White Colander Crime (10 page)

“What happened was, Lori got separated from her kids while she was talking to someone, and when she caught up with Travis he was alone. He told Lori that Shelby had gone off, I guess with Cody. She found Shelby and suggested they go home—”

“She went off with Cody?”

Pam stood and squinted. “I don't know. That's what Travis said. Anyway, Shelby had something she wanted to do. So Lori gave Travis a lift home and she never saw Shelby again. Cody must have tracked her down and dragged her off to that shed.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Jaymie said, straightening and staring at Pam. “Did Travis tell her that that same night? That Shelby went off with Cody
before
she met back up with her mother?” The timing just didn't seem possible, given that she saw Cody at the band shell at almost the last minute of the evening.

“I don't know if it was that night or later that he told his mom about the guy. Why?”

It made a difference to the timeline, but her mind was a little tangled. She just shook her head.

“Look, this is all real clear to anyone who cares to see it; I've been hit around,” Pam said, her tone hard and cold. “I know how it goes. Shelby stayed with Cody because every time he hit her, he'd say it was the last time. Well, he did hit her again, one last time.”

Pam started up the vacuum cleaner, so Jaymie went to the next room to move the bed so they could get a head start there. One of the Queensville Historic Manor pamphlets was sitting on the bedside table, and for the first time Jaymie realized she was going to have to get the other batch she had ordered. The rest were in the storage room of Bill's workshop, off limits because of the murder.

It was looking grim for Nan as far as her son's innocence went. The simplest explanation, that Cody's simmering anger toward Shelby had boiled over and he beat her to death, was likely the true one. She wondered how Nan would handle the reporting of Shelby's death in the newspaper when her son was the prime suspect.

Pam got a phone call and had to rush through the rest of the vacuuming; her son was in some kind of trouble at a friend's house and she had to run to pick him up. Jaymie returned to her own peaceful home. There were times when she just wanted to draw the shades and pretend the world, with all of its violence and trouble, did not exist. But she called herself an optimistic realist; she would acknowledge violence and glare at it with an unflinching stare, but she would also see all the wonderful people and the kindness that there was in the world as a counterbalance, hopefully tipping toward all that was good and right.

She called the newspaper office and got the weekend service. They accessed the printing floor, the staff of which was working through the weekend printing sale flyers for local businesses, to ask about the fresh order of Queensville Historic Manor pamphlets. When the answering service operator came back on she told Jaymie that the printers were almost done with her pamphlets and she could come pick them up the next morning. She hung up, thankful that she didn't have to face Nan. What did you say to someone whose son had been arrested for murder, and who you feared was guilty?

The day went on and she did a few hours at the historic home, which was closing early since it was Sunday, then rushed home, gobbled down some dinner and headed out in her cloak for the Dickens Days walk. She didn't have much to do, since she didn't have access to any of the pamphlets, though there were still some available at the cider booth, which was manned by two gentlemen from the heritage society that evening, with Mrs. Bellwood in charge. So she just walked, talking to folks, trying to stay upbeat and positive. Many hadn't heard about the crime that happened just steps away from the queenly elegance of the festively decorated main street, so it actually cheered her up to hand out candy canes and goodies to children as she told the adults about the manor house.

But then she noticed a news crew from Detroit interviewing Bill Waterman, who looked intensely uncomfortable in the glare of the camera light. She had no illusion that they were asking about the Dickens Days festivities, though they would mention that as a gruesome twist, she was sure. She was torn; if she approached, they would quickly release him once Jaymie was pointed out as the one who found poor Shelby. Bill would be grateful for the rescue, but the last thing she wanted to do was bring more notoriety to their Dickens Days celebration for all the wrong reasons.

She slipped over to the cider booth and muttered her reasoning to Mrs. Bellwood, who agreed with her. She had no pamphlets to give out anyway, and her earnest desire was not that the murder be swept under the carpet, but that it be viewed for what it was, an isolated incident that had nothing to do with their lovely seasonal festival. That would never happen if they interviewed her about finding the body while she was gowned in her Dickens Days cloak and bonnet.

