A Deadly Grind

by Victoria Hamilton

  “I don’t know,” DeeDee said. “That tall couple was in the way, and I couldn’t see. That’s Lynn and Nathan Foster,” she said, pointing at them. “They’re staying at Lyle’s inn,” she said, naming her brother-in-law, who owned the Queensville Inn.

  Dee, as always, was ready with gossip, even stuff that wasn’t particularly interesting. “I’d better go cash out and face the wrath of Rebecca. Come with me,” Jaymie said, putting her bare arm through the crook in DeeDee’s sweater-clad elbow, “and get your Partridge Family lunchbox.”

  “You mean defend you against your big sister,” DeeDee said, with a warm chuckle.

  “That, too,” Jaymie said, smiling. Old friends were the best kind, it’s been said; they know all the old jokes and where the bodies are buried.

  Two

  TWO STURDY FELLOWS who worked for Lesley Mackenzie loaded the Hoosier into the back of Jaymie’s beat-up white-and-rust Chevy van as darkness set in, while another wheeled the boxes of goods she and Becca had both bought on a hand dolly. Fortunately, the top hutch section of the Hoosier unscrewed from a bracket and came away from the wider bottom cabinet.

  Jaymie watched the guys move the Hoosier easily. “I just hope we can get it out of the van once we get home. Do you guys come with the package?” she joked.

  The brawniest smiled and winked at her, flexing his biceps, and Jaymie’s face heated as DeeDee nudged her. He thought she was flirting with him! She never flirted; she just wasn’t good at it.

  “Nope, you’ll have to handle that on your own,” he said, pushing the heaviest lower section a little farther into the van.

  The feet screeched across the metal floor and Becca grimaced as she gingerly lifted the box of newsprint-wrapped teacups and saucers and set it in the van.

  “Lesley Mackenzie is my granddad. We’re only here because there’s been some trouble this week,” the muscular guy said. “Some lowlife broke into Bourne House, probably hoping to steal some of the more valuable goods once the auction was announced. Gramps was worried. We’re security, making sure a thief doesn’t take off with the coins or silver plate while no one’s looking.” He rolled his impressive shoulders.

  Becca fussed over the placement of the boxes of china, insisting that the “eyesore,” as she called the Hoosier, was going to crush the boxes of fragile goods. She dithered as a young fellow, yet another grandson of Lesley Mackenzie, loaded the other boxes into the back.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Becca, just put the best stuff at your feet! Look,” Jaymie said, leaning into the back of the van, “if we wedge this stuff in with blankets, nothing’s going to move.” She tucked in the blankets she kept in the back around the boxes of teacups, crystal and silver, and had the box of Crown Derby, the most valuable lot, moved by the cute bicep guy to the passenger’s side of the van so it would ride at Becca’s feet.

  Jaymie thanked the auction helpers and climbed up into the driver’s seat, but just as she slammed her door shut with a resounding creak of rusty hinges, she saw Joel and Heidi stroll past, arm in arm, toward the parking area, a fallow field just beyond the line of pine trees. Impulsively, she leaned out of the van window saying, “Way to go, Joel! I heard you shut that guy up, the one who was harassing Les Mackenzie.”

  Joel tugged Heidi along across the gravel drive and they approached the van. He looked up at Jaymie, a smile crinkling the corners of his blue eyes. Those eyes, and the way they crinkled, were his most attractive feature, but the whole package wasn’t bad either. “He was outta line. He and another guy were arguing, and he lost track of the bidding on that Hoosier, so he lost out! It happens . . . no need to be a jerk about it.” He tossed his lank blond hair out of his eyes.

  “That’s a nice piece you bought, Jaymie, that big Hoosier,” Heidi said, softly, from the shelter of Joel’s crooked arm.

  “It needs some work,” Jaymie said, glancing over her shoulder at Becca, who sat stiffly in the passenger seat, not acknowledging Joel or Heidi. Sometimes Jaymie thought her sister took Joel’s defection harder than she did, but that was because she was a protective big sister, even though Jaymie was in her thirties and didn’t need to be looked after anymore.

  “But it’s got some original pieces,” she said. “I looked it over earlier. My grandma has one, and some guy offered her two thousand dollars for it.”

