No Mallets Intended

by Victoria Hamilton

  Jaymie tried to keep from smiling, and tried even harder not to show how interested she was in his nervousness. Was she facing Theo Carson’s murderer? He seemed too nervous and clumsy to kill someone in such a cold-blooded manner, but she had been fooled before.

  She again sorted the items, then checked to see which ones she had already typed in. “Well, we’re going to need someone to write the family and house history, and we didn’t have that much luck last time. We only had you and Theo Carson. Now that he’s out of the picture, it would be more likely you’d get the job. Don’t you think?”

  “I . . . uh . . . I hadn’t thought of that.”

  There was a pause. Jaymie wasted some time, examining the items, typing in codes, finding a bag. “I wasn’t a big fan of Theo Carson, you know,” she said, turning a can of tomatoes over, typing in the code, knowing that it wouldn’t work because she was typing it in wrong on purpose. The machine beeped, and she rolled her eyes and typed it in again. It beeped again; wrong! She looked up. “He was kind of a jerk.”

  Anger burned in Schuster’s eyes. He shifted from foot to foot. “He sure was. I know what people are saying, you know. I know no one believes me that he stole my research for that book of his. But it’s true, every word. He stole it from me!”

  “How did he steal it?” she asked, truly curious. She had thought he was just trashing the other man at the meeting, but he appeared genuinely irate.

  “I don’t know, that’s just the thing.” He looked around, then leaned over the counter and whispered, his dark eyes wide and staring, perspiration breaking out in beads on his high forehead, “I think he hacked into my computer. We’d been to the same writing conferences, you see, and talked about the same subject. He must have guessed my passwords, stalked me online, then hacked me!”

  She paused, examining him, the wild eyes, the trembling lips. “Did you do anything about it?”

  “I tried, but no one would listen.” He wiped his mouth with one trembling hand. “Even the police wouldn’t do anything about it!”

  “Well, you won’t have that problem again, will you?” She rang up a few more items from his basket. Though she didn’t know a lot about computers, she was virtually certain Theo Carson had not hacked into Schuster’s computer and stolen his work, but she was equally certain Schuster really believed he had. How had such conviction affected him? Enough to commit murder? Where did his paranoia come from?

  She watched him as she typed in another bar code. He definitely seemed a bubble off level, as Bill Waterman would say. Did that make it more or less likely that he had killed Theo Carson? “Have you ever heard of a manuscript at Dumpe Manor, Mr. Schuster? I heard that there was some kind of secret family manuscript hidden somewhere.”

  “Maybe. Why? Did you find it?”

  He seemed casual, and it looked like he was making an effort to suppress his various nervous tics . . . in fact, he seemed to be trying to be too casual for someone who would definitely be interested in that information. She would bet that either he knew there was no such manuscript or he had already searched for it unsuccessfully.

  “No, I didn’t find it,” she said and watched him. Would he be interested to know that she had, however, found a hidden will?

  That had nothing to do with him, since Prentiss Dumpe was the only one who benefited. However, given his ongoing trouble with Prentiss, he would not want the man to benefit, no doubt. “I was curious, Mr. Schuster, what were you and Prentiss arguing about at the meeting?” she suddenly asked, as she continued to ring up the rest of his things, looking each item over as if it was the first time she had seen a package of razors, a bottle of cleaning solution or a toothbrush.

  “Arguing? Uh . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You and Prentiss Dumpe. You were arguing at the meeting. I saw you; you had hold of his sleeve.”

  “You’re wrong. Completely wrong. We weren’t arguing at all.” He spoke quickly, then added, “But I don’t like Prentiss much; never have.”

  “Have you known each other long?”

  He paused, then asked, “Why?”

  “No reason,” she said and sighed. It was like talking to a suspicious teenager. But she couldn’t actually confront him about being in the doctor’s care. That was just too personal. “Anyway, now you can—” She stopped abruptly when she looked up and saw the throbbing vein in his forehead and the wild, bulging eyes. “Mr. Schuster, what’s wrong?”

