other than the obvious: a dead guy and smashed teacups. The other boxes she had purchased were off the Hoosier as well, the cookbooks scattered across the floor and the box of sewing oddments on the top step. Why? Who had moved the boxes from the Hoosier, and for what purpose? And why were the Hoosier’s cupboard doors open?
“Sir, look here!” a female officer shouted. She played her flashlight around the shadowy corners of the summer porch. “Could be the murder weapon!”
Jaymie bolted forward with another uniformed officer and followed the beam of light. On the board floor of the porch, in the shadows between windows, lay the heavy steel meat grinder she had loosely attached to the Hoosier work top. As the beam of light settled on it, Jaymie could see that it was smeared with dark fluid . . . the victim’s blood.
“No!” she whispered, and turned away.
“Jaymie come back,” Becca said, grabbing her T-shirt sleeve and pulling her away as the police crowded around.
Her sister made her sit down in one of the kitchen chairs, an old wood farm chair that had one wobbly leg. That is where a police officer found them. He was a tall fellow with a grave expression on his clean-shaven face. “Sergeant MacAdams,” he said. “May I ask you folks a few questions? Who lives here?”
Jaymie and Rebecca both put up their hands. The officer established their co-ownership, then asked to speak with them all separately, Rebecca first; he led her to the library and, after ten minutes or so, he came back to get Jaymie. She followed him through the kitchen door to the hall and into the library, still furnished for its original purpose, with tall built-in bookcases lining the walls and a cushioned seat set into the window. She put Hoppy down and wearily sank into a chair by the fireplace. Hoppy demanded to come up on her lap, so she cradled him again as he curled up in her arms, trembling.
“Do you know the deceased?”
“No. Who is he?” Jaymie asked, sitting back in the chair and petting the Yorkie-Poo’s head.
“Could you just take me through what happened?”
Jaymie thought a moment. “Well, Becca and I went to bed about eleven or eleven-thirty, I guess.”
He jotted down notes in a coil-bound notebook. “That’s your sister?”
“Yes. We had come back from the Bourne estate auction near Wolverhampton, and we were both tired. I woke up to Hoppy barking and a shout and a crash—”
“Hoppy is your dog?”
She nodded.
“In what order?”
“Huh?”
“Was it in that order, the dog barking, then a shout, then a crash?”
Jaymie stopped and stared into the fireplace, the original coal fire grate from when the house was built. “No, that’s not quite how it happened.” She was silent for a moment, organizing her thoughts. “I was sound asleep but heard
something
that woke me up. A shout, maybe?” She mused. “Or maybe the sound of the back door being pried off its hinges? I don’t know. I think it was something banging, like falling down. Anyway, I thought the noise was Hoppy at first, but Hoppy and Denver—Denver’s my cat—were both in my room. Then I heard a shout, and
then
the crash.”
“And then?”
“We met in the upstairs hall, Becca and I. She asked me what the noise was, and I said I didn’t know. I grabbed a potted plant as we came down the stairs. Hoppy had bolted ahead of us and started barking. We followed Hoppy’s noise into the kitchen. I went toward the back door.”
“Why?”
“Why? The noise I’d heard came from the summer porch.”
“Everything was dark?” he asked, pencil poised over his notepad.
Jaymie nodded, but got what he meant. He wondered why she hadn’t turned any lights on as she went through the house. “I never turn lights on when I come down at night. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I could find my way through it blindfolded, but Becca stubbed her toe on the table leg, I think. Anyway, I was worried about my dog, but if there was a prowler, I
“Sir, look here!” a female officer shouted. She played her flashlight around the shadowy corners of the summer porch. “Could be the murder weapon!”
Jaymie bolted forward with another uniformed officer and followed the beam of light. On the board floor of the porch, in the shadows between windows, lay the heavy steel meat grinder she had loosely attached to the Hoosier work top. As the beam of light settled on it, Jaymie could see that it was smeared with dark fluid . . . the victim’s blood.
“No!” she whispered, and turned away.
“Jaymie come back,” Becca said, grabbing her T-shirt sleeve and pulling her away as the police crowded around.
Her sister made her sit down in one of the kitchen chairs, an old wood farm chair that had one wobbly leg. That is where a police officer found them. He was a tall fellow with a grave expression on his clean-shaven face. “Sergeant MacAdams,” he said. “May I ask you folks a few questions? Who lives here?”
Jaymie and Rebecca both put up their hands. The officer established their co-ownership, then asked to speak with them all separately, Rebecca first; he led her to the library and, after ten minutes or so, he came back to get Jaymie. She followed him through the kitchen door to the hall and into the library, still furnished for its original purpose, with tall built-in bookcases lining the walls and a cushioned seat set into the window. She put Hoppy down and wearily sank into a chair by the fireplace. Hoppy demanded to come up on her lap, so she cradled him again as he curled up in her arms, trembling.
“Do you know the deceased?”
“No. Who is he?” Jaymie asked, sitting back in the chair and petting the Yorkie-Poo’s head.
“Could you just take me through what happened?”
Jaymie thought a moment. “Well, Becca and I went to bed about eleven or eleven-thirty, I guess.”
He jotted down notes in a coil-bound notebook. “That’s your sister?”
“Yes. We had come back from the Bourne estate auction near Wolverhampton, and we were both tired. I woke up to Hoppy barking and a shout and a crash—”
“Hoppy is your dog?”
She nodded.
“In what order?”
“Huh?”
“Was it in that order, the dog barking, then a shout, then a crash?”
Jaymie stopped and stared into the fireplace, the original coal fire grate from when the house was built. “No, that’s not quite how it happened.” She was silent for a moment, organizing her thoughts. “I was sound asleep but heard
something
that woke me up. A shout, maybe?” She mused. “Or maybe the sound of the back door being pried off its hinges? I don’t know. I think it was something banging, like falling down. Anyway, I thought the noise was Hoppy at first, but Hoppy and Denver—Denver’s my cat—were both in my room. Then I heard a shout, and
then
the crash.”
“And then?”
“We met in the upstairs hall, Becca and I. She asked me what the noise was, and I said I didn’t know. I grabbed a potted plant as we came down the stairs. Hoppy had bolted ahead of us and started barking. We followed Hoppy’s noise into the kitchen. I went toward the back door.”
“Why?”
“Why? The noise I’d heard came from the summer porch.”
“Everything was dark?” he asked, pencil poised over his notepad.
Jaymie nodded, but got what he meant. He wondered why she hadn’t turned any lights on as she went through the house. “I never turn lights on when I come down at night. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I could find my way through it blindfolded, but Becca stubbed her toe on the table leg, I think. Anyway, I was worried about my dog, but if there was a prowler, I
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