Bowled Over (15 page)

As darkness closed in, they made it back to Jaymie’s home and their friends. Valetta, Dee and Becca were finishing up the dishwashing while the guys still chatted outside, their voices low in the gloom. She unsnapped Hoppy’s leash, and he lurched over to his food bowl by the stove and settled
in for a good meal, crunching away while Denver materialized out of nowhere to stare at him as he ate. That feline intensity used to freak out poor Hoppy, but he was now immune to Denver’s attempts to unnerve him.

Daniel appeared in the kitchen. “You’re back,” he said, putting his arm over her shoulders.

He was warm, and she appreciated his solid good nature. She leaned against him, and said, “Heidi and I went for a walk with Hoppy.”

“Joel has some idea for a software application he says will revolutionize life for salespeople everywhere,” he murmured.

Jaymie looked up in time to see Daniel roll his eyes. She chuckled. “Was he picking your brain?”

“Kinda. I got the feeling it was really a sales pitch, because he said whatever company developed it would make millions.”

She laughed softly, longing to ask if Daniel had thought to say he already
made
millions, thank you very much, but that would be indelicate. Daniel never talked about money. That was one of the things she appreciated about him. He had loads of cash but drove a beat-up Jeep when he was in Queensville and didn’t throw his money around. He had to go—something about a conference call with someone in Japan—so she walked him to the front door, experienced a rather nice kiss and said good night.

Dee, Joel and Heidi left. Becca was on the phone again with her assistant, so Valetta helped Jaymie with the last of the dishes, the crystal champagne saucers, standing by with a waffle-weave tea towel.

The low light over the kitchen sink glinted off Valetta’s glasses. “You know, I know you didn’t do it, Jaymie.”

“I
hope
you know it!” Jaymie exclaimed, handing her older friend one of the champagne saucers to dry.

“Well, of course. That came out wrong. What I mean to say is, I know
you
didn’t do it, so who did?”

“There were a lot of people who had run-ins with Kathy Cooper yesterday.”

“But to kill someone? Over a run-in?”

“I know,” Jaymie agreed. The kitchen was dim and peaceful, with just the drone of Becca’s voice in the background. Hoppy was done with his meal and had curled up in his basket near the stove. Denver, happy now that everyone had gone, wound around her feet as she again dipped her hands into the hot soapy water in the Belfast sink. “The police are looking for Johnny Stanko.”

“I know.”

She glanced over at Valetta as she handed her friend another champagne saucer. “Do you know where he is?”

“I have an idea,” Valetta admitted. She dried the crystal and set it on the table with the others.

Jaymie considered her next words carefully, and then said, “Maybe he ought to give himself up, or go in to talk to the cops, or something.” She paused, but it had to be said. “Valetta, are you
so
sure he didn’t lose his temper and kill Kathy?”

“I know people are going to think that. I suppose it’s possible. He’s been trying so hard to change, but everyone has their breaking point. Why would Kathy meet
him
behind the washroom, though, of all people?”

“I was wondering about that as Heidi and I walked along there tonight. So you think that Kathy went there purposely—like a planned meeting—and met her killer? That she was going there to talk to someone?”

“I do.”

She eyed Valetta speculatively. “You have tomorrow off, right?”

“I do.” Valetta waited, watching Jaymie’s face, a look of hope in her eyes.

“Do you think we might be able to find Johnny Stanko if we gave it a shot tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “I’m worried about him. I want him to go to the police, and I don’t want it to turn into a bad situation. I was going to go alone, but I’d love company.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Come on over after you’re done at the Shady Rest.”

Nine

W
ITH A FLURRY
of warnings to Jaymie to stay out of trouble, Becca left on the ferry the next morning. She wasn’t taking her car because she was meeting Kevin in Johnsonville, and he was driving her to London. They were all going to meet on Heartbreak Island on Sunday to do some needed work on Rose Tree Cottage before their next renters arrived.

Jaymie and Hoppy had walked Becca down to the dock, and she threaded her way back through the village toward Valetta’s. Valetta Nibley’s cottage was in the old section of town, as were those of many of the “founding villagers,” the homes of families who had been in Queensville for generations. Mrs. Trelawney Bellwood, who played Queen Victoria in the Tea with the Queen Heritage Society fundraising event every May during Victoria Day weekend, was in her back garden, which bordered a lane named after her
husband’s family, when Jaymie walked Hoppy past her property.

Roary, Mrs. Bellwood’s pug, rushed the fence, yapping and snuffling and making a huge racket for a pug. This was a game Hoppy and Roary played, so Hoppy lunged at the fence too and they pretended to hate each other. Hoppy wobbled and lunged, while Roary yapped with asthmatic snuffles between each string of hoarse barklets. Put together, the two played amicably, but put a fence between them and they acted like tiny maniacs.

Mrs. Bellwood, who had only been visible as a rounded, madras plaid bottom wedged between her shed and the fence, straightened, hand to her back, and hobbled toward the chain-link fence, her face red. Her hands were shielded by garden gloves and she had a fistful of berry-laden vines. “How are you this morning, Jaymie? I hear you were out walking with that Lockland girl yesterday evening.”

It was surprising that Mrs. Imogene Frump’s information had made it all the way to her mortal enemy, Mrs. Bellwood, but they had connections in common among the ladies of the village. “So you and Mrs. Frump have been talking?” Jaymie said, teasing her elderly friend.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Bellwood said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Imogene and I have nothing to say to each other. Trip Findley was on his walk this morning and stopped to talk to me.”

So that explained it. “Heidi is a nice girl,” Jaymie said, pulling Hoppy back from the fence to give Roary time to recover from his fit. The pug sneezed, snuffled and wheezed, then flopped on his back and rolled in the sun-warmed grass. “She and Joel are getting married, and I thought I’d tell her a little about the village. She’s been here a while, but hasn’t really met anyone.”

