Victoria Hamilton - Vintage Kitchen 04 - No Mallets Intended

by Victoria Hamilton

  “Oh, hi, Isolde, Theo,” Jaymie said, trying to be as natural as possible, not easy to do once you’ve overheard yourself called a stupid girl. “I just got this at auction.”

  “What is it?” Isolde asked. “Some kind of bookcase?”

  “No, of course not,” Jaymie replied, as she and Bernie hefted it onto their shoulders. “It’s the upper section of a Hoosier cabinet,” she grunted. “What are you two doing here?”

  Bernie growled, “Can you wait on the chitchat until we get this monster into the kitchen?”

  “Okay, all right,” Jaymie said, out of breath and just starting to realize how heavy the darned thing was getting. She and Bernie finished their job, retrieving the bottom section from the van and putting the whole cabinet together in the kitchen. She set the box of utensils she had won on the countertop surface.

  “Now, let’s go and see what those two were up to,” Bernie murmured to Jaymie.

  “Exactly.” They rejoined the group in the front hall. “Isolde, Theo, have you met the others? You already know Heidi, I think, and you’ve met Valetta, but this is our friend Bernie.” No need to mention her employment. “So, what’s up? Why are you here? How did you get a key?” Jaymie brightly asked, trying not to glare at Carson.

  “I was just exploring the ambience of the old homestead, you know,” Carson said, waving his hand around. “If I’m to write about the place, I need to feel it.”

  Bernie, standing slightly behind the author, made a gagging motion. Heidi giggled and Valetta sighed. Jaymie had disliked Carson from the beginning—he was a know-it-all that the older ladies found charming, for some reason—but since she liked Dick Schuster even less she hadn’t opposed his hiring. Isolde frowned, but Theo appeared unaware of the women’s exasperation.

  “So… you’re just soaking in the ambience,” Jaymie said, wishing she could just tell them she had overheard their conversation in the kitchen. “Would that be presoaking, then, or have you actually started the writing?” The society hadn’t seen a single word yet of the promised booklet, nor did they even have a delivery date.

  “I think I’m done soaking,” he said, eyeing her with a frown like one would aim at a puppy that had bared its teeth. “Good evening, ladies. Isolde, come on.”

  Isolde dutifully followed him out, a cold wind sweeping into the hallway along with some dried leaves as they left. The door slammed after them.

  “So what was that all about?” Bernie asked Jaymie.

  “I wish I knew,” Jaymie said, but she was thinking of Mrs. Frump and Mrs. Bellwood and their musings about the Sultan’s Eye. Was that what Carson was after? And was that indeed why she had been attacked?

  Seven

  “NAN, WE CAN’T call the piece that!” Jaymie protested to her editor on the phone while filling up Hoppy’s bowl of crunchies. The little dog enthusiastically dug into his breakfast.

  “Why not? Don’t the people of Queensville have a sense of humor?” Nan Goodenough replied.

  Jaymie strolled out to the summer porch, looked out the back door and waved at Trip, who was doing his calisthenics before his five-mile walk. The view of her backyard and beyond was so different once the leaves had fallen; instead of a sea of green above the fences and surrounding the structures, there were charcoal traceries, tree limbs outlined against the dove gray of the scudding clouds. “It’s not exactly that.” How could she explain? And why had she agreed to write a piece on the Queensville Heritage Society’s meeting anyway?

  Nan was the food and lifestyle editor of the Wolverhampton Howler, but she also wore many other hats at the paper. She had offered Jaymie the opportunity to write about the heritage society meeting in Queensville, and Jaymie had jumped at the chance because she was awed by the editor’s faith in her. All she had written so far was her food column!

  But still… she just could not go along with the column title the editor wanted. How could she look society members in the eye after writing a column called “Pickings from the Dumpe”?

