A Second Helping of Murder (13 page)

“That's going to be one major sign!” I brushed off some kind of bug from my shoulder. “But you don't even have an ice-cream parlor.”

“I'm going to add one.”

“I see. Do you know anything about an ice-cream parlor?”

“No, but I like ice cream.”

“Works for me, Antoinette Chloe.”

I stood and brushed off my shorts. “Drop in to the Silver Bullet and learn how to cook whenever you like.”

“I'll be there tonight. Six o'clock.”

I'd make sure to warn Cindy. She was working three to midnight.

“Uh . . . Antoinette Chloe, you'd better leave off your jewelry. I don't want you to lose it in the fryer. And maybe jeans and a blouse would be better, even though your muumuu is very . . . floral. And perhaps a good pair of shoes or sneaks would be better than your flip-flops. You'll be standing on your feet a lot and you'll need support.”

“I understand, and I'll even put my hair up.”

“Uh . . . you have to wear a hairnet, a ball cap, or a chef's hat—something that'll keep your hair out of the food.”

“Merciful heavens! A hairnet? Not Antoinette Chloe Brown! I have a pretty hat with flowers and the cutest robin perched on top. The robin is sitting on a nest with blue eggs. It's exquisite.”

“I'm sure it is, Antoinette Chloe . . . but there're health codes and all that.”

I could picture the robin falling off her hat, landing in the fryer, and ACB plating it for a customer, thinking that she was preparing the fried chicken and mashed potato special.

Oh, I had almost forgotten the reason why I came to Brown's. Sure, I wanted to eat, but ACB was always a wealth of information. I had spoken to her before, but now I had a list of men who might be Claire's “B.”

“Antoinette Chloe, before I leave, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about some of your senior classmates.”

“That again? Well, fire away.”

“Do you remember Robert Godfrey, Robert Lawless, Billy Swenti, and Buddy Wilder?”

“Sure. I went to twelve years of school with them.”

“Did you see any of them with Claire Jacobson?”

“No. Never. I only saw her with Ricky Tingsley, and that was only one time, at the bonfire.”

“So you never saw Claire with any of the other guys?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said. “But could you keep thinking of that bonfire night? I know that it was a long time ago, but see if you can remember any other detail, no matter how small.”

She pulled off the platter-sized silk daisy that was dangling over one ear and reclipped it. “I will.”

She stood, muumuu billowing in the breeze, and pulled me into a hug that squeezed the stuffing right out of me.

I was not aware that we were that close.

I breathed in a mix of talcum powder, perfume, cologne, body mist, laundry detergent, fabric softener, dryer sheets, body oil, deodorant, and antiperspirant, all in a potpourri of different scents.

I almost poked my eye out on her earring.

Sneezing, I gave her a squeeze, then stepped back for some oxygen.

“You know, Trixie, there is one thing about Claire that, upon consideration . . . I mean, I thought it was something else back then, but knowing what I know now and thinking back, I might have been wrong then—”

“Antoinette Chloe, what on earth are you talking about?”

“I don't have any children. I had a couple of miscarriages, and tried like hell, but I've never been able to have children.”

“I'm so sorry. I know how you feel. I've never been blessed with children either. That's one of the reasons my ex-husband, well, found a fertile younger woman.”

Did I just spill my guts to ACB? What the hell got into me? I'd only told that to a handful of my closest friends and stand-by-your-man Carla VanPlank.

“I'm sorry, Trixie. So very sorry.”

She took my hands and squeezed and when I looked into her eyes, I didn't see globs of makeup. I saw a very sincere friend with sapphire eyes. And good friends were hard to find.

“And Laura VanPlank is just like us, too,” ACB
said. “She was in a horrible car accident in Port Palm, Florida. She was on vacation with her parents. Terrible accident. The result was that she can't have any children.”

“Accident? Oh no. How old was she?”

“Fourteen.”

I took a deep breath and held it for a while. My heart went out to Laura, and I resolved to enter her name on my list with the heading Be Nicer to These People. Aside from her accident, she had to put up with a pill of a mother and husband. She probably needed friends more than anyone.

