Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery (20 page)

“What can I get you, Ty?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

I went to my fridge and pulled out a bottle of iced tea, twisted the cap, and took a long draw. Then I put fresh water into Blondie’s bowl, and she slurped noisily. I smiled. Now there was a gal who enjoyed her drink.

I wanted to keep her. All the time. Forever.

Ty pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and stretched out his long legs.

“ACB said that she hasn’t been to your diner since before Stella left, and if she wanted to visit, she’d use the front door, not hang around your Dumpster.”

“I tipped off ACB, didn’t I?” I asked, the guilt settling in. She must have hidden the evidence after my illicit visit.

“I don’t think so.”

He was just being nice. I knew that I had blown it.

“What about Sal the biker? Is he mad about the search?”

“Livid. ACB called him when we knocked on the door, and he arrived in less than a minute. She kept sobbing into his chest, wailing about how she
could never hold her head up in Sandy Harbor again.”

“Ick. Did you ask her about the muumuu?” I asked.

“She said that she never owned a gardenia muumuu.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said, maturely. “What did Sal say?”

“He said that he doesn’t know one flower from another.”

“Someone must remember seeing her wearing the gardenia muumuu the day of Mr. Cogswell’s funeral. That’s when I saw her wearing it. At her restaurant.”

“I don’t need to ask anyone. Not yet. I know she’s lying.”

“And her motive?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He scratched Blondie’s ears, but he seemed to be thinking.

“Ty, do you have other suspects?”

“I shouldn’t discuss this with you, Trixie.”

“Ty, you said that we’d work together; then you won’t share anything.”

“I agreed that we’d work together?” He rubbed his chin. “I think I remember only agreeing to work together relative to Sunshine Food Supply. Nothing else. But if I did, how do you explain going to ACB’s house without telling me? Matter of fact, you lied and told me that you were going to get some sleep. Then you snuck out.” He raised a black eyebrow. That was his “I gotcha” tell.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure was, darlin’.”

He sang his last sentence and reminded me of George Strait.

“But you aren’t including me in anything! You won’t tell me anything about the investigation, and it’s my diner. It’s my life! So, if there’s anything you can tell me, anything at all, spill it, cowboy.”

T
y shifted in his chair. “Trixie, like I said before, there are some things I can’t tell you. I probably shouldn’t have even told you about our search of the Browns’ today.”

I let out a deep breath. This was so frustrating.

“Have you searched around the Browns’ house? You know, garbage cans, the woods behind their house, dug-up dirt?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Trixie.” He looked amused rather than angry.

“Okay. Rick Tingsley, our loudmouthed mayor, has made it public that he wants your property,” Ty said.

“Yeah. I know. I was the one who told you that.”

“But the interesting news is that he doesn’t have the money to buy you out. There’s not a lot of real estate moving on the market here, or anywhere for that matter. As for investments, he’s made some bad decisions in a bad market. He’s going under,” Ty said.

“If he doesn’t have any money, then why is he making it his mission to buy me out? He made me a cash offer. Two million.”

“Bringing jobs into a depressed area makes for
a good political campaign. His party has nominated him for the senate, so it’s a go.”

“Laura is already starting to campaign for him.”

“Speaking of Laura VanPlank Tingsley, her parents live in Palm Beach, and they’re loaded. They gave her the best house in Sandy Harbor for her wedding, and they bought the Crossroads for her because she wanted something to do. They bought the building where the mayor’s real estate and investment business is located.” Ty shook his head and frowned like he couldn’t imagine living off someone else’s money. “Maybe they want Laura to be married to a senator. It certainly would be several rugs up the social ladder from being the mayor’s wife in a small town in upstate New York. It’s probably his in-laws’ money that he’s going to use to buy you out.”

That made sense to me. “And since his campaign is depending on him creating new jobs, maybe he decided to bankrupt me to buy the land. Since paying cash didn’t work.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“But did Mr. Cogswell really have to die because Rick Tingsley wants to be a senator?”

Ty shrugged. “If he wanted to bankrupt you and force a quick sale, it would make sense.”

My headache was returning.

“What other suspects do you have, Ty?”

He shook his head. “ACB and our mayor are about it, but all I have is suspicion so far, with nothing specific to go on.”

“Ty, what about Mark Cummings, the Sunshine
Food Supply deliveryman and Roberta’s brother? He was at the diner prior to Mr. Cogswell’s poisoning. He could have slipped poisoned mushrooms into his meal when Juanita wasn’t looking.”

“He has no prior criminal record, and I found him to be a weird duck when I questioned him. But he volunteered to take a lie detector test and passed,” Ty said.

“Oh.” I guessed that ruled out Mark Cummings. “I understand that Marvin abused Roberta. That’s what’s floating on the gossip grapevine anyway. What else have you found out about the victim?”

“There’s nothing but three arrests for disorderly conduct. Cogswell has no convictions and no ties to anything criminal. Roberta reported domestic violence on Marvin’s part, and the Sandy Harbor police were called for a couple of loud fights between him and Roberta. And it was well-known that he mooched meals from area restaurants.”

“In exchange for favorable evaluations,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s been going on for years. Why would anyone kill him now?”

“Maybe someone got sick of it. Or maybe he was going to fail someone, regardless of how well he was treated.”

“His records show that that wasn’t the case. He hasn’t really failed a restaurant in more than four years. He just sends out ‘fix this’ warning letters.”

“Yeah, I got one of those.”

I realized that I really didn’t know anything about Cogswell. I’d never even seen his face.

Twice I was near him in his deceased state. The first time, he was facedown on a plate full of pork and scalloped potatoes. The second time, I was at the Hal Manning’s Happy Repose Funeral Home where he had a closed casket. The picture of him in his obit was from high school, and it was awfully grainy. The same picture was on his casket.

