A Second Helping of Murder (15 page)

I hurried downstairs, but everything looked
different from before. Room was made for more file cabinets, and they were arranged differently.

I opened the cabinets—the older ones—that weren't locked. As I opened one olive green cabinet, I found a bunch of leather-bound appointment books. Wow! This would show who had appointments back then. I looked for one from 1989. There it was! I pulled out the heavy thing with the yellowed pages and knew that the huge book wouldn't fit into my purse.

I wanted to read it right there to see what I could find, if anything. I knew she was here on August third, so I leafed through the pages. I had to hurry because I didn't want to risk being seen by Shannon Shannon or Dr. Huff.

I opened the ledger.

I tabbed over to August 3, 1989, and saw that Claire's appointment was at nine a.m. Oh! Bingo. Laura VanPlank and Carla VanPlank were scheduled right after her. I wondered if Claire was so happy that she spilled her pregnancy news to them.

I quickly put everything back and hurried back upstairs.

“You know, Miss Shannon, I think I'll just stop and get some cough syrup and some cough drops and maybe a box of allergy tablets. I should be perfect in a couple of hours. I do feel a lot better. Thank Dr. Huff for me. He's just a miracle worker.”

“But—” said the receptionist.

I shook my head. “He's just a great doctor. Wow! I'm going to refer everyone to him. No sense driving to Watertown or Syracuse. Right?” I said, walking backward to the door.

“Right,” said Miss Shannon, looking confused.

I hurried to the car and drove away, back to the drugstore's parking lot. There I relaxed and calmed my jittery nerves.

*   *   *

Later, back at the Big House, I told Ty what I'd found.

“If Claire was as happy as I think she was, she might have given it away that she was pregnant. Picture this: Laura and her mama were in Dr. Huff's waiting room. Laura is my number-one suspect—well, I think there's a six-way tie.”

Ty chuckled.

“Laura couldn't have children because of an accident—Antoinette Chloe told me that. Maybe Laura was totally jealous of Claire's pregnancy. She was already upset that Rick Tingsley was attracted to Claire, at least at the bonfire—although she denies it. If she thought that Ricky had fathered Claire's baby, she'd be totally jealous—maybe even jealous enough to shoot Claire.”

Ty thought for a minute. “Do you want to get a bite to eat at the Crossroads?”

“Brilliant,” I said. “I always get hungry when I perform on Broadway. Let's go to the Crossroads. Maybe Laura and her parents are there.”

When we got to the Crossroads and went into
the rustic restaurant, only Laura and her mother were sitting at a table.

There was no sign of Grant VanPlank with the wandering eye and the slippery zipper.

Laura took one look at Ty and me and scurried off into the kitchen.

What was that about? It looked as though she was guilty to me.

I gave Ty a nudge in case he missed Laura's record-breaking exit.

I smiled sweetly. “Well, hello, Mrs. VanPlank . . . Carla. I'd like you to meet Ty Brisco. He's one of the deputy sheriffs here in Sandy Harbor.”

“Oh yes, the cowboy sheriff from the wilds of Texas.”

Carla casually lifted her hand with the zillion-carat diamonds and then turned her palm over, as if she expected Ty to kiss the back of her hand.

Instead Ty gave the underside of her hand a slight clap, then slid his back clawlike so only their knuckles were hooked together. Then he gave the back of her hand a tap with his fisted hand.

A hip handshake.

I tried not to laugh at the expression on Mrs. VanPlank's face. It was a cross between horror and more horror.

Without missing a beat, Ty said, “So-oo very pleased to meet y'all, ma'am.” He took his hat off and put it over his heart. Then he put it back on.

Ty didn't suffer snobs lightly, but it was more
than that. If she thought that he was a hick, he'd give her hick. Maybe then she'd relax her guard around him.

“Certainly,” she said, turning her nose up.

“I don't recognize your accent, ma'am. Where y'all from, ma'am?” he asked. “U-tah?”

He was pouring it on a little too thick, but I supposed he knew what he was doing.

