No Mallets Intended

by Victoria Hamilton

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Carson said, glaring at Jaymie. “No one kills anyone over a book!”

  Unless that someone had been cheated out of a manuscript, as Dick Schuster maintained. Jaymie was curious about Schuster’s claims. Were they legit? Was Theo the real deal or a thief of intellectual property? “Maybe not, but there may have been some jealousy out there over his success,” she commented. “Did he tell you about anything like that?”

  The woman frowned, wrinkles drawing around her pursed lips. “He made a joke about some odd little man who kept badgering him, someone who wanted the job he got.”

  That would have been Dick Schuster. “Had the man threatened him at all?”

  “I don’t know. Why? Do you think he’s the murderer?”

  “No, not at all,” Jaymie hastened to say, not wanting to plant ideas in the grieving mother’s head. “But the members of the society are all so upset about it. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “Yes, well, that’s up to the police, isn’t it?” she said, hugging her purse tightly to her body. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.” She struggled with control, her mouth working and tears springing into her eyes. She turned away and stared off into the distance, fidgeting with her purse and drawing out a tissue.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jaymie said, feeling helpless but heartsick for the woman. “Are you from out of town? Will you be staying in Queensville?”

  “I’ve taken a room at a bed-and-breakfast run by a sweet woman, Pam something or other. I can’t leave until I know what happened to my son.” She looked uncertain for a moment, but then grabbed Jaymie’s right hand. “Wait . . . did you say your name was Jaymie Leighton? I’ve heard about you! The druggist at the store in town told me you’ve solved a couple of murders. Will you help me find out what happened to Theo?”

  Bernie stepped in and calmly said, “Mrs. Carson, the Queensville Police Department is doing everything possible to solve the murder of your son. We’ll take care of it.” She gave Jaymie a look.

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll take care of things,” Jaymie chimed in.

  “But what if they don’t?” the woman said.

  “They will,” Jaymie replied, gently. “I got lucky a couple of times, that’s all.”

  “And we don’t encourage civilians to get involved,” Bernie said. “Do we, Jaymie?”

  “No,” she said—meekly, she hoped. She did not want to get the woman’s hopes up that she could magically discover the answer. The last time she had figured out whodunit it had almost been at the cost of her own life. And Detective Zack Christian had been within hours of getting the information that would have helped nail the offender anyway. She really needed to stay away from murder mysteries for now. Life was complicated enough as it was.

  “Fine. I understand,” Mrs. Carson said, stiffening. “Everyone was always envious of poor Theo. He said that this little historical committee was filled with jealous, backbiting, would-be authors who were out to sabotage him.” She gave Jaymie a fishy-eyed stare. “Maybe you’re one of them.” She whirled and strode down the lane to her car, got in, slammed the door and took off.

  “She is one unhappy camper,” Bernie said, as another police car rolled up the drive.

  Police Chief Ledbetter climbed laboriously out of the car as another officer held the door open for him. Chief Ledbetter was a big man, with a paunch that spread over his belt, and a bulbous nose and big ears, with tufts of hair sticking out from their depths. Jaymie wasn’t quite sure what he thought of her; nor was she certain what she thought of him.

  “Miss Leighton,” he said, ambling up the lane toward her. “We meet again. There was a murder in a bar out on the highway last month. We solved it ourselves. Did that surprise you? You didn’t feel compelled to rush in and help us out?”

  She kept quiet, while Bernie glanced between them, a smile twitching her generous lips. Hoppy sat at the chief’s feet, staring up at him, waiting to be noticed. They had met before, and Hoppy liked it when folks remembered him and made a fuss, but Jaymie didn’t think the chief would do so.

  “What have we got here, Officer Jenkins?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if it’s related to the murder, sir, but Jaymie found a root cellar out there,” Bernie said, pointing out to the hill in the field. “When we explored it, it turned out someone has been staying there, and there is also a large stash of electronic goods and merchandise with tags. I thought it could be related to the recent thefts at that warehouse on the highway and the electronics store in Wolverhampton.”

