Leave It to Cleaver (A Vintage Kitchen Mystery Book 6)

by Victoria Hamilton

  “See you tomorrow, then,” Valetta said.

  Thirteen

  November 1, 1984

  VALETTA, SKIPPING A CLASS for the first time ever in her life, clutched her books to her chest and lingered outside the science lab, ducking her head every once in a while to look through the metal-mesh-reinforced glass in the door and make sure Delores Paget was indeed in this class. The bell rang, and the rumble of students—pushing out chairs, opening doors, chattering, laughing—roared through the halls like a tornado.

  Aha! There was Delores, in the red sweater knitted by Valetta’s mom. As the girl trudged out of the class in the flood of other students, Valetta grabbed her sleeve and pulled her aside. “Can I talk to you?”

  “What do you want?” Delores said, glaring at Valetta, her tone dripping with hostility.

  How the heck could she say this? What could she say? “Look, Delores, I know we’re not friends—”

  “No kidding,” the other girl said, pulling her sweater sleeve out of Valetta’s grasp. “I gotta get to next class.”

  “Just wait!” The flood of students was already thinning, and Val had to get to her next class, too. “I wanted to . . . I had to tell you . . .” She sighed and blurted out, “Look, my brother can be a jerk. I know he treated you crappy—”

  “You think I care about him?” Delores said, eyes wide, incredulity on her pimpled face. “I’m moving on. He’s history.”

  She should have been reassured by the girl’s combative words, but it felt like there was still a world of hurt behind them. “If you ever want to talk about it—”

  “With you? Hah!” She hooted in laughter. “That’s a real knee slapper. I’m so sure! You never had a single second for me before this and you got Becca jerked back into your tight-knit circle of three, so don’t pretend you give a flying f—” She glanced around at a teacher who was coming toward them. “A flying fig about me.”

  “Girls! Class. Now!” the woman said.

  “You can forget about me because I’m fine,” Delores hissed, poking her finger in Valetta’s chest. “I’ve got other things on my mind than your ugly, cheap, dork of a brother.” She whirled and headed down the hall as the teacher glared at them both.

  “Fine, whatever. Glad to know I could help,” Valetta muttered after her, turning in the opposite direction and hurrying down the hall to her next class.

  • • •

  Late April—The present

  ONCE INSIDE HER HOMEY, WARM KITCHEN, with the golden pool of light from the fixture over the sink illuminating the dark room, Jaymie tossed the plastic bag aside, then went through the familiar routine: animals fed, cat out, dog out, dog in, cat . . . search, call, and finally go out and find Denver lurking in the holly bushes and drag him back in for the night. Jakob had texted her. They would normally talk last thing in the evening, but he was at his mother’s place helping his parents with something, so he’d call her the next day.

  It was late, but she was restless. She prowled to one of her bookcases and let her eyes slide along the spines; nope, she wasn’t in the mood for reading a romance novel. That happened once in a very long while when she had something on her mind. She should be working on her column, due in three days, but it was too late to start. Actually, she was more interested in finding out what was on the flash drive Nan had given her. So she retreated to her room and sat on the bed with Hoppy on one side, Denver on the other, her legs wedged firmly under the covers between them. She opened up her laptop and inserted the flash drive, transferring the contents to a new folder, labeled Delores & Rhonda. She then started to peruse the files, sorting them into categories.

  There were news clips about the two girls, as well as yearbook photos, school records, interviews with kids they went to school with. There was a lot of raw data, transcribed reporter notes from interviews with Delores and Rhonda’s school friends. One name leaped out at her: Sybil Thorndike; a friend of Rhonda’s, according to the file. That was the exact same name as the principal of Jocie’s school. Could it be the same woman? Was she the school friend of Rhonda’s from the Chance Houghton Christian Academy? Jaymie made a note of that. Sybil told a reporter that Rhonda had said she was desperately unhappy and had no intention of finishing the school year at CHCA.