“Utah? Certainly not! I'm from right here. And we have a home in Port Palm!” she said, uncrossing her legs, then recrossing them.

“Where's that? Wisconsin?” he asked.

“Florida!”

“That was my fourth guess, right after South Dakota, Iowa, and Kansas.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” she said. She moved both of her hands as if she were shooing away a fly. “So, this is the state of the local sheriff's department?”

“Yep. Sandy Harbor is in New York, ma'am. This is the right state,” he said. “You're in the right one.”

“Excuse me, Sheriff—” Carla stood.

“Brisco. Ty Brisco, ma'am.” He pulled up a chair next to her, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Don't let me drive you away. Get the load off your feet.” He slapped the seat of the chair she'd just vacated.

I don't know what made her sit back down, but she did.

“Ma'am, where's that other purty little filly that we scared away?”

“My daughter? Laura?”

“What a beautiful name, darlin'. Almost as beautiful as you.” He took his hat off and put it over on his heart. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch with your big sister.”

“My big sister? Oh my!”

If I didn't see First Lady VanPlank put her hand over her heart and almost swoon, I wouldn't believe it. That line was so corny, it could have been popped.

“I'll go get her,” she said. “Join us, won't you?”

I started walking toward the kitchen. “You stay put, Mrs. VanPlank. I'll go ask Laura to join us.”

But Laura was in the midst of a fight with her husband, the mayor.

“Richard Tingsley, I don't want to go to the Dance Fest.”

It was a loud whisper, the kind you use on someone that you're mad at—through gritted teeth.

“Laura, look at my position. How would I look without you there? People will think something's wrong. It won't look good for my campaign.”

“I'm sick of always campaigning. When are you going to
be
someone?”

“I'm someone now, aren't I? I'm mayor of Sandy Harbor.”

She sighed. “Oh, Rick. I mean, when are you ever going to be senator?”

“Someday soon. Just stick with me. It'll be soon.”

I knocked on the kitchen door, and they both spun around. “Hello, you two! Would you join us for a bite?”

“I can't,” Rick said. “I have to get back to the office. I have a meeting with our tax department.” He quickly turned to leave, without even kissing his wife good-bye.

The last I knew, the Sandy Harbor Tax Department consisted of Zeb Young, the part-time tax collector and full-time flea market owner.

“Mayor, tell Zeb that I have some flea market items for him,” I shouted to his back.

“I will,” he yelled back.

Laura was left in the kitchen, leaning against a long butcher block table. Her cheeks were pink.

“My waitress isn't here yet, and neither is my cook. They both are tied up—probably to each other. So I'll have to make up any orders,” she said, tying on a white apron and ready to burst into tears. “And my feet are killing me in these damn heels.”

“What size do you wear? You can wear my sneakers. They're probably more comfortable than those heels.”

“I wear an eleven.”

“Sorry, Laura. I wear a nine.”

“That's okay. I couldn't wear sneakers anyway. My mother would carry on something awful.”

Not for the first time, I felt sorry for her. Putting my hand on her shoulder, I asked, “If it's a cook
you need until someone comes, I'll be glad to pitch in.”

“No. I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help,” she snapped.

“Hey.” I held my hands in the air. “Okay. I'll get out of your hair.”

“Wait!”

I waited.

“Look, Trixie, I've been kind of stressed lately. My mother is very . . . demanding. She's always wound so tight, and she never cracks a smile. I—I just need time away from her.”

“Maybe I can help, Laura. I'll invite your parents to move to my cottages. That'll give you a break.”

“That'll never happen.”

“You never know.” I opened the kitchen door a crack. “Does that look like your mother?”

Mrs. VanPlank was laughing so hard that she was doing some unladylike snorting.

“What did that cowboy do to my mother?” Laura asked. “And where can I find me one?”

Laughing, we both pushed opened the doors to the Crossroads dining room and went to join Ty and Mrs. VanPlank.

What was Ty up to now?

T
y stood as Laura and I returned to the table. The Crossroads was empty, very empty.