People had shut Heidi out of village life for months because she had “stolen” Jaymie’s beau, but it was time the foolishness stopped. Jaymie was determined to right the wrong that had been done to the young woman. Yes, Heidi had “stolen” Joel, in one sense, but he was not a necklace left out to tempt a thief; he was a man, and if it hadn’t been Heidi, it would have been someone else, Jaymie had decided. It was his way out of a relationship he was no longer invested in.

“One of those modern girls: fake tans, fake white teeth, fake
everything
,” the old woman grumbled.

“So, you’re ripping out the deadly nightshade?” Jaymie said, to change the subject.

Mrs. Bellwood waved the clump of weedy vines toward her potting shed. “It’s growing up behind the shed, and I didn’t even know it! Don’t want Roary to get a mouthful. My boy will eat anything, even the deadly stuff.”

“Is it dangerous for pets?” Given its name, Jaymie realized, that was probably so.

“It
is
. Millie Dickons’s cat ate some last summer and died,” she said baldly. “Started drooling all over her, swatted her with his claws, and then he was gone. They found a quarter pound of deadly nightshade berries in that greedy cat’s stomach!”

“Wow, I didn’t know that. I’ll have to make sure there’s none growing up in the trumpet vine. I don’t think Denver or Hoppy would go for it, but you never know. I have to go now…meeting Valetta this morning.” Jaymie tugged on Hoppy’s leash.

“You tell her I’m waiting for that recipe she promised me for cranberry chutney!” the woman said, waving the handful of weeds.

“Okay, I’ll let her know.” She gave Hoppy another tug, and he obediently trotted back to the path.

They headed on down to Valetta’s cottage, which was tucked at the other end of Bellwood Lane. It was a frame cottage with a front porch that stretched the width of the house, and was painted olive green with darker green trim. Jaymie thought the color was ugly, but Valetta was proud of her handiwork, so she never criticized. Becca claimed the color was modern and fit the Arts and Crafts–influenced style of the house. Valetta met her at the gate, and the women exchanged hellos.

“So, where do you think Johnny is?” Jaymie asked.

Valetta, dressed in a pair of black shorts, a black T-shirt and sunglasses, closed the gate behind her and darted her gaze up and down the street, as if looking for detectives lurking behind trees. “Follow me.”

So, it was somewhere they could walk to, Jaymie surmised. However, after twenty minutes of walking in circles, down drive lanes, along the main street, into the newer section of town and then back to the old, Jaymie finally said, “Valetta, can we get there on foot or what? I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re now walking past Jewel’s Junk for the second time.” She waved to Jewel Dandridge, the proprietor of the junk shop that Jaymie frequented and sometimes looked after. Junk Junior, Jewel’s bichon mix, barked at Hoppy from the wooden deck outside the shop; Hoppy yapped back and tugged at his leash, longing to go over and sniff butts with the other dog, his best canine buddy. Jewel watched them from her spot in the window of the shop.

“I’m just wandering in case anyone is following us,” Valetta mumbled.

Well, that explained Valetta’s version of undercover spy wear, shades and all. Jaymie glanced around at the quiet streets and lanes. The tourists who were in town were likely still lingering over coffee and beignets at the Queensville
Inn’s coffee shop. A police officer would have shown up as clearly as a tattoo on a church lady.

“Okay,” Valetta said, after a final look around. “I think it’s safe.”

Now they set off at a blistering pace, Valetta’s long legs taking strides that Jaymie had to trot to keep up with. She dashed down a parking alley behind a row of Queen Anne–style homes, then cut down a sloped side street toward the neighborhood near the docks. There, the houses were a little rickety, slightly off kilter, some neat and rimmed in gardens, some decrepit and looking the worse for wear. She followed Valetta to the end of the street as even Hoppy began to tire, and stood beside her friend, staring at a small frame cottage that was painted a funky shade of lavender.

“This is Johnny Stanko’s house?”

Valetta nodded and squinted at it through her sunglasses.

“And you think he’s here, even though the police haven’t been able to get him to come to the door?”

Valetta nodded again, looked both ways, and headed up the gravel laneway, past the house, to the overgrown backyard, where a slanted stoop sagged wearily against the back. A screen door stood open, though the inside door was closed, and an array of cigarette butts and paper coffee cups littered the lengthy grass around the porch. Weeds squeezed through the porch boards, and weed vines—mostly bindweed and nightshade—climbed the uprights that held the roof of the tiny porch. Jaymie kept Hoppy back from the nightshade, mindful of Mrs. Bellwood’s warning, and waited while Valetta carefully climbed the rickety steps to the back door.

She pounded on it and called out, “Johnny, it’s Valetta. Let me in!” When there was no answer, she pounded again and said, loudly, “I’m not leaving, so you’d better let me in.”
She rattled the doorknob, but the door was jerked out of her hand and Johnny Stanko stood in the open doorway, bleary-eyed, staring moodily at her.

Pushing past him, she motioned Jaymie to follow, saying, “Shut the door after us. I want to talk to you, Johnny.”

This wasn’t what Jaymie had expected, but she followed. The house was musty and smelled of cigarette smoke, but it wasn’t filthy, like she had expected. She followed her friend into the kitchen, a small gray room lined in dirty white cupboards stained with a yellow overlay of nicotine. Johnny, dressed only in shorts, his huge feet bare and slapping the gray linoleum like swim fins, padded over to the sink, got a mug down from the cupboard and spooned instant coffee into it from a jar. He ran the hot water, filled his mug and drank the “brew” down in a couple of gulps.