A Second Helping of Murder (6 page)

Unfortunately, I had rubber soles on my shoes. Darn.

Ty's footsteps would have to do. He wore cowboy boots, and the echo was divine.

He unlocked the door to his office, and I couldn't procrastinate any longer.

“Ty, please let me type my statement as I speak. I don't have the time or patience to watch you type with your two fingers and a thumb.”

“Hey, I'm pretty fast,” he said, in his slow Texas drawl.

“You stink. I haven't got all day. I have to walk over to the
Lure
's office and put in an ad for a bus person for the Silver Bullet.”

“A bus person?”

“To bus tables and run the dishwasher. Then they have to put the silver, glasses, and dishes away.”

“I've got the perfect kid in mind for you. Let me call him later, and you can interview him.”

“Great!” Well, this would solve one of my problems, but I still wanted to see if Joan had any more information from Hal.

“He's had some difficulties, but he'll be ideal once he learns the job. You just have to be patient with him, Trixie. You'd be perfect for him, also. So would the other ladies who work in the diner.”

“I'll give anyone a chance. What's his name?”

“Ray Meyerson. And his parents will be thrilled. Ray's been getting into a little trouble lately—just
petty stuff. Dad's a farmer, and Ray just doesn't cotton to it. Mom doesn't work outside the home.”

I tried to set aside Ty's sexy Texas accent and get to the heart of what I wanted to know. “What kind of petty stuff did he do?”

“He's a juvenile and that information is not for public knowledge.”

“Ty!”

“Sorry. I'll let him tell you himself if he wants to, but it was nothing assaultive or of a sexual nature.”

“Fine.”

Ty did let me type as I talked, and I went into detail about how I'd watched Mr. Burrows move into Eight and seen him carrying the ancient typewriter in.

Ty prompted me with questions.

Then I related the scenario about the bus people who thought that the article in the
Lure
and Cottage Eight were grand clues on their mystery tour. Then I typed officially what I'd noticed when I peeked into Mr. Burrows's cottage.

Last was the part about me looking out my bathroom window and what I saw and didn't see the night of his murder.

Finally we were done. I signed the affidavit and he signed as witness.

I took a deep breath and stretched.

The phone rang, and Ty reached for it. “Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department, Deputy Ty Brisco.”

So official. So cop-ish.

He reached for a yellow legal pad on his desk, and couldn't quite get it from his standing position, since I hadn't yet moved from his desk.

I handed it to him along with a pen.

“Uh-huh. Yep. I see.” He scribbled on the yellow paper. The pen didn't work. I handed him another as if I were an ER nurse and he were the surgeon.

“Yeah. Um . . .” He wrote, and I didn't move.

I knew he was noncommittal because I was there, and he was getting information about one of the cases.

Casually, I tried to look at his notes, but he moved the pad away from me.

Busted.

C'mon, Ty. Talk!

I stood and walked around the room, looking at the bulletin board—boring—but I had an ulterior motive in mind: I wanted to see the caller ID on the phone console, but I'd need binoculars.

Oh! A box of tissues. I leaned over and casually pulled out a tissue, throwing in a sniffle for good acting measure. Score! The call was from the New York State Police BCI—Bureau of Criminal Investigation—the major forensic folks in Albany, New York.

Ty raised a perfect black eyebrow. Okay, so he knew what I was doing with the tissue ploy.

I shrugged. My fingers were itching to slip that yellow legal pad out of his hand.

“Hang on a sec, Lieutenant. Just hang on.” Ty
said, turning to me. “Trixie, would you mind waiting in the waiting room?”

“I don't want to wait in the waiting room.”

He pointed to his handcuffs on his belt. “Go.”

Okay, I went to the waiting room and took a seat on a totally uncomfortable metal chair. Maybe I could eavesdrop.

The big tall ceilings and the marble floors and walls that I had loved so much before were an acoustical disaster. Ty was chirping away to the lieutenant from BCI, but I couldn't make out a word.

I listened at the keyhole. There was probably some law against putting an ear, complete with fake gold earrings in the shape of slices of pizza, on an official keyhole of the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department, but I did it anyway.

Yes, I stooped that low. All I could think of was Cottage Eight wrapped in yellow tape, and the tenants who would cancel when they found out about the recent murder there.

And then I thought of Claire and my promise to Burrows.

The mumbling stopped, and Ty finally hung up. I stood up and tried to get the circulation back in my numb butt.

The door opened and Ty walked out. I studied his face, but I couldn't figure out anything.