“Your place is usually crowded, Laura. Where's everyone?”

“When they found out that the cook was going to be late, they left. Apparently, they don't like my cooking. I think they all went over to Brown's with that horrible woman who wears flip-flops and muumuus. How can she even show her face with her husband in jail?”

“
She
didn't do anything,” I pointed out. “And, Laura, you know very well that her name is Antoinette Chloe Brown. You went to high school with her. You even graduated with her.”

“That doesn't mean I like her.”

“Ladies, can I get you something to drink from the bar?” Ty asked.

The two First Ladies asked for red wine. I asked for clear water with cubes.

As soon as Ty disappeared, Laura leaned over the table toward her mother.

“What are you up to, Mother?” Laura asked.

“I'm just enjoying the deputy's company. That's all.”

Laura rolled her eyes as if her mother was enjoying herself way too much.

“Laura, I've always told you to make friends, because friends are the best voters.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Mother! He's a cop. That's not the kind of friend I need.”

“He's not so bad,” Carla stated. “Besides,
everyone
is a potential voter. Deputy Brisco is a fun cowboy. You just don't trust anyone. That's your problem.”

Laura whirled her head around, exorcist-style. “What do you think about Deputy Brisco, Trixie? You know him the most, I hear.”

“He does stay over the bait shop next door and he eats most of his meals at the Silver Bullet. He's a nice guy, but I don't really, really know him.”

Laura pursed her lips. She was going to either spit at me camel-style or whistle for a cab.

I shrugged. “It's true. I don't really know him. All I know is that he came here from Houston because he needed a break from big-time crime.”

“Why here in Sandy Harbor?” Laura asked.

“Because he used to fish here as a kid. He remembered how nice it was.”

Laura sniffed. “I see.”

I wondered what was up with her. Why did Laura have such a phobia about cops? I thought she just broke out of the six-way tie.

I didn't have much time to think about Laura, because Ty was coming back from the bar with three drinks in his hands and a bottle of beer in his front pants pocket.

“Here you go, ladies.” He easily set the drinks on the table, then slid them to each one of us. He took his old seat, straddled it like before, slipped the beer out of his pocket, and held it in the air.

“A toast to long, happy lives and to two lives cut short: to Claire and David.”

“To Claire and David,” everyone said in unison.

Ty took a long draw on his beer, and every woman at the table watched his Adam's apple move on his somewhat shaven neck. “Thank God that I'm not on duty. This tastes good.”

I chugged some water. “Yes, it does.”

“What do you two ladies think of us finding Claire's body after all those years?” Ty asked.

“I don't have an opinion one way or another,” said the elder First Lady. “I suppose it was a good thing.”

Laura shifted on her butt cheeks. “I suppose she had to be found someday.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?” I asked, turning to Laura.

“She was what?” Laura asked, clearly shocked. If she was acting, she was certainly better than me.

“Pregnant. Bun in the oven. Knocked up. With child. Preggers. Baby mama,” I said.

“I didn't know that.” Laura's face immediately turned red.

Carla cleared her throat. “Claire Jacobson was a loose woman—everyone knows that. And she got pregnant before those who really want a child. Like my poor Laura.”

“Mother! Don't speak ill of the dead.”

I touched her arm. “I'm so sorry, Laura. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

Laura pulled her arm away. “I don't want your pity, Trixie.”

“I'm not pitying you. I know how you feel.”

“No. No, you don't.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Laura looked away, and dabbed at her eyes.

Ty cleared his throat. “Ah . . . um . . .”

Subject change!

“Please,” I said. “I want you both to come to the Dance Fest. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Me, too,” Ty said. “The more beautiful ladies there, the happier I'll be.”

I kicked him under the table. Enough flattery already.

Then Grant VanPlank walked in. He was tall, slim, and tanned. He had a phony smile, shocking white hair cut in precision, probably in New York City. His eyes were a bright green and striking. He gave Carla a robotic kiss on the cheek and gave Ty a strange look.

