him. Or . . . she sharpened her gaze and stared at the dead man. He had been facedown with his head turned to one side. Shattered china was everywhere, but the blood dripping from his head wound indicated that something much heavier than a box full of teacups had hit him. It couldn’t have been that! But what?
Clive kept working, and put his finger to the man’s throat. He shook his head and stood. “He’s long gone, Jaymie. There’s no bringing him back,” he said, stepping in to the kitchen to the sink and washing his hands of the blood that had stained them from his efforts at lifesaving.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Jaymie stared and stared, unable to form complete thoughts. The guy was dead, but how? There was nothing but shattered teacups scattered around. Death by Doulton? Murder by Minton?
The police and paramedics arrived at about the same time, sirens and lights creating a chaotic barrage of sight and sound in the narrow back alley. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, were first on the scene, then the paramedics. Paramedics went to work on the fellow, nodding as Clive told them what he had done to try to revive the man. More cops arrived, and Jaymie heard a female voice give orders for them to fan out in the neighborhood looking for an assailant and the weapon. So Becca must have gotten the full message through to the 911 operator. It was as obvious, then, to the police as it was to Jaymie, that the dead man had been hit by something heavier than a box of teacups.
When it became obvious to the paramedics that there was no helping the fellow, the police took over, sending Jaymie into the kitchen to stand with Rebecca and Clive. The three stood for a while in a huddle, silent at first, and Jaymie held Hoppy in her arms to keep him out of trouble. He was quivering with excitement. Denver had disappeared back into the house, unnerved by the commotion.
“Who do you think he is?” Rebecca asked. “Have you ever seen him before, Jaymie?”
She shook her head and shuddered. “He’s so pale, and the blood . . .” She could smell it, the metallic tang, the organic scent of death, filling her nostrils.
“Why would someone break into your place?” Clive asked, his arms over his bare chest. He lifted one bare foot and pulled a sliver of china out of it. Frowning at it, he set it on the kitchen counter. “And what is that all over the floor of the summer porch?”
“That is the remains of a box of teacups Rebecca bought yesterday,” Jaymie said quietly, flicking a glance at the clock. It was almost four in the morning. “They were supposed to be for the Tea with the Queen fundraiser tomorrow afternoon. She brought enough, but when she saw the box at the Bourne auction it seemed like a good idea.”
“If not for this year, for next year. I can always use more teacups and saucers,” Becca said.
“This is your first year in Queensville for the Tea with the Queen,” Jaymie said to Clive. He and Anna had just bought the bed-and-breakfast next door, the Shady Rest, in January, to run as a family business. “Customers can actually buy the teacup and saucer set that they use, if they like. We get a few every year who do, as a souvenir.”
“Are they valuable?”
Becca snorted. “No, they’re mostly Royal Albert or Royal Vale . . . junk, in the china world.”
“But pretty,” Jaymie said, defending the shattered pottery. She thought for a moment and glanced toward the door where officers examined the summer porch and the backyard beyond, the wide arc of flashlights cutting through the night blackness. She could hear an officer upstairs searching; she and Becca had, of course, given the police permission to investigate the entire house, though it seemed obvious to her that the burglar had not made it past the kitchen door, which had still been locked when she’d come down. With the banality of their conversation, her mind was beginning to work again.
Something wasn’t right about the scene,
Clive kept working, and put his finger to the man’s throat. He shook his head and stood. “He’s long gone, Jaymie. There’s no bringing him back,” he said, stepping in to the kitchen to the sink and washing his hands of the blood that had stained them from his efforts at lifesaving.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Jaymie stared and stared, unable to form complete thoughts. The guy was dead, but how? There was nothing but shattered teacups scattered around. Death by Doulton? Murder by Minton?
The police and paramedics arrived at about the same time, sirens and lights creating a chaotic barrage of sight and sound in the narrow back alley. Two uniformed cops, a man and a woman, were first on the scene, then the paramedics. Paramedics went to work on the fellow, nodding as Clive told them what he had done to try to revive the man. More cops arrived, and Jaymie heard a female voice give orders for them to fan out in the neighborhood looking for an assailant and the weapon. So Becca must have gotten the full message through to the 911 operator. It was as obvious, then, to the police as it was to Jaymie, that the dead man had been hit by something heavier than a box of teacups.
When it became obvious to the paramedics that there was no helping the fellow, the police took over, sending Jaymie into the kitchen to stand with Rebecca and Clive. The three stood for a while in a huddle, silent at first, and Jaymie held Hoppy in her arms to keep him out of trouble. He was quivering with excitement. Denver had disappeared back into the house, unnerved by the commotion.
“Who do you think he is?” Rebecca asked. “Have you ever seen him before, Jaymie?”
She shook her head and shuddered. “He’s so pale, and the blood . . .” She could smell it, the metallic tang, the organic scent of death, filling her nostrils.
“Why would someone break into your place?” Clive asked, his arms over his bare chest. He lifted one bare foot and pulled a sliver of china out of it. Frowning at it, he set it on the kitchen counter. “And what is that all over the floor of the summer porch?”
“That is the remains of a box of teacups Rebecca bought yesterday,” Jaymie said quietly, flicking a glance at the clock. It was almost four in the morning. “They were supposed to be for the Tea with the Queen fundraiser tomorrow afternoon. She brought enough, but when she saw the box at the Bourne auction it seemed like a good idea.”
“If not for this year, for next year. I can always use more teacups and saucers,” Becca said.
“This is your first year in Queensville for the Tea with the Queen,” Jaymie said to Clive. He and Anna had just bought the bed-and-breakfast next door, the Shady Rest, in January, to run as a family business. “Customers can actually buy the teacup and saucer set that they use, if they like. We get a few every year who do, as a souvenir.”
“Are they valuable?”
Becca snorted. “No, they’re mostly Royal Albert or Royal Vale . . . junk, in the china world.”
“But pretty,” Jaymie said, defending the shattered pottery. She thought for a moment and glanced toward the door where officers examined the summer porch and the backyard beyond, the wide arc of flashlights cutting through the night blackness. She could hear an officer upstairs searching; she and Becca had, of course, given the police permission to investigate the entire house, though it seemed obvious to her that the burglar had not made it past the kitchen door, which had still been locked when she’d come down. With the banality of their conversation, her mind was beginning to work again.
Something wasn’t right about the scene,
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