Breaking the Mould

by Victoria Hamilton

“I’ve heard that if the president has her way, WC will eliminate all the tech courses,” Bernie said, spreading some cheese on a cracker. “I hope not! I’ve taken a couple of criminology courses there, as well as working on my master’s. Chief Ledbetter is going to be teaching an applied police work course next semester.” She crunched her snack and chewed.

  “Really?” Jaymie exclaimed. “The chief?”

  “The technical college actually recruited him. He’s also going to be leading an introductory course in policing.” She sighed. “I’d love him to do an anti-bias lecture for current police officers, but . . .” She shook her head.

  Jaymie knew about her problems with some of the male officers. Many were good, but some were disturbed by the Queensville Township PD’s move to being more diverse and balanced gender-wise during Chief Ledbetter’s tenure.

  “Why did you become a police officer?” Austin asked Bernie. “I mean . . . what do you want out of it?”

  As the conversation turned serious, Jaymie headed to the kitchen to get some ice and lingered by the sink. The information Johnny had provided her with, that Erla and Inkerman had been seen together, and that he gave her something in an envelope, had left her uneasy.

  Valetta rushed into the kitchen. “I need a cloth,” she said, rummaging in the tea towel drawer. “Austin was waving his hands around and spilled Becca’s drink. Or maybe Becca has had a drinkie winkie too many and spilled it herself. Georgina is out of it, snoring away in the corner of the sofa.” She grabbed a roll of paper towels, then looked at Jaymie. “What’s up? You look . . . perplexed.”

  “I am.”

  “Hold that thought,” Val said. She rushed away to the parlor, where loud laughter was echoing, then returned to Jaymie in the kitchen. “So what’s up?”

  “I don’t want to take you away from the party.”

  Valetta waved her hand and tugged Jaymie to sit down at the table. “They’re all tiddly. Something’s on your mind and I want to know what it is.”

  Jaymie told Val all about what she had learned.

  “Finn Fancombe was Evan Nezer’s son?”

  Jaymie nodded.

  “Wow. I’m stunned. And Erla Fancombe set the cider booth fire? Why would she?”

  “I don’t know. But now, do I tell the police? Do I say something to Bernie? The footage from the store was grainy and dark and you couldn’t tell who it was, but . . .” She shrugged.

  “I heard through a friend of a friend—don’t say I told you this—that the cops had a feeling it was someone in that house because the materials were found there, hidden in the shed out back.” Valetta pushed her glasses up on her nose.

  The shed, where Bella claimed Finn Fancombe had been living? That was interesting. “Is that why the shed has yellow crime scene tape around it?”

  “Yup.”

  That explained Brock’s revelation, but eliminated the shed as the scene of the murder.

  “Trouble is, they were common materials from every household,” Val said. “You’ve probably got the same thing here in your shed or basement. They actually wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but for the way the stuff was deliberately concealed.”

  “But in other words they won’t be surprised that it’s Erla. I can’t figure out why she’d do it.” She eyed Valetta. “Maybe Evan made her do it?”

  “That’s a possibility, but why would she go along with it?”

  “She may have wanted to keep him in good spirits since she was counting on him helping Finn, his son, get back into his master’s program.”

  “Could he have, though? I mean, once Finn was kicked out for plagiarism, wasn’t that it for him?”

  “Erla seemed convinced Evan could and would help, and I think places bend the rules all the time, don’t they? Anyway, if that’s true, Erla had every reason in the world to keep Evan alive.” Jaymie thought. “For the time being, anyway.”

  “So Erla is officially off the suspect list?”

  “Not off, just sidelined. Given how angry Bella was about the will codicil . . . I’m thinking she was willing, if not eager, for Evan to pop off and leave her money.”

  “How about Ben, though; you said Sarah was pretty sure he was going to be left the house and, presumably, money.”

  “How much money could a college professor have to leave?” Jaymie asked.

  “C’mon, Jaymie, you know better than that. Evan Nezer’s family has money from way back.”

  “I never thought of them as being wealthy, I guess.”

