A Second Helping of Murder (9 page)

Like a good dog, Blondie pranced into the kitchen, thinking I was going to give her a treat. She took a look at the open basement door, sniffed the air, and shook herself off, spraying me with droplets
and dog hair. Then she took off for one of her favorite hiding places in the house.

She wasn't going down there with me, the big chicken.

I flipped the switch to the basement and then decided to get three flashlights. Stuffing two into my underwear, I turned one on and held it in front of me.

But wait.

The basement had been remodeled and covered in bright white paneling. Dozens of big white storage cabinets lined every wall, and black-and-white commercial tile shone on the floor. I could hold a dance right here!

I opened several cabinets full of glasses, silverware, serving bowls, old menus, china platters, rolls and rolls of plastic table covering, stacks of dishes, and lots of huge pots and pans. Then I found the stands I was looking for. Perfect.

Climbing the stairs, I looked back at the delightful basement. I'd scared myself half to death, all for nothing.

Lesson learned.

I made several phone calls over the next couple of hours, making a lot of progress on Dance Fest.

I would be able to circulate and pump the locals for information about Claire. They'd all be together, and it'd be easy to do.

The Dance Fest would be great for the Silver Bullet, too. I was all about keeping old traditions
and memories alive and making new traditions and memories. The old Dance Fests were part of that tradition—my family's tradition.

I hoped that there would be a good turnout. Maybe the townsfolk would stay away because of Mr. Burrows's murder, or maybe Cabin Eight would draw them like magnets.

I'd have to talk it up and get my staff to do the same.

There was a knock on the door. I peeked out the window.

Ty and a kid.

“Sorry to bother you, Trixie,” Ty said when I opened the door. “But do you have a moment?”

“I do.” I was totally puzzled. What was going on? “Please come in and take a seat.”

Ty made a point of wiping his feet on the throw rug by the door for a long time. The young man with him did the same.

Then they both sat down in the living room. I sat across from them both.

Ty smiled. “Miss Matkowski, I'd like you to meet Raymond Meyerson. He's interested in busing tables and washing dishes at the Silver Bullet.”

I had forgotten about filling the job. That was because I had forgotten about carrying my trusty notebook of things I needed to do with me at all times. I lived by my lists because my brain was like a leaky faucet.

Raymond was about sixteen, tall and skinny with a bad case of acne, but he had a nice smile
and pretty brown eyes that seemed magnified by his glasses. He sat with his hands in his lap, and his knuckles were white from squeezing them so hard.

This juvenile delinquent was nervous about a job interview. I decided to make his interview informal, but tough.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Raymond,” I said.

“I go by Ray, not Raymond. I have working papers, and I have to find a job before I go to court again so it looks good.”

I looked at Ty and he winked at me. I hoped I wasn't making a mistake, but I'd like to give Ray a chance.

“I'm Trixie Matkowski. You can call me Trixie.”

“Okay.”

“Can I trust you, Ray?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“I don't want you to guess. I want to know if I can trust you. Will you steal from me?”

“Hell no. I'm a hacker, not a robber or a burglar.”

I decided to ask. “What did you hack?”

He hesitated, then looked at Ty. Ty shrugged, stating, “It's up to you what you want to disclose. You're protected by law, so you don't have to say anything.”

He looked down at his hands. “Records at school. I upped the grades on some kids.”

Not a biggie in the grand scheme of things, but
in a way, it was like stealing. I decided not to point this out, not now at least. “Can you get along with my other workers?”

“As long as they don't mess with me.”

“They work hard and like to have fun and tease each other, but they will never intentionally hurt you. It's all in fun.”

He nodded. “Okay. That's cool.”

“Will you show up on time and work hard?”

“I'll try.”

“Huh?” I asked, cupping an ear with my hand.

“Yeah. I'll show up on time and work hard.”

“Excellent. Will you be nice to my customers?”

“I'll try . . . I mean, yeah, yeah, I will.”

“You look nice, Ray. You have on a nice pair of dark jeans and a nice T-shirt. Do you dress like that all the time or just for job interviews?”

“My mother made me wear this.”

I grinned. “Your mom has good taste. But, Ray, will you continue to dress like this? I mean, please wear a decent T-shirt without anything written or drawn on it. And a nice pair of jeans. I can't stand underwear showing and pants dragging. This is a family diner.”

