A Second Helping of Murder (10 page)

I found Rick Tingsley to be an arrogant worm who gave politicians a worse reputation than they already had.

At the Dance Fest, Laura might be able to tell me more about the bonfire evening, or maybe her mother would put a lid on whatever Laura said. I'd just have to separate them somehow.

And Rick Tingsley from them all.

As I walked over to the Silver Bullet, I stopped and looked up at the sky. The stars were brilliant and so close I felt I could pluck them out of the darkness and put one on each finger, like diamonds.

Speaking of diamonds, I wondered if “B” had promised to marry Claire when he found out that she was pregnant. Or maybe she hadn't even told him.

She must have. Claire was so happy, even I could see the joy on her face back then. Certainly, the father of her baby could see her happiness, too.

So who was the father of her baby?

I thought I needed to hit the library and pull out the yearbook of the class of 1989. Nothing like a yearbook to find out information about the past.
I'd bet my tomato pants that I'd find someone with a
B
name if it's the last thing I did.

Question: why hadn't I thought of that sooner?

Answer: because this chef had too much on her plate.

I should have brought my lists with me. In between orders, I could make more phone calls and do more planning for the Dance Fest.

Going in through the back door, I noticed that Juanita and Cindy were doing some cleaning. Everything was neat and tidy, and the floor was so clean, I could eat off it.

“Fabulous!” I said. “Everything looks wonderful.”

“Thanks,” Cindy said. “We got a little slow, so we thought we'd straighten things up.”

“Well, things aren't going to be slow for long. I've decided to reinstitute the Dance Fest,” I said. I could feel the excitement bubbling through my veins. This was going to be fun!

“Really, Trixie? My parents have told me about them and how much fun they were. Bonfires, dancing, food, men!” Cindy giggled.

Juanita clapped. “Perfect. It's about time this stretch of beach heard laughter again!” She suddenly sobered. “Too much death. Time for fun.”

“That's what I think, too,” I said, still hoping that I could get good tidbits of information from those attending.

“Trixie, I almost forgot . . . you have a message,” Juanita said. “Laura Tingsley can't make
lunch with you, but her mother will be here at one o'clock.”

“Carla?” It was strange that she'd come alone. I didn't really know her mother from the latest boy band, but what the heck? “Okay. Lunch with Laura's mom.”

I told Juanita and Cindy to go home, that I'd start my shift early, and thanked them again.

“I want to tell you that I hired a busboy. His name is Ray Myerson. He starts tomorrow at noon.”

“I know him,” Cindy said. “He's in my sister Maria's class. She told me how he got into trouble for hacking into the school's computer and giving everyone A's and B's.”

“We're going to give him a chance,” I said.

Cindy nodded. “I won't bring it up.”

“Yeah, there's no need,” I said.

“About the Dance Fest, Trixie,” Juanita said. “You know I'll do anything to help.”

“Me, too!” Cindy said.

“I knew I could count on you both.” Tears stung my eyes. I was blessed to have such a great staff. There weren't any problems that we couldn't handle together.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

My waitresses tonight were Judy Daniels and Laurie Lanco, two veterans who had worked for Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella, so it should be an easy evening. I told them about the Dance Fest also, and like Juanita and Cindy, they volunteered to do whatever I needed.

I didn't expect a big evening crowd tonight, so I'd have some time to work on my lists. I was going to inventory the meat and veggies that I had on hand, and then I'd make a list of veggies and meat that I'd need. Then tomorrow I'd place a big order at the local organic farm and the rest at the local food supplier, Sunshine Foods.

I also had to watch for Sarah Stolfus the next time she dropped off an order. I wanted to ask her to make several dozen biscuits for strawberry shortcake and a buggy load of chocolate chip cookies for the kids.

And I was going to make Michele's Chocolate Cowboy Cake. Michele was a pal of mine from the old neighborhood who was noted for this cake. The best thing about it was that the cake could be frosted when hot—a wonderful timesaver.

Oh, I had to call my liquor distributor, too. I'd need a couple of kegs of beer, a few boxes of wine, and several cases of soda.

Laurie greeted me and gave me seven orders for the Friday night special: fried haddock with coleslaw and fries and a side of either macaroni salad, potato salad, or mac and cheese.

The Silver Bullet's coleslaw was just fabulous. It was all in the dressing—Uncle Porky's special recipe that was passed to him from a good neighbor, Grandma Wojcieson.

