White Colander Crime (7 page)

As she predicted, snowflakes had begun to flutter down, dancing on the breeze, just enough to make it festive! She smiled as she watched people strolling through her town, looking at the displays folks had set up, and pausing at the booth for a cup of cider before proceeding to the park, the bandstand and the river, where the few boats still in the water this late in the fall would be decked with lights on their masts and along their railings. Taking a deep breath, she descended the hill and walked toward the village green.

“Jaymie! Merry Christmas!”

She turned to see Dee Stubbs, her and Becca's lifelong friend, pushing her mother-in-law along the street in a wheelchair. It was Mrs. Stubbs who had called out to her, waving her cane, her wrinkled face wreathed in a smile. Jaymie approached; Dee looked tired, but smiled. She had recently returned to the workforce after raising her kids, and worked the emergency ward at Wolverhampton General a few shifts a week. But she still made time for her elderly mother-in-law, since her husband worked long hours, and her brother-in-law, who owned the Queensville Inn and provided a home for his mother, was glued to the inn most of the time.

“Hey, Mrs. Stubbs, Dee!” Jaymie leaned over and gave the woman a hug. “I'm surprised to see you two here!”

“Mother Stubbs' mobility chair is acting up, but we didn't want to miss this. We thought we'd take in the sights, since the forecast is calling for real snow setting in over the next couple of days,” Dee said.
Real
snow to a Michiganian had to pile up enough to shovel.

“DeeDee is good enough to push me around even though the battery on my chair is dying. I wanted to check up on Tree and Imogene, make sure they don't make a hash of the booth,” Mrs. Stubbs said.

The woman had a new lease on life, it seemed, since getting involved in the heritage society skirmish over the history of the former Dumpe Manor, now Queensville Historic Manor. Maybe it was realizing that as one of the few citizens over ninety, she was the keeper of the town's memories. She was still crotchety and occasionally difficult, but she and Dee had made peace, at long last, once the woman realized her daughter-in-law was a little afraid of her, and cautious.

“I'm just heading there myself to set up a display of some of the heritage society pamphlets for our friends to hand out.”

They walked together to the booth, smiling and nodding to the many strangers, most with kids, who strolled the streets, cider cups in hand. The ladies handed cider cups to a young couple, and turned to Jaymie and the others as they approached.

“Jaymie, Dee, Mrs. Stubbs!” they cried out in unison. Mrs. Bellwood, the more spry of the two, filled a cup with cider and shimmied past her friend out of the narrow booth, bringing it to Mrs. Stubbs.

Just at that moment all the women looked past Jaymie, smiles on their faces.

“Isn't she the cutest little thing!” Mrs. Frump cried, clapping her hands joyously as she, too, emerged from the booth.

Jaymie turned and saw Jakob and Jocie, hand in hand, Jocie in a hot-pink snowsuit with white faux-fur trim and white galoshes. Jakob was in a heavy parka and dark jeans, his curly hair uncovered by any hat. Her heart thudded with joy. She clutched the pamphlets to her chest and walked toward them, shyly sharing a hug with Jakob and reaching down to peck Jocie on the cheek. She turned and together they walked back to the booth.

“Jakob, do you know these folks?”

“
I
know him,” Dee volunteered. “Hey, Jakob. My hubby is heading out to the junk store Monday. He needs a file cabinet for the shop.”

“We have a few, four drawer and two. Tell him to say to Gus that I'm giving Joe a good deal.”

Dee smiled. “Have you and Jocie met my mother-in-law, Mrs. Stubbs?”

“I don't believe so,” he said, and Dee made the introductions.

He took his daughter by the hand and led her over to the elderly woman, who bent forward, smiling down at the little girl. Mrs. Stubbs put out one gnarled, wrinkled hand and touched Jocie's smooth, plump cheek, pinkened by the cold. Jaymie watched and her eyes misted; the juxtaposition of the wrinkled hand and the child's perfect skin was heartrending and strangely beautiful. She swallowed hard, past a lump. Jakob glanced over at her and took her by the arm, pulling her toward Mrs. Stubbs.

The elderly woman looked up at them, then at their linked arms. She nodded. “Your child is beautiful, Mr. Müller.”

“Jakob, please, ma'am. Thank you. Jocie is the joy of my life.”

Jocie looked up at Jaymie and her father, then to Mrs. Stubbs. “And Papa is the joy of
my
life,” she said, in a clear tone.

The adults laughed. Jaymie introduced Jakob and Jocie to Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump, then the group broke up. Jaymie and the Müllers strolled briefly and chatted, with a cup of cider each.

