A Deadly Grind

by Victoria Hamilton

  “You did,” Jaymie said softly. “You got me through it.”

  “And they stayed married,” Becca said.

  It would be okay, Jaymie suddenly felt. Everything would be all right. They’d hang tight and get through it together. “Good night, Becca,” she said, hugging her sister hard. “You are the best sister in the world. See you in the morning.”

  When she returned to her own room, she glanced over to her dresser. Darn it! She had meant to show Becca the pavé pin and ask if she’d lost it, but it would have to wait until the next day now. She tossed and turned for the rest of the night, getting up to test the doors half a dozen times, followed by an anxious Hoppy, whose little lion heart would not let her go into danger, real or imagined, alone.

  Finally she rose at six and her day got off to a running start. Becca was still sleeping when she left the house, so she left her a note, promising to meet up with her later. They had survived their first night in the house, and the next would be better.

  First, Jaymie helped Anna with breakfast for her B&B guests, and did up the dishes for her. Though she was a competent woman and a great mom to Tabby, Anna was surprisingly tentative about her chosen business. Should she serve all kinds of fruit, she had asked Jaymie, or only what was in season? The notion of what eggs to serve had given Anna nightmares for three weeks; should they be ordered as the guest liked, or available on a hot plate, served only one way? Multigrain, morning glory, or muesli muffins? Why Anna had wanted to run a B&B if she couldn’t decide on even the breakfast was a mystery.

  Jaymie had tried, for the three months leading up to the Shady Rest’s grand opening, to help Anna, to the point that it seemed that most of the final decisions about the breakfast part of B&B were Jaymie’s, even down to the china pattern for the dishes that Anna ultimately chose and sourced through Becca, a lovely robin’s egg blue chintz pattern that echoed the wallpaper in the entryway. As much as Jaymie liked Anna and Clive, she was going to have to put limits on the amount she helped, since it was just beginning to occur to her that Anna would take as much help as Jaymie would give, and always need more.

  Jaymie then returned home to find that Becca had left a note: Gone to help Dee and the others move boxes of china and coffee urns to Stowe House—come as soon as you can. We need all the help we can get!

  She had to get moving, but first things first. She called the police department and was put on hold, shunted through various departments until she finally got Detective Christian’s voice mail and left a message. He called right back, just as she was making something to eat.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Leighton?”

  “Any news?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. She got some eggs out of the fridge and cracked a couple in a bowl. “An arrest?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it.”

  “Do you know who the dead guy is?”

  “It takes time to run his prints through the database.”

  “I notice you dusted the Hoosier.”

  “The big cabinet? Yes, the victim’s prints were on it, but they were on every box and some of the other things, too.”

  “What about the grinder?”

  “No comment.”

  “No hint as to what the victim was looking for?”

  “I’m afraid not, Ms. Leighton.”

  He sounded distracted, and she knew he wanted to go and do his work, but she had one more question. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “and I’m wondering if the guy who died broke into our house by mistake. The house on the other side of ours, the Watsons’ home, is empty right now. They won’t be up from Florida for a few weeks.”

  “We’ll look into it. Is that it, Ms. Leighton?”

  “I won’t keep you. You must be busy,” she said.

  “We had an unusually active night last night,” he said. “Lots of calls about prowlers.”

  “I suppose folks are nervous about the murder. I sure am. So, you still don’t know who the dead guy is, and don’t have any leads on the murderer.”

  “We’re working on it. You can call or drop in at the station anytime, and we’ll let you know what we can.” He paused, then said, “Is everything all right there? We had an officer stationed outside your house last night.”

  She sighed. “It would have helped a lot if I’d known for sure you were going to do that,” she said.

  “My apologies. An officer will be there again tonight, just so you know, but I doubt we’ll be able to keep someone there indefinitely; limited manpower. You understand. Is there anything else?”

  In other words, let him get back to work. “No, nothing else.”

