A Second Helping of Murder (2 page)

Three tens from the judges.

I rang the bell, and Chelsea took it all away without any more news from the group still gathered around Deputy Brisco.

Not that I'd looked at him again. No way.

I cut up more lettuce and tomatoes and restocked the freshly baked loaves of bread and rolls that Juanita had set to raise, and I had baked when I started my shift. The diner patrons just loved the smell of baking bread. Who didn't?

Soon Juanita appeared, twirling around the kitchen. “I just love the peppers!”

“I knew you would.” I hated to spoil Juanita's good mood, but I had to tell her about Claire. “Juanita, they found Claire Jacobson.”

“Madre de Dios.”
Juanita reached out and
steadied herself on the cast-iron dough mixer. “I remember her. What a sweet girl. Where?”

“Rocky Bluff.”

Juanita shook her head. “But everyone searched that area. I remember. I helped.”

“The waves, the ice, the flooding, storms . . . the rocks must have shifted.”

Juanita nodded.
“Sí.”

“If you're ready to take over, I think I'll grab a cup of coffee and talk to Ty and the other deputies and see what I can find out.”

“Go ahead. Then you can tell me. And thank you again for the peppers, Trixie Matkowski. You are a good friend and a good boss.”

“Boss?” I chuckled as I headed for the double doors that led to the dining room. “Nah. We're all a team—team Silver Bullet Diner and Sandy Harbor Cottages. Jump, salmon! Swim, you lake trout! Come, tourists!”

Juanita pumped an arm into the air. “Go, team!”

Walking behind the counter, I poured myself a sorely needed cup of coffee and then decided that I had to have an apple hand pie made by Mrs. Sarah Stolfus, my Amish friend and an extraordinary baker. I put it on a dish and set it on the counter in front of a vacant stool next to Ty Brisco.

It only became vacant when I raised a blond, nonplucked eyebrow to my handyman Clyde. Clyde cleared his throat and headed out the front door to either work or find a place to sleep. I hoped it was the former.

I sat down on the stool and swiveled to my coffee and hand pie. The crowd had gone back to their tables, the other two deputies had left, and I had Ty to myself. I sure could break up a crowd.

“Catch me up, Ty. I remember Claire Jacobson. I remember how we used to sit on the beach and talk and she taught me how to float on my back. I thought she was the greatest. She reminded me of Olivia Newton-John in
Grease
.”

Ty showed me the headlines of the
Sandy Harbor Lure
:
BODY OF MISSING TEEN FOUND AFTER 25 YEARS
. I skimmed the article. I'd rather hear the news from Ty, spoken with his delicious cowboy twang, than read the long tome.

“Is it really Claire?”

He nodded. “Her dental records happened to still be here from the initial search. Hal Manning, our resident coroner and funeral director with the biggest mouth in North and South America, said that the remains are those of Claire, but we are going to verify his findings with the State Police Lab. Hal should know better, but I guess he's dating the new editor of the
Sandy Harbor Lure
and she was with him when everything hit the fan.”

“Wow. Claire Jacobson, after twenty-five years, and she was only about a mile down the beach entombed on the bluff, in the rocks.”

Ty nodded.

“I've always wondered what happened to her. I always hoped that she ran away to Europe with her Prince Charming and was ruling some
country.” I took a bite of my apple hand pie and a sip of coffee. Delicious. “Can you tell me anything more?”

“Not much.” He sighed. “There was a kind of cave where she was found, and we believe that some of the rocks that were placed in front of the cave's opening got dislodged throughout the years. Then the kids who were climbing on the rocks dislodged more, making the cave visible.”

I sat for a while, thinking. I was taking a sip of coffee when it dawned on me. “Ty, someone had to have known that there was a cave on the bluff. Seems to me that only a local or regular summer vacationer would know to hide her body there! Don't you see? Maybe a local person even killed her.”

Ty nodded slowly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Is there no chance that it was an accident?” I asked hopefully. It was terrible to think someone might have killed poor Claire and gotten away with it for so long.

“No chance.”

“Why do you say that, Ty?”

“I can't tell you. Confidential information.”

“I understand,” I said, but I really didn't mean it. I wanted to know . . . everything. Claire was special to me. She made time to pay attention to a little girl who wanted to be grown-up and beautiful like her.

I remembered the day that I heard the news about Claire missing. I was baking sugar cookies with Aunt Stella in the kitchen of the diner, rolling
the cookies into little balls and then squishing them into circles with a sugarcoated glass. It smelled so nice and sugary in the kitchen. Even though it was July, it smelled like Christmas.