  The chief nodded. “Interesting. Miss Leighton, you just happened to go walking in the field and came across it?”

  She sighed. “I have a dog, Chief, and I walk Hoppy every chance I get. He likes it. And . . . and I have been feeling down about this . . . the murder.” She looked away. “I wasn’t fond of Theo, but it was a terrible way to die. I just wasn’t ready to go home so I thought I’d explore the back field.”

  “You are either very lucky or the best natural detective I’ve ever met. Let’s walk; show me what you found, Officer Jenkins, Jaymie.”

  “What do you mean by a natural detective?” Jaymie asked, falling into step with them. Their pace was slow, as the police chief was heavy and did not walk briskly.

  He glanced over at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. “I mean someone whose instincts are usually right; someone who notices things and wonders why.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just between you and me and the lamppost, Officer Jenkins is one of those, too.” He gave a comic head tilt toward Bernie, who pretended not to notice even as her cheeks rouged, and not from the brisk wind. “And it’s someone who doesn’t make assumptions about others. You don’t do that, do you?”

  “I think we all do that sometimes,” she said. “I was wrong in the summer, in who I had thought murdered Urban Dobrinskie.”

  He chuckled. “That’s true, we do all make some assumptions, and the fact that you can identify when you’ve done it just proves my last point, which is . . . you can admit when you’re wrong. Very important characteristic.”

  Halfway across the field the police chief stopped and looked around, probably to catch his breath, Jaymie figured.

  He huffed for a few minutes, but then said, “Someone’s driven across this field in the last month or so. Repeatedly.” He squinted into the distance. “No fence, so they probably left the road about there”—he pointed to a sloping spot along the tarred road—“and drove past where we’re standing and right . . .” He turned slowly. “Right to that mound. Interesting.” He set off again.

  Jaymie noted what he saw, the faint sense of a trail in the weeds, where some vehicle had broken the grasses in a straight line, leaving them lying flat. “There’s another trail,” she said, as she followed.

  Ledbetter stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “But it looks like a single tire,” she said, pointing to an even fainter path that appeared to come out of the woods. “Maybe a motorcycle or scooter?”

  He nodded. “Seems to be. And it ends right . . . here.” They were at the mound. “Busy little place this has been. Could be connected to the murder, but maybe not.” He circled the mound. “Officer Jenkins, there appears to be a fire pit just here, on the other side. Looks like a campout to me.”

  Bernie hopped around and took a look. “Not a new one, either, sir. It’s been used more than once, I’d say. Burned-out tin cans . . . they’ve been cooking over it.”

  The officer who had driven the chief to the manor caught up with them, camera in hand. The police chief directed him to take photos of the site, the fire pit, and inside the root cellar. He then turned to Jaymie. “We won’t keep you any more, Miss Leighton. Thank you once again for all your invaluable help.”

  Dismissed, Jaymie gave Bernie an exasperated look and turned to walk away.

  �
��Miss Leighton!” the chief called.

  Jaymie turned and waited.

  “Perhaps I’ll call on you sometime to discuss detecting, shall I?”

  Not sure what to make of the odd man, she simply nodded, turned and headed back toward the house.

  Twelve

  IT WAS A long walk home, and she thought over all that had happened. The root cellar cache disturbed her. Who had been staying there? Had they been spying on the comings and goings at the house? It was possible, though they likely wouldn’t be able to see the front entrance from that vantage point. It was all a mess in her mind.

  Unless Theo’s murder was a random attack, though, she would bet that the perpetrator could be found among the society members, or even just those who were present at the last meeting, which included Isolde Rasmussen and Prentiss Dumpe. Not that she could imagine motives for most of them. Now, if Prentiss had ended up dead, she would suspect Dick Schuster, given what she now knew about their difficult relationship and past dealings. But Theo Carson? It was a harder sell. Schuster clearly didn’t like him, but when was the last time someone was murdered for getting a writing job someone else wanted?