  “Really? Two thousand dollars!” Jaymie gazed at Heidi, a sweet-faced blonde dressed in designer jeans and a blue cashmere sweater. Her curling hair reached down below her shoulders and silver chandelier earrings dangled from her petite ears. She seemed genuine, her blue eyes innocent of any hidden meaning in her steady gaze.

  In the six months since Joel left her for Heidi, Jaymie had pictured the woman, a migrant from New York, as a stuck-up Paris Hilton wannabe because she wore designer jeans and carried a Louis Vuitton bag. That wasn’t exactly a fair assessment, since Jaymie didn’t know Heidi except to see her. She was going to try to be nice, she decided. “I don’t expect the Hoosier to be worth anything—it’s got some damage—but it’ll give me something to work on this summer, fixing it up. I just kinda fell in love with it.”

  “Jaymie’s crazy about anything old; that’s why she went out with me,” Joel joked, then his expression fell. “I didn’t mean now, that she still is . . . I meant . . .” He trailed off and shook his head.

  “Joel, you’re an idiot,” Rebecca said, leaning around Jaymie to stare out the van window at him.

  “Becca!” Jaymie said, with a look of warning to her older sister.

  Heidi squeezed Joel’s arm and rolled her eyes. “Was he always this quick-witted?” she said, her pale brows arched.

  Jaymie laughed and found herself warming to the younger woman, whose remark had gracefully deflated the bubble of tension that was building. “We have to get going. I just wanted to say, way to go, Joel, for telling that creep off.”

  “And for jabbing him in the nose when the jerk shoved me!” Heidi said.

  Jaymie felt a pang of sadness; well, then . . . that explained Joel’s chivalrous response more completely. Beyond what the creep was saying to Les, he had insulted and threatened little Heidi. She was the kind of woman men instantly wanted to protect. Jaymie sighed. Joel had always said that Jaymie was too self-reliant, that she never asked for help or appeared to want it. It looked like he’d found the kind of woman he was looking for all along so he could be the knight in shining armor. “We have to get back to Queensville,” she said, pushing down the clutch pedal and putting the stick into neutral.

  “See you around?” Heidi said, staring up at Jaymie, punctuating her remark with a question mark.

  “Yeah, of course. Are you coming to the Queen’s Tea on Sunday or Monday?”

  “Both days; I’ve got a part!” Heidi gave a little hop of excitement. “I ordered a dress from a costumer in Stratford.” Stratford, Ontario, across the border and several miles north, was a world-renowned center of Shakespearian theatre, and so had a specialist or two in historical costuming willing to make a buck by sewing costumes for the public. “I’ll be there dressed as Queen Victoria’s daughter, Princess Beatrice.”

  “Of course you’ll be dressed as a princess,” Becca, beside Jaymie, murmured.

  Jaymie threw her sister a warning glance. She had to live in Queensville; Becca didn’t. She forced a smile. Why hadn’t anyone told her this interesting piece of news, given that she would be working the tea all afternoon both days as a server, and everyone knew Heidi was the girl who’d stolen Jaymie’s boyfriend away? She swallowed hard. “We’ll see you there, then!” she said, waving as she shifted and reversed, backing down the farmhouse lane.

  She needed all of her concentration to drive the gravel lane toward the county road that would lead to the highway that ran between Queensville and Wolverhampton, the nearest larger center, and Becca, fussing about the box of Royal Crown Derby
Old Imari at her feet as they traversed the rugged country road, was silent.

  Once they were on the smoother county road, paved but still narrow, Jaymie said, “Why didn’t anyone tell me about that? I don’t understand. I’m on the planning committee, and no one thought to say that Joel’s girlfriend is playing one of Queen Victoria’s daughters?”

  When Becca didn’t answer, Jaymie slewed a glance sideways at her sister’s profile in the dimness of the van, then returned her attention to the road. “Don’t tell me you knew?”

  “Of course not! I’m out of the loop, living across the border in Ontario. I’m not even on the committee anymore. You know I’d have told you.” She paused and glanced over at her younger sister’s face. “But I do understand why the others didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Becca was silent for a moment, clearly choosing her words carefully, and Jaymie wondered if she was so fragile, or appeared to be so fragile, that folks couldn’t be honest.