She returned home, her heart heavy, and let Hoppy out into the backyard. He wobbled and bounced the perimeter, sniffing and barking at a foraging squirrel in the semidarkness. She brought him back in, wiped his muddy paws and made sure both Hoppy and Denver had dinner and treats. She then retreated to the front parlor of her beautiful old Queen Anne home and built a fire, settling on the sofa with a cup of tea and the phone.

She called her Grandma Leighton. After the initial chatter about family—Jaymie's mom and dad were coming up for Christmas, but her grandmother was hoping that Rebecca would bring her down to see the house where she was a wife and mother for forty years before all of them headed back to London for Christmas day—her grandmother got down to business.

“I heard from Becca all about this fuss with that poor girl. I guess she heard it from your friend Valetta. It's awful. How are you, my dear girl? I know how sensitive you are.”

Sensitive? “I'm okay, Grandma. Please don't worry about me. I'm concerned about my friend Nan. It's her son who is accused of beating the girl. He says he's innocent, but I just don't know. I think he probably did it.”

“That'll be her cross to bear, chickadee. But if it's not him, then it means some fella got away with it. That's not a good thing. Why don't you try to sort this one out?”

“I don't think it's up to me this time. The police have it well in hand. The detective doesn't like me, and she's warned me not to mess in the investigation.”

“Well, then, maybe you'd better just stay out of it. Try to get your mind off of things. I hear you have a new boyfriend. Tell me all about him.”

She told her grandmother about Jakob and Jocie, but warned that it was early yet; they had just met a few weeks before and he was
not
her boyfriend!

There was something about the conversation with her grandmother, so accepting and sure that Jaymie could solve anything if she put her mind to it, that was soothing and helped her get perspective. By the time she hung up, she was feeling much better and could breathe. Yes, Cody was in jail and accused of the crime. But the detective was no fool. Mrs. Bellwood had mentioned to her that the police were still asking questions in Queensville, trying to account for every second of Shelby's evening. If there was any chance it was someone else, there ought to be evidence.

She called Becca then, with some last-minute plan changes. “Grandma does want to come to Queensville and see the house. Do you think she can make it upstairs to a bedroom to stay over?” Jaymie asked. “The stairs are kind of long and steep.”

They decided that their grandmother would come to the house for a meal, but if they decided to stay over, she would be housed at the Queensville Inn. “That is an awesome idea,” Jaymie enthused. “Maybe you can put it to her that it'll give her a chance to visit with Mrs. Stubbs. She's been asking about Grandma and would love to see her.”

“That's a good idea,” Becca said. “I don't generally tiptoe around her, but I don't want her to feel that she can't do what she wants.”

“It must be hard to get older,” Jaymie mused.

“She's pretty philosophical about it,” Becca said. “She told me that the compensation for losing some ability to do stuff is that she doesn't want to do much anyway, other than read and visit. But I know she'd like to see the house again, and visiting with Mrs. Stubbs, Mrs. Bellwood and Mrs. Frump would be a great idea.”

“I'll set up a luncheon at the inn for the ladies.” Jaymie jotted a note to herself on her ever-present notebook, her lifeline, as she thought of it.

After hanging up, she climbed the stairs to her little refuge, her lovely bedroom, with a calmer heart. She still felt sorrowful for Shelby, who had lost her life, and for Lori, who had lost her child, but there was nothing she could do but help in any way she could.

As she settled in bed with Hoppy on one side, Denver on the other and one of the old Mary Balogh traditional Regencies in her hand, the phone rang. She picked up the receiver without looking at the call display. “Hello?”

“Jaymie, how are you?”

“Jakob!” She sighed, and snuggled down under the covers, setting the book aside. “I'm all right. It's been a busy day. For you, too, probably.”

“That's an understatement.” He told her about a shipment from an auction house to the junk store, stuff that hadn't sold at their last auction, and about a full day of Christmas tree sales. “I think next year I'm going to add some events at the Christmas tree lot, like a hot cider stand and that kind of thing. I'd love your input. Your rental picnic basket idea is so great, but I just don't have that kind of vision.”

“I'd love to help,” she said. “I can already think of half a dozen ideas. How about ‘Party Like It's 1899'? You'd look so handsome in a tailcoat.”