And he always put a “secret ingredient” in his macaroni and potato salad—dill weed. I've told a
few people, but I've always made them promise not to tell anyone else.

A fistful of orders came in from Judy. She was tall and slender with brownish red hair that was always up in a twist. She reminded me of a very professional waitress. She never took a wasted step or forgot a thing that the customer wanted. Laurie, the other waitress on duty, was a people person and could talk the ears off an elephant.

Laurie was a librarian by trade, but her library was downsized, and she was cut. She was as short as Judy was tall, and she was always on a diet. Laurie seemed scattered, but she did a wonderful job and the customers loved her wit and happy-go-lucky attitude.

It was fun bantering with both of them, and I still managed to make some progress on the Dance Fest.

Soon my shift was over and Darlene Wilson came in to cook. Dar worked on the weekends and was on call to fill in. She was an English-as-a-second-language teacher who did a lot of work with the migrant workers in the area. Dar seemed to always run in fourth gear. Just five minutes with Dar and her energy made me feel like a slug.

Ty Brisco walked into the diner with his cowboy boots and hat, perfectly faded jeans, and a white long-sleeved shirt. You could cut your hand on his creased sleeves.

But I wasn't looking.

Laurie immediately reached for the coffeepot, pouring him a cup of coffee.

Ty took the coffee with a “Well, thank you very much, darlin',” looked at me, and slanted his head toward a back booth.

I got the message. Hopefully it was good news! I poured myself a cup and joined him.

“Cottage Eight has been released on the condition that I take pictures and document everything we do.”

I was thrilled. I just knew that we'd find something related to Claire. “That's just what you said would happen.”

He grinned. “When do you want to start tearing down the walls?”

“Is now too soon?”

I
hurried to the Big House, excited to start the search for clues.

“Is this your morning jog?” Ty asked.

“Jog? In my dreams.”

His long legs made short work of keeping up with me.

“I left the tools on the porch, but I want to change into some old clothes. I don't want to ruin my tomatoes.”

He chuckled. “That would be a shame.”

Ty sat down on a rocker as I ran upstairs. The answering machine was blinking, but I didn't want to answer it. It'd probably just be more cancellations.

After I destroyed Cottage Eight, I needed to go to the library and find
B
names from the 1989 graduating class. I shuddered to think that the baby daddy might not be a local male. Then how on earth would we find him?

Unless there was a clue in the walls of Cottage
Eight, it would be next to impossible to find the guy. Obviously, the father hadn't come forward in twenty-five years.

I slipped into a pair of jean shorts and an old T-shirt and went to meet Ty on the porch.

Then I remembered something important. “Ty, where's the folder that I borrowed from Dr. Francis's office? I want to go through it.”

“I already did. There's nothing exciting in it.”

“I want to read it anyway. Maybe something will click with me that didn't click with you.”

“If such a folder did exist, it'd be in my office under lock and key,” he said. “And, you know, you probably should put it back.”

“That'll be fun. And if I get caught?”

“You'd better hope that Miss Shannon Shannon calls me so I can get you off,” he said as we walked down the stairs with our tools.

“Don't you love her name? At least it's easy to remember,” I said. “And she certainly will remember your name. You charmed her.”

Ty grinned. He was pretty proud of himself, the cowboy flirt that he was.

I had to admit that Ty wasn't like my ex, Deputy Doug. Sure, Ty powered up his Texas drawl to get information when he was working a case, and it worked like a charm.

Ty was a natural flirt who loved women of all shapes and ages, but he wasn't a player.

Deputy Doug, on the other hand, used his uniform to pick up women—younger women—who
were obviously impressed by his blues, badge, and gun.

He thought he was a player.

I shook my head to clear out the Deputy Doug cobwebs and concentrated on the task at hand.

Ty pulled the yellow crime scene tape away from the door of Eight. It felt good to see some of that go, but the cottage was still tightly wrapped. I opened the door with my extra key.

“Nothing has changed, huh?” I asked Ty.

“The typewriter is still on the floor,” he said.

“I'm going to pick it up, Ty. Okay with you?”

He hesitated. “Yeah, go ahead. It's been photographed enough.”

I lifted the typewriter with a grunt and put it on the table, just where Phil Jacobson had placed it. I wished that I had the scrapbook that I'd seen on the table.

The murderer had taken it.

“Ready?” Ty asked, handing me the sledgehammer.

“You know, I thought I was ready for this, but it seems like I'm ruining the history of the place. Look at all these names of people who stayed here. Look at the dates: 1952, 1954, 1961 . . . It's just so cool.”