  Hoppy was one pooped puppy after all the walking, and in fact, once they reached town, she had to carry him the rest of the way home. She warmed up some homemade soup she had in the fridge and called Valetta, telling her all that had happened that day. Her friend was suitably puzzled by the police chief’s behavior and promised to find out what she could about him. It had all brought back her past dealings with Zack, of course, and she pondered their brief friendship, if such it could be called.

  He had started out treating her like she was a child, but they had found a more even footing late in the summer over the murder investigation on Heartbreak Island and had shared an amicable dinner and a few walks. Despite the continued physical attraction she felt for him, and the fact that she learned he was a very nice fellow, one she could see dating, some of the luster had worn off. She had been ripping into people—notably Daniel—for presuming to think that her well-known love of romance novels had made her somewhat unrealistic about real-life relationships, but was there something to it? She hoped not, but it appeared that once some of the mystery was gone from aloof, magnetic, sexy Detective Zack Christian, her attraction had simmered down into a quiet liking rather than an unsuitable lust.

  Was that really romance novels at work, though, or just the allure that the mysterious held for all people, women and men? In a tell-all society, folks had forgotten how sexy mystery was; “leave ’em wanting more” was a maxim from yesteryear.

  As Jaymie worked at the kitchen table that evening, Becca phoned, bubbly and full of plans for her wedding. She and Kevin were going to get married on New Year’s Eve, then take off to England for a three-week honeymoon visiting his family and childhood haunts. Jaymie was going to go to London, Ontario, meanwhile, and stay at her home to make sure their grandma was all right.

  But that was almost two months away, and in that time Jaymie needed to figure out what to do about Daniel. Before Becca hung up, Jaymie said, “Sis, I need to ask your opinion. I know you like Daniel, but do you really see us together?”

  There was a bit of silence. “Jaymie, if you have to ask me that question—”

  “I do, and I want an honest answer.”

  “I can’t give you one. That’s like asking me to tell you if you love him.” There was another silence. “Do you love him?”

  “I don’t know,” Jaymie said miserably.

  “If you can say you don’t know, maybe that’s your answer.”

  They said good night. Just as they were hanging up, there was a knock at her door. She trotted down the hall to the front door and looked out the sidelight. It was Chief Ledbetter with Bernie! Jaymie opened the door and invited them in. As he squeezed past her, the chief assured her that this was not an official visit.

  She seated them in the parlor by the fireplace and he glanced around. “Nice house you’ve got here. One of the historic ones, I’d guess.”

  Bernie was watching him, and Jaymie got the impression her friend, who was not in uniform but was carrying a notebook, wasn’t entirely sure what the chief was up to. Well, he had said he might drop in on her, and here he was, just hours after he said it!

  They chatted for a few minutes, then the chief cleared his throat, invited Hoppy up to his lap and said, “Now, see, I have a lot of questions that aren’t necessarily part of the investigation into Theo Carson’s death, but that I’m curious about. I’m a curious person by nature, as are you, I believe. Characteristic of a good investigator. Did you know that I retired seven years ago from the big-city police force?” He grimaced. “Yup, but then I was driving the poor wife up a wall at home. Couldn’t stand retirement, so three years ago I took this job.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Jaymie said politely.

  “No, it’s not, that’s boring chitchat. See, that’s what I don’t want. I don’t want you to just be polite.” He leaned forward, his belly squishing Hoppy until the dog complained. “Sorry, fella,” he said, scruffing the little dog under the chin. “Truth be told, I’m gonna be forced to retire again, soon enough. Getting too old for this, I guess. But see, I like finding the truth about stuff. I want the truth about everything. Off the record, or whatever. Now, my wife, she’s a member of the Wolverhampton Historical Society, and she says that Isolde Rasmussen is a snooty snoopy little thing, a real pain in the bee-hind. Seems to me that she was hanging around with this Carson character because he was a famous author.”