Uncle Porky was the chef that day. He was singing like always—some navy song. When he pounded on the little bell for a waitress, it was to the tune of his song.

It was the perfect way to spend a July day.

Then a man in uniform walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Porky, I have some information for you.”

“Tell me, Willie. I have a big order to make up.”

Willie lowered his voice, but I could still hear from where I stood. “There's a search on for Claire Jacobson. She's been missing for two days. It doesn't look good.”

Suddenly Uncle Porky looked serious. “I'll join you in the search.”

Uncle Porky walked over to me, gave me a pat on the head, and told me to go and have a soda in the diner. I nodded and sat in my favorite stool at the counter.

“What can I get you, Trixie?” Bettylou, the waitress, had asked me.

“Nothing. Thank you.”

I remembering feeling sick, sick. Claire wouldn't just disappear; she wasn't the type.

Claire promised me that we were going to make the biggest and best sand castle on the beach, but I hadn't seen her since.

Claire wouldn't break a promise. Something
was very wrong. I burst into tears, and I remember putting my head down on the counter and sobbing. Not too long after, my mother took my hand and we walked to a picnic table by our cottage. We sat down on the same side, and my mother put her arms around me and let me just cry for my friend until I was all cried out.

“Wh-wh-what if sh-she's dead, Mom?” I sobbed.

“Trixie, we don't know that for sure. Everyone is looking for her. I hope that they'll find her alive and well.”

I blinked and brought myself back to the present.

There was a steady stream of customers walking in, and everyone was talking.

“The killer could be someone we know,” I said to myself, scanning the people in the dining area. Some were strangers, but most of them I knew from the community or because they frequented my diner.

Could I know Claire's killer? Could I have talked to him or her? Maybe we were even friends.

A shiver went up my spine and then turned into a nagging headache that I couldn't shake for several hours.

I
t was after midnight and I was back cooking at the diner. As I prepared the orders, I kept thinking about the unusual call that I received yesterday.

He'd said his name was David Burrows, and he insisted on reserving Cottage Number Eight—Claire Jacobson's cottage. No other cottage would do. He wanted to rent it for the entire summer, maybe even until October, when we closed for the season. He wanted housekeeping once a week, only on Saturday morning, eight thirty sharp.

If Cottage Eight was rented, he wanted me to relocate the renters, stating, “I'll make it worth your while.”

I didn't have to check my laptop, because I knew that Number Eight was free. Most of the cottages were rented, but Eight remained available.

The haunted cottage.

I wasn't going to relocate anyone who had already requested Cottage Eight, no matter how
much money Mr. Burrows offered, so it was good that Eight was available.

But why did he insist on renting that particular cottage?

He'd made it more than clear that he was to be left alone, other than he wanted his meals delivered.

For breakfast he wanted a ham steak and scrambled eggs with buttered rye toast and grape jelly delivered exactly at eight in the morning.

For lunch he wanted a rare cheeseburger with the works on an onion roll, steak fries, and a small chef with Italian dressing delivered at exactly one o'clock.

For supper, he wanted a roast beef dinner with mashed potatoes and extra gravy, both corn and peas, and a piece of apple pie delivered at six o'clock promptly.

Mr. Burrows wired more than enough money for the cottage, meals, and tip. I probably owed him money, and as soon as I had a chance to figure out his bill, I would reimburse him.

There were so many good things on the Silver Bullet menu, I couldn't imagine eating the same thing for the entire summer. I called that to his attention, but he insisted that he'd be fine and again insisted on being left alone. He said that he had a lot of work to do.

What kind of work?

“The elusive Mr. Burrows is checking in today,” I said out loud, just to remind myself. I checked my
Mickey Mouse watch. “At seven thirty this morning, sharp.”

Normally, check-in time was two in the afternoon, but since he was the first and only occupant, it really didn't matter.

I couldn't stop wondering why he wanted to be such a recluse with beautiful Lake Ontario in front of him. He could swim, watch the sun rise and set, read a book on a lounge chair. I could even arrange a fishing trip with Ty Brisco or Mr. Farnsworth, the owner of the bait shop next door.

Maybe I'd ask Mr. Burrows if he was interested in going fishing.

I rang the ship bell and put all the salads on a serving tray. Chelsea was quick to pick up. I started on the actual meals.

Finally the rack was free of orders. I checked my watch. Seven o'clock in the morning. Where did the time go? Juanita should be arriving soon to relieve me, and I could get Mr. Burrows settled.

Just then, Juanita came through the back door of the kitchen.

“Juanita, I'm so glad you're here. I forgot that I have an early check-in. Cottage Number Eight. He's going to be with us all summer long. I'll tell you about his breakfast, lunch, and dinner order later. He wants his meals delivered, so you'll have to send Clyde or Max to his cottage, and apparently punctuality is mandatory!”

