A Second Helping of Murder (7 page)

I handed it to him. “Hmm . . . you know, I think she had a brother, a younger brother. I remember . . .”
I paused, reaching way back to a cobwebbed corner of my memory. “Yes, a younger brother.” It was all coming back to me. “His name was Phillip, I think, but they called him Phil. That last summer, he was six or seven, I'd guess. Phil would rather sit at the picnic table and scribble or color, and he hated to walk on sand with bare feet, and he didn't particularly like the water. He'd only go in the lake if he could get onto a vinyl raft on the shore so he wouldn't get wet, and Claire would float him in.”

Ty peered down the hole in the wall. “Interesting. What kid doesn't like splashing in the water?”

“Phil didn't. He was kind of fussy and liked to be by himself.”

“Poor boy. He missed out on being a kid.”

“That's what Claire thought, too. She tried to get him out of his shell. She was so good with him. It was almost like she was his mother instead of his sister.”

Ty tried another angle with the flashlight as he looked down the hole. “Didn't his parents pay any attention to Phil?”

“They were quite a bit older and were always off fishing.”

“Too bad, but it seems like Claire was a great older sister.”

“She was, and Phil adored her.” I leaned against the dresser. “You know, Phil had the strangest eyes. They were such a pale light blue. I've never seen eyes that color except for—”

Why hadn't I made the connection before?

I sank to the floor.

Ty must have heard the thump when my butt connected with the wooden floor. He spun around. “Trixie, wha—? Are you okay?”

“Pale blue eyes. David Burrows and Phil Jacobson. They have—had—the same color eyes.”

“Coincidental. Probably a good chunk of the population has light blue eyes.”

“Pale blue!”

“Okay, pale blue.”

“And Mr. Burrows was fussy and private, and he'd been here before.”

“So have I,” Ty said. “That's another coincidence. My family vacationed here since I was seven years old until my baby brother started college. Then I returned at least once a year for the salmon.”

Coincidences? It was more than that. Little things were starting to add up.

“I think that David Burrows was really Phil Jacobson.”

“I can check it out.”

“Will you let me know, Ty?”

“I think I can give you that information, but I'm not quite sure. I'll have to wait until it's officially released.”

Wyatt Earp was getting on my last nerve. Law enforcement work was so darn slow.

“What about his car, Ty? I'm sure you ran the registration and everything on his car.”

“It was a rental. He rented it under David Burrows.”

“But doesn't the rental company make you show your license. Didn't he do that?”

Ty hesitated. “Yeah, we checked all that. He was licensed under David Burrows.”

“But anyone can get a fake license, right?”

“Not just anyone.”

“But it can be done.”

He shrugged. “Of course it can be done.”

“And David Burrows appeared just when Claire's body was found, or should I say that Phil Jacobson appeared right when his sister Claire's body was found? And he specifically asked for Cottage Eight, Ty. More coincidences?”

“Maybe not.”

Hurrah! “I think you're starting to think like me.”

“That'll be the day.” He grinned in that cowboy way of his, all white teeth and twinkling turquoise eyes.

“I think that Phil was investigating Claire's death, and obviously someone wanted to stop him.” I paused as I realized what I was suggesting. “The killer. One killer.”

“I think so, too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, but it's just a gut feeling. There's no real proof yet.”

I was on a roll. Looking at the hole in the wall, I couldn't contain myself any longer. If I ruined the crime scene, I might as well pack for Bedford Hills, but this was my cottage and my hole, and the whole hole was missed by the cops.

Moving Ty aside, I put both of my hands on the ragged edges of the wainscoting and gave four yanks.

“Uh, Trixie . . . ,” Ty warned, but it was halfhearted. He wanted to see what was in the wall as much as I did. He probably could have done the same thing that I was doing, but Ty did everything by the book and would call back the crime scene people.

But not me.

I gave another yank but couldn't move the wood. Frustrated, I kicked it with my sneakered foot and it splintered.

Ty pushed me aside and gave it a kick himself. The boards splintered more and we both pulled, tossing the mess of wood onto the floor.

“There's nothing there,” he said. “Damn.”

“Hand me the flashlight, please.”