  “Well, you were so hurt when Joel left you—”

  “Do you blame me? He didn’t say a word, he just walked out of my house two weeks before Christmas and right into another woman’s arms!” She grimaced and shook her head. That sounded so melodramatic. She read lots of romance novels, and no good writer would ever have that phrase coming out of a heroine’s mouth. But she clearly wasn’t the heroine of this story; she was the scorned ex-girlfriend.

  “It’s not about blame, sweetie, but everyone in Queensville loves you—you’re one of them—and no one wants to hurt your feelings. So they just avoid the topic of Heidi and Joel with you.”

  Jaymie was silent, making the turn onto the highway, squinting into the rearview mirror at headlights that followed them in their turn. “I didn’t realize everyone was tiptoeing around me,” she mused.

  “That’s natural the first few months after a breakup,” Becca said. “Trust me, with two marriages on the rocks, I’m familiar with it. Usually that fades and, six months in or so, after the bust-up, people get back to normal. But you do wear your heart on your sleeve, little sister,” Becca said, reaching over and rubbing Jaymie’s shoulder. “They all know how hurt you were by what Joel did.”

  Jaymie sighed and checked the rearview mirror. The vehicle was a little close for comfort in the dark like this, but not unusually so. If she hadn’t been driving a van full of fragile cargo, she wouldn’t have been unnerved, but if she had to brake suddenly, that car would not have time to stop and would crash into the back. China and crystal everywhere, not to mention how the unsecured Hoosier would fare!

  “I’m pulling over to let this guy pass,” she said, slowing and pulling to the shoulder. “He’s a bumper-hugger, and if he’s so in a hurry, I want him to go.” The car shot past them, and Jaymie pulled back onto the highway.

  She and Rebecca discussed the weekend. Daniel Collins, the multimillionaire who owned Stowe House—the location of the Tea with the Queen fundraiser—would have already arrived or would be arriving early the next morning. Committee members, including Jaymie, would oversee the placement of the tables on his lawn Sunday, while Rebecca was responsible for laying the tables with linens and cups and saucers. The committee had been busy baking scones and tea cakes, and would brew the tea on-site.

  Mrs. Bellwood, the Queen Victoria impersonator, would be escorted by Trip Findley, who would play her consort, a rather elderly Prince Albert. He was seventy-four and had been playing Prince Albert for thirty-five years. Even though Prince Albert had died at forty-two, no one on the committee had enough cruelty in their bones to tell Trip he couldn’t play the part anymore.

  But who really cared? It wasn’t as if they were truly going for historical accuracy. The servers and historical reenactors would be garbed in Victorian clothes, but the paying customers would be dressed in everything ranging from skirts and blouses for the ladies and sport coats for men, to tank tops and cutoffs for the most casual tourists.

  They sped past the Motel 6 on the highway—travelers who weren’t able to find a room in one of Queensville’s five bed-and-breakfast establishments and two inns would soon fill the motel—and approached the turnoff for the village. Jaymie slowed gently, not willing to take the corner too fast with the weighty piece of furniture in the back, and another car zoomed up behind them, almost running into the back of the van.

  “Jerk,” she muttered, as the car careened past. “What is up with drivers tonight?”

  The road into the village was better lit than the highway, and Jaymie sighed with relief, easily navigating the corners and heading toward the lane that ran behind her house and the other homes on Maple Street. It was an old-fashioned village, with lanes running behind the houses instead of laneways beside each house. In years gone by the carriage and horses needed stabling, so each home had a shed or barn on the lane, except for some who had torn down a barn in favor of more lawn space.

  Somebody with their headlights on high blinded her for a second, the reflection beaming into her eyes from the side mirror, but she turned without incident and cruised down the back alley, shutting off her lights and backing into the spot behind her and Rebecca’s house. Becca’s Lexus had the place of honor in the drive shed, which shared a structure with the gardening shed.

  “What is it with drivers tonight?” Becca said, echoing Jaymie’s previous comment. “High beams in a village? Some people have no common sense.”