Juanita nodded. “No problem, Trixie.”

“It's the strangest thing, Juanita. David Burrows insists on staying in Cottage Eight.”

“Claire Jacobson's cottage? Why?”

“Beats me.”

“Madre de Dios.”
Juanita wrinkled her nose. “You know, some people are just creepy.”

“He certainly is a strange guy,” I conceded, stepping aside to let Juanita take over the kitchen. “As soon as I meet him, I'll tell you more. I already Googled him and didn't find anything.”

Juanita shrugged. “Well, adios.”

“Adios,” I echoed. I glanced over at the pass-through window and saw Ty Brisco staring at me. I gave him a wave, he gave me a lazy salute, and then I hurried out the back door. I still had a copy of the
Sandy Harbor Lure
in my pocket, so I was going to take it back to my Victorian and thoroughly read the article about Claire.

Dodging some potholes in the parking lot, I called Max on my cell.

“Max, when you have some spare time, like now, would you toss some gravel into the potholes in the parking lot? A couple of them look like they could swallow up a VW. Thanks.”

The whole parking lot should probably be tarred over, but it'd have to wait until the off-season—that tricky time after the majority of the fishermen leave and before the first snowfall.

A couple of perfect sunny days with high temperatures so the tar would stick would be lovely, too.

So would the money to pay for it.

I crossed my fingers and lifted my face to the narrow slit in the clouds where the sun was trying to shine through. This was going to be a good summer season—I just knew it in my bones. So far, I had a couple of big clambakes scheduled, a wedding, and a bar mitzvah.

What I was most excited about was the fact that I was going to bring back the Silver Bullet Saturday Dance Fest. I planned on renting a big tent, charging for a huge buffet, and hiring a live band for dancing. There would be a big bonfire, too.

Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella's Saturday night dances were legendary around this area—at least they were until Uncle Porky got sick and Aunt Stella called them off.

I stopped halfway up the stairs to my Victorian, remembering. It was during one of their Saturday night dances that Claire Jacobson had disappeared. Her parents and her younger brother were at the dance, and somehow Claire slipped away to join the Sandy Harbor High School's clandestine party down the beach.

I sat down on my newly painted forest green top step and unfolded the
Sandy Harbor Lure
to the front page and read a recap of the old story:

According to several students, Claire Jacobson was invited to attend a celebratory party/bonfire that some graduating seniors had planned near Rocky Bluffs along with various non–Sandy Harbor High School individuals.

Sometime during the evening, salutatorian and former class president Richard “Ricky” Tingsley reported that he looked for Ms. Jacobson, but he couldn't find her. He assumed that she simply walked back to the cottage where she was staying with her family, Cottage Eight at Porky and Stella Matkowski's Sandy Harbor Housekeeping Cottages.

Ricky Tingsley admitted that he had told Ms. Jacobson about the party. He said that he'd known her for several years in that she and her family always summered at the cottages, and that he and several members of the graduating class also knew her, liked her, and thought she'd like to join them.

Salvatore Brownelli, graduating senior and valedictorian, stated that he was playing the guitar and Ms. Jacobson was singing along with the rest of the partiers who were gathered around the bonfire. However, after a while, approximately before midnight, he didn't remember seeing her anymore.

Laura VanPlank, head cheerleader of the class, reported that she remembered Ms. Jacobson saying that she had to get back to the Silver Bullet's Saturday Dance Fest before her parents missed her.

Marvin P. Cogswell III, four-year president of the Chess Club, claims that he noticed Ms. Jacobson arrive by herself by way of the beach and mostly talking to Antoinette Chloe Switzer about ladies' fashion.

New York State Police Troop “D” Commander John Mulberry and Sandy Harbor Sheriff Vern McCoy both stated on separate occasions that each individual who attended the party will be required to give formal affidavits of the night's events at the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department.

The Grab and Go on Route 343A is also being investigated for selling alcohol to minors.

The article went on and on, talking about how the event wasn't school-sanctioned and how events like that were just a magnet for all kinds of illegal behavior on the part of Sandy Harbor youth. It ended with a fervent message that anyone who had any information on Claire Jacobson's whereabouts needed to contact state or local law enforcement immediately.

It was as if I'd lost my friend again—not that I knew Claire Jacobson to any great extent—but I just idolized her. It was almost as if she was a living and breathing Barbie doll with a Barbie doll life.

At the Saturday night dances, Claire never sat down. As soon as she finished one dance, she was asked again. Her smile was electrifying, her reddish brown hair was shiny and bouncy, and she treated all the boys the same no matter their shape or appearance.