  “The society is just touchy about certain things, and the Dumpe name is one of them. I ought to know, because I’ve made one too many jokes.” Like walking into the house and quoting Bette Davis’s famous “What a dump!” line, and talking about being down in the Dumpe. That was really why she couldn’t call the article that; the other society members would suspect it was her idea all along. Though she might giggle about the Dumpe Manor name over wine with Heidi, she would never expose her friends and fellow Queensvillians to ridicule from the wider world, especially Wolverhampton, whose citizens tended to look down their collective nose at the populace of its smaller neighbor.

  “It’s a golden opportunity, for crying out loud.” Nan paused and heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, we’ll just go with the mundane for now. What is your food column this week?” she asked, referencing Vintage Eats, Jaymie’s attempt to make a minor name for herself in the food world to advance her ambition of publishing a modernized vintage recipe collection.

  Jaymie talked about her plans for a moment.

  Nan replied, “Great. Get that piece to me before I have to fend off that Isolde creature again.”

  Isolde was too unusual a name for there to be two in such a small community. “Do you mean Isolde Rasmussen?”

  “Yeah, do you know her? She’s been calling me a couple times a week with article suggestions, trying to get a column, offering to write to spec, sending me unwanted pieces of junk.”

  “I guess she’s ambitious,” Jaymie replied, remembering what Cynthia had said at the meeting about Isolde being a barracuda trying to ride Theo’s coattails.

  “I don’t mind ambitious,” Nan said. “But when you combine that with the tenacity of a leech and a snail’s lack of insight you get a zoological nightmare.”

  “Lack of insight?”

  “Her writing! Don’t get me wrong, she can string together words into a coherent recognizable pattern that is logical and understandable.” She made a rude noise like a raspberry through the phone. “But great balls of fire, it’s so damned self-conscious. Pretentious. She must have been an English major.”

  “I was an English major in college,” Jaymie pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you don’t use words like profligate, obduracy, inchoate and my favorite, peripatetic, to describe—get this—the staccato drumming of a battle reenactment. All in one piece! Ye gods, as if I’d hire someone like that! I’d spend all day with a thesaurus trying to rewrite her work.”

  “Guess that’s why you like me,” Jaymie said, trying to keep from giggling. “No big words, no thesaurus needed.”

  “None that don’t belong,” Nan corrected. “Seriously, Jaymie, you’re a fine writer, much better than you think. Now get to writing and send me that piece!”

  Nan hung up, and Jaymie sat down at the kitchen table, stunned by her editor’s unexpected praise. Nan Goodenough was brusque and sometimes abrupt. She never said two words when one would do. So what she had just said was high praise indeed.

  Jaymie muttered a silent prayer of thanks for people who believed in her, then picked up her cell phone. It was new, but not so elaborate that she couldn’t figure it out. She had input all the home phone numbers of the heritage society members, plus the cell numbers of those who had one, including Jewel, Heidi, Cynthia, Dee, Valetta and even Isolde, who had showed up the day after the meeting when Jaymie and Bill were finalizing the colors for the kitchen and insisted on getting Jaymie’s cell number.

  As she toyed with the phone, clicking around and figuring it out, she thought about the night before. What had Theo Carson been looking for at Dumpe Manor? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be something he wanted to share with his girlfriend. Though, come to think of it, did Isolde know more than she was letting on, even to Theo? Was that why she kept showing up at the house at odd moments and snooping around? That was something to ponder.

  Denver got u
p out of the basket by the stove, which he hogged unless he was feeling generous enough—or wanted the warmth—to allow Hoppy a little space. He stretched and sauntered to the back door, which meant he expected his staff to open the door for him. She jumped up, let him out, and Hoppy in, and sat back down at the table as the Yorkie-Poo wobbled over to his bowl and settled down to eat more.

  Why search the kitchen, though, she wondered, going back to Theo and Isolde the previous night. The Sultan’s Eye was one possibility, but it sure wouldn’t be hidden behind a wall in the kitchen or in the cupboard or anything ludicrous like that. However… Theo was a writer. Maybe this wasn’t about the Sultan’s Eye at all. Jaymie had heard a rumor of a Dumpe manuscript—kind of a bio—of the family and all of their intimate details. Maybe Carson had heard about it, too.