  “That’s because for all his pretention, Nezer never shouted it out to the world, but the family owned a ton of land and has investments in real estate here in town and in Wolverhampton.” Val knew a lot more than Jaymie about property because of Brock’s real estate business. He stayed aware of who owned what and where. “How do you think La Bella afforded to spiff up the Nezer ancestral home so quickly? It costs mucho moolah to get contractors to do a rush job.”

  “No, Val, I don’t think he did have money, not until recently. If I’m right, his lack of money was why he was going to sell the Nezer ancestral home. But listen to this . . .” She told Valetta what she knew about the movie options for Sarah’s two books. “It wouldn’t make him mega rich, but it would be enough to keep the big house.”

  “That kinda gives Sarah a motive to kill him, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I did think of that, but I don’t want it to be her. Anyway, if I’m right, and President Belcher was using everything she had to attract big-bucks donors and the money a think tank would have meant to Wolverhampton College, he could have a lot of money coming to him in the future.”

  “Hmm. Okay. Interesting.”

  “Anyway, if Erla didn’t do it, and Finn didn’t do it, that leaves me with Bella, Ben, Jacklyn, and Vaughan Inkerman.” Or Ben and Jacklyn together, given their previously unknown and still, it seemed, unacknowledged relationship. She wasn’t sure she should divulge that info, so she stayed mum. “I can’t see Vaughan doing it.” She was still troubled by Johnny’s information, seeing Erla and the pastor in a secretive meeting and the pastor exiting the car after giving Erla an envelope. “Though I’m not ruling him out.” She considered something she hadn’t thought of until then. “I remember before we left the party that night, I did see Pastor Inkerman in the kitchen speaking with Erla. What connection do those two have, I wonder?”

  “Maybe Erla goes to his church. He’s the college chaplain, but he also holds biweekly services at WC in the chapel. One of my elderly aunts decided she didn’t like how modern Reverend Gillis was and decided to try out Inkerman, who is the elderly lady’s beau ideal, as one of your Regency romances would put it.”

  “Of course! It’s a simple explanation and likely the right one. Maybe he gave her some sheet music, or scripture, and that’s what was in the envelope. Anyway, enough brooding over crime. Let’s rejoin the party in progress.”

  They talked and chatted and laughed a lot more, while Georgina snored. Becca put a noisemaker in her sister-in-law’s mouth, and as the occasionally snarky Englishwoman blew in and out, the noisemaker amplified her snoring with a raspberry of sound. The whole group collapsed in stifled giggles, but Jaymie eventually plucked if from the poor woman’s lips. She already felt bad about laughing at Georgina. At least the woman was staying the night at the Queensville house, so being drunk off her feet was no problem at all.

  But finally enough had been drunk and eaten, and yawns took over from laughter. It was a work night for everyone.

  “I think I’ll have to open the store tomorrow morning,” Becca said, eyeing Georgina. “Or maybe I’ll send Kevin.”

  Having stopped at one drink right when she arrived, Jaymie was sober as the proverbial judge. Val, however, after a couple of cocktails and a few glasses of wine, was tipsy.

  As Heidi and Bernie exited out the back door together, the police officer called back, “Hey, folks, it’s snowing! Be careful when you drive.” She took Heidi’s keys and ushered her friend down the
flagstone path, through the gate and around to the passenger side, Heidi giggling and slipping sideways.

  Jaymie followed them and waved as Bernie pulled out. It was indeed snowing, and a wind was whipping up.

  Austin, behind her, whistled. “Woo, it is coming down! Michigan weather . . . gotta love it!”

  “I think we’d better get going too. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to make a slight detour and take Val home. She walked here and I won’t have her slipping and sliding all the way across town.”

  “Let’s round her up and pour her into the SUV before she slips out the front,” Austin said.

  Against her protests and with much laughter they herded her to the back door, where Becca hugged them all goodbye, even Austin. Kevin was coming home up the walk. He had spent the evening with Jakob out at the farm, going over the plan for the new holiday store venture, in which he was an investor. “Coming down, out there. Be careful, Jaymie, my dear,” he said, shaking the snow off his overcoat as he entered the summer porch. The crystalline pellets melted in the warmth emanating from the house. “Jakob is a little concerned about you driving in this weather.”

