Home For the Homicide (A Do-It-Yourself Mystery)

by Bentley, Jennie

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Brandon reached up and rubbed the back of his head. His hair probably felt like a soft bristle brush when he did that. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “One of us?”

  He shook his head.

  “Who?” I asked at the same time as Derek said, “Who else did you think would be here?”

  “Mary Green,” Brandon said.

  It took a second. “Who?”

  Derek caught on before I did. Or maybe he knew Mamie’s birth name while I didn’t. “What makes you think she’s here?”

  “She wanders off from the nursing home,” Brandon said. “They take Ruth away for physical therapy or something, and Mamie gets confused and wanders off.”

  “But why would she come here?”

  “Because it’s the only home she’s ever had,” Brandon said patiently. “She lived in this house for more than seventy years. She’s lived in the nursing home for three months. It’s no wonder she gets a little turned around.”

  “We haven’t seen her,” I told him.

  “You were down here. Any chance she could have snuck in when you weren’t looking?”

  Derek shook his head. “We’ve been in and out hauling junk. And we heard you come in. I think we would have heard her, too. But you’re welcome to look around.”

  “I already did,” Brandon said. “Guess I’ll just have to keep driving around.”

  He turned to walk away, and Derek said, “Hang on a second.”

  Brandon turned back. “What?”

  “Since you’re here, help me carry this baby pram upstairs. It’s heavy.”

  Brandon shrugged and headed down the stairs. I took the baby doll out of the carriage and watched the two of them wrestle the heavy vehicle up the stairs. When they reached the top, I followed, absently cradling the doll.

  Upstairs, I turned the basement light out and closed and locked the door, before following Derek out of the house. He was wheeling the baby carriage across the hardwood floors to the front door, and bumping over the threshold. I pulled the door shut behind me on the way through.

  Derek stopped before he got to the Dumpster, and looked at me across his shoulder. “You think John will be interested in the carriage, too?”

  I bit my lip. “It’s a little before his period, I think. And it’s in pretty bad shape. Although it seems a shame to throw it out . . .”

  Derek nodded. “How about we just leave it here”—he parked it beside the porch, behind a spindly and leafless bush—“until tomorrow, and decide then. They won’t be picking up the Dumpster for a few days anyway.”

  “Sure.” I dumped the naked baby—doll—into the carriage, more gently perhaps than necessary, and turned to Brandon while Derek went back up on the porch to lock the front door. “I hope you find Mamie soon. I don’t like the idea of her wandering around in the cold and dark.”

  Brandon nodded. “Give me a call if you see her. You know what she looks like, right?”

  “I’ve seen her a few times since I moved here. And she isn’t someone you forget.”

  “True,” Brandon said, grinning. “When I was a kid, she used to push that thing”—he gestured to the baby carriage—“around town when the weather was good. Not sure whether she thought she had a real baby or she just never grew past playing with dolls.”

  I didn’t know, either, but either way, it spoke of someone out of touch with reality. Someone who had no business wandering around Waterfield in the cold and dark of December. “Let me know if you need me to drive around and look for her. She could die out here in the cold.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Brandon said and headed for his car.

  I turned to Derek. “What are you and your dad doing tonight? Do you have plans?”

  He shook his head. “Just to hang out at the house. Watch TV. Talk. You don’t have to feed me. Cora made lasagna.”

  “Yum,” I said. “Maybe I’ll come with you.”

  He shook his head. “No, you won’t. You’ll drop me off, pick up Cora, drive to Kate’s, and come back for me. No lasagna for you.”

  I pouted. “Fine. Be a hog.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Derek said, patting his wonderfully flat stomach. “You won’t starve, Avery. Kate’ll feed you.”

  She would. “We should get home and get changed. I can’t go to Kate’s looking like this.”

  Derek shook his head. “If we hurry, maybe we can squeeze in a bit of exercise, too.”

  Maybe so. I smiled as I let him give me a boost up into the cab of the truck.