  “I’ve heard that said.” Even by her own editor at the Wolverhampton Howler.

  “By the fellow’s ex, I suppose, that Cynthia Turbridge. She’s some piece of work. Good-lookin’ woman. Smart, too. But getting older and doesn’t like it. Bit of a temper, that one has.”

  Jaymie stayed silent. She had learned to keep her mouth shut and wait for the actual question being asked.

  He shifted and squinted at her. “We’ve heard that she was very angry when Mr. Carson decided to move on. Has she said anything to you about the guy?”

  Jaymie shook her head. “I didn’t even know they had been dating,” she said. Until the heritage society meeting, she neglected to add. But she was not going to rat out her friend. There was no possible way that elegant, intelligent Cynthia Turbridge had murdered Theo Carson over a ruined love affair.

  “So back to Isolde Rasmussen. Do you like her?”

  Surprised, Jaymie stuttered, “Well, sure. I guess. I don’t really know her that well.”

  “I’ve heard she’s been hanging around that house a lot lately, and I can’t help but wonder who—other than you, of course—would think to pick up that meat mallet thingamabob. And is it just a coincidence that you were whacked with a mallet and Carson was killed with one? And that Isolde Rasmussen was on the scene both times?”

  Jaymie felt a chill down her backbone. She hadn’t even thought of that, though she had felt Isolde was hiding something. “But she was tied up and put in her trunk for hours!”

  “So she says.” He snickered and patted Hoppy’s head as the little dog fell into a slumber on the police chief’s capacious lap. “You should see your face about now. Making you think, right? Now, see, you can tell I’m not being all official, because I couldn’t say something like that to you if I was acting as police chief. Could I, Officer Jenkins?”

  Bernie, eyes wide, shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “So this is just a conversation between acquaintances.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jaymie finally said. “Pardon me for skepticism, but there is more to this and we both know it.”

  Bernie’s eyes widened again, but she remained impassive otherwise. The chief’s lack of response gave Jaymie courage.

  “What you really want is for me to tell you everything I think about these people on the society, my friends and neighbors.”


  He sat back and watched her through half-closed eyes. “Go on, Jaymie.”

  “I don’t mind telling you some stuff, but I won’t just gossip.”

  The chief stared at her for a long moment. “If you had shared all your thoughts and imaginings with us last time, it could have saved you from being in danger. Detective Christian was close to breaking the case and would have if you hadn’t interfered.”

  “Somewhat true. But in that case,” she said, referring to some trouble she’d had on Heartbreak Island near the end of the summer, “the guy was on the edge by that point. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t taken it out on me? There were others in danger. In fact, he tried to kill Ruby Redmond, if you recall.”

  The chief nodded. “I see your point: you’ve had your moments. But, young lady, for better or worse you seem to be a lightning rod when it comes to the nut jobs and dangerous folk out there. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things. Will you help?”

  “In any way I feel I can,” Jaymie said, hoping they had reached a rapprochement of sorts.

  “Okay, then. Isolde Rasmussen . . . she claims she didn’t really see who was attacking her boyfriend. What do you think of that?”

  Jaymie glanced from the chief to Bernie, who smiled but shrugged. She turned back to the police chief. “Are you wondering if she’s telling the truth?”

  “I’m always wondering if people are telling me the truth. They often aren’t.” He sighed. “Just a feeling I have with her, that’s all.”

  Jaymie stayed quiet.

  He smiled and winked. “You are learning, aren’t you? Never answer a question that’s not been asked. You’re a bright young lady. You’re also on the inside of this historical society.” He paused and eyed her. “Look, it seems to me and Detective Vestry that the killer is possibly one of these historical folks. And this Isolde girl, she’s Carson’s girlfriend, after all. Wouldn’t be the first time a girlfriend did a fellow in.”