Macaroni and Freeze (7 page)

Everyone looked at one another and shifted uncomfortably at the childish display, but the best was yet to come.

Walton DeMassie came in second place. He uttered a colorful expletive that had the church ladies covering their ears. He stormed onto the stage, plucked the check from Megan's hand, and exited the building, yelling that the contest was rigged.

Jean Williams, of the soup kitchen in Syracuse, came in first. She was so happy that she did a cartwheel on the stage. The spectators were so thrilled to see a positive response that they gave her a standing ovation.

After closing remarks were made by Megan, Ty Brisco took the mike. He told everyone to drive slowly and to take Route 3 for as long as they could, especially if they were connecting to Interstate 81 north or south. He said that it had stopped snowing and that the roads were all plowed and salted, but the snow had been blowing and drifting across the roads, causing icy conditions that might grab tires and spin cars.

I decided that I'd better round up Priscilla and her entourage and drive them back to the Big House. Milt and Megan Tucker lived the other way, so it made more sense for me to drive everyone back.

The Saint Dismas ladies filed out. I walked up onto the stage because of the higher elevation and looked for Peter and Jill. Where was everyone?

I spotted Jill coming into the building from outside. She looked very distraught and wet. What was up with that?

Peter wasn't anywhere inside the building, as far as I could see. I asked Ray Meyerson, who was heading into the men's room, to see if Peter McCall was in there.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Ray returned. “Peter's not in there, boss. Oh, and the two chefs are in there whining that the contest was rigged. As a judge, I took offense at that, and I told them so.”

I shook my head. “Sore losers. Right, Ray?”

He shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and walked away. I didn't want him to be
offended. He was just doing his job, and he took it very seriously.

“Looking for me, Trixie?” Ty said, walking toward me.

“No. I just like hanging around the men's room.”

“Picking up sailors?”

“As usual.” I grinned. “But right now I'd really like to gather up Priscilla, Peter, and Jill and hit the road back to the Big House. I'm pooped. I saw Jill walk in from outside, but I don't see her now.”

“Let me give the guys a call on the radio and have them look for them.”

“Priscilla can't be far, Ty. Her hat, gloves, and boots are still here. She might be wearing her coat—it's red wool—and she has designer red heels on, so I'd guess that she wouldn't go outside.”

I walked around the building again, looking for everyone. Then I saw Jill packing up Priscilla's books.

I yelled to her, “Jill, I'm going to drive you, Priscilla, and Peter back to my house.”

She nodded. Then I walked over to my cooking station to get my equipment, deciding to load my stuff into the car so we could hit the road when Priscilla and Peter finally showed up. I put on all my winter paraphernalia and shuffled outside through the back door, carrying some of my things.

It was as I approached my car that I saw Priscilla Finch-Smythe sitting with her back against the fire
hydrant in the snowbank beside my car. Her coat was unbuttoned, and I could see that her red skirt and sweater were all disheveled. Snow had drifted on her and against her right side.

Oh, no! She must have slid on an icy patch with those fancy heels on and couldn't get up.

But what was she doing outside?

“Oh my goodness, Priscilla. You must be frozen!” I knelt beside her to see how badly she was hurt and brushed the snow off her. I didn't know if I should help her inside or call 911.

Before I had to decide, I heard the roar of a snowplow on the other side of the snowbank. A crush of snow tumbled over the top of the snowbank and onto us both. Priscilla tipped sideways onto my lap.

It took a while before I could register what I was seeing. Her red silk scarf was so embedded into her neck that I could barely see it. And there was a thick patch of blood frozen onto the back of her head.

“Priscilla? Priscilla? Talk to me! Please! Priscilla!”

I sat her up and brushed the snow from her face. I pulled off my mitten and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

Then I screamed and screamed until Ty found us.

“D
on't you dare get out of that bed, Beatrix Matkowski. That's an order!”

“No one calls me Beatrix and lives to tell about it,” I whispered, feeling like a dense fog had settled in my bedroom.

Antoinette Chloe Brown had her hands on her hips. She'd just delivered a steaming mug of chamomile tea and a piece of banana bread to my nightstand.

I couldn't eat a thing, but the tea was calling my name. It would shout my name if it were accompanied by a couple shots of something stronger.

I didn't remember taking off my clothes and slipping into my pink Minnie Mouse nightshirt and matching fuzzy socks. Or sliding underneath my plump down comforter.

The events before that were all a blur, but I tried to bring them into focus.

“How long have I been sleeping?” I asked.

“About fourteen hours.”

“No way!”

“Way.”

“Priscilla is dead.” I hoped that ACB would contradict me and the awful scene I remembered was just a nightmare.

“Yes, she is,” ACB said grimly. “It appears she was choked to death with her red silk scarf and then left to freeze like a Popsicle.”

I vividly remembered the scene, and shivered. There'd been so much red—her outfit, her coat, her shoes—and all that blood. I don't think I'd ever be able to forget the horrible image that had been burned into my memory.

ACB propped the pillows behind my back, and I sat up against the headboard of the sleigh bed.

