“I know, hon, but you must be tired. Go to bed, Jaymie. You need sleep.”
She followed Becca upstairs, said good night and went to bed, followed by a subdued Hoppy. Jaymie picked up her latest romance novel, a gripping story about a winsome waif’s search for love—and a duke—in Regency England. Denver joined her, curling up at her feet, and Jaymie even lifted Hoppy up; he was a restless sleeper and so was seldom given the privilege of sleeping on her bed, but sadness made her want to be kind to someone or something. Finally, she drifted off, but awoke several times in the night, jarred to consciousness once by a sense that something was missing, and again by Hoppy’s twitchy dreams.
It was a long night.
The morning started as it always did, with a quick cup of coffee, then a jaunt over to Anna’s to make breakfast for the bed-and-breakfast guests. When she was finished, they sat down for a cup of coffee, as usual. Anna had heard about the murder from one of her guests, who had been in the park when the police arrived, and she was aghast to learn that Jaymie had found the body, and that it was Kathy Cooper.
“Oh, girlfriend! How awful for you,” she said, watching Jaymie’s face. “I feel so bad!”
Tears pricked the back of Jaymie’s eyelids. “It was terrible.” She shook off the dull ache in her heart. “You and Tabby were there when Becca and Valetta cleared the picnic dishes, right?”
Anna nodded. “I volunteered to help, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“After years of picnics, pie socials and heritage association dinners, they have it down to a science,” Jaymie said. “You remember the bowl I showed you, the heavy glass one I brought the potato salad in?” Anna nodded. “Did you see anyone take it from the table before they cleared the dishes?”
Anna wrinkled her nose, her freckles scrunching up to play connect the dots on her cheeks. She shrugged. “I don’t remember it at all. Why? Is it important?”
“Not if you don’t remember. There’s no real reason why you should.”
Anna sat still for a moment, her mouth slightly open. “Do you mean…was that what they used? Oh, Jaymie! I’m so sorry.”
“I know. It’s worse, somehow, that she was killed with that bowl, something I loved, something I brought. I feel like I handed the killer a weapon and said, have at it.”
“But you didn’t, Jaymie.”
“Please don’t say anything to anyone else about the bowl. I’ll get over it,” she said, aiming a tremulous smile at Anna, who looked distraught. The last thing she wanted to do was stress out her pregnant friend. “Don’t worry about me, Anna. Really.”
Breakfast was only the beginning of the day at a bed-and-breakfast; Anna had a full house, and that required more laundry, bed changing and cleaning. Jaymie left her to go at the part of the job Anna enjoyed, with the promise that she would be back the next morning, as usual, to cook breakfast for Anna’s guests.
Jaymie returned home and spent a half hour with Becca and Kevin talking over the events of the previous day and evening. Both reassured her, as the detective had, that if someone was set on killing Kathy, they would have found a weapon, even if the bowl hadn’t been handy.
But…why the bowl? Jaymie couldn’t help but think that the killer had to be someone who knew both that she and Kathy were “enemies,” and that the Depression glass bowl with the potato salad was what Jaymie had brought to the picnic. That would limit the suspects to a reasonably small group. Kevin, however, pointed out that it may merely have been a case of a heavy and handy object. Soon after, they left. Kevin had to return to Canada on the ferry, and Becca wanted to walk him to the dock. She seemed happy, and Kevin was good to her. Jaymie hoped their budding love would fully flower.
Jaymie called Hoppy in and clipped his leash to his collar. The little three-legged Yorkie-Poo was itching for a walk, and Jaymie needed to check in at the Emporium to see if any of the previous day’s rental baskets had been returned. When possible, she asked that renters wash the melamine dishes they returned, but sometimes, if they were only in town for a day, they just couldn’t do that, so she needed to get the dishes and wash them as quickly as possible.
Every fine day at eleven, Valetta would close her pharmacy/catalog order desk and have a cup of tea on the porch of the Emporium. Valetta Nibley had the sharpest eyes in Queensville and a long nose that sniffed out scandal and gossip as well as Hoppy sniffed out his canine enemies. If anyone had seen who lifted the bowl from Brock’s table, she would have. Valetta was already on the porch steps in the July sunshine, sipping tea from a chipped mug that stated, “Pharmacists Do It OTC.”