  “You think I killed Theo Carson!” he shouted.

  “I what? How the heck did you get that idea?”

  He backed away, bumping into a table of toys and knocking it over. “You do! You’re accusing me!” Tears gathered in his eyes. “I can’t believe it. I would never do anything like that! I have to go.”

  “Mr. Schuster, I didn’t say that!” she called after him, as he headed toward the door. “Mr. Schuster, what about your groceries?”

  He waved his hand back in a dismissive gesture and headed outside, stumbling as he went, slamming the door behind him, the bells jingling overhead. She was genuinely worried and dashed after him, threading her way around tables and displays, as did Valetta, having heard the commotion as she was locking up her pharmacy counter for a lunch break.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Valetta called.

  “I don’t know,” Jaymie said over her shoulder.

  By the time she got to the veranda of the store, though, Schuster was already down the street, his head hunched, his shoulders rounded, his hands in his coat pockets. Valetta joined her and watched. Jaymie explained what had happened.

  “Holy mackerel!” she said. “I wonder what that’s all about?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  It was lunchtime and the sky was clear. Even on a November day it was not bad out if you sat in the sun. There were a couple of sturdy weatherproof rocking chairs on the store veranda, so Jaymie and Valetta opted to have their lunch and tea there, to watch the goings-on in town. That way Jaymie could hustle into the store if she had a customer.

  The Queensville Emporium, a century-old building—creaky floorboards, false front, and big picture windows on the veranda—was on a slight rise in the town. From the veranda, Jaymie could see all the way down Main Street, past Jewel’s Junk, Bill’s workshop and junk store in the shed behind, and on to Cynthia’s store, the Cottage Shoppe, which was a converted cottage-type home. She could see the corner of the Knit Knack Shack, a little yarn store in another converted cottage. You could even see past to the old houses, mostly Queen Anne interspersed with Colonial, and a few “one-and-a-half” cottages, which had a small second story, and so weren’t traditional cottages. Because the leaves were all off the trees, Jaymie could see the upper story of the Queensville Inn, a couple of streets over. The Emporium faced away from the river, so you couldn’t see Boardwalk Park, the docks, the marina or the humbler homes that descended to the riverfront.

  But on a cold November day they were faced the right way to be protected from the wind and catch some sunshine. Jaymie had a thermos of leftover chicken noodle soup and a couple of turkey roulettes from the previous evening’s meal, which she had warmed up in the store microwave and shared with Valetta, who also had a thermos of soup. Both had tea made fresh and poured into a carafe to keep it hot.

  They discussed Dick Schuster’s weird breakdown, but since neither knew what to make of the fellow’s accusations, they went on to chat desultorily about the murder and the historical society’s plans for the house and the will. Jaymie shared what she had written the night before.

  “After work I think I’ll drop in at the bed-and-breakfast to see if Mrs. Carson needs anything. I want to find out if she has managed to get a hold of your brother to see Theo’s apartment yet.”

  “Mmm, oh, yeah. She has,” Valetta said, after swallowing a mouthful of roulette. “In fact she’s probably there right now, or will b
e going there soon.”

  Jaymie glared at her. “You didn’t tell me that!”

  Valetta shrugged. “Forgot. You can’t do anything about it right now anyway.”

  “You’re right.” Jaymie took another sip of soup and watched with a frown as Isolde Rasmussen walked down the street toward them. A car followed her, then screeched to a halt. Out of it came Theo Carson’s mother like an angry wasp out of a nest.

  “Speak of the devil,” Valetta said.

  “You! You did it,” Mrs. Carson shrieked at the younger woman. “I know you did!”

  Isolde stepped back and the two women came to a halt face-to-face. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are or what you think I did,” she said, her voice carrying in the crisp autumn air.

  “Who I am? You most certainly do know who I am, or you should, given that you’re sleeping with my son. Or . . . or you were! When he was a-a-alive!” Mrs. Carson burst into tears.

  Isolde, appalled, stepped back. “I’m, uh, so sorry for your loss,” she said.

