No Mallets Intended

by Victoria Hamilton

  Jewel’s presentation was far more vigorous and memorable. She stood and gave her plans with flair, gesturing at the room around them, pacing and illustrating with waving hands the maroon with gold velvet draperies that would clothe the ten-foot windows. On one wall there would be a candelabra-topped spinet, with a settee and low ladies’ chairs in a semicircle, as if for a family sing-along. Jewel pictured it as a vignette straight out of the song “We Need a Little Christmas.” Candles in the window, and carols at the spinet!

  Mabel Bloombury and a friend of hers were taking on the dining room. Various other pieces of Victorian furniture had been donated to the society by families happy to get rid of the heavy, ornate pieces, and they would furnish the parlor and dining room. That was the only reason the dining room already had a set promised, a long oak table and eight chairs, as well as a china cabinet and buffet. Mrs. Bloombury, standing to say her piece, turned and looked at Jaymie. “I was wondering if Becca had some china she would like to donate. In particular, I was thinking of one of the Johnson Brothers patterns, like Mill Stream, or English Chippendale.”

  All eyes turned to Jaymie, and she considered her answer. “I’ll ask her about it.”

  “It’s just that we think the table would look so much nicer set for Christmas dinner, you see!”

  “I agree,” Jaymie said. “I’ll see if there is anything she can at least loan the society, how about that?”

  Mabel sighed and said, “That would be wonderful! And we could put one of her business cards out as a sponsor!”

  Jaymie nodded and smiled as a murmur of approval rippled through the gathering of about thirty. Becca was all about promotion and would probably jump at the chance to help out the society and get some free advertising. “She may even have some Christmas-appropriate pieces that she can lend you.” This could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship for Becca, Jaymie thought.

  Mabel clapped in glee. “That would be magnificent!”

  It was Jaymie’s turn to speak, finally. The kitchen was an afterthought for many, but it would be of vital importance in the Dickens Days festivities. Jaymie, knowing how many underestimated the interest the general public would have in that heart of the home, nervously stood to have her say. She took a deep breath and glanced around the gathering of townsfolk, most of whom she knew. There were friendly faces, angry faces, blissfully blank faces and one or two indeterminate expressions.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of research,” she said. “Since the kitchen is in an addition, it’s comparatively low ceilinged, with those copper panels; it’s beautiful, but dark in there. I may or may not be able to get a Hoosier cabinet in time for the soft opening, but if Bill will paint, I can get it furnished enough, with displays of baking in the Depression era, that kind of thing. The best color scheme is going to be cream and green, historically correct for the time, and it will brighten the room up some.” There . . . she had gotten out most of what she needed to say.

  “Green? Yuck. Like friggin’ mold,” grumbled Iago Dumpe, an unpleasant guy in his twenties. Turning his ball cap to point backward, he slouched down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His pants always dragged down around his knees, or so it seemed, and when he came into the Emporium, Jaymie watched him like a hawk. If it was stereotyping to assume he might be up to no good, then she was doing it, but it wasn’t his clothes that made her mistrustful of him. If he didn’t want to be suspected of being a thief, then he should try looking someone in the eye once in a while, she reasoned, and being polite wouldn’t hurt.

  Mrs. Stubbs rose, shakily, from her wheelchair and turned to glare at the psychiatrist. “Prentiss Dumpe, that boy of yours is a sad and sorry excuse for a man,” she said, pointing a crooked finger. “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, making such a fuss. I knew your grandmother, and Jane was not a woman who could be influenced to do anything against her will, especially not by Hazel Grinley Frump. Jane was a good woman, but not one to suffer fools gladly, and poor Hazel was a fool, there’s no two ways about it. She worked her fingers to the bone for your granny when none of her grandchildren . . .”

  Here she paused, giving the psychiatrist a basilisk stare—and to catch her breath, likely, as she was huffing a bit—then continued. “Not a single one of her grandchildren would give her the time of day. Your grandmother left the house to Hazel in recognition of years of thankless toil. You are fighting a losing battle. Give up now, or look more of a fool than you already do.”

  He rose, shaking with anger, his balding head perspiring. “Just goes to show how much you know. My grandmother was a miserable old biddy, true, and she ended up with only one friend in the world. That’s why she was so dependent on that woman she supposedly promised the house to in exchange for looking after her until death, and that’s why Grandma left the house to Hazel Frump.” He paused, his eyes bulging, then hurriedly added, “Plus, she didn’t dare do anything else.”

  All heck broke out then, with people chattering and some heckling, a lot shouting variations of What do you mean by that, Prentiss?

  They were silenced when Imogene Frump took a breather from shooting poisonous glances toward Mrs. Bellwood and staggered to stand up, her artificial hips and knees locking. “You are lying, Prentiss Dumpe, lying! You’re just plain evil, and you’re lying.”

  “What do you know?” he shot back.

  “Hazel Frump was my aunt, in case you’ve forgotten!”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” he snarled back.

  “I think I know better than you what happened!”

  “What a bunch of crap,” he barked, heading for the door, followed by his ill-favored son, Iago.

