Victoria Hamilton - Vintage Kitchen 04 - No Mallets Intended (21 page)

“Has anything panned out?” she asked, before divulging the reason for her call. She stared up at the big historic house as the wind whipped the pine trees that lined the far side and rain pelted down obscuring the view. Her van was cozy enough, and Hoppy was curled up comfortably on the passenger seat. Haskell Lockland was supposed to be meeting her, and the security specialist was to come at three, so she hoped the electricity would come back on before then, or he would have a wasted trip. She checked her watch. She had a few minutes still, since she always arrived early for every appointment.

“Panned out? Well, now, we’ve used your tips and discovered a few things, but nothing particularly earthshaking.”

“Like what?” Jaymie asked, prying further.

He sighed, a long huff of sound. “Guess it can’t hurt you knowing. Alibis. That particular night was a busy one for all our folks, it seems.”

Jaymie held her breath, afraid to ask in case Cynthia Turbridge was one of the ones he had investigated. She had not told him about the Cottage Shoppe owner’s alcoholic binge, blackout and blood. It was inconceivable to her that Cynthia would kill anyone, much less someone she had seemed to genuinely love.

“Couple of ’em outright lied. Why do people lie to us, even when they’re not guilty?”

“Who do you mean?”

“His ex, the shop girl, Cynthia Turbridge. At first she told us she was home that night, but we knew for sure she wasn’t, since her snoopy neighbor, Mrs. Frump, saw her get in her car and leave. Wasn’t back when Mrs. Frump went to bed.”

Jaymie crossed her fingers and said, “But Mrs. Frump is an early-to-bed kind of woman.”

“True enough. The car was back in her driveway by eight a.m., but that don’t mean a thing. Why’d the woman lie?” He paused, and his voice changed subtly. “She sure was mad at Carson.”

“I just can’t see Cynthia Turbridge whacking Carson over the head,” she said, carefully sticking to the truth. There was something in his tone, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“Not so sure about that. And she had access to the weapon, let’s not forget
that
little detail. But there are others.”

“Like?”

“Take Prentiss and his charming son, Iago.”

She chuckled, and Hoppy looked up at her with a question in his sharp little eyes. “Charming… good description. What about them?”

The chief was silent for a long minute, the only sound his huffing breathing. “Okay, you did not hear this from me. Prentiss Dumpe said he was counseling a client.”

“But his license has been suspended, and… counseling someone at night? Since when?”

“My understanding is that he does not need his license to work as a therapist. Psychiatrist, yes, but therapist, no. Any gol-darn idiot can hang out a shingle and call himself—or herself—a therapist.”

“I have heard that before,” Jaymie admitted. “But I think it would go against him in a board review of his license, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he figures he’ll be losing his license to practice anyway. And for what it’s worth, the lady, interestingly enough, backed up his alibi.”

She paused a moment and wished she could see the chief’s face. There was still something there, some hint of something that she ought to pick up on. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me who his lady client was?”

“Can’t do that, but it is interesting.”

“Okay, so what about Prentiss’s son.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s got an alibi, of sorts, from a couple o’ low-life hood rats, two other pants-dragging miscreants I have seen more than once in the lockup. They were all having some kind of kegger in his old man’s backyard, and then played video games all night in the basement. So he says. The friends back him up, but these same guys would swear they were in Neverland if someone told them to.”

“And Dick Schuster?”

“Schuster. He on your radar? S’pose so. Anyway, he was home alone. He says.” He paused, and she could hear him breathing; heck, she could
almost
hear him thinking. “Interesting fella. Real interesting. Got some problems.”

Jaymie frowned. “Chief, I don’t want to peg him as the killer just because he’s got some psychological challenges.”

He grunted. “Nice way to put it. I’ll have to remember that… ‘psychological challenges’ instead of he’s nutty as a Snickers bar.”

Jaymie stayed silent; it seemed the best option, since she didn’t want to get on the chief’s bad side… yet. But it seemed cruel to paint those with mental health issues as “nutty.” When the silence extended too long, she said, “So, how closely have you looked into Isolde Rasmussen’s story? About being in the trunk of her own car?”

“Interesting thing about that. Forensics swept it, but there was no hair in there. Now, you’d expect some random hairs even if she wasn’t
in
the trunk, since it was her car, but nope. Not a thing.”

“Is that conclusive? I mean, do you think that means she wasn’t in it?”

“Not saying that. Anything’s possible. But I do not believe her story, not one little bit. I’d wager she was not in that trunk.”

“Where did you find her car?”

“Parked in her own driveway in Wolverhampton.”

Twenty-one

T
HAT CHANGED EVERYTHING.
“It’s still possible that she told the truth and someone else took the car, dropped her in my back alley, then drove her car to Wolverhampton and parked it in her driveway.”

The chief was silent for a long minute, then said, “You’ve talked to her. Maybe you have some insight on something I was thinking. I was wondering if the whole story was a fabrication.”

“The
whole
story?”

