By Victoria Hamilton
The Queensville background Society is restoring the once-grand Dumpe Manor. whereas Dumpe family and society participants use the celebration to dirt off previous grudges, Jaymie Leighton prefers to enhance the kitchen with actual melancholy period furniture. a set of classic wood mallets present in the home is an ideal addition to her show, yet one additionally bargains a late-night intruder the appropriate weapon to knock Jaymie subconscious earlier than escaping.
Though the assault has every body on side, not anything is lacking from the home. might be it used to be purely a vagrant who proposal where used to be nonetheless deserted. but if Dumpe Manor's resident historian is murdered with a mallet from an analogous assortment, it's time for Jaymie to show up the warmth at the research prior to another person turns into history.
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Extra resources for No Mallets Intended (Vintage Kitchen Mystery, Book 4)
Mom, five seconds ago, I was supposed to brag about my big artsy collaboration. ” She threw me a withering look, like she was just disgusted I was being so thick. “Your college application is intended for a different audience altogether. As for this other issue, all you have to say is that you’re not . . not one of those people. That is . ” Her eyes bounced from me to the wall and then the floor. “Unless . . well, unless there’s something you need to . . ah . . ” My cheeks heated. ” She was using her reasonable-mom voice, the one she pulled out whenever she’d thought of one more new project guaranteed to get me into the dream school of her 46 choice.
You think Yale . . ” Mom got this defiant look. “The Metropolitan is a very prestigious museum. If you’re careful and word it right, you can put this on your résumé. You’ll have collaborated on a work of art. Tell me that won’t distinguish you from the pack. ” This was just so typical. I wanted to shout, Mom, catch a clue already. She was like this 24/7: always scheming, trying to figure an angle to give me a leg up. But all I said was, “Mom, right now I have to go to school here. People are going to talk.
Which wasn’t right. Mr. Lange had gone into town alone. I glanced over at Jimmy. From the look on his face, I could tell: he knew what this was about. ” I asked. Jimmy didn’t respond. The truck roared up the drive past the house. Mrs. Lange rushed out of the kitchen, her apron still on, a towel in her hand. ” she called. “Harlan, what is it? What’s wrong? ” But that truck kept coming, the grill grinning so big and shiny, it was a maw with bared teeth. Maybe fifty feet from the barn, Mr. Lange braked hard enough that the truck rocked on its suspension.