“But, Trixie, when I think back, I remember that Claire was glowing, and Rick Tingsley wouldn't let go of her hand.”

“And Laura noticed?”

“She sure did!”

T
he Dance Fest was two days away, and all of us chefs—and that now included ACB—were busy making salads.

Potato salad and macaroni salad were my specialty, because of Uncle Porky's secret ingredient—a healthy dose of dried dill weed. I also used real mayonnaise and squirted some mustard or horseradish mustard into the mayonnaise. Then the usual: salt and pepper, diced celery, and lots of diced, hard-boiled eggs.

Right now huge pots of potatoes and elbow macaroni were boiling on the stove. ACB was stirring both pots with a big wooden paddle.

Cindy was putting three dozen eggs in another pot. Those had to be boiled, too.

When that batch was done, we'd do it all over again, and then we'd move on to getting the ziti ready and the meatballs and sausage.

I loved cooking for a huge crowd. At least I hoped we'd have a huge crowd. Judging by the buzz in the diner, the whole town would be there.
I just hoped that the rainy weather was behind us and it'd be a beautiful evening.

Everything was ready. The rental company had arrived and was putting up a gigantic tent. When I looked out the window, I saw them laying boards for the dance floor. Then they'd move on to putting up an elevated stage for the band.

I also ordered extra chairs and tables. Just as soon as the tent was up, Max, Clyde, and Ray would set up tables in the tent and cover them with white paper tablecloths. I also had them setting up six tables for the buffet in front of the tent. In the meantime, my brain was twirling with
B
's as well as Grant VanPlank, Rick Tingsley, and Laura Tingsley.

Old Grant VanPlank had the most to lose. However, since he had terminal zipperitis, he probably just wanted to enjoy a fling with young Claire and then move on to less fertile territory.

His political aspirations would come to a dead end if anyone found out about Claire, so he had to kill her. Right?

But had anyone actually linked Claire to Grant? Carla VanPlank spewed something about Claire being a loose woman. Was Carla referring to Grant having an affair with Claire?

Grant VanPlank was still my lead suspect.

As for Rick Tingsley, maybe Claire was just someone different from Laura. Rick didn't really know Claire all that much from what I found out.

Granted, my source ACB felt differently, so did she really know for sure?

I snapped my fingers and walked over to ACB. I'd told her that she couldn't decorate her chef's hat with sequins because they might fall off into the food. Instead she bought a ton of fabric paint and painted flowers, bugs, and either seagulls or vultures onto it.

“Antoinette Chloe, did Rick Tingsley seem really happy on the night of the bonfire or not?”

“He seemed happy, but he'd had a few beers in him. Everyone seemed happy, not just Ricky. It was a party after all, and we'd just graduated at the end of June. We'd been waiting for this party.”

“Okay.” I was getting nowhere.

Through the pass-through window, I saw Ty walk into the diner. He was off duty as he was in his cowboy duds. Yum.

He tilted his head, and I knew immediately that he had information for me.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I told the ladies that I needed a cup of coffee—which wasn't a lie—and a short break. I pushed open the double doors, excited with anticipation.

Maybe we were making progress on the case.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I found that Ty had moved to a back booth for privacy. I slid in opposite him. I always found comfort in the well-worn vinyl. I was glad to be continuing the legacy started by my aunt and uncle when they first had the Silver Bullet transported here from the factory by eighteen-wheelers in 1952.

However, the cottages that Uncle Porky had
lovingly built one by one in his spare time were dying one at a time.

Until there were families here to enjoy them, what good were they?

Even if the two murders were solved, would that bring everyone back to the cottages? Or would they be tainted forever?

I took a sip of coffee and waited for Ty to speak.

“The
B
's are all out as suspects with the exception of one.”

“Billy Lawless? The one with the criminal record?” I guessed.

“Actually, no. The night that Claire died, Mr. Lawless was warming a cell at the Sandy Harbor lockup. He celebrated his graduation by stealing the principal's car.”

“Shoot, he was a good suspect. Where was he when Phil Jacobson was murdered?”

“Attica. He's doing a nickel stretch for burglary.”