“Maybe she wasn’t even there when he was killed and she was home, or at Theo’s place. Maybe she’s giving us some cock-and-bull story to cover up what really happened.”

“Like what?”

He was silent.

“You’re asking, could she have been in on it with the killer?”

“Didn’t say that, but go on.”

“Why would she spin a tale of being there?” Jaymie thought about it for a long minute as she watched the pine trees lean and bend with the wind and the rain patter on the windshield. “That would only make sense if she knew who the killer was, and the description she was going to give would point away from that person.” She shook her head. “If that was the case, I would think she’d give a very specific identification, something linked to one person, even a car, or something like that.”

“Kind of what my line of reasoning was,” the chief said.

“I guess it’s possible, but that’s an awful big risk to take.”

“She strikes me as a risk taker, though, and her story just doesn’t add up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jaymie said. “I talked to her an hour or so ago, and I just can’t get over the idea that she’s not too broken up over Theo’s death, for someone who was sleeping with him. And she’s hiding something; I’m sure of it. She’s the only eyewitness, and I wondered if she did it and made up the whole stuffed-in-the-trunk story to explain any forensic evidence… you know, like blood on her clothes, hair, that kind of thing. Everyone knows about that stuff nowadays.”

“That’s kinda what I was thinking; it would take cold calculation, but, like you said, she seems a pretty cool customer. We’ll have her come in again and answer more questions.”

“The other possibility is, she’s not in on it but knows who did it and is protecting them for some reason.”

He grunted, and she could hear the scratch of a pencil on paper as he made notes. “I had considered that.”

She opened her mouth to tell the chief about Cynthia and the blood—it seemed wrong to keep it from him, now that they had established some rapport—but she just couldn’t do it. It would feel like a betrayal of a very fragile woman.

“You got something to add?” he asked.

“No,” she said, crossing her fingers. “That’s it, for now. If I think of anything else, I’ll call.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Haskell had texted her that he would be a little late and to let the alarm guy in the house, so when he pulled up in the lane, she got out of the van, wrapping her coat around herself as the wind tried to tear it away. At least it had stopped raining.

“Name’s Connor,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. He was an older man, fit, tall, bearded. He had a clipboard, but must have left his tools in his truck, emblazoned with the Wolverhampton Security logo.

She shook hands and said, “I’m Jaymie Leighton. We were supposed to be meeting the society president, Haskell Lockland, here, but he’s been held up. Will you be able to install it all today?”

“Sure will. I’m a two-man operation… or rather, a two-
person
operation, since my wife mans the phones and I do the work.”

She led the way in, and she flicked the switch, hoping the power would be on; the pendant light flickered but then lit and stayed lit. “Power’s not good out here when the wind comes up. I wasn’t sure it would be back on in time. It’s really spotty; does that make a difference to the security system?”

He was staring around the big hallway. “Wow, this place is huge. Uh, does it make a difference that the power is spotty? You
should
speak to your utility about that, but though it’s not great, we can make allowances. Your security is our number one priority. Now, let me walk around and maybe you can answer questions.”

“I’m not Haskell, and I can’t speak for the heritage society, but yes, I can answer a lot of questions.”

They walked through the house—first floor, including the back door, then up to the second.

“I heard about the murder,” Connor said, as he made notes about the number of windows on the second floor. He even poked his head into a tiny room that the heritage society intended to use as a storage closet for office supplies. No windows; no security risk.

She heard voices below… it was the Snoop Sisters again! Imogene’s voice was cutting and Mrs. Bellwood’s booming tone traveled. Jaymie said, “Yes, it was a terrible tragedy.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I haven’t a clue,” she replied.

“Are there any windows up there?” he asked, eyeing the attic stairs.

“There are,” she said, thinking of the anonymous claim that Iago Dumpe had been seen climbing out of an upstairs window. Could that have been from the attic? Interesting thought. Why would he even be inside? And who would just happen to be down this lonely stretch of road to see him? “Will you excuse me a moment? I just need to check something downstairs, but I’ll be back up, and I’ll meet you in the attic, if you like.” She definitely wanted to see if anyone had used those windows to get in or out.

“I’ve got some more to do here, but then I will head up to the attic. I need to see the basement, too, because I have to figure out where to put the backup battery for power outages.”

“Okay.” Jaymie hustled downstairs, where she was greeted by two umbrellas open in the hallway, dripping on the hardwood. She pushed a mat under them, then followed familiar voices to the library.

The ladies were indeed there, and she was once again greeted by two geriatric bottoms and Rockport loafers. This time they had a flashlight and seemed to be examining the hardwood floor in the library beyond the perimeter of the Persian area rug. “What on earth are you doing?”

Mrs. Frump started up and bumped her head on a side table.

“Are you all right?” Jaymie asked, darting across the floor and helping her up. The woman lumbered to her feet, and Jaymie stuck out her hand to help Mrs. Bellwood up, too.

“Imogene got to watching old movies last night,” she said.

Jaymie glanced from woman to woman. “Okay, I’ll bite. What does that have to do with kneeling on the floor in the library?”