Ray unclasped his hands and put one on each knee. “That kind of shit—” Ty elbowed him. “Sorry. But that kind of stuff isn't me anyway. I'm not a gangsta or a rapper.”

“Who are you, then?” I liked talking to Ray.

“A geek, a nerd, or a computer hacker.” He got
another elbow from Ty. “I mean, I'm a computer expert.”

“Could you make some flyers for my Dance Fest, buffet, and bonfire? I'd like a fun picture and fun fonts, lots of color, and it has to be eye-catching.”

“Piece of cake.” He grinned and his eyes brightened.

This kid wasn't going to be a dishwasher for long. His heart was in the computer field. I wondered how good he was at spreadsheets.

“Ray, you're hired. I'll put you on the clock if you can start right now by helping me. Flyers today, dishes tomorrow.”

I leaned over and offered my hand in a handshake. I was rewarded with a nice, strong handshake from Ray and an uneasy smile.

“Officer Ty gave me a ride here. I'm going to have to call my mom and let her know I'm staying for a while so she can pick me up.”

I looked at Ty. He turned to Ray and said, “I'm going to grab some chow at the diner. I'll give your mom a call and tell her that you're helping Trixie and that you got the job. I can still drive you home.”

Ray whispered not too quietly to Ty that he'd like to tell his mother that he got the job himself, but that he'd appreciate a ride home because his father was out of town and his mother didn't like to drive in the dark.

Ty clasped the boy's shoulder. “Yeah, Ray, you're right. You should tell your mom yourself. This is your first job. It's a big deal.”

Ray pulled a cell phone out of a pocket, and he looked around the sitting room.

I stood. “Officer Ty, please join me in the kitchen. I have something to show you. Ray, talk to your mother as long as you like, then come into the kitchen when you're done.”

“Cool,” Ray said.

Ty and I walked into the kitchen. “Sorry to surprise you, and to bring Ray here, but he has to go to court. I forgot all about it because of everything that's been happening. And normally, I wouldn't bring anyone to your house, but—”

“Don't worry about it. It's fine. Ray's a computer hacker, not a burglar, anyway.” I pointed to the partially dried paper on the table. “I found this in the meadow. I'm sure that Mr. Burrows typed it, and I found it clinging to a burdock plant when I went looking for Blondie.”

At the mention of her name, Blondie came down the stairs and nuzzled Ty's leg. He absentmindedly petted her as he read the document.

“I have to read this again,” he said, leaning over the table to get closer.

I pulled out a chair and sat down and took over petting Blondie.

He whistled, long and low. “This is interesting. Where did you say you found it?”

He sat down and returned to petting Blondie, only he was petting my hand instead. I pulled it away after a while. If he couldn't tell the difference between my hand and a dog's head, I had some serious electrolysis to do.

“I found the paper about equal distance between Cottage Eight and where the ruts are from when the murderer drove away. He or she dropped page eighty-six.”

“After the murderer reads the manuscript, he or she will realize that page eighty-six starts in the middle of a sentence.”

“Oh! And the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime!” I said.

“That's an old wives' tale, but yeah, they sometimes do.”

“But there was nothing exciting on page eighty-six.”

“True. But he or she wouldn't know that.”

I groaned. “Terrific.”

“Don't worry. They don't know that you found it.”

“That's a good thing.”

He chuckled. “Can I bother you for a plastic bag that'll fit this paper?” He lifted the paper and the paper towel. “It's still wet. Maybe a plastic bag will ruin it. How about a paper bag?”

I turned around, opened a cabinet, and handed him a paper grocery bag.

“That'll do,” Ty said¸ slipping everything into
the large bag. Then he snapped his fingers. “I also came by to tell you that David Burrows is indeed Phil Jacobson, Claire's younger brother.”

“I knew it!” I continued with my theory. “And Phil was here to write an exposé about his sister's murder. He hoped to find secrets in Cottage Eight. Matter of fact, Phil was ready to tear the walls right off the place. No wonder he didn't want to be disturbed.”

“And page eighty-six said that he didn't care if he had to tear the whole building down,” Ty said.

“I'm going to tear the walls down, Ty. I want to know what Phil was looking for. Maybe there's more than just that sonogram if it was Claire's hiding place.”

“Tear the walls down?” Ty asked. “I wouldn't do that if I were you. It's a crime scene. Let the state troopers—”

“Can't the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department do it?”