  • • •

  Kate lived in a gorgeous Queen Anne Victorian a few blocks from Aunt Inga’s house—and for that matter from the Green sisters’ house—in Waterfield Village. When she bought it some seven or eight years ago, it had been divided up into apartments, with crappy rental bathrooms and rental kitchens. Kate and Derek had spent the best part of a year—and all of Kate’s savings—turning it back into a single-family home fit for use as a bed and breakfast.

  The Waterfield Inn had taken my breath away when I’d stayed in it on my first night in town, and although I’d seen it a hundred times since, when I walked in that evening and saw it decked out in all its Christmas finery, it did it again. Kate had gone easy on the decorating last year—busy with the upcoming nuptials on New Year’s Eve—and this was the first year I’d seen it in all its glory. The Victorians did tend to go a bit overboard, or at least it seems that way to our modern, more simplistic tastes, so the Waterfield Inn looked just a bit as if a stage production of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol had exploded in the foyer. There were pine garlands, gold rope with tassels, and burgundy ribbons draping the staircase to the second floor, and the fireplace mantel was groaning under armfuls of pine boughs decorated with gold-sprayed pinecones and gold cherubs. Fat burgundy pillar candles were interspersed throughout—groupings of them, arranged on top of what must be boxes, since they were of different heights—and so were big, fat burgundy silk roses.

  A grouping of carolers in Victorian garb, three or so feet tall, stood beside the fireplace, mouths open and songbooks in their hands.

  And then there was the tree: a Frasier fir fully twelve feet tall, with an angel on top, decorated with ribbons and strings of pearls, more silk roses (in burgundy, pink, and off-white), and golden pinecones. And lights, lots and lots of lights.

  It was overwhelming, to say the least, and I just stood on the mat, openmouthed, while Cora came in behind me and pushed the door closed.

  I turned to her. “Wow.”

  She nodded, shrugging out of her coat. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  I started removing my own, still gawking at everything. “Nobody else has a chance of competing with this. Kate’s may as well be the only house on the Christmas Tour.”

  “It’s not a competition,” Cora said. “It’s an opportunity to let visitors see several of our historic homes. Not just this one.” She reached for my down coat.

  I gave it to her and watched her lay it, along with her own, on a velvet settee by the wall. “I know that. But I don’t want anyone walking into my house and thinking, ‘Well, this can’t compare.’”

  “Of course not,” Cora said calmly. “But that won’t happen, Avery. You have wonderful taste. Your home will look lovely. As lovely as this, but different.”

  Different, for sure. Walking in here was like getting slapped across the face by Old Saint Nicholas. Overwhelming. And not just because I was having feelings of inferiority, but because there was so much of it. Christmas, Christmas everywhere, and not a drop to drink.

  “I need alcohol,” I said.

  “I’m sure Kate has some.” Cora took me by the arm and led me toward the hallway to the rest of the house. The meeting was to take place in the kitchen, since the rest of the house was decorated to within an inch of its life. From the buzz of voices, it was already under way, or at least close to commencing. I had surmised as much from the number of cars lining
the curb.

  (Yes, Derek and I had fit in a bit of exercise before heading out, and as a result, Cora and I were running a few minutes late.)

  Walking into the dining room was like déjà vu all over again. Christmas stuff everywhere. There was a mantel in here, too, decorated with greenery, candles, and bird’s nests. Fat, feathered birds sat in them. Fake, I assume, since I doubt Kate would decorate her house with real stuffed birds for Christmas. The Victorians may have done so, but we’ve progressed some since then. Their little black eyes felt like they were following me around the room.

  The heavy sideboard was likewise decorated with greenery, candles, and gilded fruit. I’m sure that wasn’t real, either—or at least I hope not—but it looked gorgeous. And the dining room table was set with china and silverware on a damask tablecloth, in the middle of which sat the biggest centerpiece I’d ever seen in my life: an urn filled with a tower of gilded fruits and a pineapple perched precariously on top, reminiscent of Carmen Miranda’s headdress. The whole thing must have been four feet tall; almost big enough to brush the chandelier above the table.