Ty stood and offered his hand to Grant. They shook, gripped forearms, and grunted manly. Then Grant never took his eyes off Ty, sizing him up.

Interesting.

Ty offered to buy him a beer, and he declined, but he pulled over a chair and nudged Carla with his shoulder. She sat as still and as frozen as a marble statue.

More trouble in paradise?

I was dying to talk to him, but Ty took the lead.

“Mr. VanPlank, it's truly a pleasure to meet you. How long are you staying in Sandy Harbor?”

He pointed to his wife. “It's entirely up to Carla. She seems happy staying with Rick and Laura, but I like my privacy. If this town had a decent hotel, we'd move there.”

“I have cottages on the lake,” I said. “I have one available, and it's very private.”

“You know, that's an excellent idea,” said Carla. “I think I'll take you up on that, Trixie. Your grounds are beautiful, and I enjoy the view of the lake. How is tomorrow morning for check-in?”

“Perfect.”

“Cottages? Are you sure, Carla?” Grant asked. “Anything less than five stars in Michelin, and you think it's camping.”

“It'll be just like our first years of marriage—when we were poor and struggling and very happy. Remember those few days when we were happy, Grant?”

He was silent for a while. “How long are you going to punish me?”

Carla sat very still, then through her pinched lips said, “Until your dying day or mine, whichever comes first.”

“Excuse me, everyone.” Grant stood and nodded at everyone, like a chicken pecking at grain. “I'll see you tomorrow, Trixie. I believe that we're checking in.”

I waved good-bye.

As he left, Laura appeared. “Was that Daddy I saw leave?”

“Yes. Your father graced us with his presence for at least three minutes.”

Ty drained his beer. “I have to get to work, ladies. Will you all please excuse me?”

“But you haven't ordered any food, Ty. You either, Trixie.” Laura shuffled the corners of the big plastic menus in her hand.

Ty tweaked his hat to her. “Sorry, ma'am. I'm going to have to take a rain check on that. Trixie?”

“Me, too, since I drove with Ty. Sorry, Laura, but I'll be back. I have a lot of last-minute things to do for the Dance Fest.”

“I understand,” Laura said.

“See you tomorrow,” said the icy Carla. “When we check in.”

“Mother? Check in to what?”

“Your father and I are checking in to a cottage. One of Trixie's cottages.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I'm as serious as a cheating husband.”

*   *   *

The next morning, true to her word, Grant and Carla VanPlank checked in. Honeymooners, they were not. I could hear them sniping at each other all the way up the stairs to the Big House.

“Since Cottage Eight is being . . . uh . . . remodeled,” said the First Lady, “how about Cottage One?”

“I'd like to stay in the middle,” Grant said. “Near Eight.”

Another person who wanted to stay near Eight, and another interesting coincidence.

“Seven is taken. I can give you Cottage Nine.” I held up the key.

“That's fine,” she said.

“I think that Laura is going to miss you,” I said to Carla.

“She has her husband to worry about.”

“Oh. Is something wrong?” I asked.

“The mayor just hasn't been himself lately,” Mr. VanPlank offered.

Interesting. “I'm sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

“Like what?” Grant asked.

“I can certainly cook and bake, if there's anything in particular he'd like.”

“Food isn't the answer to everything, Trixie,” said the frosty First Lady.

“It is for me.” I grinned, already wondering
what I could make for our mayor and maybe have an audience with him, even though I'd rather clean the diner with a toothbrush.

“Let's get settled, Carla. I'd like to take a swim and get my new suit wet,” Grant said.

“Which one of your girlfriends gave you that?” snapped Carla.

He took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head. “I know that this is a mistake, but let's see it through.”

I almost felt sorry for him. It seemed that this was a standard fight between the two of them. Judging by his hopeless demeanor, Carla never missed a chance to remind him of his affair—or affairs.

She should have just kicked his cheating butt out.

At the Dance Fest tomorrow night, I was going to find a way to ask him about Claire Jacobson without the First Lady's presence.

“Can you find Cottage Nine or would you like me to show you?” I asked.