“I'll take pictures before we start. Would that make you feel better?”

“I guess so.”

He had an official-looking cop camera, so the pictures should come out good.

“Go for it, Trixie. Let's start by the door and work around the main room first.”

I took a deep breath and then swung the hammer—
whack!

I dented a big chunk of the wainscoting. Ty worked the crowbar and the sledgehammer. We traded tools and kept ripping, making a big pile of wood. It became so high that we started tossing additional paneling out the door.

I hated to see the cottage being destroyed like this, but there was a black cloud that hovered over this cottage. Maybe with renovations, it'd become the fresh, new cottage that Uncle Porky had built in the 1950s.

It was exhausting and dirty work. I used muscles that I didn't know I had.

Ty swung the sledgehammer as if it were as light as a badminton racquet.

Finally it was time to wreck the bathroom.

That's where I'd wanted to start this project, where I thought Claire would hide something because of the big knothole behind the medicine cabinet that someone had made much larger, but Ty insisted that we do this methodically and in a logical pattern. Sheesh.

I just had a feeling that Claire had hidden something in the wall—something that she had to hide from her family, but something that she wanted to retrieve later.

The panel was finally free. I examined the inside of the wall. And just as I thought, there was a
yellowed piece of paper folded and lying on the floor. There seemed to be a long piece of yarn attached to it with a piece of yellowed tape clinging to the yarn. Yes! This was how she'd retrieve the paper later with the yarn. Ingenious.

“Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .” That was all I could say.

“Don't touch it! I need to take a picture.” Ty snapped photos in every direction. I almost expected him to stand on his head.

“Oh . . . my . . . goodness!”

“Go ahead and read it, Trixie. You knew that something was here all along.”

He gave me a pair of gloves and I could barely put them on because my hands were shaking as if I had the d.t.'s.

I carefully moved the blue yarn aside. “Ty, do you see this dried-up, yellowed piece of tape on the yarn? I can see a yellowed tape mark on the letter.”

He took more pictures. I looked where I found the letter and pointed to another strip of old tape that lay on a board. Ty took more pictures.

“It looks like Claire taped the yarn to the letter and then taped the yarn to the inside of the wall. She wanted to retrieve it, wanted to keep it,” Ty said. “Probably when her stay at the cottage was over.”

“Just what I thought. Just what I'd do.”

I unfolded the letter and read it out loud:

Dear Claire,

I don't know when I'll be able to visit you
again, if ever. I guess I'll have to wait until you are back in Sandy Harbor.

I know that we probably shouldn't have made love last night. I should have been strong. After all, I'm older, but I couldn't help myself. I just had to. It was beautiful and being that it was the first time for you, it was extra special.

I love you and want to spend my life with you. You're the only girl—

“Ty, he crossed out ‘girl' and put ‘woman,'” I said, then continued:

You're the only woman that I've ever loved. As soon as I can, I'll ask you to marry me. Until then, we'll have to be satisfied by writing letters. I don't dare to call you because of your parents.

Think of me. I'll be thinking of you.

All my love,
B

XOXOX

“Oh, for Pete's sake. Why the hell didn't he sign his damn name?”

I handed Ty the letter, and he read it. “I can see why Claire hid this from her family and why she wanted to keep it.”

“Exactly! I'm sure she didn't want her parents to find out that she lost her virginity to ‘B' when he surprised her by visiting her at home. Yet it was
a romantic letter full of promises for the future. Claire was the type who would fall for that. And obviously he drove to Rochester, where she lived.”

Ty grimaced. “I'm wondering if Claire got pregnant the first time she had sex with ‘B.'”

“That's my guess. Was there anything in her record? Anything that Dr. Francis wrote down? Anything that Claire might have said?”

“Not that I found, but since you're going to go through her file again, maybe you can find something.”

“You know, Ty, I don't think that this letter is the key to Claire's death. It's just a love letter with a pseudoapology and promises for the future. There must be something else, something more.” I looked around at our mess. “I think we have to finish tearing up the place.”

“Might as well. We have the bedroom to do. Maybe she hid something in the wall there, too.”

But there was nothing. Nothing.

“Okay. Let's call it a day,” Ty said. “It's almost one fifteen.”

“One fifteen?” I was late for my lunch with Carla VanPlank. I looked like a construction worker, but I didn't have time to change. “Ty, I have to fly. I have a lunch date with Carla VanPlank that I'm late for, and she isn't the type of person that would tolerate lateness.”