“Was Marvin Cogswell a handsome guy?” I asked.

He looked at me like I had snakes crawling out of my ears.

“Would you say that he was handsome?” I repeated.

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

“Ty, from a purely non–
Brokeback Mountain
standpoint, would you say that Mr. Cogswell was a good-looking guy?”

He laughed. I just loved how he bent his head back and laughed from his gut—a deep, manly laugh. “What are you going for, Trixie?”

“I’m thinking of a love triangle. Maybe he was cheating on Roberta, and Roberta got jealous. Or maybe the other woman got jealous of Roberta. I was wondering if he was a hunk? A stud? A player?”

“I guess you could say that he looked a little like Bob, your night cook.”

“I’ve never seen Bob, my night cook! Give me another kickoff point. Let’s use you, Ty. Is he cuter than you?”

Just as the words spewed out of my mouth, I realized my mistake.

“How could anyone be cuter than I am?” he said.

“Forget it!” I said. “I’ll go to the library and look up a clear yearbook picture of Mr. Cogswell. Or maybe his picture is on the Internet somewhere. Maybe Facebook.”

“It’s not. I searched all that. However, in his personal effects, I have his driver’s license, which is almost four years old, and his twelve-year-old ID badge from the health department. I didn’t look up his old yearbook picture.”

“Can I see his driver’s license picture?”

“His personal effects are locked up in the basement of the sheriff’s department, and I don’t know how his looks would point to a murderer.” His tone of voice held a hint of impatience.

“Yeah, you’re right. Forget it.” Deputy Brisco just wasn’t taking me seriously.

“If you really want to see his picture, I’ll get it out of the evidence locker.”

He was throwing me a bone. “No. Don’t bother.”

I was mad now. Ty had shot down my piece of material evidence that pointed to ACB being by my back door somewhere around the time that Cogswell died, and now he was shooting down my love-triangle theory.

Granted, a man didn’t have to be handsome to have two women after him, but it certainly would help. Since I was a woman, albeit one with a libido
that was paralyzed after my divorce, I could still tell if a man might be worth pursuing.

Even though I had no intention of running after a man, or even walking at a snail’s pace toward one, I could still tell if they had that certain…uh…animal magnetism.

Ty had that magnetism, much to my chagrin.

Then I remembered that I had an appointment with Roberta Cummings on Tuesday—Meat Loaf Special Tuesday. She had to have pictures of Marvin Cogswell in her office, her wallet, or maybe on her phone.

I didn’t need Ty to go to the trouble of getting me Marvin’s old driver’s license picture. On Tuesday, I was going to meet with Marvin Cogswell’s girlfriend, and have a woman-to-woman conversation. She’d have a recent picture of him.

And Wyatt Earp didn’t have to know about it.

In the next three days, I slept, worked, and played with Blondie. I worked on checking things off my notebook lists as I accomplished them. I made more lists. It made me feel better that I was making progress on finally getting things done.

I cut checks for the payroll, noticing that there was even a little money coming in from the American Legion people. There was more going out, but I still felt optimistic.

I even did some unpacking and cleaning, when not at the diner, still covering for the elusive Bob.

I made the meat loaf, the gravy, and the mashed potatoes for the Tuesday special. If I say so myself,
it looked fabulous, and I used Uncle Porky’s recipe, but with one exception—I used mild salsa in the burger. I found that it gave it a little something extra.

Before getting ready for my meeting with Roberta Cummings, I’d made an apple pie and packed up two meat loaf specials in a take-out box. She could have it for lunch or dinner.

On the way, I stopped at the Gas and Grab and picked up a bouquet of flowers. At the Dollar-O-Rama, I bought a box of chamomile tea.

Perhaps I could charm her into talking to me about Marvin.

The office of the
Sandy Harbor Lure
was on Main Street next to the combination dry cleaner and Laundromat. I pulled up right in front of the newspaper office, fed the meter, and walked inside. An older woman—June!—greeted me.

“Hello, Trixie.”

“Why, hello, June. How long have you worked here?”

“Since I retired from teaching. It’ll be five years this August.”

“And May works at the library.”

She nodded. “And you’re here to see Roberta. She’s expecting you.” On the last sentence, she rolled her eyes, as if Roberta didn’t want to see me at all.

No surprise there.

June reached for her phone and punched in a number; I could hear a buzz.

“Trixie’s here,” she said into the phone. “I’ll let her know.” Putting down the receiver, she smiled at me and said, “She’ll be right out.”

“Thanks.”

Roberta kept me waiting for ten minutes, but June filled in the time by talking to me about the Sandy Harbor Guest Cottages in “the old days when Porky and Stella used to own the point.” There were tales of fish bakes and bonfires on the shore of the lake.

“Good, clean, family fun times,” June said, remembering the past. “And dancing every Friday outside under the moonlight.” She closed her eyes. “It was one of those Fridays when I met my Walter, God rest his soul.”

I remembered their parties, too. There were fireworks and Uncle Porky would get out his harmonica and we’d sing around the campfire. Aunt Stella would play the accordion, believe it or not, and she could rock those polkas. And they’d always end up singing a few songs in Polish, joined by their relatives and friends.

I just loved to watch them sing. Their faces would light up, and they’d be grinning from ear to ear.

Hey, I could throw a fish bake this summer, along with dancing and a bonfire! It might not be the caliber of what Porky and Stella had hosted, but it might come close. I jotted down the idea in my notebook.

Finally, Roberta appeared, acting harried and
checking her watch. That was her nonverbal signal that this meeting was going to be held in record time.

“Please, come into my office,” she said, holding the door open.

“Nice talking to you, June,” I said as I walked past her desk.

June’s phone rang and she reached for it, giving me a brief wave.