  There were pieces on Clifford Paget from when he went missing, including a bit from the friend who was with him when he disappeared, a fellow named Henk Hofwegen. She jotted down the unusual name. Alongside that article was a real estate ad with Brock Nibley’s name, and it triggered her memory: the box of stuff from Valetta! She jumped up, much to Denver’s grumpiness and Hoppy’s excitement. She dashed downstairs, got the box and brought it up, dumping the contents on the yellow and cream floral-patterned quilt.

  That was enough for Denver, who jumped down in a huff and stalked off, heading downstairs to the peace of his basket by the stove. Hoppy, meanwhile, sniffed the papers on the bed and sneezed, falling over from the effect. She laughed as he crept closer and put his one front paw on some of the papers and sneezed again. “I know, sweetie; dusty, huh? This stuff is old!”

  There were notes, an old address book, a few fan magazines. She leafed through some of those, noting the stars of the day, many of them still on tour! And there was the 1984 diary. Valetta had said she was free to read it, but she hesitated.

  This was all so strange, like slipping through a wormhole for a view at life thirty-plus years ago when her sister and friends were all teenagers. For a long time she had felt out of place with Valetta, DeeDee, Johnny, and even Becca, especially when they all got together to talk about the good old days. Now, of course, she had her own relationships with these people, and so her memories of them were her own. But this was a step back in time. Would she learn anything she didn’t want to learn about them all? Would it change her view of them?

  Hesitantly, she opened the diary. Valetta’s was typical handwriting for a teenage girl, with self-conscious loops and curlicues, hearts dotting is. Out of the slim volume slipped a couple of photos, the kind you get—or got—at drugstore photo machines. Nobody used those nowadays, Jaymie realized, because everybody, even teenagers—especially teenagers—carried a camera in their pocket in the form of a cell phone.

  The photos were of Valetta, Becca and Dee as teenagers. Jaymie smiled and set them aside. She flipped through the diary, still uncomfortable. But Valetta had said it was okay to read it, if it might help with getting a sense of what was going on that fall. So she dived in.

  She started in summer. Valetta recorded the weather, what she did, what TV she watched. She was a big fan of Dukes of Hazzard (John Schneider—sooo cute! Hearts hearts hearts), The Facts of Life and That’s Incredible! She adored Little House on the Prairie. She loved John Cougar, The Go-Gos and Kool and the Gang. She absolutely idolized Michael Jackson.

  And she missed her friend Becca. There was a strong thread, through the summer, of jealousy, that Becca had made friends with Delores Paget and now took off to go riding every chance she got instead of hanging out with Valetta, or even DeeDee. There was an acknowledgment that Dee was Becca’s best friend, but Valetta hinted that she was at least second best until Delores came along. Valetta also wrote how she wished she had a baby sister to cuddle, and that Becca was so lucky to have Jaymie.

  Loneliness oozed from the pages; it was heartrending. Jaymie identified, because at that same age she had felt awkward and unwanted, out of place and out of time. Her parents were older, already in their mid-fifties and looking toward retirement. Maybe that’s why she and Valetta had ended up such good friends; even though there was an age gap of fifteen years or more, they were similar.

  But then September came and school started. Valetta sounded upbeat and hopeful about the new school year. She listed her classes and the clubs she had signed up for: Poster Club, Creative Writing, Junior Band (she played the clarinet, to Jaymie’s surprise), and Chess Club. She mentioned boys she liked, and a football game she went to with Dee and Becca, when Gus (Juice Man)
Majewski was especially impressive.

  Jaymie smiled as she thought of Gus, now a fifty-year-old father of a young child. That he was a football hero and the object of countless girls’ adoration was funny now, when he was a worried father with silver in his hair and a spare tire around his middle. What had happened, she wondered, to turn his dreams of a college football career into dust? Because he never did go on to college, she now remembered, from something Jakob had once said. Had the loss of Rhonda been so devastating? It seemed to hurt him even now, over thirty years later.