He handed me the flashlight and I knelt down. There was a little piece of paper in the corner of one of the vertical two-by-six boards where it met the floor.

Nervously, I picked up the paper.

“It's a picture, Ty. A picture!” I looked at it, and Ty looked over my shoulder. “What on earth?”

“Is that what I think it is?” Ty whistled long and low.

“A
sonogram,” Ty said.

It was faded and had some water damage, but there was no doubt that it was a sonogram. Claire had been pregnant?

I shook my head. “It was hidden in the wall. Probably Claire hid it. Maybe she was going to retrieve it later but never got the chance.” I was still staring at the photo in my hand.

“That's my guess.”

“I don't think so, Ty. Maybe a guy hid it in the wall.”

He shook his head. “It isn't something that a guy would do. He might show the picture around to show off that he's a stud, but it's a girl thing to hide it like that.”

“There's something written on the back. I can barely make it out. It looks like Dr. Edward Francis, August eight—no, it's August three—nine a.m.”

“Must be her next appointment,” Ty said.

“Then all we have to do is find out who had an
appointment with Dr. Francis at nine on August third, twenty-five years ago.”

“You're thinking that Claire Jacobson might have been pregnant when she died, aren't you?”

“Yes.” I thought back. The Claire of my childhood fantasies would have saved herself for Prince Charming. But hadn't I learned the real world is never as perfect as you thought when you were a child?

Maybe she'd met someone and loved him. No. She was so sweet and trusting, he probably seduced her.

I was probably reacting to my very Catholic upbringing that was drummed into our heads by an army of St. Mary Marys: No rolling up the waistband of your school uniform to make your skirt shorter. Your green knee socks must go to the knee. You will be fined a quarter for the mission if you don't wear the standard black and white saddle shoes, and make sure you polish them. And no sex without marriage.

“I'll phone Hal Manning and see if he had a clue about Claire being pregnant during the autopsy. If he did, he would have told me about it,” Ty said.

If that sonogram belonged to Claire, she would have been seventeen, pregnant, and all alone. Yet she never stopped smiling. She had to be in love.

The roll of thunder made me jump. Another storm was coming in. Thunder flashed through the cottage, and I heard a noisy creak of wood. It
was probably the shutters outside, but I suddenly felt uneasy. I was with the toughest cop in the whole state, but not even Ty Brisco could stop a speeding bullet.

Suddenly I wanted to get out of Cottage Eight and all of its secrets.

“I'm out of here, Ty.”

“I'll second that.” He opened the door for me and lifted the yellow tape. I ducked under it. He tried to make it taut against the door, but he didn't have the tools.

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

“Tired of watching me?”

“Yes, actually, I am. I was just hoping you'd save me the trouble.”

“I think I'm going to make an appointment with Dr. Francis. I suddenly feel sick.”

“I've never heard of Dr. Francis, but I think I'll go with you.”

“I work alone,” I said.

“The hell you do.”

“It was worth a try.”

We walked to his SUV and drove back downtown.

*   *   *

The one and only doctor's office in town was on Broadway Street and had a white and black sign out front: Dr. Fayton Huff. It was located in an old Victorian house, not unlike mine, but it had more gingerbread trim and was painted in various hues of lavender and yellow. Pretty.

“I've heard of Dr. Huff, but I haven't met him. I haven't found it necessary to go to a doctor,” Ty said.

“Me either. Thank goodness.”

“Did Dr. Huff replace Dr. Francis?” Ty flashed his badge to the young receptionist with the moussed crown of hair on her head.

“In a way. Dr. Francis passed away several years ago. Then Dr. Morgan took over. Then Dr. Fineburg. Then Dr. Huff took over that practice.”

“Is Dr. Huff available?” Ty asked, looking around at the very empty waiting room.

“No, he's not. Sorry. Right now he's golfing at Twin Trees. Today's his day off.”

Ty leaned on the counter and turned on the charm. “Well, darlin', you seem like you run this place by your little self. I'd like to look at one of Dr. Francis's old files. The name is Claire Jacobson.”

“I can't do that, Deputy Brisco. Our files are confidential. You know that. I'd need a court order.”