The Queensville Emporium was the oldest store in continuous usage for miles around. The storefront looked like it was still the 1800s, with painted wood columns supporting a pitched porch roof, big picture windows and a high false front. But in a determined bow to modernity, the front of the store was lined with boxes of colorful Water Weenies, hula hoops and water guns for purchase, and the big glass windows were plastered with ads ranging from houses for sale to babysitting services to cottages for rent on Heartbreak Island. Rose Tree Cottage was not advertised; the Leighton family’s property was booked for the entire summer by returning guests from previous years, except for the two weeks when Jaymie and Becca’s parents would use it. Jaymie had already been out to clean it four times, and she made a weekly trip there to check on the lawn, make sure the cottagers were happy and collect the rent.
Bill Waterman, the local handyman, had a ladder resting against the porch overhang and was taking down the red, white and blue bunting. His nephew, who was working with him for the summer, held the ladder. She waved at the handyman, then greeted her friend and sat on the step with Valetta, letting Hoppy sniff around the clumps of weedy grass surrounding the porch supports.
Valetta put her arm around Jaymie’s shoulder, hugged her and released. She, like Becca and DeeDee Stubbs, was forty-seven or so, but only owned up to forty-two. She made no other attempt to cheat her age, though, letting her dark, thick hair gray at the temples and wearing increasingly strong glasses with bifocals that openly admitted to being bifocals. “You okay, kiddo?” she asked.
“I’m all right. Did the detective talk to you?”
“He sure did. I might have swooned, if I’d thought he would catch me. That is one handsome man.”
Jaymie smiled, and it felt good. Valetta was quirky and humorous, but a fast friend of the forever type. She was full of contradictions: by turns she was a gossip who knew how to keep a secret, a cranky spinster (by her own accounting) who was a romantic at heart, and a woman who supposedly disliked children, while they flocked to her good-natured matter-of-factness.
“Did the handsome detective ask you about my bowl?”
Valetta set her empty tea mug on the wooden step. “He did…called me early this morning. First, he asked me if you had taken it away with you on your walk.”
“He didn’t!” Jaymie gasped. So she was a suspect, as she feared. How could he not suspect her, though, when it was her bowl, and she and Kathy had argued that very day and had, by her own admission, a long-standing enmity? “What did you say?”
“I said you did not have it, I could guarantee that, and he asked how I was so sure. I said, well, first, it would have been hard for you to conceal a bowl while walking arm in arm with your guy and wearing shorts and a T-shirt.”
Foolishly, Jaymie felt her heart thump, and she wondered what the detective had thought when he’d heard that she and Daniel were commonly viewed as a couple. But that was silly, and she knew it. As attractive as she found the detective, and as intriguing as she had found him in their interaction during the murder investigation in May, he had made it clear she was a quaint small-town girl, in his eyes.
“Then I told him the truth: I know your bowl was on the table when you walked away because there was still salad in it, and I dished it out to a couple of other people.”
“I wondered what had become of the rest of the salad. I figured you had just thrown it out.”
“No, it was real good. Never waste good food. I dished some up to a guy in an Uncle Sam suit, and then…” She paused, chewing her cheek, a sign she was worried about something. She gazed down the road and squinted.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Valetta pushed her glasses up on her nose and frowned. “I gave the bowl to Johnny Stanko to finish up the rest.”
The memory of Stanko walking away, muttering that he ought to “whack” both Kathy and Craig came back to her. “Oh!”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking, Jaymie, but I won’t believe it,” Valetta said, tears gathering in her eyes. “I won’t believe he killed Kathy!”
“I didn’t know you were close to him.”
The other woman was still for a moment while the sounds of summer filled the silence: a lawn mower’s steady thrum, children’s voices at play and the chirr of an annoyed chipmunk. She waved as a car passed, and Hoppy trotted up to her on the top step, resting his chin on her knee. She scruffed under his chin, and he flopped on his back, exposing his belly. “I babysat Johnny when he was just a kid,” she finally said as she petted the little dog’s belly, smoothing the ruffled fur into a swirl on his pink tummy.
“I thought he had an older sister who died recently. Why didn’t she babysit him?”