“Of course I can find it,” Carla said, adding a sniff. “They're numbered, aren't they?”

Okay. I wasn't needed here. I thought I'd go to the kitchen and see how everyone was doing.

It was a beautiful day, and I totally enjoyed the breeze coming off the lake as I walked the short distance from the Big House to the diner.

I turned my face up to the sun and let it warm me for a while. I'm not one for sitting or lying in
the sun, but once in a while, I love sitting in a chair on the beach and watching the sun sparkle on the water.

I heard laughing, and saw Buddy Wilder and his party playing volleyball on the beach. I squinted. It looked as though Buddy was wearing his old red trunks with the white flowers.

Couldn't be. The elastic had to be shot by now.

But I didn't have any time right now to relax. I had the Dance Fest on my mind. The VanPlanks were taking up space there, too. And Buddy Wilder, and Ty, who doesn't want me to help him, and Laura, and the mayor . . .

I needed a larger mind or less on it.

Going into the kitchen, I saw that it was perfectly clean and empty of people. Chelsea, Cindy, and ACB were sitting at the counter in the diner, sipping coffee. There were only four parties eating, and Judy was ringing out a fifth.

Ray was sitting next to ACB, but when he saw me walk into the diner, he jumped to attention.

“Relax, Ray. It's fine if you take a break,” I assured him.

They all looked tired. One thing about being a chef and cooking is that you're constantly on your feet.

ACB's hat with her “salute to our forty-ninth state” looked as if the sled dogs at the Iditarod were ready to run off the fuchsia brim.

Juanita's eyes were at half-mast.

Cindy, the youngest of us all, had her head down on the counter and was snoring.

“How's it going?” I asked. “Anything I can do?”

“Everything on your list is done,” Juanita said. “And more.”

“We decided to bake hamburger and hot dog rolls instead of you buying them,” ACB said, smiling. “They came out beautiful.”

“And we had fun.” Cindy yawned, stretching.

“The most fun I've had in months,” ACB said, nodding. Her sled team hit the floor, and she bent over to pick it up with a grunt.

“And Ray was indispensable,” Juanita added. “He cleaned up and washed pans as we went along and kept track of the front, too.”

“You ladies, and Ray, are fabulous. What's left for me?”

“Your special Dixie chicken sauce has to be made and the chicken marinated,” Juanita said. “Everything's in the cooler.”

I decided to take a peek at what they'd done. Going into the walk-in cooler was always a fun time. I loved to slip on the mohair sweater that Aunt Stella kept on a hanger near the door of the cooler. It reminded me so much of her.

The cooler was loaded with aluminum pans. I saw four pans of potato salad, four of macaroni salad, baked beans, and coleslaw. There were numerous other pans of sausage, pulled pork, meatballs, macaroni and cheese, and ziti.

Tomorrow, we'd barbecue the chicken on Porky's old homemade charcoal grill, brush on this fabulous chicken sauce that had been in a friend's
family for an eternity, and make up pans of crispy chef salad.

There's nothing that I hate more than a warm, droopy salad. At the Silver Bullet, I served salad in chilled bowls. Yum.

In my big binder, I found the recipe for Dixie Barbecue Sauce and Marinade and calculated it to make ten times the amount. Then I poured it all over the chicken for it to marinade in the cooler.

One more time I made the recipe, to baste the chicken with while it barbecued.

It was melt-in-your-mouth good, and it reminded me of all the neighbors getting together in someone's backyard. The parents used to take turns, and all of us kids couldn't wait until it was Mr. and Mrs. DiFantelli's turn.

Mrs. D was from one of the Carolinas, I forgot which one, and I loved listening to her talk about the big plantations and Civil War history.

I always got the impression that Mrs. D felt a little superior to us Yankees, but we forgave everything on chicken barbecue day.

Checking my list against everything that had already been done, I didn't see any strawberries in the cooler for the strawberry shortcake that Sarah Stolfus was making.

I went into the diner and found Juanita sitting with her eyes closed and her index finger through the handle of a coffee cup.