He chuckled. “Love it already.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I thought you were going to phone last night. You get busy?”

She took a long breath, and then decided she needed to start as she meant to go on, and in this case it was with complete honesty. “No, I didn't get busy. Last night I heard that Shelby died. It was so awful. I feel so bad. I didn't want to end up weeping in your ear. I'm not a weepy woman, but I did cry buckets. We don't know each other very well, though, and—”

“You were afraid I wouldn't understand, or that I'd decide you were too emotional.”

She held the phone away and stared at it, then brought it back up to her ear. “How did you know that?”

“I put myself in your shoes,” he said.

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, that and I asked my sister-in-law—that's Helmut's significant other—at church this morning.”

Jaymie felt laughter burble up from her heart and tears well in her eyes. It was so exactly what she needed to hear, and spoke so well of him that she was touched and warmed. Her heart, never the frostiest organ in the world, melted.

“It doesn't bug you that I talked to my sister-in-law about you, does it?” he asked, a touch of anxiety in his husky voice.

“It doesn't bug me at all. About the opposite, actually.” Because it told her so much. First, that he had a positive relationship with his brother's common-law wife, which was a good sign. Next, that he could ask for help, another good sign. And finally, that he cared; that was the best sign of all. “I was afraid I would scare you off with my weepiness.”

“You could never scare me off. What does your day look like tomorrow? Can we get together for coffee?”

“I have to go in to Wolverhampton to pick up some more pamphlets at the news office. Can you get away?”

“I have to be in Wolverhampton for . . . well, for something. I don't know what, but I'll make up a reason to be there.”

She smiled. It made her feel special that he would go out of his way for her. “Maybe we can have coffee together, then?”

“I'll meet you at Tastee D's at ten.”

“You've got a date.” She hung up the phone with a sense that life would go on. Though she was sad about Shelby and felt deeply sorry for Lori, she hoped that justice would be served so Lori could eventually move on and heal from such a devastating event.

And she realized, though she had talked to her grandmother and Rebecca, it was her conversation with Jakob that made her feel more hopeful. She wasn't
sure
why, but she hoped that in her heart she knew.

Ten

S
HE SLEPT BETTER
than she had the night before, better than she had expected, certainly, but still awoke with a sense that something was deeply wrong. It took a moment to remember; poor Shelby Fretter was dead. A mother was devastated and a family would never be the same.

But with just under two weeks until Christmas, life sped on. Jaymie drove to Wolverhampton and parked in the lot behind the newspaper office, where the print shop stretched out, long and low, an old redbrick building. She normally would go through the main entrance to speak to Nan, but today she was hoping to avoid her editor and just deal with the printing foreman.

She buzzed at the back loading dock door.

A fellow lifted the garage-style door with a grating rattle. “Yup?” he said, making it a question and hollering it over the noise of the print room floor. He was dressed in green workpants and an ink-stained T-shirt that stretched over a moderate potbelly.

“I'm here to pick up an order of pamphlets for the Queensville Heritage Society. It's to be billed to them. I'm kind of in a rush, so can I just back my van up and get the boxes?”

“Wait a sec,” he said, grabbing a clipboard from a nail by the door. He squinted at the print, then grabbed a smudged pair of close-up glasses from a shelf. He scanned down the page, then glanced up at her. “Hold on, there's a note attached.”

“A note?”

“Yup. Wait just a sec.” He grabbed a phone receiver off a hook, punched one number and turned away. When he turned back and hung up, he said, “Boss lady wants to see you up front before you get your order.”

Jaymie sighed, blowing air out through pursed lips and jamming her hands down in her coat pockets. “Okay. When I'm done, can I get some help to load the boxes? I don't know how heavy they'll be.”

“Sure.”

“Should I just go to Nan's office through the plant?”

“Yup. Straight ahead until you see a glass door and windows, then go on through.”

Jaymie made her way through the noisy print shop to the offices and found Nan, who sat at her desk with her head in her hands. She felt ashamed of herself in that moment for trying to avoid the woman who had given her the opportunity to write a food column, and in the last few months had become a friend. She stood in the door for a moment, then said gently, “Nan? You doing okay?”