  Mrs. Frump wavered, her expression twisted with pain as a ruckus broke out again among those appalled by Prentiss’s behavior. To Jaymie’s astonishment the most amazing thing that had ever happened in Queensville happened at that moment. Mrs. Bellwood trotted over to comfort Mrs. Frump, her longtime enemy.

  Then hell froze over, but no one noticed because they were too busy gawking at a sight no one in Queensville had ever expected to see.

  Five

  AFTER THE SHOCK wore off and the two women sat down . . . together . . . the meeting got back to business. Mrs. Stubbs thumped the floor with her cane and told the assemblage that Jaymie’s choice of paint color for the Dumpe kitchen was not only pleasing aesthetically, it was historically correct. She was there and had seen it; back in the thirties it was indeed green and cream. Many of the vintage tools she would find for the kitchen display would have wooden handles painted cream and green as well. Bill Waterman said he could get paint chips the next day and compare notes with Jaymie. A budget was agreed upon, and Jaymie was given the go-ahead to purchase what she needed at auction or wherever else, within limits.

  Mabel Bloombury, in gratitude for Jaymie’s help with the dining room display, offered to make curtains for the kitchen and would take measurements that very evening. A soft opening was scheduled for the second week of Dickens Days, in early December. Pamphlets would be printed to invite folks to Queensville Historic Manor, as the house was being renamed, to come see Christmas in all its historic splendor. There was no way they would have the whole house ready, but they would have a few rooms open: most of the main-floor rooms—the dining room, parlor, library and kitchen—and upstairs the girl’s room that Cynthia was doing over and a maid’s bedroom would also be open. There were many more that would be locked, including the master bedroom and other bedrooms that were going to be used for heritage society business.

  It was quite a lot to get through, but after some more quibbling and nonsense the meeting was finally over and the social hour was embarked upon. The able-bodied moved the chairs to the edges for folks to sit who needed to, and bustling women set up a giant urn of coffee, while Jaymie and some of the others made huge pots of tea and poured the brew in carafes. Still others brought out platters of treats, sweet and savory. />
  Jaymie’s contribution was miniature cranberry scones that she planned on selling at the Dickens Days festivities, and she nervously watched as folks nibbled on them, then took bigger bites with smiles on their faces. Valetta chuckled at her nerves, but Jaymie said, defensively, “I’m usually not there when people are eating my stuff, or it’s family, and they have to like it.”

  They were separated by the flow of the crowd, and Jaymie found herself standing next to Theo Carson, whom she knew, but not well. He was an attractive man, she supposed, if a little on the paunchy side, and very much tending toward a history professor look, with a tweed sport jacket, khaki pants and brown loafers. She was still curious about Cynthia’s affair with the man and determined that she wanted to know why her friend was still so crushed. “Mr. Carson, how are you?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Maybe her name wasn’t coming to mind immediately. “I’m good, Jaymie, how are you?” he said, with avuncular heartiness. He was somewhat older than her, but not old enough to take that tone.

  “I’m fine. How is the work coming on the Dumpe family booklet?”

  He smiled slyly and glanced across the room toward Prentiss Dumpe, who had come back without his son. Dick Schuster was standing with him—an odd pair, Jaymie thought—and he had hold of the psychiatrist’s jacket sleeve as he talked earnestly at him. The psychiatrist shook his arm to get rid of the persistent would-be writer, who then got in his face. The two men had an argument, and Schuster stormed off to another corner of the room.

  “It’s interesting stuff,” Carson finally replied, turning his gaze away from the brief encounter. “Did you know that Cranmer Dumpe, who built the house, had been a slave trader in the South before moving north?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and the scandal morphs once you get into the twentieth century. It is widely known that there was more than one Nazi sympathizer among the Dumpes.”

  “Widely known?” Jaymie had to bite her tongue to keep from retorting that a writer ought to know better than to use such a cliché. She hated that phrase, since it always seemed to be used by folks who couldn’t quote an actual source. That boded ill for the research he was doing into the booklet, if that was the case. “I wouldn’t say that it is or was widely known,” she demurred. “Maybe rumored or gossiped about.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked around the room. “Whatever.”

  The pamphlet would not be exactly what the committee was expecting, Jaymie mused, but if he did have facts to back up his statements, then so be it. She didn’t believe that such things should be glossed over. History was to be acknowledged and glared at in the cold hard light of truth. Hopefully everyone would be better and do better in future, but that would not be accomplished by sweeping unpalatable truths from the past under the carpet. And was that not a cliché? It seemed that she could get on her high horse just as much as anyone . . . and she couldn’t keep from using clichés now that she was thinking of them. She laughed at herself.

  Carson glanced over. “A lot here to laugh about, I suppose.” He paused, examining her, then said, “So, Isolde tells me you’re quite famous locally. As an amateur sleuth, you must be in your element in this house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turned fully to face her. “Lots of legends and rumors about things hidden here. You ever find anything?”

  “Other than dust balls and dead mice? Not really.”

  “Oh, come on, you can tell me,” he said, with a throaty chuckle and sly wink. “You’re an intelligent girl and I’m a world-famous writer. We could really have a good . . . conversation. Don’t you think?”