“She ran away from home when she was just fifteen or so. She didn’t come back to Queensville until their parents died. There was some insurance money, and she bought that little house, while Johnny drank his share away.”
“And now she’s gone, too. Sad for him. Valetta, I hate to say it, but he said he ought to whack them both, Kathy and Craig. And then Kathy dies, with the bowl that he had in his hands!”
“I know, I know! I told that detective everything. God forgive me,” she whispered, her head down. She was silent for a long moment, then raised her head and said, voice trembling, “But I will not believe Johnny killed Kathy Cooper.” She looked Jaymie in the eye. “He has worked so hard to change his life: sobriety, peacekeeping, making up to folks for all he did when he was younger…that’s all important to him now.”
“Is that what you talked about when you followed him down to the dock?”
She nodded, gently moved Hoppy aside and stood up, stretching her lanky form. “I have to get back to work. I really hope they don’t arrest Johnny.” She looked down, meeting Jaymie’s eyes. “He didn’t do it, I would bet my life on it!” Valetta took friendship and loyalty seriously, but this time she was backing a dark horse.
“Did he bring the bowl back? If he did, then it’s all right.”
“I don’t know if he did,” Valetta said, groaning, swinging her empty mug on her finger. “That’s the problem. If I knew he brought it back, then I could have told Detective Christian. But I don’t remember seeing the bowl after that, and I know it wasn’t on the table when Becca and I cleaned up.” She shrugged and disappeared inside.
Jaymie retrieved the melamine that had been returned with the baskets from the day before, checked the reservation book for the weekend rentals, then walked home.
* * *
IT WAS AN old tradition to take food to the bereaved, and it was one that was observed rigidly by their Grandma Leighton, less so by their mom. Becca and Jaymie worked together and made some individual dinners for Craig, but Jaymie also wanted to take something to Kathy’s mom, who at one time had been an integral part of Queensville society. Once she had belonged to the Lady’s Guild, went to church regularly and for any dinner, civic or church-related, she and her husband could be counted on to provide the hams. Becca and Jaymie’s mom always said that Hofstadter hams were the best in the county.
Everything changed when Kathy and Kylie’s dad died. Without the strong hand of the patriarch, both the farm and the family unit seemed to disintegrate.
So Jaymie wanted to do something for Mrs. Hofstadter, who had, after all, lost a daughter. Jaymie may not have spent a lot of time at the farm, but everyone knew how kind the girls’ mother was, and how unassuming. A casserole of macaroni and cheese was the answer; even though the weather was balmy, mac and cheese was always appropriate. After washing up the melamine from the baskets, Jaymie got to work.
As she grated the piles of cheddar and mozzarella for the dish, Jaymie wondered, where had the notion of food for those mourning a loss come from? Maybe Grandma Leighton would know, but if not, there was always her knowledgeable friend, Google. It would make a great chapter in More Recipes from the Vintage Kitchen, since it was a community tradition that dated back…well, she’d need to learn more about it.
While Becca took the individual dinners to Craig Cooper, Jaymie put the casserole on the seat of her van and took off to the Hofstadter farm, which was down an unpaved country lane a couple of miles out of Queensville. As she pulled up the driveway, she became increasingly uneasy at the derelict appearance of the property. Had the woman moved away, and Jaymie just hadn’t heard? The once tidy lane, lined with cedars, was now also lined on the lawn side with junk: a broken washing machine tipped over, green garbage bags full and sagging, disintegrating cardboard boxes and paper litter everywhere. The front lawn grass was so long that it was bent over and tamped down by rain and wind.
It didn’t get any better closer to the big red-brick house. A window on the second floor was broken and stuffed with what looked like a comforter and a piece of cardboard, and the front porch was full of more junk. The lane was so rutted that Jaymie decided to save her suspension and park her ancient van along the line of now ragged cedars. She did so, grabbed the casserole—still warm from the oven—and made her way toward the back door of the house. There was a battered pickup truck parked by the sidewalk that led to the back door, and the sound of voices raised in anger drifted to Jaymie. She paused out of sight and listened.
“Mom, we have to have a funeral.”
It had to be Kylie speaking. There was a mumbled reply, then Kylie said, “I’ll do it, then. Craig is no freaking good. I don’t even know if he cares. I gotta go. If I’m going to plan everything, then I’ll have to get started.”