  A couple of women who had been walking by pushing strollers stopped to watch.

  “Sorry for my loss?” Mrs. Carson screeched. “You’re the one to blame. You did it; I know you did it!”

  Jaymie stood, worried about a situation that was going from bad to worse. She could see from her vantage point that Cynthia Turbridge was outside of her shop watching. She wouldn’t be able to hear what was going on, but she could certainly see the confrontation.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Isolde said, clutching her jacket around herself like it would shield her from crazy motherly grief.

  “You killed my Theo!” It was a guttural wail from the depths of the woman’s soul.

  A senior couple walking arm in arm stopped, identical concern on their faces. Jaymie wondered if she should intervene. More people joined the onlookers.

  “You are freakin’ nuts, lady.” Isolde was trembling and had turned white. “I never touched him. I was hurt, too, in case you didn’t know!”

  “Hah! I don’t believe that for a minute.” Mrs. Carson moved toward her, but Isolde backed up. Shaking her finger in the younger woman’s face, Theo’s mother shrieked, “You . . . you Jezebel, you user! You were just trying to ride his coattails. A successful author like my son . . . all you wanted was to piggyback your way to being published, too!”

  “Me?” Isolde cried, incredulity on her pale, beautiful face. “I didn’t need his help. I have advanced degrees in comparative and classic literature! I’m an educated woman, not a self-trained hack like Theo.” Isolde lowered her chin and glared at Mrs. Carson. “You had better back off, lady.” She began to turn.

  But Mrs. Carson launched herself at Isolde, flailing with her purse and fist.

  “Uh-oh, definitely time to step in,” Jaymie muttered, as Valetta, too, stood and headed down the steps toward them. “You take Mrs. Carson,” Jaymie said to her friend.

  Valetta successfully blocked, with her chin, one blow from the older woman’s purse, then grabbed her by the shoulders as the crowd that had gathered tried to help. Bill Waterman, who had raced over from his workshop, stepped up to help Valetta, and Jewel pelted out of her store saying she had called the police.

  “Isolde, come with me!” Jaymie said, urgently, and guided her to the Emporium, where Mrs. Klausner now stood on the front veranda, arms folded over her narrow chest. She must have parked at the back and entered that way, because Jaymie hadn’t seen her arrive. “I’m going to take her home with me,” Jaymie said to Mrs. Klausner, of Isolde. The store owner nodded and serenely went to work in her store.

  “I don’t understand that woman’s problem,” Isolde fumed, allowing Jaymie to guide her. She was trembling, and her cheeks were red with agitation.

  Jaymie grabbed her purse and lunch things, shouted to Valetta that she’d call her later and led Isolde away. “You don’t understand? For heaven’s sake, the problem is her son is dead,” Jaymie said, leading the woman by the arm in the opposite direction from Valetta, who was still talking to a weeping Mrs. Carson.

  Isolde looked chagrined, but didn’t comment. “Where are we going?” she said.

  “To my house. I want to talk to you.”

  Isolde meekly allowed herself to be led through Queensville, down Jaymie’s back lane and up to the door, which Jaymie unlocked. Hoppy skittered out like a house afire and headed to his little private sanctuary by the garage for a piddle. Denver strolled past them out the door, looking over his shoulder once, as if to say, Don’t mind the dog. The little savage doesn’t know how to use the indoor facilities.

  “Come in,” Jaymie said, slinging her purse over a door handle. She waved toward the table and chairs. “Sit, and have a cup of tea. Or coffee. What do you drink?”

  “How about a good stiff glögg,” Isolde said, sitting at the trestle table in the kitchen and covering her face with her hands, scrubbing her eyes.

  “Sorry, no glögg and no aquavit. We’ll have tea.” She filled the kettle and put it on the stove, turning the knob so the flame leaped up under it. “You know, Mrs. Carson is deeply hurt. Put yourself in her shoes, having lost a son. She has to blame someone,” Jaymie said, sitting down opposite her guest.