“We called the state in. They have the lead. They have a bright and shiny crime lab with a gaggle of lab people in white coats.”

“Can't you call Trooper Whomever, Deputy Brisco, and get the green light? Tell them you have my full cooperation.”

“I'll call Captain Drennan and see if they'll release the cottage. However, until I get back to you, don't touch anything, Trixie. I mean it. I'll lock you up quicker than you can cut up a tomato.”

“Sliced or diced?”

He didn't say a word but glared at me.

“And we might not release the fact that Phillip was Claire's brother for a while. Let's keep this between us for now.”

“Would Hal Manning know?” I asked.

“No. Not yet. The information is straight from the state police. Only you and I know this, Trixie, and I'm trusting you.”

“My lips are sealed, Sheriff Brisco, but . . . wow! This is incredible information. David Burrows is Phil Jacobson, and Phil Jacobson is Claire's brother.”

“You pretty much guessed it before.”

“Pale, pale blue eyes.”

“Not a word, Trixie.”

I believed he'd lock me up, but he'd better hurry with the green light to release the information.

“I'
m heading to the Silver Bullet for the daily special,” Ty said.

“Spaghetti and meatballs, chef salad, garlic bread,” I said.

“Yeah. I know.” He took page eighty-six with him and headed out the back porch door. “I'll be back in a while to take Ray home.”

“Okay.”

I began to angst over all the stuff I needed to do. Lists? Where were all my lists?

Combing through them, I decided that the only thing I needed to concentrate on now was the flyers. I found a clean sheet of paper and did a mock-up by hand of what I wanted it to look like.

Ray cleared his throat as he walked into the kitchen so as not to scare me. Thoughtful kid.

I showed him my scribbles and my stick art. “This is what I had in mind.”

He studied it, rubbing his chin like a professor I once had in community college.

“What's this in the middle?” Ray asked.

“People dancing.” Okay, my drawing was a little too abstract.

“Looks like barf on the floor. But okay. I know what you want. Let me find some free art for you. I'll design a border with the food you are going to have, too.”

“Brilliant, Ray.” This kid was going to be invaluable. “Here's my laptop. Have at it.” As I was pushing it toward him and pulling out a chair for him, I realized that my whole life was in that laptop—my banking, my spreadsheets for the diner, payroll for my staff—everything.

And Raymond Myerson was a hacker.

“Remember our conversation about trust, Ray?”

“Yeah, I know. I won't hack into your private stuff.”

“Sorry. I just had to mention it. It made me feel better.”

“Cool.” Ray started typing a zillion letters per minute. Sister Marianne James, my high school typing teacher, would be blown away. He was using all his fingers, too.

“Do you need me, Ray?”

“Nah.”

There was nothing more boring than watching someone type unless it was watching golf.

“Just yell if you do,” I said. “I have to take care of a couple of things.”

And one of those things was to listen to my messages on my blinking answering machine.

Beep.

“This is Janice Eggleston. I am calling to cancel my reservation for Cottage Two. I am very sorry, but I don't want my children around . . . well, you know. I'd like my deposit back, please.”

Beep.

“Carl Pangburn here. We won't be coming to the cottages this year. Sorry, but I have to cancel. Please send my deposit back. First time in thirteen years we aren't coming to the cottages. I hope that everything gets straightened out soon.”

Beep.

There were four more cancellations. My stomach sank along with my bank account.

I went back down to the basement with a mission in mind, and without a flashlight. Finding a crowbar, a sledgehammer, and two regular hammers, I carried them all upstairs. If there was something in the walls of Cottage Eight, I was going to find it.

Just as soon as Ty Brisco gave the go-ahead.

Or even if he didn't.

Ray jumped up to help me just as the two hammers slid out of my hands and hit the floor. Blondie tore upstairs like a frightened rabbit.

Ray picked up the hammers and handed them to me.

“Thanks.”

He answered with a grunt that I deduced meant “You're welcome.” Then he returned to my laptop, cracked his knuckles, and started typing.

I put all my weapons of cottage destruction on the porch that faced the lake.

Sitting on one of the white wicker rockers, I stared at the back of my cottages. They were so darn cute—all white with forest green shutters and little porches on the front facing the lake. Each porch contained two forest green Adirondack chairs. The driveways for parked cars were to the side, so there would be nothing to block their view of the lake.