From a ten-year-old's perspective, none of the girls seemed jealous of her either, even though she wasn't a “townie.”

Everyone seemed to like Claire.

But someone hadn't.

I took a deep breath and skimmed the paper again. The cast of characters mentioned were still living and breathing the Sandy Harbor air. Well, not quite.

Marvin P. Cogswell was deceased, and Antoinette Chloe's husband, Salvatore Brownelli, was serving a life term in Auburn Correctional Facility for his participation in Cogswell's death.

Antoinette Chloe Switzer married Salvatore Brownelli back in 1990 and became Antoinette Chloe Brown, or ACB. After Sal was sentenced to life in state prison, ACB jumped on the back of Sal's brother's motorcycle and hadn't returned to Sandy Harbor to run her business, Brown's Family Restaurant, yet.

ACB was a little strange, and wore over-the-top muumuus, wild jewelry, and wilder hair things, but I liked her anyway.

The former Laura VanPlank had married real estate agent and small-town mayor Rick Tingsley. For the most part, Laura, who dressed and wore her hair like Jackie Kennedy Onassis, ran the Crossroads Restaurant. Rumor had it, via my pal and cook Juanita, that Rick Tingsley was going to run for governor of New York State—something that Laura had spent years waiting for. Laura had made it known that he'd eventually be running for the presidency. Yes, the president of the United States! The fact that the U.S. president could one
day be a local boy made a lot of residents really proud.

But I'd never vote for Rick Tingsley. I didn't like the man. He was pushy and arrogant and had tried to strong-arm the purchase of everything on “the point” from my aunt Stella after Uncle Porky died, a time when she was very vulnerable.

Aunt Stella knew that she wanted to keep the Silver Bullet Diner and the Sandy Harbor Cottages in the family. Luckily, she held out for me, and I jumped on buying everything from her. It was a time in my life that I needed to keep busy and do what I loved doing: cooking and baking.

Come to think of it, Rick Tingsley had also been a bit rude in trying to get me to sell the diner to him.

A horn blew loudly, waking me out of my reverie. A car pulled up in front of my Victorian into one of the parking spaces with new signage proclaiming C
HECK-
I
N
.

No doubt this was Mr. David Burrows.

I squinted into the burst of sunlight above. Burrows didn't seem to want to get out of his car. Did he expect me to roller-skate to him like a carhop?

I didn't move from the top step, feeling very inhospitable for someone in the hospitality business. He'd better make a move, because there was a possibility that my new chef's pants were sticking to the newly painted step.

He finally got out of the car and walked slowly toward me. He was tall and thin with a head of
closely cropped white hair with a prominent cowlick on his crown. He wore thick black glasses.

As he got closer, I saw that his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked tired, as if he had been driving for a week straight without any sleep.

I stood up and heard my pants peel from the step. If I'd ruined these pants, I'd scream so loud they'd hear me in Syracuse.

“Mr. Burrows?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Trixie Matkowski, the new owner of the Sandy Harbor Housekeeping Cottages. We spoke on the phone. You're checking in today?”

“Of course.” He checked his watch. “Seven thirty, prompt.”

“Yes. You are very prompt.” I forced a smile. “And what brings you to the cottages?”

He hesitated. “If you have to know, I'm a writer. I'm writing.”

“Oh. I see. I'll get the key and show you the way.”

“No need.”

“You've been here before?” I'd never even thought of that. But of course, when he contacted me, Mr. Burrows knew that we had numbered cottages and specifically asked for Cottage Eight. Interesting.

“Uh, I—I was here, a long time ago.” He rolled his eyes. “May I have the key now?”

“Sure, but I have to go inside and get the
required form. You know, the usual: name, address, car, license plate number. And if you'll give me your credit card, I'll run it through for future expenses.”

“That's not necessary. I'll pay cash for any additional expenditures.”

“Yes, but, having your credit card on file is just standard operating procedure.”

“Miss Matkowski.” He spoke very slowly as if I were a child. “I said that I'll pay cash for any additional expenses.”

“I think I even owe you some money.”

“Then why do you want my credit card?”

“In case there are more charges, so—” We were going in circles.

“Let me repeat myself: there won't be any additional expenses.”

He raised his head to the sky as if he was saying a prayer for patience.

He needed to say one for me, too!

“One moment, please, Mr. Burrows.”

I hurried up the step. Got the form, put it on a clipboard, grabbed a pen and the key to Cottage Eight.

Back outside, I handed him the clipboard and the pen. He ignored my pen and slipped one from his shirt pocket.