“It's impossible to find a judge now.” He checked his watch. “It's almost four o'clock on a Friday. I couldn't get a judge until probably Monday.” He sighed, and I knew that Ty wanted to follow this clue—and fast.

But I wanted to follow it up even faster.

I read the receptionist's name tag. Shannon Shannon?

I cleared my throat just to get her attention away from Ty. “Miss Shannon, Claire Jacobson is deceased. Surely, she won't object.”

She ignored me and smiled at Ty. “I'll have to ask Dr. Huff, but I can assure you that he won't release anything without a court order.”

“Then why ask him?” Honestly, I hated rules when they got in my way to get something done quickly. “Are all your records digitized?”

“Huh?” said the diligent Miss Shannon.

“Are they all on the computer?”

“Not the old ones. They're still on paper. In files. In filing cabinets.” She still hadn't taken her eyes off Ty.

Ty leaned over and grinned, flashing two perfect rows of whiter-than-white teeth. “Where are the old ones, darlin'?”

“Um . . . ,” she said. “I don't know if I should tell you that.” But she immediately looked at the door to her left. On the door was a sign that read R
ESTROOMS ARE DOWNSTAIRS
.

I decided that I had to go to the restroom.

Nudging Ty, I said, “Officer Brisco, please excuse me. I'll be right back. I have to hit the ladies' room, if Miss Shannon doesn't mind.”

She waved me away as her phone rang. I could hear that it was a personal call—something about a trip to New York City to visit a vampire club to drink umbrella drinks with a twist of animal blood.

Eew!

I hustled down the stairs and headed right for the rows of file cabinets that were lined up against the wall like gray metal soldiers.

They were locked.

I found 1989, the year that Claire Jacobson would have visited Dr. Francis. And found her exact drawer. It was marked
I–K
.

I yanked on the drawer. Nothing happened. I tried to pop up the lock. No luck. I yanked again.

I was about to give up when I saw a key in another lock. With any luck, the same key would fit this file cabinet.

I tried the key, and the lock popped up. A thrill of excitement ran up my spine, and I felt ready to begin a career as a safecracker should I fail to fill the cottages this summer.

I pulled the file drawer open, walked my fingers through the names, and found Claire's file.

Stuffing it into the waistband of my jeans, I zipped up my jacket.

Sliding back the drawer, I pushed the lock in and put the key back in the other file cabinet.

Time to get the hell out of here.

I hurried up the stairs and was breathless when I got to the top.

Ty took one look at me, and his eyes grew as wide as platters. He took me by the arm, gave Miss Shannon times two a “Good-bye, darlin',” and we were off.

“Tell me you didn't steal her file.”

“That would be illegal.”

“That's never stopped you before. And why are you walking funny?”

“No reason.”

We climbed into his hulk of an SUV, or at least he did. I tried to climb up without losing my five-to-fifteen-years-at-a-women's-prison-worth of stolen property.

Finally I plopped down on the beige leather seat, the manila folder digging into my back.

“Hand it over, Trixie.”

“Just drive, will you? This is the getaway SUV.”

“So you did steal the folder! Dammit, Trixie. It could have waited until Monday, when I could get the court order.”

“Look, Deputy, I don't want to get you in trouble.”

“Well, like you said, I'm driving the getaway SUV. Plus, I'm harboring a criminal. I'm in this deep.” He shook his head, but when he looked at me, there was a twinkle in his eye.

Ty Brisco might be a by-the-book cop, but he was willing to skip a few pages.

“Bedford Hills is women only. You'll have to find another prison of your own,” I informed him.

“How do you know about Bedford Hills?” he asked.

“My ex-husband's niece, who was a math teacher in one of the western New York high schools, decided she was in love with one of her students. Unfortunately, she didn't know math good enough to calculate that he was underage. She was sentenced to Bedford Hills, and she kept writing my ex because she seemed to think that a Philadelphia traffic cop could help her get out of Bedford Hills in New York.”

He laughed. “Let's go to your place and take a look at the folder that I don't know you have. Do you want to stop somewhere for takeout?”

“Yeah. Let's go to the Crossroads. They have excellent burgers. They aren't as good as mine, but they're okay. Besides, I'd like to chat with Laura Tingsley about the two murders. She always has something to say.”