“I'm so glad you could get away. Were there a lot of people at the tree lot tonight?”

“It was busy, but Gus is there and Cody, too. He's been helpful. I had a chance to talk to him briefly, but I told him I wanted to talk more tomorrow,” Jakob said, with a significant look to her. “He's coming to the junk store for a cup of coffee.”

She nodded. He was going to have a chat with the guy as he promised, and that was good. She had a feeling Jakob was the kind of man who always kept his promises. They talked a bit more, then he had to get Jocie home. Jaymie watched them leave with a sigh. It was going to be a busy few weeks for all of them. Who knew how much she would be able to see a man who ran a Christmas tree lot? She got back to her task, which was making sure that every person in Queensville that evening had one of the pamphlets and knew about the historic home's grand opening the next day.

It was cold, but she was warmly cloaked, so she strolled and talked herself hoarse and encouraged families to come visit the Queensville Historic Manor. She met up with Heidi and gave her most of the brownies she had brought to sell, all money going into the donation jar at the cider booth. But Heidi was soon cold and bored; once all the brownies were gone she headed home to sit by a roaring fire.

It
was
tiring. Two hours in and she was starting to feel the numbness in her toes. As she finished one complete route from the village proper to the band shell in the waterfront park and back, Valetta waved at Jaymie from the Emporium porch. Jaymie climbed the steps and sank down in one of the chairs. “I'm exhausted!” she said, wiggling her frozen toes in their booted confinement.

“Take a load off for a few minutes at least. No one wants you to kill yourself, you know.” Valetta had a table in front of the chairs with pamphlets from the Queensville Inn, a local winery, the
Wolverhampton Weekly Howler
and the local bed-and-breakfast society.

Jaymie added a stack of the historic manor pamphlets to the collection. “I guess I can take a break.”

Valetta hauled out a thermos and poured a steaming cup of tea, handing it to Jaymie. “This is better than the cider, trust me.”

“I'm not such a big fan of warm apple drink,” Jaymie admitted. She sipped, relishing the peculiar taste of “thermos tea,” the flavor a combination of being made hours before and taking on the essence of the thermos. It tasted like camping to her, because most summers since she was twenty she had ventured north to a campground in Canada to meet with friends. One staple they enjoyed was tea out of a thermos as they ventured out on a road trip, sat on the dock fishing or took a long hike in the woods on a chilly Ontario morning.

Valetta asked about the meeting among Jakob, Jocie, Mrs. Stubbs and the others, and Jaymie told her what was said. As they talked, she noticed Lori Wozny strolling along the main street with her daughter. Even from a distance it was clear the two were mother and daughter, with the same blond hair, a little frizzy, and slight frames. There was even something in their stance, the way they stood and walked, that was similar. But Lori had on her red plaid wool coat and Shelby wore a smart but too thin leather jacket.

With them was a young man, taller, but probably a brother, given his resemblance to Shelby. Jaymie reflected on her confrontation with Lori, and later with Shelby and Cody. Heidi's information about Shelby dating another man shed some light on her wish for distance from Cody, but why did she keep dating him if he was so dangerous to her? Cody appeared genuinely confused by Shelby, as if her actions were contrary to what he had been led to believe they would be. Still, he wouldn't be the first guy who refused to take no for an answer when a woman attempted to break off their affair. Jaymie tried to keep from judging other women's choices. No one knew what another went through, or how their life affected them.

“I'd better get going,” Jaymie said, standing and brushing down her cloak. “If I sit too long, I'll be here for the night; you'll find me here in this chair in the morning, asleep.”

“
I
won't find you. I'm off tomorrow!”

“Oh yeah!” Jaymie said. “I must be tired not to remember that. You found that new fellow from Wolverhampton to fill in every other Saturday. Good for you!”

“I need to do a little shopping,” she said. “It's strange having someone to rely on, though. Thad will be working the pharmacy, and Gracey Klausner is at the cash desk . . . A whole new generation at the Queensville Emporium!” Valetta said, patting the clapboard wall behind her.

Taped to the wall were a number of public notices, one about the missing young woman from Wolverhampton. It was a solemn reminder that in their own community was a family dealing with sorrow and uncertainty at a time of year meant for festivity and happiness.

“Once more into the breach for me,” Jaymie said, grabbing up what was left of her pamphlets and descending the stairs. She turned at the bottom and looked back up at her friend who had stood and was folding the blanket she had wrapped around herself. “Will you be coming to the manor opening tomorrow?”