This day was turning out to be a bust.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well what?”

Suddenly I was sick of playing games with him. I understood that there were some things that he had to keep confidential, but sooner or later, the small-town tongues would wag and I'd find out.

I just wanted to find out now and right from the source.

“Never mind. I'm tired of nagging you for information. I'll hear it on the grapevine like everyone else. Let's go. Take me home.”

I gave him the frozen treatment. I didn't talk. I looked out the window of his SUV and watched the scenery go by.

Realizing that I couldn't depend on Ty for information, I decided I'd have to make time to talk to my new friend, Joan Paris. Maybe Hal Manning talked to the BCI and did some pillow-talking with Joan.

I'd ask her to lunch. Regardless of the case, she needed a friend, and I liked her. I could show her around and introduce her to some of my new friends in the area. We could see if Antoinette Chloe Brown's place was open yet. I could tell ACB that I served her mystery bus people and we could plan for the book club.

Or we could always go to the Crossroads Restaurant, Laura Tingsley's place. Laura was the mayor's wife, she was a gracious First Lady, and the restaurant was her White House.

I felt so helpless about these crimes, and I didn't like that feeling.

There was one thing I could do . . . but it would
probably be at least a misdemeanor, maybe even a felony if I got caught. And since Ty tended to pop up wherever I went, I might as well pack my toothbrush now for when Judge Cunningham of County Court sentenced me to the real Big House.

State prison or not, I was going to slip under the crime scene tape. I'd take it apart board by board if I had to, but I was going to find out if Cottage Eight held any secrets.

B
y the time we turned off Main Street, the sky had darkened and the wind blew. Once we were out of downtown, the thunder rolled in and the lightning flashed, the wind picked up more and the rain hit. Just as we turned off the highway onto the no-name road that led to the diner, the rain was looking like Niagara Falls.

Lake Ontario was choppy. If this wind kept up, the waves were going to be three feet high.

I loved watching storms over the lake. The sky never looked the same twice, and right now it was an angry grayish purple.

I was definitely looking forward to snuggling under my favorite comforter and sitting on my porch and watching the storm.

But first, I had to make a run for it to the Big House.

Ty stopped his SUV to let me off. I wasn't going to say anything to him, fully content in keeping
the deep freeze going, but then I decided I was being juvenile.

“Thank you for the ride.” Icicles could hang from my every word.

“Thanks for all the typing, Trixie. It saved us both a ton of time.” He nodded in that sincere cowboy way he had, as if he were nodding for his bull to be let out of the chute.

“No problem.”

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Watch the storm from my porch. Maybe I'll even fall asleep.”

He said something, but the rumble of thunder drowned out his words.

“What?” I asked. “I couldn't hear you.”

“I said that it sounds great. If I bring the coffee, can I join you?”

It was hard to say no when he asked so sweetly and volunteered to bring coffee, which he'd just get from the Silver Bullet anyway.

He obviously didn't get my frozen message.

Maybe I had to be even more blunt.

“For Pete's sake, Ty, I'm freaking mad at you.”

“Because I won't spill everything to you about the investigations?”

This man was an investigator? A deputy sheriff?
Someone, quick, buy him a clue!

“I don't want to read about things that concern me in the
Sandy Harbor Lure
! I'm not asking for all
the confidential details . . . just a couple of them so I can get my business going again.”

“I'll get us some coffee and a couple of donuts, and we'll talk.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “Really? We'll talk?”

“What I can tell you, I'll tell you. But it isn't going to be much.”

“Hurry up, then, Ty.”

He left to go up to the diner. I got a couple of comforters and headed out to the back porch, or should I call it the front porch because it faced the water and had a separate entrance?

Anyway, it had a fabulous view of Lake Ontario and the waves that were now rolling in. The rain rapped on the roof and the brick pavers that led to the back . . . er . . . front porch. The air smelled wet and earthy with a touch of fish or maybe it was a touch of worms.

The flag flying from the pole in the middle of the lawn was whipping in the wind. The purple gazing ball, in the middle of a raised garden where I'd just planted petunias and marigolds, looked like a shiny golf ball on a tee. In this wind, it could soar off any second for a par.

I got comfortable in my Adirondack chair and tucked the comforter around me. Taking several deep breaths, I closed my eyes and meditated, my breath keeping time with the waves.

I don't know how long I drifted off, but when I awoke there was a large covered take-out cup on
the end table next to me, along with a white bag containing my donuts.

Ty wasn't there.

I took a sip of coffee. It was ice-cold. How long was I out? So much for our talk.