“She must've slipped and hit her head on the fire hydrant,” I said. After taking a sip of tea, I enjoyed the warmth that spread through my body. Then I remembered the scarf around her neck. “Do you think she hit her head on the fire hydrant before or after she was strangled?”

That was a dumb question. I didn't even know why it mattered. It wasn't like it would change what had happened.

ACB plopped herself on the edge of my bed and helped herself to some of the banana bread. What a shame. I had started feeling much better and could have gone for some of that. “Are you asking which injury came first?”

“I . . . Yes, I guess that's what I'm asking.”

“Hal Manning is working on figuring that out right now.”

Hal was Sandy Harbor's resident coroner and funeral home owner. In fact, his Happy Repose Funeral Home was the only one in the area.

“Maybe someone pushed her and stunned her. Then strangled her,” I speculated.

Antoinette Chloe chewed thoughtfully and then spoke. “Or maybe they choked her, and then she fell backward and hit her head.”

“Well, no matter what order it happened in, the poor woman was murdered,” I said. “In little Sandy Harbor.”

ACB nodded. “And the press is having a field day. More and more reporters are showing up and sniffing around. The Silver Bullet is media headquarters central due to the fact that they can get reliable Internet hookup there better than anywhere else in town. Juanita called in more help to feed them, the gawkers, and the regular customers.”

“Juanita probably didn't know how long I'd be sleeping.”

“You've had a rough time of things lately. Seemed to everyone that you needed the sleep.”

“I did a good job of it.” I didn't even remember waking up to get a snack or to take any bathroom breaks.

Antoinette Chloe patted my hand. “Seeing Priscilla like that was the final straw in your stress-o-meter. I think you might have fainted.”

“And Ty wasn't even around. You know how I like to faint in his arms.”

“I do.” She laughed. “You actually fainted while holding on to Priscilla. An avalanche of snow almost buried you both.”

I shivered; then we sat in silence for a while, which was unusual for us. ACB broke the silence first. “Ty told Jill and Peter not to leave town.”

That meant I still had houseguests. Crap.

“Where are they?” I asked. “I would have heard them moving around or talking.”

“Jill moved into Priscilla's motor home. I moved Peter into my guest room, and I moved in here to nurse you back to health.”

I could handle ACB. I didn't want to handle Jill and Peter at this time, so I guess I lucked out.

“Well, I'm fine now, Antoinette Chloe. I just needed some rest.”

“And more rest is what you are going to get. Then Ty wants to take your affidavit. Apparently you weren't in the best condition when he first found you. You were in shock, half frozen yourself, and sleep deprived.”

“I just can't do all-nighters like I did in my college days. And I think seeing Priscilla like that pushed me right over the edge.”

“By my calculations, you did two all-nighters in a row. It's a wonder you didn't collapse sooner.”

“I feel great now. Time to get out of this bed and find out what happened to Priscilla. You know, there must
be a suspect list a mile long. I mean, I knew her only a few days and I thought she was a diva. I didn't like her demands, especially how she insisted on the specials and the tea and all. And she wasn't very nice to anyone. And she could have thanked us for the tea and for breakfast and naming the specials after her, but she seemed to expect it.”

“And she didn't come from wealth in the least, so it must have been all her TV and cookbook success that changed her.”

“Still, no one deserves to die like that, and the least we can do is bring her murderer to justice.”

I started to get out of bed, but ACB gently pushed me back.

“What?” I asked.

“There's a couple of other things you should know.”

“Like?”

“Like there's talk about you. They're saying you entered the contest for publicity for the Silver Bullet and because you lost, you were . . . well, you were rip-roaring mad at Priscilla. Did you say that you'd do anything to get on TV?”

“‘Yes' to the publicity thing, but a big, damn ‘no!' to the rip-roaring-mad part. I wasn't mad at Priscilla in the least.”

“What about the part that you'd do anything?”

“I didn't mean that I'd kill Priscilla to get on the show. That would defeat the purpose of me being on TV with her, wouldn't it?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, it would. And, Trixie, a lot of people heard you trash Priscilla after she dissed Blondie, saying that Ty should shoot her for yanking on her coat. And that you had complained about Priscilla saying that your potato pancakes were only tolerable.”

“I was just complaining that I didn't get any sleep in order to prepare the potato pancakes for her. And of course I didn't like her talking about Blondie the way she did. Blondie probably thought that Priscilla's faux-fur coat was a new species of dog. She didn't mean to yank on Priscilla's coat.”

I slammed my fist down on the pillow. “Oh, for heaven's sake, I hate to be the subject of gossip, especially when it's overexaggerated to make me look bad.”

ACB chuckled. “I'm
always
the subject of gossip. I heard a couple of the Tri-Gams talking about my muumuus and my fascinators and that I dress ‘over-the-top.' I know I do, but I enjoy it. I think they're just jealous of my fashion sense.”

“Then wear what you like, Antoinette Chloe. Don't listen to them.” We were off topic, which usually happened whenever I talked with my friend. “Um . . . what else should I know about Priscilla's murder?”