  She skimmed on in the diary and came to Becca’s birthday party, and Valetta’s concern over Brock taking off with Delores in the family car. She was angry partly because he was supposed to give her a ride home. She was suspicious of his intentions with Delores. Fury at her older brother threaded through the next two months as he kept going out with Delores, disappearing with the family car instead of teaching her to drive, like he was supposed to be doing.

  Then there were angry passages when Brock apparently ditched any relationship he had with Delores to go out with Rhonda. Why SHE would go out with my crappy brother, I can’t figure out, Valetta raged at one point. A few days later, the snicker was almost audible when she wrote, I get it now; Rhonda was just using Brock to get Gus jealous so he’d stop playing around with cheerleaders. Ha-ha to Brock, I say!

  Interesting. Brock had reason to be very angry at Rhonda. Did Valetta realize that when she gave Jaymie permission to read the diary? She was intent on clearing Brock from suspicion, but this didn’t do it.

  Jaymie settled back and read more carefully as she came to the days in questions, late October, before Delores and Rhonda disappeared, never to be seen again. There wasn’t a whole lot. November first she wrote that she had tried to make friends with Delores but that the girl was sulky and didn’t want anything to do with her. November second was a long tirade: school was crappy; her Sony Walkman, which had cost her a bundle of the money she had saved from working all summer to buy, was broken. She blamed Brock, who had borrowed it the day before and come home late that night with the car, which he had borrowed without permission. He had tried to sneak it back into her room broken, but she had caught him at it.

  Also, someone, she said, had been in her room the day before and someone had used her perfume. Who would do that? Not her mom, and not Brock. It was weird.

  Monday, November fifth’s entry was written in a scribble, with an undertone of unease. Gossip was buzzing through the school. Delores Paget was missing. She had been at school last Thursday, Valetta knew that, she wrote, because she had talked to her then; Delores was again wearing the red sweater Valetta’s mom had knit. It must have been a favorite. Sometime after lunch period Delores left, according to gossip. Valetta scribbled more, worry running through her words; Brock, who was skipping school that day, said he’d seen her in Queensville and that she’d said she was taking off. But she hadn’t said that to anyone else, not even Becca, just about her only friend at Wolverhampton High. Where had Delores gone?

  This was a lot to think about. Jaymie set the diary aside, deeply troubled. Something didn’t add up. The more she learned, the worse Brock looked. Valetta was always apologizing for him: the way he acted, things he said, things he did. But Jaymie had never considered him malicious or dangerous before.

  Was it time to rethink that?

  Fourteen

  November 1, 1984

  BROCK NIBLEY glumly slumped on the top step of the Queensville Emporium, huddled in a beat-up leather jacket he’d found at the Goodwill. It was damn cold and getting colder. He was trying to figure out how to spend the rest of the afternoon, having skipped out of school at lunch. That last joke from a couple of the guys about his girlfriend-less state had been enough. Everyone was a jerk anyway. School was for suckers.

  Delores Paget hiked into view, backpack over her shoulder, sour look on her face. She stopped, scanned the whole green area near the store, then continued on toward him. Hmm. Why was she in Queensville?

  The poor girl was probably looking for him; probably came to find him when he wasn’t in school. She was crazy about him, after all. Until recently she had been calling his house almost every day. She hadn’t called for a while, true, but . . . maybe he had been hasty dumping her when Rhonda had agreed to go out with him. A girl in the hand, and all that. He chuckled at his own wit. Nobody appreciated how smart he was, not even his own sister.

  He jumped off the step. “Hey, Del! Hey! Del! Come here.”

  She glanced over, saw him, and stopped but didn’t approach.

  Brock stretched, smiling and beckoning her. “Come here. I wanna talk to you.”

  She approached slowly, blinking and fidgeting with the strap of her backpack.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” he asked, reaching out, caressing her shoulder. “You’re wearing the red sweater Mom made for you. That’s cool!” he said, touching the knitted red yarn under her heavy, lined blue jean jacket.

  “What do you want, Brock?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “Just to talk. Come on, sit down with me.”

