A Second Helping of Murder (14 page)

“So Andre drove us here, and here we are,” Buddy finished. “I just had to take them to the Silver Bullet as soon as we arrived. They are going to love the cottages. They are so . . . rustic.”

“They are just the cutest little houses!” said the woman sitting next to Andre with the same hairstyle.

“Just like a SoHo loft,” I said.

I motioned for Buddy to take his seat, and he nodded to me as he sat.

“Trixie, do you know that I used to work here in my teens?”

Oh! My cheeks heated. “I remember you now! Weren't you the lifeguard at the beach? And didn't you always wear a red bathing suit with white flowers?”

That resulted in some comments from his friends: “Lifeguard?” “Red bathing suit with flowers?” “I'll bet you were hot!”

But I wasn't finished yet.

“But you weren't called Buddy.” I snapped my fingers as his real name came to me. “Isn't your real name Donald?”

I hadn't put the two names together and his teachers—Mrs. Leddy, May, and June—and the Sandy Harbor Class of 1989 yearbook never mentioned that his real name was Donald.

Buddy's eyes flashed as his friends teased him even more.

“No one ever—never—called me Donald, Donnie, Don, or any other variation,” he said loudly.

His friends were unmerciful.

“Donald Duck!”

“Donnie with the red bathing suit.”

“Sandy Harbor Donnie.”

“Donnie the lifeguard.”

A vein pumped in his neck. “See what you started?”

“Sorry. I didn't know that you didn't like your name. But, D, uh, Buddy, weren't you friends with Claire Jacobson?”

My memory was working overtime. Thoughts of making sand castles and mud pies and diving underwater for quarters with Phil and Claire came rushing back. And Buddy in that red bathing suit with the white flowers. I remembered him talking
to Claire all the time on the beach and from his perch on the lifeguard chair.

“I swear that Claire Jacobson called you Donnie,” I said, thinking back.

“She was the only exception,” he said softly.

Donnie “Buddy” Wilder just had to be the father of Claire's baby!

Then again, I thought that every man who'd reached puberty back in the fifties, sixties, or seventies was the father of Claire's baby.

He might have even surpassed Grant VanPlank as my number-one suspect.

The letter that “B” wrote referred to himself as an older man. Well, Buddy was a year older than Claire. The whole graduating class was. Since Claire was a year younger, maybe he'd consider himself an older man.

Grant VanPlank had much more to lose than Buddy Wilder. At the time, he had a political career that would implode when his voters discovered he had both a wife and an underage baby mama. That's why he resigned from his run for the presidency.

Buddy might have had a motive for killing Claire, too. I just didn't know it yet.

But I would!

“Buddy, you said you received an e-mail about the Dance Fest. From who?”

“I did. Very cute. The return e-mail address was interesting—Imastarhacker. One word.”

“I'm a star hacker?” Ray!

I turned to look at Ray. He was resetting a table with place mats, napkins, and silverware. At that same moment, he looked over at me, and I motioned for him to join me in the kitchen.

I turned back to Buddy's party. “Well, enjoy your lunch, everyone, and I'll be back with the keys to the cottages. I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay with us, as well as the Dance Fest.”

I pushed open the double doors, and Ray was standing there.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Ray, did you e-mail the posters to people?”

“Yeah, I didn't think you'd mind.”

“I appreciate that you did. It got us that party of twenty over there. They drove from New York City. But, Ray, where did you get the e-mail addresses?”

“From the
Sandy Harbor Lure
's subscription list. I just e-mailed the out-of-towners who subscribe to the
Lure
, figuring that they wouldn't get the paper in time to see the ad about the Dance Fest in it.”

“That was good thinking, but how did you get the e-mail addresses?”

“From Lizzy Ann Gladnello, my girlfriend. She works part-time in the circulation department there. It's perfectly legit, if that's what you're asking.”

“I guess that's what I'm asking.”

“Lizzy cleared it with her boss, Joan Paris. She said that it was for you, and that you needed the information.”

That was nice of Joan. “Ray, why didn't you tell me?”

Oops, I remembered that I was going to call Joan and get together with her. Maybe she had more information from her main squeeze, Hal Manning, Sandy Harbor's only funeral director and coroner.

Hal had loose lips.