  After she hung up, she thought of the diamond pavé pin she’d found in the holly bushes, but that didn’t seem like the kind of detail the detective was looking for. She shrugged, and made some scrambled eggs. After a quick brunch, gulped in mouthfuls while she changed into her dreadful maid’s outfit, it was time to get to Daniel’s house to help set up. Jaymie patted the last hairpin in place, finishing her transformation into nineteenth-century servant, and glared at herself in the cheval mirror in the spare room, where her Victorian maid’s uniform was kept, and where she changed into it.

  There was no getting around it; she looked awful! Black was most definitely not her color, and her gold-flecked brown hair—a bit unruly at times but her most attractive feature—was pulled up away from her too-round face into a matronly bun with a lace cap pinned over it. Blush and lipstick would have helped, but she was determined to be as authentic as possible. Many of the other servers—all would be wearing maid’s outfits—didn’t bother with historical accuracy, but it didn’t feel right to Jaymie to go all out and then not finish with the details. So she would just have to suck it up, she thought, taking a deep breath and nodding to her disgruntled reflection.

  She had to walk through the village in her outfit, since Stowe House was just a few blocks away. It was a glorious May day, though, the liquid song of robins and orioles fluting through the air as the birds flitted back and forth in the maples and poplars above her, their songs contrasted by the discordant screech of blue jays. Chipmunks darted in and out of the shrubberies, cheeks full of sunflower seeds from the bird feeders.

  She focused on all these things as she strolled past Queen Anne–style brick homes bounded by picket fences that enclosed burgeoning gardens, and smaller cottages surrounded by split-rail enclosures. More modern homes were confined to the perimeter of the village, away from the town center. The swish of her long skirts around her ankles took her back; she wondered about life in her riverside village in the eighteen hundreds.

  The name Queensville was chosen for the former hamlet of Stoweville in 1864 in honor of Queen Victoria and fifty years of peace between Canada and the United States. Canada was moving toward its own celebration of national independence by then; since Confederation, the two towns celebrated each other’s national days with a joint week of festivities. At first it was all about the villagers of the two towns, but now it launched the summer tourist trade.

  Heartbreak Island, split between the two friendly (most of the time) nations, was used as the launching point for fireworks displays. Detroit had the sponsorship to put a barge in the middle of their own river for fireworks, but Queensville had to make do with the island.

  Jaymie would have to get out there soon to make sure Rose Tree Cottage was fitted up for the first summer guests, who arrived for their annual visit in mid-June. The rental and maintenance of the Leighton family cottage was her responsibility. With her various other part-time jobs, it gave her a sparse income that would hopefully be supplemented by income from her cookbook-to-be. There were seven regular guests over the summer, staying a week or two each; they all liked the island’s isolation, and yet also its proximity to Lake Huron beaches; Stratford, Ontario’s Shakespeare festival; Detroit’s shopping and the ann
ual Queensville/Johnsonville regatta and race in the St. Clair River.

  She rounded the corner of MacDonald and Maple and noted that Stowe House was already abuzz with activity, even an hour before the two p.m. start of the Queen’s Tea. Jaymie stood for a moment on the road, watching before diving in to help. Stowe House was a Queen Anne mansion built by Queensville’s most prominent citizen, Lazarus Stowe, in 1882 to replace a more modest house since torn down. It was typical Queen Anne, with multiple cupolas, a sweeping porch with a large rounded section to the left front and a widow’s walk up at the peak of the turreted section.

  The lawns were broad swaths of emerald grass bounded by hardy China rose hedges and wrought-iron spike-topped fencing. Mrs. Bellwood’s fear that Daniel Collins would ruin the property with newfangled notions like central air had not come to fruition, and in fact he was likely a more sympathetic owner than anyone else, other than the Heritage Society, would have been. Even the Heritage Society would have had to do things like put in a modern fire-alarm system, install exit signs and make lots of other modifications, if the home was to be used as a public facility. Strange for a micro-computer millionaire, but Daniel Collins seemed to have a genuine appreciation for history and had saved Stowe House from its inevitable fate, being cut up into offices or apartments.