  “I don’t think so, jerk.”

  So . . . she was still mad at him for dumping her. That proved even more that she liked him a lot. He licked his lips. She was dumpy and nothing to look at, but he could still remember how eagerly she had kissed him in the car when he took her out to a back road to neck. “You’re still mad ’cause I said we couldn’t go out anymore.”

  “You mean because you dumped me for Rhonda Welch,” she said swiftly, anger hardening her voice.

  Probably not best to remind her what he’d said and done. He hadn’t been as nice as he should have been when he told her he didn’t want to go out with her again. Next time he dumped a girl he’d lie his ass off in case he wanted to pick up where he left off. “It was a mistake, Del,” he said, a wheedling tone in his voice. “I’m really sorry. She can’t hold a candle to you; you know that. You’re way smarter than she is.”

  “And brains are what you’re looking to feel up in the dark?” She whirled and started trudging away, but turned back. “Is there a pay phone somewhere?”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.” She paused, an uncertain expression on her face. “I was supposed to meet someone, if you have to know.”

  “Someone? Like someone who?” Did she have some other guy on the hook?

  “None of your beeswax,” she said, walking backward, slowly. “Is there one?”

  There was a pay phone in the Emporium but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “If you need to make a call, you can come back to my place where it’s free.” He thought quickly; this was his mom’s day to clean old Mrs. Stubbs’s house, so she wouldn’t be home. He might even get lucky. His heart started to beat faster as he waited for her to respond.

  She looked doubtful.

  “Come on,” he wheedled. “It’s free. And you look cold. Let me make it up to you. I feel bad for how we ended things.”

  She shivered and huddled in her coat. “No funny stuff?”

  She was a little squirmy last time he had tried to put his hand up her top. Maybe he needed to take it slower, use more finesse. He’d take her to Val’s room, which smelled a lot nicer than his, and sweet-talk her. “No funny stuff. Scout’s honor.” Not that he’d ever been a scout.

  “Okay. But just to use the phone.”

  “Who you calling?” he asked again.

  “I told you, none of your freakin’ business.”

  Snotty little witch. Grimly, he grabbed her hand. He didn’t need to like her, he just needed to get her alone. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  His house was empty, like he’d hoped. “Where’s your phone?” Delores asked.

  “Right there,” he said, indicating the wall phone in the kitchen. As she picked up the receiver, he raced off to check Valetta’s room. Okay, neat enough, he thought, scanning it. Too girlish, but whatever. The flowered wallpaper was covered with posters of John Cougar and John Schneider
cut from a magazine. Anyway, her bed was made.

  He grabbed her Sony Walkman off the bed and tossed it onto the desk, where it clattered loudly, then he picked up her Love’s Baby Soft perfume atomizer and squirted some on the pink chenille bedspread. He propped up Valetta’s furry cushions against the wall on the single bed and examined the effect, rubbing his hands together. Perfect.

  He returned to the kitchen as Delores was hanging up the phone. “Hey, want a Coke?” he said, ambling to the fridge. “We got Orange Crush, too.”

  “No. I have to make another call,” she said, her expression filled with tension. She kicked her knapsack to sit between her feet, as if she didn’t want it anywhere near him, and picked up the phone again.

  “You said one call!”

  “What’s it to you? It’s not costing you anything,” she said.

  He snatched the handset from her grasp and slammed it onto the cradle. “You don’t have to be rude. I’m being nice to you. You ought to be grateful.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she picked the receiver up again. “Lay off, Brock. Just one more call.”

  “Then you’ll have a Coke?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Just let me make this call.”

  She glared at him until he ambled out of the room, but kept his ears perked. Trouble was, she mumbled. Sounded like she was asking a question, then there was silence. Then she asked another question. He edged closer to eavesdrop.

  “Okay,” she said, then hung up.

  He came back into the kitchen as she hoisted her backpack.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “But you said—”

  “Forget it, Brock. I have to get home right away.” She headed to the door.

  “Why? Your parents there?”