Ray's face turned redder than Santa's suit. “I only thought of it after I left the other night. I tried to call you, but you didn't call me back. Then I was going to bike over here this morning, but my wheels were flat. It took me all morning to walk to the bike shop and back home. Then I was going to tell you this morning, but then the big party walked in and you got busy.”

I pulled out my cell phone from my pocket and checked it. There were several phone calls and two text messages, all from Ray.

“I never heard the phone ring.” I showed him the phone, and he took it out of my hand and pushed some buttons.

“You have it on mute.”

“I do?”

He nodded and pushed another button. “It's okay now.”

“Uh, Ray? How many names did you e-mail?”

“About three hundred.”

“Wow. I'd better make more food.”

“I had them RSVP to me. So far, only about a hundred and twenty-five are coming. That was since eleven this morning.”

“Only?” That was over twenty-five percent of those he e-mailed, and I didn't know math.

“Did I screw up?” he asked.

“You did not! Actually you did me a real favor, and I want to thank you.”

“I thought you were going to fire me.”

“Not a chance. Not when you've used your head and helped me above and beyond the call of duty. And thanks for distributing the posters all over town, too. I don't think I thanked you for that yet.”

“It's okay.”

“Thank you again so very much, Ray.” I held my hand out because I didn't think he'd welcome a hug just yet. We shook.

He gave me a thumbs-up and went back to the main diner. I reminded myself to get him a logo golf shirt or two.

Along with that new bike.

As I walked back into the diner to get yet another cup of coffee, Ty walked in. He always had exquisite timing. Just when I needed to speak with him, he appeared.

I couldn't wait to see his face when I told him where he could find Donald “Buddy” Wilder!

J
ust as Ty was about to take a seat at the counter, I whispered, “Go outside. Right now.” He was dressed in his sheriff's uniform, and I didn't want to scare off Buddy.

Ty didn't miss a beat. He snapped his fingers as if he forgot something, and left.

I went out the back door and was going to meet him out front, but he was waiting for me behind the diner.

“What's up, Trixie?”

I always enjoyed when Ty said my name with his full Texas twang. My two syllables lasted longer than it took to roast a fifteen-pound prime rib, done well.

“You will never, ever guess who is sitting in my diner right at this very second.”

“Let's see.” He scratched his forehead. “Do you want me to really guess?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why don't you just tell me?”

“Buddy Wilder.”

Ty's turquoise eyes grew to the size of his cowboy belt buckles. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Donald Buddy Wilder. Who would have thought?”

“You know his real name?” I asked.

He made a face.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot that you ran a record check on the B List. I didn't mean to imply that you didn't know anything. Sorry.”

He nodded. “Trixie, believe me when I tell you that I'm working on the cases. I have other duties, but I'm really working on them.”

“It's just not moving fast enough for me. I want to hurry things along.”

He looked up at the sky. “Gee, Ms. Patience, where have I heard that before?”

“Anyway, he and some pals took a limo bus from New York City, and they are renting my cottages. They heard about the Dance Fest.”

“But how—”

“Did they hear about it? My newly hired computer genius, Ray Myerson. Ray decided to e-mail some out-of-town
Lure
subscribers, and guess who showed up?”

“Should I guess now?” Ty asked.

“If you can't guess this one, you aren't fit to wear that uniform.”

“Buddy Wilder.”

“Bingo.”

“And he's having lunch inside right now?” His eyes twinkled.

“Stop it, Ty!”

He grinned, full of himself.

“Wait a minute!” I said. “Did you happen to suggest to Ray that he might want to invite the out-of-town
Lure
subscribers to the Dance Fest?”

“Nope. I can't take the credit. Ray suggested it to
me
, and I told him that it was a fabulous idea. And then I told him the right way to go about it, like asking Joan Paris, but that he should ask you first.”

“He tried, but he couldn't get a hold of me. He tried to bike here, but I guess his tires were flat. He went ahead and did it anyway because time was running out.”

Ty shook his head. “Damn. I'll speak to him about that.”

“Don't you dare. Everything's good. He has reservations for a hundred and twenty-five out-of-towners.”

“I'm glad. He's a good kid.”

“And a smart one. I really like him. Today's the first day I saw him in action, and I liked what I saw. Plus, all the staff is raving about him.”

“Outstanding.”

“Did you have any idea that Buddy Wilder would show up?”

“I hoped he would. I love the fact that he's here on my turf. However, the New York City Police
Department will be mad that he skipped town. I'll give them a call and tell them that he's right here in little ol' Sandy Harbor.”