The woman looked up, her face ravaged by pain and anguish, wrinkles that had been mere hints now deep grooves and dark circles under her eyes. “Jaymie, come on in and sit for a minute. I have a favor to ask.”

Jaymie took the chair indicated. Nan's working office was a cubicle surrounded by half walls and frosted glass to the ceiling, with just a simple desk and computer, as well as file cabinets and a printer. It was undoubtedly a step down from the role she had played in a lifestyle magazine in New York City, but it was one she performed with fierce attention to detail. The guest chair was on the same side of the desk as Nan's chair. “Are you okay?” Jaymie repeated.

Nan shook her head briskly, but it wasn't an answer, it was her shaking off the question as immaterial. “I'm crappy, but that doesn't matter.” Nan had a whiskey voice, with an attractive burr in it. She had smoked for years and it had left her with damage on her vocal chords, she once told Jaymie. Regardless, her voice had a smoky attractiveness, a rasp that was interesting. “I'm more worried about Cody. He didn't do this, Jaymie.”

Jaymie was silent.

“Nobody believes me,” Nan growled. “He didn't
do
it. I know he's not perfect, but he could never beat a girl so badly she'd die. He told me he didn't and I believe him.”

This was painful, facing her editor and friend like this when she believed it was possible that Cody was guilty. “He's lucky to have you believe in him,” she said, skirting the issue.

“If you would talk to him you'd believe him, too,” she said.

Psychopaths were often charming, she had heard, and very believable, able to manipulate people's perception of them with their charisma. “You know he was seen talking to Shelby? And that he lied about it?”

“He says he never saw her that evening and I believe him.”

“But Shelby's brother—”

“I know, he says he saw Cody with Shelby, and that they were fighting. It's a load of crap, Jaymie,” she said, tapping the desk in front of her in time with each of the last few words, color coming into her cheeks. “Cody says that's not true. He got a text message to meet her at the band shell but she never showed up, so he just went home.”

“Why would Travis Fretter lie?”

“He wanted to make Cody look bad,” she said, sitting back in her chair, which squawked in protest. “He never liked my son.”

“Do you think he'd lie about his sister's murder just to get Cody in trouble?”

“Who knows with that family? Travis is a menace. He's been in more trouble with the law than Cody has ever been.”

Jaymie was unconvinced. Would Travis lie about the facts of his sister's murder? Wouldn't he want the perpetrator caught, and not to muddy the investigation with lies? Of course, if he had killed his sister himself he would welcome a ready-made fall guy. Or . . . She thought it through. More than one person had lied to make sure the person they thought had committed a crime was arrested.

But the simplest explanation was that Cody was guilty.

Nan had been moving things around on her desk, shifting papers and pens and paperclips. Every movement was hasty and jerky; she was agitated and upset. Finally, she looked up at Jaymie. “I said I have a favor to ask. I've put you on Cody's approved visitor list at the jail where he's awaiting arraignment. All you have to do to see him is go and sign a permission slip.”

Why would she visit Cody, who she despised for his treatment of Shelby and his mother both? “I have no reason to visit Cody.”

“You do now,” Nan said, and slid a plastic swipe card along the desk. It had the
Wolverhampton Weekly Howler
banner across the top and Jaymie's ID photo from her employee file in one corner. “You're an accredited member of the press now. I want you to follow this story.”

“But—”

“Hear me out,” the editor said, one hand help up in a
stop
indication.

Twenty minutes later Jaymie backed her van out of the newspaper parking lot feeling like she had been hit by a truck named Nan. She parked in the donut shop lot; it was a small modern stand-alone building on a busy street corner in downtown Wolverhampton. As she locked her van, light flakes drifted down and she huddled in her parka. The chill was becoming more bitter, and she was shivering as she jammed her hand in her pocket, her fingers brushing against the new press card.

Jakob was at a window booth. He waved to her as she walked along the building and entered through the glass doors. She greeted him and slid into the booth.

“What's wrong?” he asked, reaching across the table and grabbing her hands, chafing them.

She sighed and looked down. He had broad work-roughened hands, and she curled her fingers around his thumb. “I'm not sure how to handle something.” As she shed her parka, she told him what had just happened, and how she felt like she was being pushed into investigating because of her friendship with Nan.