“Sounds like a wonderful time,” he said sarcastically.

I took off my gloves and tossed them onto a pile
of wood. “I'd like to get to know Carla better. I'd love to find out what makes her tick, other than her loyalty to her husband and to the mayor. And, of course, she adores Laura. Maybe she'll give me some good information.”

Trotting from the cottage to the back of the diner, I washed up in the back tub. Then I put a white chef's jacket over my filthy clothes. It'd do.

Carla VanPlank was sitting at a window booth toward the back of the diner. I could smell the Chanel No. 5 even from halfway there.

She rolled her eyes as I slid into the red vinyl booth. “I thought I might have had the wrong time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. VanPlank. I was busy.”

Her eyes bored a hole through my chef's jacket. “I can see that you were occupied. I watched things being tossed out of one of the cottages. What on earth were you doing?”

I didn't know how much I should tell her, so I decided to lie. “I'm doing a little remodeling.”

“I see,” she said. “Are you remodeling all the cottages?”

“Uh . . . eventually.”

“But you started in the middle?”

What did she care where I started? “Yes. To be blunt, I thought it would be a good idea to remodel it since there was a murder there.”

She took a sip of coffee. “Oh yes. Of course.”

“It's too bad that Laura couldn't make our little luncheon.”

“Mayor Tingsley needed her. Of course, her place is with him.”

What century was she living in?

“I see. Is there another Sandy Harbor crisis?” I asked.

“Obviously. The mayor depends immensely on my Laura.”

“Maybe Laura should have run for mayor.” I smiled, thinking that complimenting her daughter might be a way to soften her up.

“Nonsense! Women shouldn't be in office. It's a man's job, but there's always a great woman behind every powerful man.”

Oh boy. Where's she been living?

“Didn't I hear that your husband was the senator of somewhere at one time?” I think that Clyde or Max told me that.

“The Northern District of New York,” she said, tilting her head as if I should have known this information.

“And he retired instead of moving on to a higher office?”

She was about to take a sip of coffee, but she set the cup down so hard, it sloshed into the saucer.

“Grant was going to run for president, but he . . . he . . . couldn't keep it in his pants. So all my work campaigning for him was for nothing. Nothing! He withdrew in disgrace.”

I motioned for Judy to come over before Mrs. VanPlank really lost it.

Judy held up her order pad. “What can I get you ladies?”

“I lost my appetite,” said Mrs. VanPlank, grabbing her purse.

She couldn't go yet. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask her about the old days in Sandy Harbor.

“Please, Mrs. VanPlank, stay and have lunch with me. I apologize for asking about Grant. I didn't know.” But I was going to do a computer search and read up on Grant VanPlank just as soon as I could.

She opened her purse, took out a brown prescription bottle, and shook some white pills into her hand. She passed up the glass of water with ice that was sitting in front of her and tossed them down with her coffee.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I'm perfectly fine.”

Judy smiled widely. “Would you like me to come back, ladies?”

“No. I've stared at the menu long enough,” she said. “I'd like a BLT with mayonnaise on toasted wheat bread, but first, I'd like a bowl of your split pea soup.”

“Got it,” Judy said. “Trixie, how about you?”

“I'll have the same.”

I loved Uncle Porky's split pea soup. After the split peas were done cooking in chicken broth, with ham chunks, carrots, and onions, he whipped it up in a blender with equal parts cream and milk until it
was a lighter green and all the ingredients were melded together. Delicious. I, of course, kept his brilliant recipe the same.

We talked about the Dance Fest over soup and the “old days” when Carla's husband, Grant, was the senator of the area. They moved to Port Palm, Florida to escape the scandal.

Carla made it clear that she considered Port Palm her primary residence now, but she “just can't stay away from the mayor and my daughter, especially during campaign time when her husband is running.”

“You know, I don't even know if you have any other children or grandchildren,” I said.

“Laura doesn't have any children. She's my only child, so I'll never have any grandchildren.” Her voice faded into her coffee cup, which she held in front of her face like a shield.

“I'm so sorry. It must be hard for Laura.” I understood her pain. I took a deep breath and changed the subject to her favorite topic. “I'm sure Laura could use your help and expertise when the mayor runs for higher office.”

She smiled. “I'll be here.”

“Tell me, Mrs. VanPlank, did you know Claire Jacobson?”

“A little.”

Our split pea soup arrived and there were the appropriate oohs and aahs over the pure deliciousness of it.