  “Gah!” I said, imagining my own dining room. Compared to this, it looked positively bare.

  “Come along, Avery.” Cora tugged on my arm and we passed through the dining room into the kitchen beyond.

  Kate’s kitchen was beautiful, and not Victorian at all. Updated with new cabinets and granite counters and stainless steel appliances. Everything I had wanted when I started renovating Aunt Inga’s house. Instead I’d gotten Derek, who refused to allow me to discard Aunt Inga’s cabinets from the 1930s. I’d told him at the time that they looked like they were made out of driftwood. It wasn’t quite that bad, although they weren’t what I wanted at all. I’d come around to his way of thinking over the past year, though. I love my vintage kitchen, old cabinets and all. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate the modern efficiency of Kate’s.

  I also appreciated how there were no Victorian Christmas decorations in here. Not a one, unless you counted the three-tier dessert stand on the counter: amber and heavily cut, halfway filled with gilded fruits and frosted pinecones. A decoration in progress.

  The room was full of women. In addition to Kate, Cora, and myself, I recognized Kate’s daughter, Shannon, a student at local Barnham College, sitting at the table talking to an old lady with gray hair and an uncompromising demeanor. Her name was Edith Barnes, and she was Derek’s old history teacher, as well as the librarian at the Waterfield Historical Society, which happened to be located in the historic Fraser House. I’d seen rather a lot of Miss Barnes during my time in Waterfield, since I’d spent considerable time researching the various houses we’d worked on.

  The two of them couldn’t have looked any more different if they tried. Miss Barnes was the classic old maid: tall, scrawny, and dragon-like, in a twinset and pearls. Shannon was twenty-one and stunning, with her mother’s height and centerfold figure, but without the freckles and with hair the color of black cherries.

  Of the other women seated around the table, I only recognized one: Judy Norton, the wife of Derek’s old buddy Bartholomew Norton, who also happened to be the reverend at the local church. She looked up and smiled when we came in.

  “Hi, Cora. Avery.”

  I smiled back and found a chair across the table from her. “Good to see you, Judy.”

  She was eight or ten years older than me, a few years older than her husband, and a few inches taller, as well. Not that she’s oversized or anything, but Barry was hardly bigger than me.

  “Do you know Henrietta?” She gestured to the lady on her left, another septuagenarian by the looks of it, but a lot frailer than Edith Barnes.

  “I don’t.” I smiled at her. “I’m Avery Baker . . . Ellis.”

  Judy chuckled at my hesitation. “Not used to it yet?”

  Not quite. “It’s only been a couple months. And I don’t have occasion to introduce myself a lot.”

  To Henrietta, I added sheepishly, “I got married in October.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” A lady of few words, it seemed. “So where do you live, Henrietta?”

  The question wasn’t as rude as it may have seemed, since I assumed we were all here because our houses were to be part of the home tour.

  “Cabot Street,” Henrietta said.

  “Like Cora.”

  She nodded.

  “In one of the Victorians?” Cabot Street—like a lot of Waterfield Village—was Victorian. Aunt Inga’s house, Kate’s house, Cora and Dr. Ben’s house.

  “No, it’s an Arts and Crafts bungalow,” Henrietta said.

  “My husband and I are renovating one of those right now. On North Street. The Green sisters’ house.”

  Her face tightened. I waited for her to say something, but when she didn’t, Judy cut in. “And this is Kerri.”

  Kerri sat on Judy’s other side: a woman a few years older than Judy, with a shock of red hair. Not the soft copper of Kate’s curls, or the deep dark cherry of Shannon’s, but a red nature never intended, at least not for hair. Currants, maybe. Or poppies. Ripe tomatoes.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said politely. “Avery Ellis.”

  It was easier this time, since I’d just done it.

  Kerri grinned. She was a lot friendlier than Henrietta, I’ll say that for her. Her voice was deep, a husky contralto, and a little hoarse. Maybe she smoked. “The pleasure’s all mine. I live on North Street. I’ve seen you coming and going the last few days.”