“That's the real Big House,” I said. “Ty, don't keep me in suspense. Who's the suspect?”

“It's the guy who works with addicts. Only your friends have it wrong. He's not a real priest—never was. He's a social worker.”

“That'd be Buddy Wilder.” I could recite those names in my sleep. “But, Ty, the local churches, they pass the basket and send him money. Everyone thinks he's a priest.”

“The New York City Police Department will be checking him out fully. They'll get back to me with
their results, but I'm guessing that he's a big fraud or the parishioners are just mistaken.”

“Could you connect him to Claire Jacobson?”

“Not yet.”

“Claire could never love a fraud,” I declared.

“Maybe he wasn't a fraud back then. Maybe he was a good-looking, sweet-talking guy.”

“Yeah. Now,
that
I could believe. He could have swept Claire off her feet. He writes a good love letter.

“Ty, would you mind checking out Grant VanPlank, too?”

“VanPlank? Why him?”

“He has zipperitis.”

Ty raised an eyebrow, and I explained, “He can't keep it in his pants, and he ruined his political career because of his fooling around.” I shrugged. “I just have a suspicion that he might have fooled around with Claire.”

“He doesn't have a
B
name,” Ty said.

“And his wife said that he'd never had a nickname, but I'm thinking that Claire might have given him one of those goofy names that lovers sometimes do. Maybe she called him ‘Beau' or ‘Boo-Boo' or ‘Bubbles' or ‘Bumblebee'—who knows?”

“Bubbles? Bumblebee? Darlin', I'd have to shoot myself if anyone ever called me something like that.”

“Well, Bubbles, the Dance Fest is in two days, and I plan on pumping all my guests for information, particularly Grant VanPlank and Rick
Tingsley. And maybe Billy Swenti might come because he's local and was in that class, my dear Bubbles. I could talk to him.” I snapped my fingers. “You know, I'll give Various Veggies and Fruits a call and make sure I invite the whole family.”

“It wouldn't hurt. Just be careful. And don't call me Bubbles!”

“Okay, Bumblebee.”

“Ouch.”

We made small talk, mostly about Blondie, and then he had to leave to change into “his fishing duds” because he was going fishing with Deputy Vern McCoy.

Fishing?

Why wasn't he working on the murders?

I supposed he was entitled to some time off to have some fun, but not when I had a balloon payment to make to Aunt Stella.

Aunt Stella!

I don't know why I didn't think of her sooner. I went outside, sat down at a picnic table, and dialed her number on my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Aunt Stella. It's Trixie.”

“Hello, sweetie. I am so sorry about the man who was murdered in Cottage Eight, David Burrows. Should I know him, Claire?”

I promised Ty that I wouldn't spill the beans that David was really Phil, so I couldn't even tell Aunt Stella. “I don't think you know him.”

“It's just so horrible.”

“I know, Aunt Stella. It's awful. And I was the one who found David in Cottage Eight.”

“You poor dear. Are his parents alive? Have they been notified?”

“No. They aren't alive. Ty told me that.”

“Trixie, I meant to call you, but I've been on a bus trip with my friends to the casinos in Biloxi, and—”

“That's okay. Enjoy yourself, and don't worry.” Actually Aunt Stella wasn't worrying at all. I was so happy she was able to live up her golden years with her friends. “I just wanted to tell you that I'm bringing back the Dance Fest. My first one is Saturday.”

“Oh, how I wish I could be there!”

“I wish you could be, too. It won't be the same without Uncle Porky and you.”

“Oh, Trixie! I miss him so much.” She sniffed, and I could picture her with a real cloth handkerchief with flowers on it clenched in her fist.

“I didn't mean for you to cry.”

“I'll be okay. Hang on.” I could hear her blowing her nose. Then she sniffed and came back. “So, tell me. What else is going on at the point?”

“This is going to sound strange, but around the last time that Claire and her family were renting Eight, did you know anyone whose first name, last name, or a nickname started with a letter
B
? I think that Claire was in love with him.”

There was silence for a while.

“I can't think of anyone off the top of my head. Let me think about it, and I'll call you back.”

“Deal.”