He had a grin the size of Texas. I knew he'd love this news.

“There's more. I haven't even told you the best part.”

“Do you want me to guess this?”

“For heaven's sake—”

“Tell me!”

“Donnie Wilder was a lifeguard here when he was in high school, and he paid particular interest to Claire Jacobson and her little brother, our victim number two.”

“Nice job, Trixie, but that doesn't mean anything.”

“But his nickname starts with a
B
. Then again, Claire called him Donnie. But he referred to himself as Buddy. Anyway, he's a better suspect as a baby daddy than Grant VanPlank, who apparently never had a nickname.”

“That's according to his wife, if I remember correctly. She's not exactly a good source.”

“You're wrong there. I think she knows more about him than anyone.”

Ty chuckled. “I need more information on Donnie. Just because he was a lifeguard and he and Claire talked on the beach isn't enough to assume that he's our killer.”

“Did the first investigation when Claire disappeared turn up anything about Donnie?”

“Just that he was distraught when Claire vanished, like everyone else, but nothing unusual. He attended the bonfire, but all his time couldn't be accounted for.”

“See?”

“Trixie, no one's time could be fully accounted for that night. I think they were all in the sand dunes making out.”

“Do you still think that there is only one killer?”

“That's still my theory, but I won't know for sure until I find the murder weapon and run a ballistics test.”

“Ty, I really feel that we're not getting anywhere.”

“We are. These little things add up. We'll get a break in the case.”

“So, what's our plan now?” I asked, ready to go undercover.

“Since he's right under our noses, and because he's on the B List, and because we know he actually spoke to Claire, which is more than most of your suspects . . .” He paused for effect and grinned.

“There're a million comedians out of work, and I'm glad you're one of them.” I made a face, but I really did enjoy his sense of humor.

“I think we should concentrate on Buddy Wilder for now.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing, Trixie. I can take it from here.”

“Oh no, you don't.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm part of this, Deputy Earp.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “You just eavesdrop on everyone at the Dance Fest and report back to me. I'll do the rest.”

Oh yeah?

“Things might get dangerous,” he said. “I don't want you hurt. I'm trained to do this. You're not, and I don't want a third victim on my hands. If something happened to you, where would I get a decent cup of coffee and a great meal?”

I didn't crack a smile. I was mad. Livid. I was bringing him good stuff, and he didn't seem to think that it was valuable information.

He wouldn't know a clue if it crashed on top of his cowboy hat.

“Trixie?”

“I want to find the killer, Ty, and fast. They are all going to be under our noses in a little while.” Turning to leave, I said over my shoulder, “I'm going to go back to my house and read Claire's folder from Dr. Francis's office. Then I'll take it back and put it back in the file cabinet.”

He knew that I was mad, but he didn't say anything that resembled “Trixie, I totally need you to help me. Let's be partners.”

I kept walking, but it was easy for his long legs to catch up to me. I was ready to jog away from him, until I remembered that I don't jog because my boobs bounce around like basketballs.

“I'll go with you to Dr. Huff's office,” he said.

“No, thanks. I can handle it myself.”

“I can distract Shannon Shannon like I did before, and you can put the file back.”

“No. You know nothing about the file. Remember? There was no court order. You could always get one and get the file legitimately.”

“I could, but the file didn't say anything. Not really. Why waste the time?”

“Okay. Well . . . you just stay away. I'll handle this,” I insisted.

I'd love to have Ty help me, but I needed to do this on my own and not get him involved even though when he turns on his cowboy charm, he finds out more information from people than the CIA.

“I'll head over to the Big House and change before I return the file you definitely don't know about.” My tomato-covered chef's outfit was too memorable. “And then I have to get back and help with the cooking for the Dance Fest.”

As I walked to the Big House, I texted Juanita that I was going to be away for a while, and that she should let the potatoes for the potato salad and the macaroni for the mac salad cool in the walk-in cooler.

I know that
, she texted back.

In my kitchen, I pulled up a chair to the oak table and sighed. I felt we had so much to still investigate, but Ty wanted to concentrate on Buddy while he was here.

I could handle Buddy when I got back. Ty could just stay in his apartment over the bait shop and leave me alone.

The phone rang. No one called this number except for cancellations.

Aw hell,
I thought.