  “We will be careful,” Jaymie said, taking Valetta’s arm on one side, while Austin did the same on the other. They descended the two steps from the summer porch and picked their way along the swiftly whitening path, flakes clinging to individual blades of grass, visible in the spill of light out the back door. They got a happy and buoyant Valetta to the SUV and into the passenger side, and Austin hopped in the back. “It’s not much of a detour,” Jaymie said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Austin. “Across the village, a little out of our way.”

  “Over the river and through the woods,” Valetta sang.

  He smiled. “Hey, I’m up for anything. It’s an adventure. I can’t remember when I had so much fun.”

  As Jaymie carefully navigated the back lane and got them onto one of the crossroads, Val slumped over. She snored lightly and chuckled in her sleep.

  “She’s a lightweight when it comes to alcohol,” Austin said.

  “She doesn’t drink much. Neither do I.”

  “I like a nice cocktail, but my mom works in the emergency ward of the hospital. She’s seen too many victims of drunk drivers and told me the stories.” His tone was grim. “I don’t take chances with alcohol or weather.”

  She checked him in the rearview mirror, a trick she had become adept at since acquiring a daughter. His expression was a little tight with tension. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I’ve been driving these roads since I was fifteen, with my dad teaching me how to navigate all kinds of weather. It would start blizzarding and he’d say, Okay, Jay, let’s fly! and he’d take me out for a lesson in braking on ice, or steering into a slide.”

  “Sounds like you have a great dad,” Austin said. He sounded wistful.

  “I’m lucky. It sounds like you have a great mom.”

  “I do. I’m lucky.”

  She made her way through the village, slowing by the diorama.

  “Is that the spot where you found the professor?” Austin asked, leaning forward, straining against his seat belt.

  “It is,” she said grimly. “Dead as a doornail, with a stake of holly through his heart and a pudding mould over his head.”

  “Can we stop? Pretty please? I want a picture.”

  “Austin, no!”

  “C’mon. What if I promise I won’t put it on social?” he said. “Just a memento mori.”

  She braked and shut the motor down, unlocking her seat belt and twisting to stare at him in the gloom of the backseat. “A what the what?”

  “Memento mori . . . a depiction of something to remind us that we are always close to death.”

  “Gruesome! Wherever did you hear that phrase?”

  “I might be going out with an art professor with interesting tastes in art,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. “Our first date was to a graveyard, where we did charcoal rubbings. Not as much fun as it sounds.”

  “A professor? You’re dating a professor?”

  “He likes his guys cute, pudgy and young,” Austin said. “He’s not my professor, so we’re not breaking any rules. I don’t think. And we’ve only been on two dates so far.”

  “I won’t say a word to anyone. Okay,” she said, giving in to his pleading expression. “One selfie but no social media!” She checked to make sure Valetta was comfortable, then got out and shut the door behind her.

  He got out of the SUV, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket as Jaymie led the way to the diorama. She glanced around; no police presence. She undid the tarp flap, pulling it up and flipping it over the top. Austin was documenting her actions. The interior was shadowed, the light from the Victorian-style streetlight not penetrating the gloom of the three-sided diorama.

  Austin stepped in and held up his phone, in selfie mode, and took a pic as Jaymie stood off to the side, uncomfortable about aiding and abetting a selfie at the scene of a murder. It felt disrespectful, but as long as he didn’t post it, she guessed there was no harm done. Austin looked at his cell phone. And screamed.

  Twenty

  “What’s wrong?” Jaymie cried.

  Austin whirled around and used his cell phone to light the back of the diorama, where a figure could be seen lying in a fetal position.

  “Oh no!” Jaymie cried, and knelt down by the figure. It was Amos. Had he found a convenient corner to curl up and sleep? Not likely, given the frigid temperature. “Shine that over here,” she said. Austin switched to a flashlight app and shone the light down. “Amos, Amos!” Jaymie said gently, one hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  The man moved and groaned, then whimpered and curled up tighter. Jaymie grabbed the cell phone and pointed the light at his head. “There’s blood!” she said. She handed Austin back the phone. “Call 911.”