  How would that be valuable, though? The Dumpes were just a Michigan family with deep roots in the area and no particular tie to anything famous or popular or important. Unless he thought it would reveal those Nazi sympathies he had conjectured about at the meeting. Given his next book’s subject matter, the manuscript might be valuable to him. She shrugged and got to texting, intending to tell Daniel briefly about her evening at the auction and send her love.

  Her love. Which she wasn’t sure she felt. She typed a chipper but brief note and hit send. She then hopped next door and quickly checked in with Pam, who was looking after the bed-and-breakfast for Anna and Clive Jones. Anna’s cousin had turned out to be competent in a lot of ways and was certainly more of a cleaning nut than Anna had been, and definitely a better cook. Her son, Noah, was still a sullen and unpleasant blot on the landscape, but he was no different from a lot of teenage boys, she supposed.

  Everything was fine there, so Jaymie returned home, headed directly upstairs to her office and got down to actual work, which meant first finishing the report on the heritage society meeting and sending it off via email to Nan. She had been agonizing over it for too long, and had no idea if it was all right, but it had to be done that moment because the paper was going to print the next day and they had a set amount of column inches saved for the piece. She then worked on her vintage recipes for an hour and updated her blog, which now had a couple hundred followers.

  Finally, she had done as much as she was going to do, so she pulled on a heavy wool sweater, got a mug of tea and headed out to the summer porch to sit on the divan and look out over the still-green grass and row of brilliant holly bushes she had planted in the spring. So far she liked the look of the beautiful deep green bordering her lawn and thought it would be even better closer to Christmas, when she could cut branches for decorating. On the other hand, everything else looked gray and dispirited. The trumpet vine had dropped all its leaves and sagged over the old garage, which needed a fresh paint job.

  It would have to wait until next spring. An old house required a lot of upkeep, but she knew how fortunate she was that when her parents decided to move to Florida permanently they had deeded the Leighton family house to Jaymie and her sister. Jaymie loved the house deeply and would never consider leaving to live elsewhere. Which was a problem, given the situation with Daniel. He just didn’t get her commitment to her home and Queensville, and how bone deep it was.

  Jaymie hopped back into the house, grabbed the cordless phone and returned to the summer porch, letting Hoppy out to investigate the yard and torment Denver. The tabby, now heavier than in summer and with thicker fur, huddled in the holly bushes glaring out at the world. But when Hoppy bounced over to him, he gave the little Yorkie-Poo a head butt, his most friendly greeting. Jaymie dialed, and after greetings and the usual chitchat she asked how Becca was feeling about her upcoming wedding now.

  “I honestly don’t know why I freaked out, Jaymie,” her sister said. “Kevin is… he’s just the best. It feels so right, and I suppose that’s what scared me.” She paused, but then delicately asked, “What about you and Daniel?”

  Sighing, Jaymie said, “I’m starting to think I need to tell him I’m not ready for whatever it is we have. I mean, I like him—I like him a lot—but I don’t miss him when he’s not here. In fact, I feel free, like I’ve gotten a reprieve.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, but finally Becca said, “You know what, maybe you’re right about telling him you’re not ready. Mom’s going to be so disappointed, though. She already has a mother of the bride dress bought, and it’s not for my wedding!”

  Jaymie groaned and slumped down in her chair. “Enough, already! What did I call you for, guilt trip number three?”

  “Okay, never mind. Tell me about what else is going on.”

  Jaymie filled her in on everything at the manor, then talked about the odd conversation she had overheard between the writer and Isolde. “What do you think they could be looking for?”

  “You’ve got me. You’re the one in tune with goings-on in Queensville.”

  “I guess. Sometimes I think there’s a whole lot I don’t know,” Jaymie replied, thinking about Cynthia Turbridge’s apparently torrid affair with Theo Carson and her own complete obliviousness to it. “I’d better get going.”

  “Hey, sis, don’t worry about Daniel. You’ll make the right decision for yourself. I have faith in you.”