  “We started working on the house yesterday. Just tearing out so far, but by the end of the week, we’ll be ready to start putting in new stuff. Which house is yours?”

  Kerri chuckled. “The ugly one.”

  The . . .

  And then it dawned on me. “The infill?”

  At some point, a house on North Street in the Village must have met with some sort of accident. A fire maybe? I had no idea really; all I knew was that there was no reason why there would be an empty lot in the middle of the block, if there hadn’t at one time been a house on it, one that wasn’t there anymore.

  This was back a few decades, mind you. Long before my time. But it was the only way I could conceive of why there would be a classic 1960s split-level Brady Bunch–type house in the middle of a neighborhood of Victorians and Craftsman cottages. The house that was originally there must have burned, or maybe just been torn down, prior to the Village’s designation as protected, and someone had erected a split-level ranch.

  “It isn’t ugly,” I protested. “You keep it looking pretty.” As nice as it could, surrounded by the older, admittedly more attractive architecture. It wasn’t the house’s fault that it couldn’t possibly compete. “The landscaping is nice. And I noticed you’ve decorated the outside for Christmas.”

  Kerri nodded. “The inside, too. And it isn’t really ugly, I guess. It just looks out of place.”

  No arguing with that.

  She added, “Where do you live, Avery?”

  “On Bayberry,” I told her. “The top of the hill. I inherited my aunt Inga’s house a year and a half ago.”

  “Of course. The pretty blue Victorian.”

  “Yup.” Although it hadn’t always been pretty—not before Derek got his hands on it.

  “Are you putting the rectory on the tour?” I asked Judy, who nodded.

  “The church is always part of the tour, but this is the first time we’re including the rectory. The library will be open, too, along with several of the shops and restaurants on Main Street.”

  I had assumed as much, since the Christmas Home Tour wasn’t just a way to make money for the Village neighborhood association; it was a way for the merchants to make a little extra, too, in sales of hot chocolate and handmade soaps and such. And the Waterfield Library was one of the original Carnegie libraries. Businessman Andrew Carnegie donated money to its construction, as well as to the construction of another thirty-five hundred or so libraries across the United St
ates and the world. It was very beautiful, as well as being a national landmark. Many of the Carnegie libraries had been torn down over the years, but the Waterfield branch was one that had survived.

  And then Kate cleared her throat, and the buzz of voices quieted as we turned to her and prepared to get to work.

  —4—

  The meeting was short and painless—and included pizza from Guido’s. Josh arrived a few minutes after Cora and I did, with the food and drinks.

  We all chomped down, and the discussion started. Mostly it was Kate wanting to get her feet under her after having the home tour dumped in her lap at the last minute, and to get everyone up to speed on what to expect, since several of us were new this year.

  “Expect a couple hundred people,” Kate said between bites of bacon and scallion with sour cream dressing. “You’ll have to feed them something—”

  “Feed them?” I blurted. We were expected to feed a couple hundred people?

  Don’t get me wrong, I manage to feed Derek and myself, but I’m no chef. And I don’t do big parties.

  “Nothing fancy,” Kate hastened to assure me. Easy for her to say, I thought. “Just cookies or some kind of little nibble.”

  Cookies for two hundred–plus people was no little nibble, not if you asked me, but I nodded as if I had no problem with it. All around me, everyone else nodded, too. I wondered how many of them felt the same way I did, but were just better at hiding it.

  “You can offer drinks, too,” Kate continued, “if you want, but in the past, I’ve found that when you give people something to drink, they spill, so I prefer not to. In the summer, bottles of water are nice, of course, but cups of coffee and hot chocolate leave too much room for accidents.”

  Everyone nodded again. I tried to imagine a wandering guest stumbling on the fringe of the Persian carpet in the parlor and spilling a cup of cocoa on Aunt Inga’s reupholstered love seat—dove gray velvet—and shuddered.