  She stared at him, taken aback at an apparent heavy-handed attempt to flirt. What exactly was he suggesting? She was about to walk away when he spoke again.

  “You don’t really think that attack on you was a coincidence, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Just that your reputation precedes you.”

  Time to change the subject. “I look forward to reading your family history.”

  “Then you’re probably the only one of the society who will,” he griped. “No one wants the truth anymore.”

  “Don’t underestimate the people of Queensville, Mr. Carson,” she said, not liking his insinuations.

  “Yeah, well, I think there’ll be some material in this research for my next book, so we’ll just see.” He turned back to her, from glancing around the room. “Are you recovering from that nasty attack?”

  “Recovering nicely.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  She told him briefly what she had told everyone else, wondering why he was so interested and his questioning so pointed.

  “And you didn’t see who it was?”

  “No, I just had an impression of a dark figure and then I was out cold, whacked with one of the antique mallets from our collection.”

  “Now, why would someone do something like that?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Could there be something there that someone wanted? Hidden treasure? Untold riches?” He grinned, an expression that reached only to his teeth, an unnerving sight. “Have you found anything exciting in all your searches of the house?”

  She stared at him, wondering what he was implying. He kept coming back to the subject of something hidden. “I can’t imagine there would be anything in that house that anyone would want, unless it was hidden so well, so cleverly, that a hundred squatters have missed it,” she said, with as much frost in her tone as she could manage.

  He still stood contemplating her. “Interesting thought.” He was silent for a few moments, then said, “I hear your rich boyfriend is going to pony up for security alarms for the old place. Nice that he can afford to protect you like that.”

  She didn’t reply, beginning to regret talking to him. He was a deliberately unpleasant man, which was worse, in her book, than an unconsciously unpleasant man.

  “Is he doing that soon? The alarm, I mean?”

  She still didn’t answer, looking around and trying to think of a way to extricate herself from his presence.

  “Where is your wealthy beau, anyway? Too good for the masses? Too busy for us little people?”

  “He’s back in Phoenix attending to business,” she snapped.

  “So . . . you must have an opinion. Who do you think attacked you?” he asked after a brief pause.

  She wasn’t going to answer, but she needed to put his implications to rest. “It was just a tramp breaking into the house for somewhere warm to sleep. It used to be kind of a flophouse before it was sold to the society, you know, and some folks probably think it still is.”

  He grinned, exposing those gleaming teeth again. “So you don’t think it was the ghost of Cranmer Dumpe?”

  “No, nor the ghost of Jane Dumpe,” she retorted. “I’ve heard that the place is haunted, though. Do you think it is?” She was being facetious but to her surprise his expression sobered.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, his tone serious, looking from one side to the other at the gathered folks. “I would not come here alone, not for love or money.” His eyes widened, as he looked over her shoulder.

  She glanced quickly behind her, but didn’t see anything, except some movement or expression that seemed off, though she wasn’t quite sure how. He was glaring in the direction of Prentiss Dumpe, who now had Haskell Lockland by the sleeve. Frowning, she looked back to Carson, examining his face. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think that because I was attacked, the house is not safe. Anyway, why wouldn’t you come here alone?”

  “You wouldn’t understand. A man like me . . . I’ve made enemies. Some, my dear girl, do not respect the truth as much as you seem to.”

  She didn’t miss his use of the word seem to qualify his statement.

  Dick Schuster ca
me up to them just then and glared at Carson. “You’re one to talk about the truth, Carson, when your truth is so self-serving!”

  “You’re full of crap, Dick,” Carson said, his tone indulgent. “Just like your so-called writing career.”

  Schuster sneered and growled, “Not my fault if some people steal my ideas and get rich off them.”

  “Hah! You never had a good idea in your life that didn’t involve blackmail or extortion.” Carson whirled, stalking away to join his girlfriend and the members of the heritage committee. Schuster watched him go with a curiously blank expression.

  “What did you mean by that? Are you saying he stole your work?” Jaymie asked.

  “He knows what I mean; that’s all that matters,” the man said, and then he, too, walked away.

  Jaymie spotted Cynthia standing alone, watching Carson and Isolde together, and crossed the room to her. “I’m so glad you came after all,” she said, approaching the other woman. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, just fine!” she said, her voice gritty with anger. “I must be some kind of schmuck,” she continued. “I can’t believe I lost sleep over that jerk! Do you know what he just said? As he passed by me, he said that it was nice to see that I was finally climbing out of my abyss of self-pity and joining the human race!”

  Eyes wide, Jaymie looked toward Carson. “He said that? What a loser!” She put one hand on Cynthia’s arm and said, “That tells you what kind of a guy he really is. What do you think Isolde Rasmussen sees in him? She seems like such a nice girl.”

  Cynthia snorted. “Nice like a barracuda. She’s angling to be cowriter on his next project, that Nazi thingie.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I don’t have to listen to him wax eloquent about his writing anymore. I’ve heard it’s going to make a Kitty Kelley biography look like a scholarly work. He’s planning to tear apart a few families with accusations of Nazi sympathizers and all the rest.”