Gathering up my comforter, I somehow got myself out of the Adirondack chair and stood on the porch for a while to get my thirtysomething bones time to lock into place.

I looked at Cottage Eight for a while, then looked up at Ty's apartment above the bait shop. I couldn't see him in the expansive windows that he liked to look out from or his porch that jutted out onto the lakeside.

Maybe he went back to work.

That meant it was time for me to break into Cottage Eight.

I went inside, microwaved the coffee to heat it, and took a couple of sips. Nice. I peeked at the donuts—chocolate with cream filling. Perfect.

I took another sip and reluctantly set the coffee down to drink later. I didn't want to take it with me and spill coffee on the crime scene.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my answering machine blinking. I hadn't checked it for a while, so I hit the button even though I expected it wouldn't be good news.

It wasn't.

Two messages, two cancellations. Cottage Ten and Cottage Three. They knew about Mr. Burrows's murder. One man “didn't want to expose
his children to that kind of thing” and another, a woman, said that she was scared of the restless ghosts of murder victims.

This was just what I was afraid of. Well, I wasn't afraid of restless ghosts, but I was afraid of more cancellations.

Time for me to spring into action.

I scrounged up another key to Cottage Eight, as either Ty or the state police had taken Mr. Burrows's. I grabbed a flashlight, remembering that the newly painted forest green shutters had all been closed and hooked shut by the cops.

Instead of walking right to Eight, I went to the end of the line of cottages. If Ty was watching, he would think that I was going to Twelve. If I walked close to the front of all the cottages, maybe he couldn't see me heading for Eight.

Why didn't I just head for the back of Eight and then the left side of it to get to the front?

I grunted at my lack of Nancy Drew genes.

I ran up the three steps to Eight and hoped the crime scene tape would stretch as I opened the door.

My heart pounded when a couple of the strands of yellow tape snapped. I held my breath and sucked my stomach in to squeeze in. If only I could do something with my D-cup boobs.

I was inside.

I closed the door and clicked on the flashlight, glad that I'd brought it. I looked around at the mess, particularly the grayish dust all over. What on earth?

Oh! Fingerprint dust.

The cops had left the typewriter on the floor where I saw it before, lying facedown. I stared at the bloodstain, my inner neat freak wondering how I'd ever get it off the plank floor.

Poor Mr. Burrows.

I hadn't noticed before when I was standing in the cottage, paralyzed, that there were no dirty dishes around. Probably Clyde or Max had taken them away or maybe the police had. I sure hoped that Mr. Burrows's last dinner was enjoyable.

Looking around the little cottage, I tried to see it with fresh eyes. The biggest room held a full kitchen against the wall, a wooden table, and four chairs, and there was a twin bed in the corner.

A small bedroom held a queen bed, a nightstand, and a dresser.

Another bedroom had two double bunk beds.

The bathroom had a shower stall with a blue curtain, no tub, another dresser, a closet, a toilet, a sink, and a medicine cabinet. It was the old-style medicine cabinet with a mirror on the front and made of white metal.

And it, too, was covered in fingerprint dust.

I opened the medicine cabinet by the corner. There were just some cheap plastic shavers, a can of shaving gel, and a plastic container of deodorant.

The medicine cabinet was rusty on the bottom, and it looked as though someone had pushed the rust with either a finger or some kind of tool.

Or maybe it was the natural way of rust, but I didn't think so.

This medicine cabinet needed to be replaced. I wished that Juanita's cousin who had prepared the cottages for me would have said something.

I shut the mirrored door, and the whole thing slanted. It must be missing a screw.

I made a mental note to tell Clyde to replace it before it fell off the wall and someone got hurt. Then again, there was no rush. Who'd want to rent this cottage when the word got out that a murder had been committed here?

Going back into the main room, I pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.

The old typewriter was still on the floor upside down. I wanted to put it upright or even move it onto the table the way Mr. Burrows had had it, but I didn't dare.

I studied the inside of the cottage. It was paneled in white wainscoting and throughout the years guests had etched messages into the walls—mostly their initials or their last name and a date. There were some hearts with initials.

I remember Uncle Porky hating that his tenants scratched up his cottages, but Aunt Stella thought it was fun. She said that it was a tradition—a type of history. She said, “Look at all the pioneers who wrote on Signature Rock in Wyoming. Our cottages are a history of those who stayed with us.”

Uncle Porky didn't agree, so he had Clyde and Max paint the wainscoting every couple of years.