  “Yeah, well, she doesn’t have to blame me. I’m no praying mantis.”

  The kettle whistled merrily so Jaymie jumped up, made a pot of tea and set a cup down in front of Isolde. “I don’t know how you take it,” she said, pushing the cream pitcher and sugar bowl across the table. She sat down opposite her again. Isolde seemed on the level about not killing Theo Carson, but there was so much else involved. “Did you ever find your cell phone? The one used to text me?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Jaymie watched her. “Someone used it to get me there, after all. If it wasn’t you, then who else had access to your phone?”

  Isolde shrugged. She ladled sugar into the tea, whitened it with milk, then sipped and made a face.

  “When did you lose track of it?”

  “I don’t know. I had it, then I didn’t have it.” She wouldn’t meet Jaymie’s gaze.

  Odd. “I never did get the whole story of that night, you know,” Jaymie said. “What exactly happened? Theo was over at your place, and . . .” She waited for the woman to fill in the rest.

  Isolde shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Look, Theo Carson was an asshole, not a saint, as his mother clearly thinks. I would have dumped him in a New York minute if I didn’t think there was something he knew about that house, something he didn’t want anyone else to know.”

  So, it wasn’t just ambition but the hope of something else that had kept her with the guy. Narrowing her eyes, she examined Isolde. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? You know the score; you did the same thing. I saw the national headlines when you found that Button Gwinnett letter in the Hoosier cabinet. You just happened to find it . . . riiight,” she drawled, with a knowing lift of her brows. “You were looking for it. Theo was the same. He was looking for something in that place, and I wanted to be there when he found it. He was not going to get all the glory for the find, and I am not going to stay a docent in a two-bit historical museum for the rest of my life!”

  Twenty

  THERE WAS NO use protesting that she had no clue what she was doing when she found the historically significant letter in the spring, Jaymie immediately decided. There had been a couple of interviews, and even a bit on her on CNN, but the furor had swiftly died down once it became obvious to the press that she really was as boring (in their eyes) as she seemed. Even dating multimillionaire Daniel Collins hadn’t been enough to keep her in the limelight, and she was relieved. But Isolde would never buy that.

  “I have heard a few things about hidden stuff at the house. You say Theo believed it?” Jaymie didn’t. Folks had been through the house time an
d again, and squatters had salvaged everything of worth. They were extremely lucky that all the copper pipe and wiring hadn’t been stripped from the place, because that was the only thing of value left when the society bought it.

  “He did,” Isolde said. “And the man, for all his faults, was not stupid. He wasn’t as smart as me, but he wasn’t stupid.”

  “So you followed him that night?” She didn’t need to specify which night.

  “He snuck out of my place when he thought I wasn’t aware.”

  “Did you know right away where he was going?”

  “I suspected.” She sat up straighter and looked around. “Hey, do you have anything to eat? I’m starving. And something to drink other than this?” She pushed the tea away.

  Jaymie made up a plate of leftover turkey roulettes, some pickles and cheese and put a square of apple crisp in a bowl, then filled a glass with milk. As Isolde dug in, Jaymie asked, “Why did you suspect where he was going?”

  “He was fixated on that place. And . . .” She frowned and took a sip of milk. “He got a call on his cell phone a few minutes before we . . . got comfortable. It seemed like he was in a hurry.”

  “A hurry?”

  “When we jumped in the sack,” she said, impatiently. “What do you think I meant? He rushed through, then snuck out.”

  “What did you see as you drove up? Was there a car there? Two cars?”

  “No cars . . . that’s what I couldn’t figure out, because I was sure he was at the house. I got out to see, and that’s when I got hit.”

  That was another thing Jaymie did not know, what had happened to Theo’s car. Reason said, then, they were dealing with more than one culprit, if one supposed that the murderer or murderers had come in a vehicle as well, and took off with Theo’s car.

  Did the police have it? Was there anything important in it, or any incriminating prints? She didn’t suppose even if she knew, it would help her figure out who did it; it was the kind of information the police could work from better than she could. “How many people did you see?”