  “Maybe it’s a late arrival to Anna’s B&B,” Jaymie said of their next-door neighbor, as she unbuckled her seat belt. “She’s got a full house for the weekend. I saw one of her patrons at the auction.”

  “Can you get the back door, Jaymie?” Becca muttered, hefting the box at her feet. “I want to get this Crown Derby up to my room right away. I didn’t say anything before—didn’t want to advertise the fact—but there could be eight thousand dollars’ worth of china here, if I’m smart. Maybe even more.”

  “Wow.” Jaymie shuddered. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me that while I was being tailed by that creep on the highway!”

  “Exactly! Why do you think I didn’t say anything until now? I have a half dozen customers panting after good condition Old Imari. Now, go ahead of me and open the back door and do not let Hopalong trip me!”

  Jaymie did as she was told, and both of them heaved a huge sigh of relief once the weighty box of china was safely stowed in Rebecca’s room. They made two more trips up the stairs to Becca’s room with the boxes of fragile but nicely packed French crystal and Spode china. When they returned to the van to figure out how to move the Hoosier, Hopalong, Jaymie’s three-legged Yorkie-Poo, pranced along with them while Denver, her sleek, green-eyed tabby, slunk into the holly bushes that lined the backyard, creeping along until he got to the blooming forsythia bush. He parked himself under it and glared out at the world. Denver had a perpetually gloomy worldview and seemed utterly amazed when anyone stooped to pet him.

  Standing between the open back doors of the van, Rebecca crossed her arms over her bosom in her customary stance and glared at the two pieces of the Hoosier. “Now what?” she said.

  Jaymie stared up at the cabinet. It looked bigger, hulking in the dim interior of her van, than it had on the porch of the old farmhouse. “I can handle it,” she said, trying to muster up the confidence.

  “You can not! I will not let you be crushed by that . . . that eyesore. Why don’t you go ask Clive if he can help?” sensible Rebecca suggested, naming their neighbor, Clive Jones, who owned the next-door bed-and-breakfast with his wife, Anna.

  “He’s not arriving from Toronto until tomorrow,” Jaymie said. “He has to work late, and the last ferry runs from Johnsonville at eight, so he’s going to come first thing in the morning.” Clive worked in Toronto during the week, then made the long trek to Queensville to help his wife on weekends, supporting her dream, the bed-and-breakfast. With that and a toddler, their time was fully taken up.


  “Can I help?” came a voice out of the dark.

  Both women jumped, but then a fellow emerged from the darkness.

  “Pardon me,” he said, “but I overheard your dilemma, and I’m here to offer my services. Brett Delgado . . . I’m staying at the Jones’s bed-and-breakfast. Since Anna’s husband is not available, may I help?”

  “I saw you at the auction this evening,” Jaymie said, looking him over. He was the fellow who’d caught her staring and had smiled at her. But he was excessively well dressed to be hauling a dusty old piece of furniture out of the van. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke, which explained his late night stroll. Anna did not allow smoking in the B&B.

  “Yes, we did exchange glances, didn’t we?” he said, smiling at her, the dim lights that lined the back lane glinting in his blue eyes.

  “Did you buy anything?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything I really wanted. But I see that you did!” He eyed the hulking cabinet in the dark interior of the van.

  “We would be delighted if you would help,” Rebecca said, smiling over at him, her head cocked to one side.

  Jaymie rolled her eyes at Becca’s flirtatious glance; Brett caught Jaymie’s expression and winked at her. She hid her grin. Her big sister did not like to be laughed at. “First we have to dispose of these boxes, then we can carry the Hoosier into the kitchen.”

  “What did you call that thing . . . a Hoosier? As in, Indiana basketball team, or inspiring sports movie starring Gene Hackman?”

  First Jaymie removed the box of teacups and saucers and handed it off to Rebecca, who toted it through the back wrought-iron gate, along the flagstone path and up to the house, where the summer porch and kitchen lights shone a path out the back windows and door. Then she explained what a Hoosier was, and what it was used for, a modern cooking center for the early nineteen-hundreds woman. “This really is a ‘Hoosier’ brand cabinet, but there are other brands, like Knechtel and Sellers. Napanee. A few more.”