Right now the lake was flat, but the moon was shining, making a glittering path. When I was a kid, I liked to believe little fairies were playing and frolicking on that bright path, making the tiny ripples that sparkled.

Twelve cottages.

Since 1952, those twelve cottages had been enjoyed by generations of families—families that vacationed together and enjoyed the lake, the boating, tubing, and fishing, or just making sand castles.

They cooked hamburgers on the grill or came up to the diner for meals. They played lawn games like badminton or volleyball.

I should rename them. Maybe I'd call them the Ghost Town Housekeeping Cottages.

Sitting down on a rocker, I hoped the Dance Fest this Saturday night would be a success. I'd love to be able to come close to the fun that everyone had when Porky and Stella ran them. And I needed it to be a success to even break even this
summer without cottage rentals. I was going to give it my best shot in the little time I had to plan.

And my best shot included getting to know the pasts of the people of Sandy Harbor a little bit more, with the Sandy Harbor Class of 1989 leading the pack.

One of my first targets would have to be Rick Tingsley, the mayor. Ricky, as he was known back then, was the one who'd asked Claire to the bonfire where she was last seen. Laura might have been jealous of Claire back then, but jealous enough to kill her? She seemed more like a mean girl than a murderer.

I knew from history that Antoinette Chloe Switzer had married Sal Brownelli. They, too, were a long-term high school couple. Did Sal have an eye for Claire, too?

I could see ACB, the colorful and eccentric dresser, picking up a gun in a fit of rage should anyone poach Sal.

Who else did I suspect?

Of course, I'd eliminate Marvin Cogswell as a suspect. He'd been murdered last winter. Then again, he'd been murdered after Claire, but before Phil Jacobson.

I suppose if I discarded the theory that Claire and her brother were murdered by the same person, Marvin Cogswell could have killed Claire. But that would mean there were two murderers loose in my town. And they'd just happened to kill two members of the same family.

And what about the rest of the class? I could see all the women being jealous of Claire and all the men lusting after her. Any one of the women could have secreted a small handgun and shot her during the noisy celebration and dragged her away.

Any of the men could have shot her, too. If she was pregnant, and they didn't want anyone to know, they could have done away with her.

And killed his unborn child, too.

I shuddered. How awful! How could anyone kill someone and kill an innocent, unborn baby, too?

Unless they didn't know about the baby.

So, how would I narrow down the rest of the class? What about those who had moved away postgraduation?

I squeezed the bridge of my nose. Some TV doctor or celebrity said that doing this would get rid of a headache. I waited and rocked, thinking that there were too many suspects, and no witnesses.

Whoa!

I'd witnessed someone running away from Cottage Eight about the time that Phil Jacobson was killed. I was one hundred percent sure that the person was either a man or a woman—
HA!
—but it was dark, stormy, and pouring rain, so I couldn't pick a gender for sure. The footprints nearby were of a woman, though. Probably.

Or maybe a petite man with small feet.

I smiled at my own joke, but then my mirth dissolved and my heart sank when I remembered
that I wouldn't have enough money to make another installment payment to Aunt Stella.

I wanted to keep the diner funds and the cottage funds separate, treating them as two separate businesses. This was because I wanted to make improvements and didn't want to rob the diner to improve the cottages and vice versa.

I could always combine the two accounts. There was enough money in the diner fund to make the balloon payment, but again, I didn't want to do that.

But it looked as though I didn't have a choice.

I rocked my cares away and concentrated on the moist smell of the rain on the air and the soothing swish of the lapping of waves on the shore. This was such a wonderful place to live in the spring, summer, and fall. In the winter, it was a little overwhelming with the snow and ice, but breathtaking to watch from the comfort of a heated room with big windows.

A twig snapped and I jumped. It was probably a rabbit or some other harmless creature, but I had to remember that there was a murderer running around loose, or perhaps two murderers.

But the person who walked into the light was Ty Brisco, upholder of small-town justice—a modern-day Wyatt Earp—and handsome from the top of his creased white cowboy hat to the bottom of his polished snakeskin boots.

But I didn't notice.

“How was the special, Ty?”

“Delicious.”

“Glad you liked it.”

“Is Ray ‘don't call me Raymond' finished?” he asked, looking over my head to the lighted kitchen.

“He has to be by now. If not, I can do the rest, I hope.”