“I'm not sure. I'll try to be there, but not in time to watch Mayor Fletcher bluster.”

Jaymie descended the slight incline to the main street as Valetta packed it in for the night and headed home to her cottage two streets over. A caroling group from the heritage society strolled toward her and she stopped to listen to them. They sang “It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” as tiny flakes still fluttered down from the inky December sky and dotted the dark cloaks of the singers. One of the men had a leather belt of jingle bells and kept time. She glanced around and saw many had stopped to listen; Brock Nibley was there with his two kids, and Ruby and Garnet Redmond were strolling arm in arm.

She also noticed the Fretter family again. Lori was listening to the group, but Shelby and her brother were having a fierce argument in each other's faces. She finally shrugged and turned away from him but he grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around. They continued arguing until Lori said something sharp, then all three listened to the singers for a moment. But the fight was not over, Jaymie could tell by both of the younger people's stiffness and taut expressions.

Jaymie set off toward the river for one last stroll and listened at the band shell to the brass chorale play “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” She threaded through the crowd, handing out pamphlets and talking about the historic home opening, answering questions about other things going on. Cody Wainwright was there. She had thought he'd still be at the tree lot, but he was likely done for the evening.

Finally Jaymie climbed the grassy bank to the boardwalk and strolled down in the direction of the docks, stopping by a few other people just as the last of the boats were passing, their Christmassy lights blinking off, one by one. She stared out across the river to Heartbreak Island, where twinkling lights were going out, too, as the evening wound down to a close. The Leighton family cottage was one road in, hidden by the pine trees that lined the shore. It had been winterized, but she would go out one more time before Christmas to make sure everything was all right. She could just see the Ice House restaurant down the shore, but as she watched the restaurant lights went out.

Time to take her weary bones home. She ambled back through the village, enjoying the quiet. A few stragglers, mostly young couples, strolled, enjoying the lights.

The lights were out at Jewel's Junk. Jewel, a vivacious redhead in her fifties, had kept the shop open for the evening but by now had closed up and taken her little doggie Junk Jr., Hoppy's best canine buddy, home. Jaymie ascended the rise and strolled past the shop, then picked her way through the gloom across the increasingly slick grass as flakes of snow began to stick, dotting the dark green grass. It occurred to her that she should have just taken the rest of the pamphlets home, because the stack in her basket was much smaller than it had been, but now that she was at the storeroom she may as well put them away.

She opened the door into the shed and headed to the small internal storeroom, fishing in her hoodie pocket under the cloak for the key. The door was open, though, and the light on. Bill must be still working, she thought. She headed toward the light and pushed the door open the rest of the way, setting her basket aside on the workbench and turning. A moan made her whirl in place, and she saw a person on the wide-board floor, just a heap of red plaid.

“Lori!” Jaymie cried and raced to her side, kneeling by her. The woman moved, whimpering, and Jaymie helped her turn on her back, which was when she saw that it was not Lori Wozny but Shelby Fretter wearing her mother's coat, and she had been beaten terribly, her face badly bruised and blood streaming from her forehead.

Without a second's hesitation Jaymie raced to the door and screamed
help
into the crisp night air, hearing it echo back to her in the empty town.

Seven

N
O ANSWER. WITH
one glance backward, noting the young woman's labored breathing, Jaymie knew she had not a second to lose. The girl needed professional help. Whimpering, Jaymie stripped off her cloak and laid it gently over the girl, muttered a quick prayer and exited, looking around to see if anyone was still about.

Not a soul! Jaymie made up her mind quickly, then stumbled and slid across the grass to the nearest house, that of Cynthia Turbridge, owner of the Cottage Shoppe. She trotted up the wooden steps to the porch, hammered on the door and screamed, “Help!”

A light went on in the cottage, and she could hear the latch of the door drawn; a sleepy and suspicious Cynthia looked out from a crack in the door. “Who's there? What do you want?”

“Cynthia, it's me, Jaymie Leighton. There's a woman hurt at Bill Waterman's workshop. Call 911 and tell them. I've got to get back to her, but call!
Please
hurry!”

Cynthia paused for a second, rubbed her eyes, stared at Jaymie and said, “Right away.” She slammed the door.

Jaymie whirled and fled back to the storeroom, muttering angrily at herself all the way as she shivered, skidded and concentrated on not falling. Of all times not to bring her cell phone! But it was in her purse, and there had been no reason to carry that on a stroll around town.