Smiling, I remembered etching
Trixie M. loves Tim P.
underneath the sink in Cottage Four. That was Timmy Preston, our paperboy, who had been at least a freshman in high school, an older man. I had such a crush on him.

I wondered if Claire Jacobson ever scratched her initials onto this cottage.

With my trusty flashlight, I started inspecting the wall by the door. The mystery bus woman was right to carry around a magnifying glass. I'd have to find one.

With any luck, the hardware or hunting store in town carried magnifying glasses, or maybe the dollar store would have them. If not, I'd have to drive to Watertown or Syracuse, where there were more stores.

Until then, I read every scratch, square inch by square inch.
G. K. loves J. C. JACK & ROSE married 1940. Marry me, Ginny B. Michele loves Martin. I hate you, Mary C. Peg loves Lance 1997
 . . . On and on it went.

I kept reading and made it to the kitchen window before I sat down again. My eyes were getting tired. Maybe the daylight would be better, but that wasn't going to happen until the cops released the cottage.

What could the cops have missed?

Would Mr. Burrows have etched something into the wall?

No way. He didn't seem the type. It was more of a kid thing anyway.

I gasped. My heart started racing. Would Mr. Burrows have stayed in this cottage when he was a kid? Was that why he asked for Eight?

A lot of people who returned requested the same cottage year after year. Maybe Mr. Burrows really did stay here when he was young. That would explain his obsession with the cottage.

I'd look for his initials, too. Or maybe he'd left a message.

Maybe it was a dumb thing to do, but what else did I have to go on?

I got up, flashlight in hand, and went back to the bathroom. The loose, rusty medicine cabinet was niggling at my brain. I didn't remember the rust being so worn down when I'd inspected the cottage for tourist season.

Did I dare move it? It was already dusted for prints, so I thought it was okay to touch. I removed Mr. Burrows's stuff from the cabinet and set it on the dresser. Then I gave the cabinet a little push to the right, then a bigger push to the right. The cabinet that used to hang vertical was now horizontal.

There was a hole in the wall! And etchings.

I studied the printing from several angles, moving my flashlight in different directions.

There it was: CJ. It had to be Claire Jacobson!

I looked for more, ran my finger over the wood.

C.J. loves B.

Damn. I couldn't make out the initial of the last name. It was painted over! Who did Claire love back then?

“B” who?

I kept looking for more, but nothing. Then I shone my flashlight down the hole. Nope. Couldn't see a thing.

“Beatrix Matkowski, what the hell are you doing in here?”

I jumped, scared out of my wits. My heart pounded in my chest like the dough mixer on high.

Why did he keep doing that?

Turning, I looked into the furious face of Deputy Sheriff Ty Brisco. His hands were on his hips, his legs were spread apart, and he was biting his lip. The vein in his neck seemed ready to pop out of his skin.

“No one calls me Beatrix except my aunt, Aunt Beatrix.”

“I don't give a damn.” He took a couple of deep breaths, looking up at the rough-hewn beams and boards of the ceiling.

I think he was praying.

“Ty, I couldn't sit still and do nothing.”

“I believe that we had this discussion before. I can't believe that you crossed this crime scene tape, too. Didn't we just have this discussion? Have you lost your mind?”

“I'm losing business. That's what I'm losing.” Yeah, okay, that was true, but in my heart of hearts I wanted to get to the bottom of both murders.

His nostrils flared like a rodeo bull's. He pointed to the door. “Out.”

“I found something, Ty. Listen to me. I found initials behind the medicine cabinet. And there's a hole in the wall. I wonder if something was hidden there. Maybe something was dropped down the hole.”

He didn't budge, but his shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Don't you want to see what I found? It's amazing. I think it could be a clue.”

“Burrows?”

“I don't know. Maybe.” I shrugged. “But maybe Claire Jacobson.”

“Let's see what you found.” He walked toward me.

I moved the medicine cabinet and showed him Claire's initials, and the lone
B
. He didn't seem impressed. He was more impressed by the ragged hole in the wall.

“Why would she put her initials behind the cabinet?” he asked.

“Maybe the cabinet wasn't there twenty-five years ago. Maybe it was hung later. Or maybe Claire thought it was a secretive, fun thing to do. She probably didn't want anyone to see her name linked with a guy. You know how parents can be or siblings . . . They tease, or so I hear.”

What did I know? I was an only child.

“Did Claire Jacobson have any siblings?” Ty asked. “I can't remember from all the reports.” He pointed at my flashlight. “Can I borrow that?”