark so early this time of year.”

  “And in the morning you know what I’m like until the second coffee has kicked in.”

  “Well, I was here on Friday bringing stuff for the fridge for you and Kevin. I’m not sure what time that was, but I know it was okay then.”

  “I know when it happened!” The voice was from slightly above; they all looked up. Pam Driscoll, who was managing the bed-and-breakfast next door, was on her back patio, which was slightly elevated. “Friday afternoon. I looked out at about two and everything was okay. I did see you cutting some holly, but you didn’t cut much. Later, about four thirty, I was in the kitchen making dinner for Noah and saw the bush kinda pulled apart. I thought it was your doggie or something.”

  “Thanks, Pam!” Jaymie said. So, between two-ish and four thirty; that gave the police a window of time to ask for suspects’ whereabouts.

  Bernie headed over to take her statement as Jaymie pondered the new information. This all meant that someone planned the murder and shocking display of Evan Nezer’s body, and that the plan was in place before the party. But did that mean that nothing that happened at the party had anything to do with it? Logically that didn’t necessarily follow. She couldn’t discount that whoever had planned to kill him didn’t also have a conflict with him at the party. This was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

  Brock drove his car down the lane that moment, arriving to show the house next door. He got out, careful to keep his dark wool trench coat away from the dust on his car. Of course he had to know everything going on, and Jaymie filled him in.

  His long, plain face held a look of dismay. “That’s crazy! All that elaborate staging of Nezer’s death . . . it’s weird. Why would anyone go to that much trouble? Why not leave him where he was killed, behind his house’s shed?”

  Jaymie stared at him in surprise. “How do you know where Nezer was killed?”

  “Hah! So Jaymie the great detective didn’t know? It’s yellow-taped-off. I wouldn’t have known either, but I was showing a house with a backyard backing it.”

  He had to toddle off to show the Walters house to a couple. Bernie returned from speaking with Pam Driscoll, and Jaymie asked her about the area behind the Nezer home. “Is it really where Evan Nezer was murdered? How do you know?”

  Her dark eyes held a troubled expression. She shook her head, then glanced over to where Becca was still speaking with Trip. “Look, if I tell you, you won’t say anything?”

  Jaymie nodded.

  “Okay, it is not where Nezer was killed; honestly, we don’t know where that is, yet. It’s cordoned off for another reason.”

  Jaymie asked why, but Bernie shook her head.

  “I’m stepping out of bounds even now, but all I can say is, it is not where Nezer was killed.”

  Something was bothering Jaymie badly, and she knew she had to sort it out or it would continue to bother her until she confessed to the police. But first . . . she drove the SUV down to the street of small houses near the docks and went to Sarah Nezer’s door. The woman was home. She greeted Jaymie with a look of distrust. “Do you want tea again?” she asked. “Or will you be telling the police about that, too?”

  Jaymie sighed. “Sarah, I had to give the police that note. I couldn’t . . .” She shook her head.

  “It’s okay,” the woman said wearily. “It’s not important now.” She retreated, leaving the door open.

  Jaymie followed, taking the open door as an invitation. “I . . . I have a question. I won’t take up much of your time,” Jaymie said, glancing at the laptop and work spread out at a tiny desk in a corner of the living room.

  “You want to know what the note meant. So did the police.”

  “No, I won’t . . . I mean, I’d like to know. But I don’t expect you’ll tell me.”

  “I did tell them, but I won’t be telling you. But it wasn’t advice to hold off on murdering his father until a later date.”

  Jaymie didn’t know what to say.

  “Sit,” Sarah said, taking a spot on the soft sofa along one wall. It was topped by an original painting, an abstract that looked like a woman with dark skin, hints of blue and purple swirled in confusion, creating an eloquent figure with rounded features and elongated legs and arms. Jaymie sat in a sixties-style chair with a crocheted cushion. “What’s on your mind?” the woman asked.

  “I wanted to tell you, Sarah, that yes, I gave them the note and told them about seeing you there that night. But . . . I didn’t say anything about Evan stealing your work, and . . . and all the money he was making from the movie offers.”

  “I don’t care about money!”

  “It was a lot, though, and made off your work . . . again! That had to sting.”

  “Do you think I killed my ex-husband?”

  Jaymie didn’t answer right away. She examined Sarah, who had her white frizzy hair pulled back into a bun today, and wore a long patchwork skirt and a matching vest over a turtleneck sweater. She glanced around the homey, cozy room, modest and shabby compared to the Nezer home. There were many shelves, with books lining most of them and a small flat-screen TV taking up one space. Above that were family photos.

  “I love family pictures,” Jaymie said and got up, crossing the room to look them over. There were ones from the fifties, a handsome couple shoulder to shoulder, both with cigarettes in their hands, staring into the camera with intense gazes. “Your parents?”

  Sarah nodded. “Both gone now, but never forgotten.”

  There were pictur
es of Erla Fancombe and Sarah goofing around on a campsite. It was odd to see a younger, slimmer Erla—pretty and happy—with such a big smile. Better times. There was another of two skinny, tanned boys, Finn and Ben clearly, on a sunny beach, gap-toothed grins on their faces, arms over each other’s shoulders. “Do I think you killed Evan?” Jaymie asked, turning back and examining the woman on the sofa. “Not really. But . . . is the note for Ben the only reason you were in those bushes by Evan’s house that night?”

  “Our house! That was supposed to be our house,” Sarah said, a burst of annoyance in her tone. “He promised me we’d sell that damn suburban ranch-house box and move to the Nezer family home one day, but we never did. Not until the trophy demanded it.”

  The trophy . . . Bella Nezer. So there was a hidden well of anger there, and resentment. “I suppose she’ll inherit the house now?”

  Surprise and alarm flared in her eyes. “No, Ben will get the house! I’m sure of it.”

  “But they had been estranged, right?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Evan would never let that house slip out of real Nezer hands.”

  “I don’t know about that. He let it sit for years, rented out to companies and vacationers, right? He may not have felt as strongly about the place as you think. Does Ben even know where he stood with his father? I mean, if their quarrel was only made up recently he may not have made a will leaving Ben anything.”

  Sarah was clearly alarmed at the new ideas Jaymie was introducing to her. She seemed distracted. “They had made up, as far as I know. Ben and I haven’t spoken for a few weeks. That’s . . . that’s why I was there that night, to give him that note.”

  “Yes, but you forget I read the note. I know it was some kind of follow up to some conversation you must have had with your son. It told him to hold off. Hold off on what?”

  She shook her head and stayed silent.

  “Sarah, can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask. It doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  Jaymie had no right to intrude, she knew that. “Sarah, I . . . I don’t know why, but I’m usually pretty good at figuring out who killed someone. I don’t think you did.”