  That was the sweetest thing her sister had ever said to her, and Jaymie teared up a little before saying good-bye and hanging up. It seemed to be her day for receiving compliments, and it buoyed her mood.

  The day was long and busy but ended her favorite way, in her own kitchen with the mellow pendant light over the sink sending long shadows across the floor. She had a sandwich for an early dinner, then stayed at the kitchen table with a pile of old cookbooks at her elbow, as well as a bunch of kitchen utensils, among them some old wood mallets and pestles she had brought home from the Dumpe, about half of the ones there. Why on earth there were so many—probably seven or eight in total—she did not know. They sure made dandy weapons, she thought, hefting one club-shaped piece in her hand.

  It gave her an idea for another Vintage Eats column, and she began to scribble notes. There was such a variety of sizes and shapes! One was cone shaped, and Jaymie knew that would likely fit into a colander, where the cook would turn it to mash cooked apples, berries or even potatoes; really this would be classed as a pestle. But the others were definitely mallets, with a hammer look, and yet not as heavy as a mallet intended for outdoor work.

  Working with these items—she was writing a description of each and photographing them for an eventual Queensville Historic Manor catalog and inventory—forced the memory of being hit with one to resurface. Who had been in the house and didn’t want to be seen? Was it really just a squatter, or was someone there for nefarious reasons? Once upon a time she would have been certain it was happenstance, but lately things had been happening to and around her, and now she had become more suspicious.

  So… had someone broken into the house to find whatever it was Theo Carson was looking for? Was that item the Sultan’s Eye? The mysterious manuscript? Or something completely different?

  Her cell phone blipped, and she picked it up. A message back from Daniel maybe!

  She clumsily scrolled through and found the message icon and clicked on it. It wasn’t from Daniel, it was from Isolde, of all people! It said, Come to the manor; found something really interesting!

  Odd. But then, Isolde had been calling occasionally and had been in and out of the manor kitchen making suggestions, offering help, getting in the way. And if she had gone back, snuck in and found out whatever Theo was looking for, given the tension between them she just might want someone else to document her find. Jaymie laboriously texted back, What is it? and hit send.

  She set the phone down and went back to work for a few minutes, but no new text came in. If she was right and Isolde was trying to cut Theo out of the action, Jaymie definitely wanted in on it. She might not trust Isolde’s intentions, but she trusted Carson
even less. She stared at the phone, but still nothing. Okay, so she’d try to call Isolde and get the scoop. She clicked through to dial the number, but it went to voice mail. Darn.

  “Hoppy, are you up for a walk?” she asked aloud, and the little dog leaped up at the word walk, which was his very favorite human word in the entire lexicon.

  She paused, though, and thought it through: should she really head out there? Isolde had indeed texted her, that much was certain, and it was about something at the manor. However, given what had happened there last time, she wasn’t going to go alone. There was only one person who would do in a pinch, one friend she could call at any time and who would be up for anything.

  A few minutes later Valetta, in her quilted jacket, banged on the back door. Jaymie was ready and clicked Hoppy’s leash to his collar as he quivered with excitement at the unexpected treat… an evening walk! She locked up after herself and started down the back path behind Valetta. “Do you want to take my van?”

  “Are you kidding?” Valetta asked, hopping from foot to foot in the chilly evening air. “That’s like asking, would I like a good bone jarring along with some free dental work? No, I don’t want to take your van. If I’d wanted to drive, I would have brought my car. Come on; if I don’t keep moving this winter my butt is going to spread like Texas, especially if I keep eating Tansy’s butter tarts. This was a good excuse for a walk.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly!” Jaymie said.

  “You are the only person I know who can use wholeheartedly in a sentence and not sound weird.”

  They walked, and, as much as Jaymie generally appreciated Valetta’s speed, it wasn’t fun keeping up with the woman. Hoppy seemed pleased at the pace and began to tug on the leash again, a bad habit she was trying to break. However, they had soon speed-walked their way to the manor house, and Jaymie, stopping to catch her breath, noticed that Bill had gotten the spotlights pointed at the sign working. It made the place more visible, for sure.