  Why had he bought the house in the first place? Jaymie realized she had never even thought to ask him.

  An assortment of round and square tables dotted the lawn, and up on the porch, in the shade, were the tables that held the coffee urns, kettles, teapots and trays of goodies. In accordance with health regulations, a couple of small refrigerators had been pressed into service to hold the milk and cream, so gaudy orange outdoor extension cords snaked along the porch and into an open window.

  Jaymie took in a deep breath—“girding her loins” as Grandma Leighton called it—and entered the property through the open wrought-iron gate and proceeded up the stone walkway. Several others were dressed as she was, in the black stuff maid’s outfits, but the ladies of the heritage guild, in deference to their age and fragility, sat up on the porch in the shade. They wore their usual Sunday church dresses and hats and presided in august splendor. One of the elderly husbands was just setting up a card table at the gate and fanning out glossy full-color pamphlets explaining the Tea with the Queen. Folks would be directed to pay up on the porch and get their tea tickets, and from there they would be guided to a table by the “servants.”

  “Jaymie!” Becca called, striding across the grass toward her, carrying a box, face flushed and in full panic mode. She paused, directed Daniel Collins in the placement of what looked like the last table on the lawn, then continued on to Jaymie, plunking a big cardboard box labeled “Linens” at her feet. “We need to get these tables dressed. We only have a half hour or so to go before the first guests arrive, and you’re the only one of these women I trust to do it right!”

  Daniel glanced toward her, waved, but then continued working to level the table with a chunk of brick under one leg. Jaymie got busy laying tablecloths and setting out the dreadful polyester faux-damask napkins. Some tables would fit six, some only four, and one long one, suitable for twelve, was for strays and the truly sociable. Before long guests started arriving, and then it was time for the grand entrance of the Queen and her retinue. Jaymie and the rest of the “servants” formed a respectful line near the gate.

  The Queensville Heritage Society must have decided at one of the meetings Jaymie had missed to have Mrs. Bellwood arrive at the tea in grand style, by carriage, even in good weather. Perhaps it was in deference to her age, and the fact that she wore a thirty-pound black bombazine gown underpinned by a tight corset, and topped her ensemble with five pounds of jet jewelry. The Mackenzie Auctions open landau and team of black carriage horses had been pressed into use. Mrs. Bellwood (Her Majesty, Queen Victoria), Trip Findley (His Royal Highness Albert, Prince Consort), and Heidi (Princess Beatrice) were comfortably resplendent. It was a wonderful sight, despite MACKENZIE FAMILY AUCTIONS emblazoned in gold lettering on the side of the shiny black coach.

  The tourists were eating it up, Jaymie noted, glancing around at the number of Canadian tourists, American visitors and dozens of locals standing opposite the “servants,” near the wrought-iron fence, snapping the scene with digital cameras and disposables. Weather was always a concern at the Queen’s Tea; May was fickle . . . it could be balmy, sultry or even frigid. It could rain, snow, hail, or the humidity could be so high—like it had been the previous year—that folks would be rushing to put in air conditioners and open pools. But this day was perfect: cerulean sky, white puffy clouds, a light breeze and nodding gardens full of perennials and even some early roses.

  The queen and her husband and daughter—Jaymie had to admit that Heidi looked lovely and regal in an ivory off-the-shoulder gown adorned with silk roses, meant to resemble, perhaps, Princess Beatrice’s wedding gown—took their places at the center table and were served by DeeDee, in her modified Victorian maid’s outfit. Jaymie got busy. For a while, all she could think of was pouring and bussing and carrying trays of goodies, directing people to pay at the table on the veranda, and smiling at people’s cracks about her outfit. Sticky-handed children, cranky elderly folk, and the odd dissatisfied customer contrasted sharply with most guests, who were polite and complimentary.

  But eventually things calmed down and she got to serve a few of the locals: Valetta Nibley, her brother, Brock, and Anna, Clive and Tabitha Jones among them. Of course the murder victim was a hot topic.