“Did you tell her how you feel?” he said.

He had taken both of her hands again, across the table. As the waitress approached he pulled away, and her hands felt instantly cold. She ordered a coffee and chocolate croissant, needing both warmth and comfort food.

“I didn't know how. How could I say, ‘Nan, I think your son is a creep and that he likely did it
.
' It's just . . . I don't know what to do.”

As they got their coffee and fixed them up—he took two sugars and cream, she noticed—he was silent. When they were done and Jaymie had taken a bite of her croissant, he said, “Do you in general respect her opinion?”

She nodded, chewed and swallowed.

“Do you think that her love for her son would blind her to his faults?”

“I don't know. I've never seen her in this state. He's her son; she's not going to believe he's guilty.
You
know him. What do you think?”

“I've known him such a short time. We've worked together a few hours, but most of what we talked about was hockey and craft beer. Based on my knowledge of him I'd say no, but . . .” He sighed and sat back, staring out the window at the traffic. When he looked at her again, it was with some decision in his expression. “I think you need to take the emotion out of it. I'm troubled by his behavior, but I actually did get
one
chance to talk to him about some of this stuff. It was Friday afternoon. He had come out early to help me cut a few trees for the ready-cut lot.” Jakob paused and frowned down into his coffee cup. “I asked about how he reacted when faced with difficulties; was he violent, did he fly off the handle? He admitted he did. He said he would snap, but it was always over quick, like, his anger didn't last more than a few seconds. I asked him if he wanted to change and he said he did.” He shrugged. “I don't know if he was being honest. I intended to follow up that conversation with another.”

There was no need for him to say more. That very night Shelby was beaten.

“What exactly did your editor say to you?”

Jaymie recalled the conversation and related it to Jakob as she sipped her coffee and finished her croissant. Nan was sick with worry about her son, not because he was in jail, but for the future. Adamant that he could not have brutalized a girl he claimed to love, she wanted Jaymie to investigate. Jaymie had successfully helped the police over the last few months, and Nan thought it wouldn't hurt if she looked into this case.

“I told her that I'd been warned to stay out of it, but Nan said if I was working for the newspaper Detective Vestry couldn't say anything.”

“I don't know about that. I think the police often tell the media to stay out of an investigation. I guess that doesn't mean reporters do, though.”

“That's pretty much what Nan said.”

“What do
you
want to do? Let your heart and mind and gut be your guide.”

“All three? That's quite the mix,” she said, with a smile. It was so good to talk to him about it. Daniel had always told her not to get involved, to stay out of trouble. Jakob was more supportive.

And that was the very last time she would ever compare the two men, she promised herself. Making a swift decision, she said, “I want to at least talk to Cody. I feel a certain responsibility, not to him if he did it, but because I was the one who told the police I'd seen him in Queensville, and I'm the one who told them I'd seen him hit Shelby.”

“All the truth, Jaymie. It was your responsibility to tell the police that.”

“I know, but now I feel tied to the story, and doubtful. Nan is so
sure
about him. I'd like to hear
him
tell me he didn't do it. I'd like to feel in my gut whether he was lying or being honest.”

Jakob took her hand across the table again. “Then that is what you should do. Keep your mind clear and your emotions in check and talk to him.”

She nodded. “I was straight with Nan to some degree. I asked her what to do if I found evidence that Cody was guilty. What would she want then?”

“I'm glad you asked her that. What did she say?”

“I should do what I needed to do, and she wouldn't interfere. I was afraid she'd expect me to suppress it, and I couldn't.”

“But don't be surprised if, in case you
do
find something incriminating, she goes back on that. Right now it's the editor warring with the mother. I expect the mother will win.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Jakob. I can't tell you how much better I feel now.”

“I'm glad I could help.” He turned his hand and checked his watch, a handsome gold one with a large face nestled in the dark hair that clothed his wrist. “I gotta go. I told Gus I'd be at the junk store by eleven so he could pick up his daughter from day care, and I'm late.” He got a ten out of his billfold and slid it under one of the coffee cups, then added some change out of his pocket.