She looked at her fake glittery fingernails. They had little rhinestone bows glued on each one. “Ty told the second- and third-place winners not to leave town. They both had been angrily spewing that the contest was rigged right before you found Priscilla's body and that the first-place winner—sweet Jean Williams from
the soup kitchen in Syracuse—shouldn't have won. Ty let Jean go because she lives close by.”

“How could they think the contest was rigged?”

“It was probably just sour grapes on their parts.”

“That's pretty much what I said to Ray Meyerson. He'd heard them talking in the men's room right after the contest.” I thought for a while. Then it hit me. “Um . . . you know . . . with Priscilla's passing, Jean Williams doesn't have a cooking show to appear on now.”

“Megan Hunter is aware of that. She's trying to work out something with another TV chef. Priscilla's assistant, Jill, is using her connections to help, too.”

“That's nice of both of them. Megan is totally efficient.”

“Oh, by the way, Connie Benson is the one who told Ty that you wanted publicity and that you were hopping mad that you weren't picked for first place.”

I racked my brain. What on earth had I said to Connie to give her that impression?

“And Megan said that she hated to cast suspicion on you, but she said in her statement to Lou Rutledge that you called Priscilla a difficult diva and that you really disliked her.”

“True, but that doesn't mean that I wanted her dead.”

“Megan also told Lou—again, she was very regretful—that she saw you holding Priscilla's red scarf.”

“Priscilla handed it to me. I was holding it—for her!”

“And then, coincidentally, you were both together and she was dead when Ty appeared.”

My stomach sank as if I were dropping on a roller-coaster ride at the state fair.

“Trixie, I know you're innocent, and Ty probably knows you're innocent. But we have to find the person who really did it. And soon. You can't leave town.”

“
What?
I can't leave town?” Then I thought about it. “I
never
,
ever
leave town except for the occasional shopping trip anyway.”

“Yeah, but you
officially
can't leave town.”

“Isn't this just . . . peachy?” I said. “Okay. So the people who can't leave town are Kip O'Malley and Walton DeMassie. And then there's Jill Marley and Peter McCall, the doting stepson. Who else?”

“The two church ladies can't go either: Marylou Cosmo and Dottie Spitzer. They were the most vocal of the bunch, but Ty, Vern, and Lou took down everyone's name on the Saint Dismas bus, along with their addresses, phone numbers, and other pertinent contact information. They'll probably run record checks on all of them and see what
pops
.” She chuckled. “I think I heard that on
Castle.
You know, the TV show with that really gorgeous hunk Nathan Fillion. I love how he relates to his mother and daughter. It's so refreshing and sweet and funny. If I had kids, I'd want a daughter just like—”

My friend was veering off track as she sometime does. I decided I had to rein her in.

“If the bus driver, Marylou Cosmo, had to stay here, then how did all the church ladies get back to Poughkeepsie?” I interrupted.

“Ty got one of our local bus drivers to drive them all home. It took a lot of finagling and some waiver signing, but the church went for it.”

“Where are Marylou and Dottie staying, then?”

“In Megan Hunter's guest room.”

I closed my eyes and said a quick thank-you prayer to the powers that be. I was grateful they weren't staying with me.

“What about Kip and Walton? Where are they staying?”

“In their trailers or motor homes at the fairgrounds.”

So far I was doing great! No guests at the Big House except for ACB. For a person in the hospitality business, I wasn't feeling very hospitable lately.

“What else do I need to know, Antoinette Chloe?”

“I don't think you're ready for the best part.”

“Tell me.”

“I'm your warden. I have to see that you don't move from your property.” She chuckled. “It's like everyone is on house arrest.”

I wanted that slice of banana bread. Right now. No, make that a big bowl of chocolate fudge ice cream with rainbow sprinkles. “Did Ty really say I couldn't leave town?”

“Yup. He wants to sort everything out first.”

“I guess you can say that you're in my custody.” She
giggled and the bed shook. She was loving this. Really loving this.

“But, Trixie, I'm also here to see that you get a lot of bed rest and that you don't volunteer for anything in the near future.”

“I never volunteered for the whole Priscilla thing in the first place!”

“You're still new here. Fresh meat!” We both laughed. She stood and smoothed my comforter. “Would you like some more chamomile tea, Trixie?”

“No, thanks. But, tell me, who's working my shift at the diner?”

“Linda Blessler, as usual. And she's doing a great job, so you just stay in bed. Get more sleep,” she said, pointing a finger at me.

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

I waited until the sounds of her flip-flopping faded as she walked to another part of the house. Then I yanked the comforter off myself and stood. Yikes! I got a little dizzy, but it soon passed.

“Stay in town?” I mumbled to myself. “You gotta be kidding me, Sheriff Ty Brisco. I don't go anywhere anyway. But I'm not going to stay chained to ACB in the Big House while the real murderer is on the loose.”

I tossed my clothes into the hamper. Then I jumped into the shower.

I was a woman on a mission. I needed to find out who had really killed Priscilla—and fast!