She huffed and puffed up the rise to the workshop, then bolted through the darkness to the bright light of the storeroom, praying Shelby was still alive. She could hear the distant wail of the ambulance or police. She strode into the storeroom and knelt by the girl's side, adjusting the navy wool cloak so it covered her up to her bloody chin. Shelby was alive, but she didn't look good. Around the bruises and cuts her skin was pale and waxy, and blood dripped from her mouth now.

Fear clutched at Jaymie's stomach and tears welled in her eyes, but she sternly pulled herself together. “You're going to be okay,” she said, her voice quivering and her breath coming in puffs of steam. “You'll be all right, I pro—” Her voice cracked.

She couldn't promise. The bruises seemed to become a deeper, angrier shade of purple; it was as though Shelby's life was draining away one drop of blood at a time, streaming from open wounds to discolor the cement floor under her and collecting in pools in the awful bruises. Her breathing became erratic and slower, with a sound like a harsh rattle on each gasp. A sob bubbled up in Jaymie's throat; who had done this awful deed?

“Hurry up!
Please!
” Jaymie muttered under her breath, like a prayer to urge the rescue providers to more haste. She looked over her shoulder out the open door into the workshop. “We need you!”

Why was the storage room open? Had Shelby come in on her own, been dragged there, or what? Trying to distract herself and stay calm, Jaymie looked around and noticed blood on the edge of the bench, spatter in a couple of places and a random bit of cloth stuck in a cracked section of the bench where wood had splintered. It was a torn section of silky navy fabric, looking out of place in the rough workshop. Where had she seen fabric like that recently?

She couldn't think, couldn't comprehend what had happened. The poor girl had been beaten here, in this storeroom, while just yards away was the help that would have saved her from so much pain. Sirens wailed, coming closer, and finally they cut, replaced by the thrum of heavy motors and men talking. But she couldn't leave Shelby's side. Jaymie felt as though she was breathing for Shelby: in, out, in, out. Slow. Even, but fading.
Definitely
fading. The rattle had stopped, becoming more of a soft gurgle. The voices were closer. “We're in here!” Jaymie shouted, “Hurry! She's alive!”

Moments later she was crowded out of the way by a paramedic team of a man and woman, uniformed and swift, fast but deft. Jaymie answered what questions she could, which was not much beyond Shelby's name, her mother's name and that she had seen them together just an hour or so before in the Dickens Days crowd. Police pushed in, one she recognized as Officer Ng, his black eyes alert and absorbing every detail. A gurney was trundled in, a backboard gently slid under Shelby and the young woman lifted carefully onto the stark white-sheet-covered mattress, an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. There was no hastiness, and yet all was done speedily and with tender competence. They pulled the backboard out from under her, discarded Jaymie's woolen cloak, and covered Shelby in a blanket, then secured her to the gurney with straps, arms at her side.

One of the paramedics brushed past Jaymie's basket, where it had been set aside on the workbench, and it toppled, the pamphlets fluttering out in a spill of color, one landing in a puddle of the blood, soaking it in, the paper warping into dark waves. She swayed, but Officer Ng took Jaymie's hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Come out to the workshop,” he said. A couple of other police were there already, cordoning off the area. One rushed past them and looked in the storeroom door. He caught Ng's eye and both nodded. He turned and crossed his arms over his chest, barring entry to the awful, bloody scene.

Jaymie shivered as she tried to wrap her mind around it all. Shelby had been beaten, but by whom? Her first thought was Cody Wainwright. But there was at least one other explanation, given the adversarial relationship she seemed to have with the young man Jaymie assumed was her brother. Some people, Jaymie had learned in the last few months, almost seemed like a lightning rod, the complex nature of their lives attracting complicated responses and multiple possible explanations when they were murdered. It was like they were the knot at the heart of it all, and to figure it out required the careful picking apart of threads tangled by emotion and violence.

Shelby was alive, thank heavens, and would be able to identify her attacker. Jaymie slowed her breathing. This would all be okay. The answer would be evident from the beginning, unlike the other more complicated occurrences over the last seven months in Queensville.

“Can I go home now?” she asked Officer Ng. “I'm so cold!”

“Please wait. I can help the cold.” He snapped his fingers at a young female officer and barked out, “Blanket!”

Jaymie grimaced at the loud command, and regarded him covertly. He was a good-looking guy, very serious, with straight black hair and black eyes, his expression perpetually stern. She had thought his ancestry Vietnamese, but the name was Chinese, Bernie had told her and Heidi. Their friend had gone out with him for a little while, but Jaymie had never really met him or been involved with him. She didn't like how he treated the female officer, but it may just have been his way with any new recruit.