We chatted about her past and upcoming trips and at length about how she had attended a performance of the Thunder from Down Under when she was in Vegas.

My sweet aunt Stella and her gal pals at a male stripper show? You go, Aunt Stella Matkowski!

“I'll think about a
B
name around the time that Claire . . . um . . . passed away, but I have to go now. I have my Pilates class.”

“See you, Aunt Stella.”

“Bye, Trixie dear.”

I hung up feeling as though I had done something positive. Aunt Stella had a memory like a computer. She'd come up with a name. And I hoped she'd call me soon.

Speaking of computers, Ray Myerson, the new busboy, dishwasher, and computer genius, arrived looking smart, wearing dark jeans and a green golf shirt. I was sure that the golf shirt wasn't his thing, but I appreciated that he listened to me.

He gave me a quick salute, found a laundered apron in the box behind the counter, got a gray plastic tub, and started busing the tables.

Nice.

Out of nowhere, a party of twenty-four filed into the diner. It seemed that they were in a heated discussion, because they were very loud and very animated. The other diner patrons looked at them as they noisily moved tables around and dragged chairs.

Without any prompting from me, Ray hurried over to help them. I congratulated myself on hiring the young man as I walked over to help.

“Hi, I'm the owner of the Silver Bullet, Trixie Matkowski.”

“Well, little Trixie, you're all grown-up.”

I just stared. He did look familiar, but not quite.

He stood and extended his hand. “Buddy. Buddy Wilder. I used to live here in Sandy Harbor.”

It couldn't be! I was just questioning some of the town elders about the B List and now the faux priest/social worker was here—in person, in the flesh, in my diner.

“Buddy, what brings you back to Sandy Harbor?” I asked, not taken in by his artificial tan, his black ensemble, and his piercing black eyes. His blacker-than-black hair was slicked back with something greasy, and I could see the comb marks.

On him, it seemed to work.

Buddy grinned and his pearly white teeth nearly blinded me. Diamond studs twinkled in both earlobes.

“We're here for the Dance Fest,” he said. “I told my friends that it's an event not to be missed, so we all decided to take a ride up here for a little R and R.”

“Where are you all staying?”

Laurie, who must have drawn the short straw and gotten the noisy party, appeared and passed out menus.

“I was hoping we could stay here at the cottages, if there's room.”

“There's room,” I quickly said. “But I should tell you that we've had a problem here. A person died—actually he was murdered—in Cottage Eight.”

“I heard. We can handle it. We live in New York City,” one of Buddy's friends said.

Buddy nodded, and I snapped to attention. “How many cottages would you like?”

“Ten,” Buddy said. “If you don't have the room, we can stay at Singing Waters. I called from the road, and we have reservations there. You didn't answer your phone, Trixie.”

I remember walking by the blinking light a hundred times, thinking that there were more cancellations. I never dreamed that people would actually be calling for reservations.

“I've been having trouble with my landline,” I lied. “But I'll get you all keys and you can figure out who wants to stay in what cottage.”

“You can bill me,” Buddy said, handing me a credit card. “I'll collect from my friends later.”

“Will do,” I said, slipping his credit card into my pocket. Maybe Ty could run a check on it. “I hope you brought your bathing suits. It should be a beautiful day for swimming.”

“You know, it's so green here,” said a woman with flaming red hair and a pronounced Brooklyn accent. “And I've never seen so many cows. They're, like, huge and roaming free.”

I chuckled. “Dairy cows are definitely a wild, carefree bunch, but I think we still fence them in.”

That got a round of chuckles.

Then I wondered how the not-reverend Buddy had heard about the Dance Fest way over in New York City. The ink hadn't yet dried on the posters.

“Buddy, how on earth did you hear about the Dance Fest and manage to get such a large group together in such a short time, then drive the sevenish hours to get here?”

“I received an e-mail announcement. And we were altogether at a party in Soho and just decided to hop on a limo bus—it's Andre's company—”

A man with spiked white hair and black roots raised two fingers in a salute, and I smiled at him. He had nice brown eyes.

“The Gadabout Limo Company,” he said, dipping into his pocket and handing me a business card.