But everyone canceled. How could there be more?

Tentatively, I answered the phone.

“Trixie, it's Ray. Buddy said to remind you about the keys.”

“Oops. I totally forgot. I'll be right there.”

I found the keys in the usual cabinet. At least there would be people at the cottages for a while. It was only a long weekend, but it would give the moths in my wallet a little snack.

I went back to the diner and handed out keys. Buddy had it all organized.

“I'd like Cottage Nine or Seven for myself,” he said.

It was interesting that he wanted to be so close to Cottage Eight.

I handed him both keys. He chose Seven. Then he referred to the back of his place mat, all scribbled with names and arrows running in all directions along with cottage numbers.

He began calling out names and handing keys over to those people. I noticed that most of the time, there were three people in one cottage. Buddy seemed to be the only one staying by himself.

I wondered if Buddy Wilder was up to something, and if the Dance Fest was only a cover for him to drive to Sandy Harbor.

They all disbursed as soon as they received their
key. Buddy was the last to leave, and he peeled two hundred-dollar bills from a fat wad of cash.

“Keep the change,” he said to Laurie.

Her eyes lit up, and she stood taller. He must have left a substantial tip for her. I'd find out later.

“That's for the excellent service here and the excellent food,” he told her.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Wilder,” she said.

“Please, call me Buddy.”

“Thanks, Buddy.”

“Did you have the special—meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans?” I asked him.

“I always get the daily special.”

“Always?” I asked, this being the first time in a couple of decades that Buddy had been at the Silver Bullet.

He laughed and his blinding white teeth were, well, blinding.

“I'll let you get settled in Cottage Seven,” I said, making my way outside.

Five minutes later, I was in my too-small gray car with the folder, heading for Dr. Huff's office.

I pulled over into the parking lot of the drugstore and skimmed through Claire's medical folder one more time. There was nothing exciting in any of the pages and no notations that named the father of Claire's baby, just as Ty had said previously.

Matter of fact, there was a notation that read:

Patient came alone to appointment. Says her age is 21 and she is unmarried. Pregnancy exam
performed with positive results. Estimated time is two months. Patient refuses to indicate the putative father, but happy to be pregnant. Refused alternative procedure to eliminate pregnancy or to place child up for adoption. Follow-up appointment, two weeks.

“So Claire really did give her age as twenty-one,” I said to my dashboard. “Probably so her parents wouldn't be responsible for the bill, and therefore they'd never find out she went to the doctor.”

But how could she afford a doctor's bill at the age of seventeen? She wasn't working, unless she had babysitting money saved.

She probably got money from the father.

Hmm . . . Grant the politician would have the money. Buddy was working as a lifeguard back then. I didn't know about the rest of the B List. But I'd find out.

Some things were still tweaking me. Buddy Wilder paid a huge bill in full for all his friends that he brought up from New York City. And—wait for it—he wanted either Cottage Seven or Nine. In other words, Buddy-with-a-B wanted to be right near Cottage Eight.

That was pretty suspicious and interesting. Buddy was definitely worth keeping an eye on.

I turned left on Broadway Street and pulled into Dr. Huff's parking lot. Hopefully, he'd be golfing again. I'd brought a big purse so it'd be easier to transport the folder downstairs to the file room.

I parked and walked across the parking lot, up the steps of the doctor's office, and into the reception area.

“I'm so sick,” I said, with a sniffle. I pulled out several tissues from a box in front of her and gave a hearty sneeze. “I need to see Dr. Huff. The name is Trixie Matkowski.”

Shannon rolled her chair away from me.

“I'm such a mess. I feel awful.” Then I leaned over and whispered, “I have diarrhea, too.”

“Yuck,” said Shannon, looking through her appointment book. “But you don't have an appointment, Miss Matos—”

“Matkowski.”

“Uh, yes. And the doctor is very busy. We're overbooked.”

But there was no one in the waiting room. What was the dear doctor doing?

“I know,” I answered. “But couldn't you make an exception for me?” I sniffed, sneezed, and blew my nose. “Can I just wait until the doctor can work me in?”

“I suppose so, but it might be a long time.”

“I'll wait,” I said, taking an orange plastic chair. After watching CNN for a while, I decided that it was time to go to the ladies' room.

I walked to the door. “I hope you don't mind if I use the ladies' room . . . illness and all?”

“Ick,” she replied.