Then he looked down on the porch floor. “What the hell is all this?”

“You're a detective. I think you know what it all is: a sledgehammer, a crowbar, and two regular hammers.”

“You're just aching to see the inside of a jail cell, aren't you?” he snapped.

“Most definitely,” I snapped back. “My hobby is checking out jail architecture.”

He chuckled. “By the way, I called Major Zale over at Troop D Headquarters.”

“And?”
C'mon, Ty, spill the beans!

“And he'll call me back tomorrow with the answer as to whether or not the hold on Cottage Eight is lifted. Can you freaking wait until then?”

“I suppose I have to.”

“Of course you do. If you disturb any evidence, it could blow a clue or a lead. And even then, you can't go tearing the place down like a crazy woman. Everything has to be documented. I'll be taking pictures and notes.”

“Okay, okay.” I tamped down my impatience. “So you're doing this with me?”

“I'm the one who's officially tearing down the walls.”

“Unofficially?”

“Unofficially, you can help me, since it's your property.”

“Good.” I felt better. “What time will Major Zale have an answer?”

“About eight thirty in the morning, just about when you get out of work.”

“You'll come to the Silver Bullet and tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, Ty.” I stood, and must have misjudged the distance, as I was remarkably close to him. I inhaled his aftershave of pine and musk. It fit him—outdoorsy and masculine.

My heart began pumping wildly in my chest. Hmm . . . CPR from Wyatt Earp here might be . . . just fine.

Remembering my first marriage to a cop, although Deputy Doug was a cheater first degree, I figured I just wasn't ready to get involved. I had two businesses to run.

Plus, Ty hadn't made any real overtures toward me—darn him! He was just a friend and a regular at the Silver Bullet. That's all.

But when he looked at me the way he was looking at me now . . . wow! It made me feel all warm and fuzzy, and I was not the warm-and-fuzzy type. Not anymore.

“Excuse me,” I said as he stepped back.

“Sure,” he said, cordially, moving around me to open the screen door.

I walked into the Big House and saw Ray hard at work. “How's it going?”

“I think I'm done. I'm just tweaking it,” he said, turning the screen toward me.

The flyer had a retro look to it. It had the appearance of something that Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella would have prepared in the fifties. It was awesome.

It's amazing that a sixteen-year-old kid could come up with a design like that.

I scanned the facts—the time, date, place, cost, food that would be served, and that Frankie Rudinski and the Polka Dots would be returning after twenty-five years. Perfect. And they were confirmed and ready to get the crowd polka-ing.

“You're very talented, Ray, very talented. I just love it.”

“Cool.”

I held out my hand and we shook. “I'll add the hours to your paycheck and give you a little extra for the great job. Okay with you?”

“Piece of cake. I woulda done it for free.”

“We had an agreement, Ray, and we still do. Remember? You start tomorrow as a dishwasher and busboy, so you'd better get some sleep tonight.” I checked my watch. “I'm cooking in about two hours, and I have a couple of things to do. Just hit the print button for me, and I'll take it from there.”

“Ready to go, Ray?” Ty asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He turned to me. “Do you want me to put them up around town?”

“You'd do that?” I loved this kid!

Ray shrugged. “Sure. I don't have anything better to do.”

“I'll call you when the flyers are printed.”

Ty touched his hat brim to me, and my knees almost buckled. That gesture got me every time. “Good night, Trixie.”

My name rolled off his Texas tongue like a rambling river.

“G'night, Deputy. I'll call you tomorrow about the flyers, Ray.”

“Uh . . . um . . . thank you for the job, Miss . . . uh . . . Trixie.”

“You're welcome.”

The second I opened the door, Blondie came bounding down the stairs. “Stay,” I ordered, not wanting her to run out the open door.

She sat down and whined until both Ty and Ray petted her.

Finally they were gone, and I e-mailed the flyer to Sandy Harbor Printing. I included a cover letter asking them to make one hundred copies of the flyer as soon as possible and that Ray Meyerson would pick them up tomorrow. Then I went upstairs to change into my tomato chef's outfit.

Then it hit me. Today was the day I had invited Laura Tingsley and her mother, Carla VanPlank, to lunch.

What had I done? I didn't particularly like their company, but I was thinking about the case, or cases.

I wasn't in the mood to listen to their accolades about Rick Tingsley, their future presidential candidate.