Interesting. So by Kylie’s reckoning, Kathy and Craig’s marriage was not the happy little nest after all. It sounded like Kylie was preparing to leave, and Jaymie felt awkward lingering by the side of the house. If she was caught, it would look like exactly what it was: eavesdropping. Jaymie advanced around to the back door.
Kylie Hofstadter was standing at the open door with Connor, and Mrs. Hofstadter was standing in the mudroom. Kylie whirled around when she saw Jaymie. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Kylie Marie Hofstadter!” her mother said. “That’s no way to greet someone!”
Strolling up the walk, awkwardly carrying the glass casserole dish, Jaymie considered her words carefully. “I’m so sorry about Kathy, Mrs. Hofstadter. I don’t know if you remember me; I’m Jaymie Leighton, Alan and Joy Leighton’s daughter? Kathy and I used to be friends. We…we had our issues, but I will never forget the fun we had as kids, and how close we once were.”
“Right,” Kylie said. She turned Connor around and sent him scooting toward the pickup with a pat on his bum, all the while glaring at Jaymie. “You have some nerve coming here like this.” Her voice was tight with anger.
Jaymie, trying to ignore Kylie—whose opinion of her had, no doubt, been poisoned by Kathy—moved forward until she could better see Mrs. Hofstadter, who stood in the open door. The years had not been kind to the woman. Always portly but neat and tidy, she was now slatternly, with a dirty housedress on and feet clad in filthy slippers. The smell of organic waste drifted from the house; it was the scent of hopelessness. Paint was gone from the doorframes, and some of the wood looked like it was rotting out. Jaymie now understood why Kathy had tried to get her mother to sell the farm. If this kept up, the house would fall down around the woman’s ears, and no one would ever know what happened to her.
“Mrs. Hofstadter,” Jaymie said, holding out the casserole. “I just wanted to drop by and bring
you this.”
Kylie, who looked like she had been on the verge of leaving before, appeared rooted in place. She was a young woman, not more than twenty-five or -six, but there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was a rat’s nest. “She doesn’t need your food—freakin’ Leighton charity. Do you think we don’t take care of our mom?” Her voice bubbled with anger and tears.
In the face of so much pain, Jaymie was silent, not trusting her voice to be steady. The tragedy of Kathy’s death was at its most profound right here, right now.
Mrs. Hofstadter took the casserole. “Kylie, enough!” She turned to Jaymie and, water welling in her dull brown eyes, said, “I appreciate you thinking of me. Give my love to your grandma when you see her next. She was always real good to us. And to your mama, of course!”
“Mom and Grandma Leighton always said there were no better hams in the state than Hofstadter farm hams.” It sounded inane in the midst of the family’s tragedy.
“You should leave now,” Kylie said, her hands balled into fists at her side.
“I’ll come back another day for the empty casserole dish, Mrs. Hofstadter,” Jaymie said, turning and walking away. It suddenly occurred to her that she had never thought to ask Mrs. Hofstadter why Kathy had turned against her, and, with Kylie there, there was no talking to her this time, but she had an excuse to come back—to pick up the casserole dish. She felt genuinely bad for the woman, who had lost so much, and wanted to help in any way she could. That, her grandmother would say, was what community was all about.
Seven
BECCA WAS ON the phone to her assistant in London, Ontario, when Jaymie got back to the house from the Hofstadter farm.
“I can’t explain how the Old Imari platter got broken, Sabrina. We packed it as we always do, but we can’t control how the courier treats it,” Becca was saying, pacing the length of the kitchen. She caught Jaymie’s attention and rolled her eyes. “Tell the customer that if she can photograph the broken item and send me the picture, I will either reimburse her, or send her another, as soon as I…no, wait, Sabrina, calm down! I know she’s upset, and I’m sorry she chewed you out like that. You don’t have to take that. Give her my cell number if she wants to yell at someone. Laurel is always difficult, and I won’t take a hit on this. She’s been known to try to get something for nothing. Failing the photo, she can send me the pieces, and I’ll reimburse her for the platter and the mailing costs. I just need some proof that it’s broken.” She clicked the off button and grimaced to Jaymie.
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