The wannabe Queen Victoria colored a faint pink on her fleshy cheeks and sent a reprimanding glance at her newly minted bosom buddy. “What Tree is
trying
to say is, if I were going to hide something valuable, I would make it someplace I could get at, but that no one else would think of.”

Mystified, Jaymie looked to Mrs. Bellwood for clarification.

“What Imogene is
trying
to say is, she got this crazy idea that there might be a hidey-hole in the hardwood.”

“Oh!” Jaymie said, her mouth staying an O of surprise for a moment. “So… what do you plan to do?” she asked, hoping no pickaxes or saws were going to be used.

“We’re going to check every inch of this hardwood floor and some of the others to see if Jane hid the Sultan’s Eye under the floor,” Mrs. Frump said, while Mrs. Bellwood sighed deeply.

“I was talking to Mrs. Stubbs about Mrs. Jane Dumpe,” Jaymie told them. “From her description the woman was dignified, a real matriarch. I just can’t picture her doing such a thing.”

The two women exchanged looks. “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Bellwood said. “I remember Jane very well. She got a little… odd in her last days.”

Jaymie remembered that even Mrs. Stubbs had said that. “Okay, carry on, then. Just don’t do any damage. I’ll be around for a while; the alarm fellow is here.”

“Oh, good!” Mrs. Frump exclaimed. “Then Tree and I can get the alarm code and come back whenever we want.”

Jaymie didn’t answer. She’d leave it to Haskell Lockland to make that decision, though she would strenuously recommend that as few people as possible have the code, especially given how easily Mrs. Frump had been foxed out of her key to the house. She ascended to the second floor, then opened the creaking door to the attic. “Connor, you up here?”

“Yup!” came the echoing voice.

She trotted up the dark stairs. She had been in the attic before briefly, just to help carry down boxes of junk that had belonged to the Dumpe family but which had been included in the purchase of the house. For a moment she worried about what would happen until the validity of the will was determined, but she pushed it out of her mind. She, at least, was convinced that it was a fake, and that pinpointed Prentiss Dumpe as a felon in her eyes and hopefully the eyes of the law.

Without Haskell’s looming presence she felt able to explore. The attic was one huge room with a vaulted ceiling that was fifteen feet high or more at the peak. The ceiling then steeply slanted to a very short kneewall only a few feet high. She hadn’t realized there were still so many boxes, which she could barely see by the light let in by windows at either end of the space.

Many hands were supposed to make light work, but it didn’t look like any of the hands had been employed this far up. Cobwebs draped in fluffy strings and dust coated every surface except where boxes had been dragged and searched. There was furniture, lamps and piles of dusty fabric, probably old drapes. Of course, they were all working on getting the downstairs ready for the soft opening, so it was no mystery why they hadn’t gotten to all the crates and cartons yet. They had only had access to the house for the last month or so, and much of the time had been spent making sure it was safe and getting the plumbing and electricity working.

She ascended the last couple of steps, taking it all in. “There is still a lot of stuff up here. I thought we’d gone through most of it but that doesn’t appear true in the slightest.”

Connor joined her and dusted off his hands. “I know. This isn’t the worst I’ve seen, though. I expected the boxes of old crap, but what’s with the plastic totes full of jeans and junk?”

“What?” she asked, staring at him in surprise.

“Behind the boxes; there’s a stash of stuff not as dusty as the rest. Modern plastic totes, you know? You wouldn’t even see them if you weren’t crawling around by the kneewalls, like I was.”

Jaymie stared at him blankly. Plastic totes of jeans? That didn’t make a bit of sense. “Show me.”

He ducked and got onto his knees, crawling behind some cardboard boxes. He shone a flashlight as Jaymie crawled in behind him. There were the totes he had mentioned, overflowing with folded jeans, boxes of electronics, video game systems… all kinds of stuff! It was just like the root cellar.

Like the root cellar full of stolen goods. “This explains a lot.” She thought furiously. This would account for Iago being seen climbing out of a window. And it tied him by association to the stuff that was stored in the root cellar. But which came first, the root cellar storage or the attic storage? Or both? “I have to call the police,” she said, awkwardly backing out, bumping into the guy, then scrambling up onto her feet. “This is stolen stuff. But I’m not going to let this stop the alarm installation; that is a must, even more so now. So go ahead.”

Haskell showed up shortly thereafter. Jaymie stayed a while, learning all she could about the new alarm system, then told Haskell she had to head home. He was in charge of learning the rest of what they needed to know about the alarm system and teaching her and the others, but she also took a pamphlet that Connor said explained everything about the system he was installing. He wrote in the code for her and told her to keep it safe. Jaymie then told Haskell about all the stuff in the attic, and he agreed that the police needed to know about it.

She called them on her cell, and the detective said they’d be out while Haskell was still there. Jaymie then returned home, let Hoppy out into the yard and called the Emporium pharmacy counter.

Valetta was free. “So what is up with that Rasmussen woman?” she asked.

Jaymie told her all she had learned, then asked what happened with Mrs. Carson after Jaymie had hustled Isolde away.