The young officer brought a folded-up plastic-wrapped blanket and Ng tore the plastic off, handed that back to the officer and held the blanket out to Jaymie. The female officer sighed, jerked the blanket out of his hands and unfolded it, then helped a shivering Jaymie drape it over her shoulders and wrap it around herself.

“Thank you,” Jaymie murmured and smiled shakily at the girl, a petite blonde who looked more like a cheerleader than a cop. To Ng, she said, “Why am I waiting? I didn't see anything or anyone. I was just coming to the shed to bring back the pamphlets I had left at the end of the evening and I found her.”

“Just wait, please.”

A car pulled up to the curb and Detective Angela Vestry got out. She was an angular woman, with scraped-back hair and cold eyes. Jaymie had briefly met her in the trouble that had happened the month before, and thought her competent, if a little gray and grave in personality. She appeared to scan the scene, the whirling light of the cruisers parked at the curb flashing their blue and white lights across her pale face. She eyed some of the villagers gathered, dressed for the most part in parkas over housecoats and galoshes, standing at the curb in clusters, chatting among themselves. Cynthia was among them, wearing a vintage mink coat over pink silk pajamas.

The detective then looked up the rise to where Ng and Jaymie must have been framed by the lights now on in the workshop. Bill Waterman was talking to an officer down by the curb, who was taking notes as the handyman spoke. The handyman looked up the hill at Jaymie and raised his hand in a greeting. She fluttered her hand back, then regarded the detective who now approached.

“Miss Leighton, we meet again,” Detective Vestry said, with absolutely no hint of humor or reproach. “Could you tell me what happened?”

She related her evening, as crisply as it would come to her, up until her decision to call it a night. “I suppose I was the last volunteer working. I was bringing the rest of the pamphlets back to the storeroom; that's the inner room in Bill Waterman's shed.”

“Was he leaving it open for you?”

“No, he gave me a key,” she said, and pulled the unused key out of her hoodie pocket. “One of . . . four, I think? But the workshop was open, and when I entered I could see that the storeroom was, too, and the light was on.”

“Didn't you wonder why?” the detective asked, watching Jaymie's eyes intently.

“Bill was here earlier working on a speaker. I thought maybe he was still there, or back again working on it. That's why I walked right in, and that's when I found Shelby. Actually I thought it was her mom, Lori Wozny, at first, because of the coat.”

“The coat?”

She explained about Lori's red plaid coat and that the woman worked at the heritage house as a custodian. “I saw them earlier, and Lori had that coat on. Shelby was wearing just a skinny leather jacket, and I thought how cold she must have been. It was starting to snow, not much, just like it is now. I saw Lori, Shelby and a guy, maybe her brother? He kind of looked like her, that's why I thought . . . Anyway, I thought it was Lori at first, but when I turned her over I found that it was poor Shelby. She was just covered in blood! Is she going to be okay? Maybe she can tell you what happened.”

“Did you see anyone leaving, or have any impression of someone here?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

Jaymie's stomach turned. “I didn't see a soul. I think I paused for a moment before going in; it was such a nice night! But it was
quiet
. I'd have heard if anyone was still there.”

“So you saw her earlier. Did you speak to her? Or see anything?”

“I didn't speak to her. She was arguing with the fellow that was with her and her mom, the one I think is her brother. Other than that, I didn't see anything else.”

“It looked like you remembered something just then. What is it?”

“Nothing, except . . . earlier today she did have a couple of run-ins,” Jaymie said, and told the detective about Cody and Shelby in the Emporium, and her apparent argument with her boss, Delaney Meadows. “I think I saw Cody Wainwright here, near the band shell. But I didn't see him anywhere near the village.”

“You can go home. I may want to see you tomorrow.”

“I'll be out at the Queensville Historic Manor most of the day, but you can find me there,” Jaymie said. The manor was where a murder had happened just a few weeks before, so Detective Vestry definitely knew where it was. The police chief had virtually taken over that investigation, and for the first time, Jaymie wondered if that had irritated the detective, undermining her chance to solve the crime. The police chief was a different kind of guy and followed his own rules, while the detective seemed a straitlaced and unimaginative, though competent, investigator.

“I know where it is, if I need you,” the detective said.

Jaymie walked down the slope to where Bill was just finishing talking to the officer. The chatter of police radios and thrum of heavy motors filled the night air. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, startling a flock of Canada geese that took to flight, unusual at that time of night. They honked in irritation, dark blots against the indigo sky.

“Are you okay, honey?” Bill said, grabbing her shoulders and looking into her eyes. “You don't look like yourself.”