Ty nodded. “Good idea, but she might not talk if I'm there.”

“Then you wait in the getaway SUV and hide from the cops. I won't be long.” I pulled the file out of my clothes and handed it to him. “This will be good reading while I'm gone.”

“Thanks. Take your time.”

From the outside, the Crossroads looked like Daniel Boone's log cabin on steroids. The inside was knotty pine. It was divided in half by a planter with silk vegetation. One half was the restaurant area, and the other half contained a bar with red vinyl and silver barstools and booths around the perimeter.

I knew that Laura Tingsley, the former Laura VanPlank, bought the Crossroads from a very outdoorsy couple for a low price several years ago, but the informal, rustic appearance of the place really didn't suit her. However, it did suit the locals and the Sandy Harbor visitors.

I didn't plan on staying very long with the wannabe Jackie Kennedy Onassis. She always managed to slip several campaign-type sound bites for
her husband, Mayor Rick Tingsley, into any conversation.

Laura was sitting at a table with an older woman, who looked just like Nancy Reagan. Jackie O. and Nancy Reagan were eating Cobb salads and drinking red wine.

“Hi, Laura. How are you?” I smiled at both ladies. “Nice rainy day, isn't it?”

“Hello, Trixie. I'd like you to meet my mother, Mrs. Carla VanPlank.”

Mrs. VanPlank held out a limp hand so loaded with diamonds, no wonder she couldn't hold it up.

I took it and pumped away.

Local gossip (my maintenance man Clyde) said that Laura's parents were wildly wealthy, and now I believed it. Gossip also had it that they were the ones who were bankrolling Rick Tingsley's runs for office.

“Nice to meet you. How long are you visiting, Mrs. VanPlank?”

It would have been nice if she told me to call her by her first name.

“Oh, I don't know. Our plans are flexible. It's just so nice to visit my daughter and Mayor Tingsley.”

Was it me, or wasn't it creepy that she referred to her son-in-law so formally?

“With the recent discovery of Claire Jacobson's body and the even more recent murder of Mr. Burrows, it must be a public relations and tourism nightmare for Mayor Tingsley,” I said.

Laura sniffed. “He can handle it.”

“Of course he can handle it. He can handle anything,” Mrs. VanPlank snapped. “After all, he's senator material. And after he's senator for a term, he'll be elected president.”

I'd heard the same declaration from Laura several times before, but now her mother was throwing his hat into the ring, too.

“Of the United States,” Mom added.

I snapped my fingers as if this question just occurred to me. “Laura, you knew Claire, didn't you?”

“Barely. She was not part of Sandy Harbor proper. She was just a summer visitor.”

“Just like me,” I said.
Sandy Harbor proper?
What on earth?

“Not like you anymore. You've graduated to being a regular Sandy Harbor resident since you're a property owner here now,” Laura said, as if she were quoting from a rule book.

“Graduated, huh?” I'd call it being in debt up to my hair roots.

Laura turned to her mother. “Trixie owns the Silver Bullet Diner and Sandy Harbor Cottages. She bought it all from Stella, her aunt.”

Carla VanPlank patted her white coiffure, even though not a hair had escaped its varnish. “In the past, Mr. VanPlank and I attended several of your aunt and uncle's Dance Fests when we were living here.”

She didn't seem like a Dance Fest kind of
person, and it seemed as if she called her husband “Mr.” all the time.

I shifted on my feet, which I'd just realized were killing me. Apparently, I wasn't going to be asked to sit.

I decided to press on to see if they might have any information that could help me in my investigation. After all, they might remember important things after all these years. Laura had been there, and her parents had lived in Sandy Harbor at the time, too.

“Speaking of graduation,” I began, “I read in the
Sandy Harbor Lure
where the mayor—obviously, he wasn't the mayor then—said that he was the one who invited Claire to the bonfire the night of their graduation party. I guess that you and the mayor weren't dating then. Right, Laura?”

“Of course we were dating!” She turned her eyes to the bare rafters as if her next sentence were written up there. “We were a couple all through high school. The mayor was just trying to be nice when he invited her.” Laura crossed her arms over her chest, daring me to contradict her. “He probably felt sorry for her. He's sensitive like that.”