together in the red bowl, the second smallest in the graduated nesting set, while her sister watched.
“Who can he be? Do you think the cops know and just aren’t saying?”
Jaymie shrugged. “The detective told me that they didn’t know yet. That was hours ago, though.”
“I should have stayed up to help you clean, Jaymie,” Rebecca said, looking toward the sunporch. “You did a great job. I was almost afraid to come down, but . . . it’s like it never happened.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure about sleeping here tonight, though. There’s a murderer running around out there.”
Jaymie had been trying not to think about that all day. “I have Bill Waterman coming to fix that back door later,” she said, in an oblique answer. “I want him to take the storms off the summer porch, too. I was going to call him this week about that anyway. The police did say they’re going to cruise by often for the next while, and even have someone sitting out back, until they figure out who did it. Bill’s going to put in motion detector alarms.”
“I know. Still . . . it freaks me out.”
Jaymie set the bowl aside for a moment, pushing thoughts of the blood and violence out of her mind. It wasn’t easy because, as tired as she was, it was looming, like an awful weight on her shoulders. “Anyway,” she said, brusquely, “about the cleaning . . . DeeDee showed up to help just after you went upstairs. She dug right in and did the stuff I couldn’t face—you know her; blood doesn’t faze an ER nurse—so don’t worry about it, sis.”
Becca smiled and put one hand over Jaymie’s and squeezed. “Old friends are the best kind. Anyway, to change the subject to something lighter . . . I bought a gross of white polyester napkins that look a lot like damask. You know how every year some idiots steal the vintage ones, and we can’t replace them. Polyester’ll make it a lot easier to wash out the jam stains.”
“Let me see them.” While Becca was gone, Jaymie finished the cake batter, poured it into a round pan and popped it in the preheated oven.
Becca plunked a shopping bag with plastic sleeves of the white polyester napkins on the table, and Jaymie slipped a set out of the plastic and shook one loose. She handled it, the cheap fabric catching on a ragged fingernail and the rough skin along her thumb. “Becca, these are awful! They don’t feel anything like real damask!”
“Good enough for the masses, Jaymie. They’ll steal them anyway, and I won’t care because they’re only fifty cents apiece and replaceable, instead of real damask or linen at five bucks.”
“But . . .” Jaymie stopped, dismayed but unable to fight her sister on it. Becca was right in one respect; folks did keep filching the vintage linens, as petty as it seemed, as a souvenir of the tea. But polyester! She looked down at the textured striping meant to simulate damask. “We use real china and real linen tablecloths because we’re trying to create a Victorian ambience. This doesn’t really go along with that.”
“I know,” Becca said. “But it’s like trying to feed foie gras to a five-year-old. They don’t appreciate the real thing anyway, and when they steal one of these, the last laugh is on them, not us. You
know
I’m right.”
As uneasy as Jaymie was with Becca’s sweeping statement, she was right about the polyester napkins. This was a fundraiser for the Heritage Society, and losing vintage damask or linen didn’t help the bottom line. “Counterfeit damask. What’ll they think of next?” Jaymie said, and rose to pull the cake out of the oven. She had already boiled the odd “icing”—it was made of brown sugar, coconut, butter and one other ingredient she had had to guess at; she hoped “top milk” meant cream—and poured it over the cake. It pooled, so she got a nutpick out of the drawer and poked holes in the top, letting the brown sugar mixture ooze into the cake. She then
“Who can he be? Do you think the cops know and just aren’t saying?”
Jaymie shrugged. “The detective told me that they didn’t know yet. That was hours ago, though.”
“I should have stayed up to help you clean, Jaymie,” Rebecca said, looking toward the sunporch. “You did a great job. I was almost afraid to come down, but . . . it’s like it never happened.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure about sleeping here tonight, though. There’s a murderer running around out there.”
Jaymie had been trying not to think about that all day. “I have Bill Waterman coming to fix that back door later,” she said, in an oblique answer. “I want him to take the storms off the summer porch, too. I was going to call him this week about that anyway. The police did say they’re going to cruise by often for the next while, and even have someone sitting out back, until they figure out who did it. Bill’s going to put in motion detector alarms.”
“I know. Still . . . it freaks me out.”
Jaymie set the bowl aside for a moment, pushing thoughts of the blood and violence out of her mind. It wasn’t easy because, as tired as she was, it was looming, like an awful weight on her shoulders. “Anyway,” she said, brusquely, “about the cleaning . . . DeeDee showed up to help just after you went upstairs. She dug right in and did the stuff I couldn’t face—you know her; blood doesn’t faze an ER nurse—so don’t worry about it, sis.”
Becca smiled and put one hand over Jaymie’s and squeezed. “Old friends are the best kind. Anyway, to change the subject to something lighter . . . I bought a gross of white polyester napkins that look a lot like damask. You know how every year some idiots steal the vintage ones, and we can’t replace them. Polyester’ll make it a lot easier to wash out the jam stains.”
“Let me see them.” While Becca was gone, Jaymie finished the cake batter, poured it into a round pan and popped it in the preheated oven.
Becca plunked a shopping bag with plastic sleeves of the white polyester napkins on the table, and Jaymie slipped a set out of the plastic and shook one loose. She handled it, the cheap fabric catching on a ragged fingernail and the rough skin along her thumb. “Becca, these are awful! They don’t feel anything like real damask!”
“Good enough for the masses, Jaymie. They’ll steal them anyway, and I won’t care because they’re only fifty cents apiece and replaceable, instead of real damask or linen at five bucks.”
“But . . .” Jaymie stopped, dismayed but unable to fight her sister on it. Becca was right in one respect; folks did keep filching the vintage linens, as petty as it seemed, as a souvenir of the tea. But polyester! She looked down at the textured striping meant to simulate damask. “We use real china and real linen tablecloths because we’re trying to create a Victorian ambience. This doesn’t really go along with that.”
“I know,” Becca said. “But it’s like trying to feed foie gras to a five-year-old. They don’t appreciate the real thing anyway, and when they steal one of these, the last laugh is on them, not us. You
know
I’m right.”
As uneasy as Jaymie was with Becca’s sweeping statement, she was right about the polyester napkins. This was a fundraiser for the Heritage Society, and losing vintage damask or linen didn’t help the bottom line. “Counterfeit damask. What’ll they think of next?” Jaymie said, and rose to pull the cake out of the oven. She had already boiled the odd “icing”—it was made of brown sugar, coconut, butter and one other ingredient she had had to guess at; she hoped “top milk” meant cream—and poured it over the cake. It pooled, so she got a nutpick out of the drawer and poked holes in the top, letting the brown sugar mixture ooze into the cake. She then
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