  “Don’t even think about it!” Those shrieked words were followed by a whack, the sound a dull thud, and Austin fell to his knees with a groan, his cell phone dropping from his hand and skidding across the damp grass.

  Jaymie froze and looked up, her heart thumping like a bass drum. Erla had the brown fluted bowl from her kitchen in her hand, and Austin had a crescent-shaped cut on his forehead. He was not unconscious but he was hurt, whimpering and holding his forehead, his fingers bloody.

  “Erla, we were just . . . we’re . . .” Her mind finally caught up to speed. “Oh, you did this to Amos! And . . . and . . . you killed Evan.”

  The housekeeper looked distracted and upset and afraid all at once. But she still held that heavy bowl . . . but it wasn’t a bowl, Jaymie realized. It was an antique pudding mould. She should have recognized it in the kitchen, on the shelf above the pickle crock, but though she had seen photos of the older crockery moulds in person she had only seen metal pudding moulds up to that point.

  “Why did you have to interfere? Why did he?” Erla said, pointing down. Not to Austin, Jaymie realized, but to poor Amos, who was groaning, and now semiconscious.

  “How did he interfere?”

  “Tried to extort money out of me,” she said. “He said he saw stuff he shouldn’t have.”

  As impossible as it seemed, mild-mannered, quilt-making, loving mother and housekeeper Erla Fancombe was . . . a killer? It felt surreal, impossible, absurd. Her stomach churning, Jaymie realized that she had made the deadly mistake of identifying with Erla so much that even though she was officially considering her, emotionally she had discounted her as a suspect. So though Erla was on the list, Jaymie kept pushing her off, finding any reason to ignore her. “Did you . . . did you really kill Evan Nezer?”

  The cell phone light flicked off. The diorama was dark, with just the faint glow of streetlights from outside the three walls dimly illuminating the interior. Erla hummed a weird, tension-filled drone of agitation, swinging the bowl back and forth. Her eyes were huge, like mirror saucers. Glossy tears welled in them. “Why did you have to come along right now? I’m going to
have to k-kill you, too! I don’t want to. You’re a nice girl, but what else can I do?”

  Jaymie’s stomach twisted as she watched the woman, unsure how to defuse this moment. “You can just walk away. I don’t know anything at this point. Let me just get Amos and Austin some help, and just . . . walk away.”

  “I wish I could,” she sobbed.

  Jaymie took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart rate and breathing. “Erla, think this through. You can’t bash all of us dead and leave us.” Her voice was trembling despite trying to steady it as she evaluated how best to tackle the woman. Having been in similar predicaments in the past, she knew to keep the woman talking while trying to figure out an escape plan. How to keep them all safe and take out Erla?

  She was weeping now, tears running down her seamed face, her nose running. “Why did you have to ruin everything?” she sobbed, her voice clogged with tears. “Nosy parker! You, and him, and Amos . . . why can’t you all leave it alone? Evan was a jackass. Everyone hated him! This was his own fault.”

  Jaymie readied herself; if Erla kept crying and got more emotional it might be possible to tackle her. She didn’t have a gun, she had a pudding mould, for heaven’s sake. Austin gazed up at Jaymie, tears welling in his blue eyes behind the glasses, askew on his face. She shook her head slightly. Stay down, she mouthed. “Erla, please, let us go. You could get away, you could—”

  “And go where?” she cried. “Where?” The word was ragged, edges torn, her voice guttural, a cry of despair.

  Jaymie tried to get to her feet and yet stay in a crouch, so she’d be ready.

  “This is the only home I have, the only one I’ve ever had. And that man . . . that woman . . . those two . . . they were going to . . .” Erla shook her head and straightened, taking in a deep breath, glaring down at Jaymie and gripping the heavy crockery pudding mould in one strong hand. She was calmer, and that was not a good thing. “Even before Evan died, that witch, Bella, was forcing me to retire. She wanted a younger woman, she said, to take care of her house. No pension, no nothing.”

  Blast it; the murdering housekeeper loomed over her, a bad position from which to tackle her. The moment had passed. She would have to create another before Erla summoned the fury to attack Jaymie.