  “I figure that to know who the murderer is, we first have to know who the dead guy is,” Jaymie said.

  “So, who is he?” Valetta asked, her gaze steady on Jaymie’s face.

  “That’s the problem. I have no clue,” Jaymie said.

  “You saw him, though,” Brock said, his beady stare boring into her.

  “I did,” she said, pleating the tablecloth between her fingers, trying to erase the bloody image from her mind. “He was . . . I don’t know, maybe mid-thirties, nicely dressed, sandy brown hair.” She shuddered at the memory of the blood clotting his thick thatch of hair.

  “How was he killed?” Brock asked.

  “Don’t remind her of that,” Valetta said, giving her brother a dig in the ribs.

  “You started it,” he retorted.

  “No, it’s okay,” Jaymie said. “He was hit over the head with . . . with something,” she said, unwilling to go into her supposition that the weapon was her vintage grinder. “I’ve been racking my brain since yesterday trying to figure it all out. I just checked, and the police don’t know who he is yet.”

  “That means his fingerprints aren’t on file,” Valetta said. “So he’s not a federal employee, and he’s never been in the military.”

  “They took all of our fingerprints—mine, Clive’s and Becca’s—I guess to eliminate them from the ones they lifted from the summer porch,” Jaymie said. “But neither the dead guy nor whoever killed him made it into the house. Who’s missing in town? Guess that would be a good place to start.”

  Anna, at the next table, leaned over and said, “Well, Ted Abernathy, our guest.”

  “One of the gay guys staying at the Shady Rest?” Brock Nibley asked, from his seat to the left of his sister.

  Anna blushed crimson and glanced over at Tabby, who, in her pretty dress and last-minute addition—fairy wings—was wholly entranced with pouring imaginary tea down her doll’s throat. Clive put one dark hand over his wife’s, and said, “Yes, Mr. Abernathy is one of our guests, Brett Delgado’s life partner,” he affirmed. “But Brett and he had a disagreement, and Mr. Abernathy left in a huff. No mystery; just a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “So the guy says! Maybe he killed his lover.” Brock had a dim view of anyone outside of his immediate circle of acquaintances, so an “outsider” was immediately suspect.

  “I don’
t think so,” Clive said. “Besides, the deceased is about five foot ten or so. I saw him too, remember. Mr. Abernathy is, from my understanding, a good four or five inches taller and somewhat older, with lighter hair, graying at the temples.”

  “We’ve checked with the other B&B owners in town; no one else is missing anyone,” Anna said.

  “Daniel Collins’ friend, Trevor Standish, hasn’t shown up when he said he would,” Jaymie chimed in. “But he texted Daniel to tell him he’d be late, so I guess you can’t count him missing.”

  “Why are we even thinking the dead guy is someone local or staying in town?” Valetta asked, glancing around. “He’s probably some stranger passing through.”

  “But how did he get here, then?” Jaymie asked, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

  “There aren’t any strange cars in town,” Clive said, “and no one was noticed hitching anywhere near, or so I heard from one of the officers on the case.”

  “Someone could have come over from the island or from Canada on the ferry, though,” Jaymie said, as it occurred to her. She shifted from foot to foot. The black shoes she was wearing were beginning to hurt her feet on the uneven lawn.

  Valetta nodded. “It’s too easy to walk on the ferry in Canada and walk off here, and just not go back.”

  Brock said, “That’s how all the illegals get here!”

  They ignored him. Brock got that reaction a lot. He was the voice of truth, Jaymie had heard him say once, only people don’t like to hear the truth. She privately thought he was the voice of idiocy, but out of respect for Valetta, she kept her mouth shut.

  DeeDee, who was passing with a tray full of dirty teacups, paused. “You all talking about the mur . . . uh, the unfortunate occurrence?” she asked, modifying her wording as she caught sight of Tabitha. She leaned in toward them and continued, “Lyle says one of his guests hasn’t checked in for a few days, but the guy has been staying at the inn for weeks and sometimes goes off on jaunts to the city and over to Canada.”