The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery

by Nancy Pickard

  It all depended on a telephone call.

  Before tonight he’d never really noticed how bad this place smelled. He wrinkled his nose in disdain. Stale beer. The sweaty smell of frantic people. He wondered how he’d ever thought this was such a great place to spend his time, in this noisy bar full of drunken fools.

  He was on his tenth drink of the evening, and it tasted fine, because this particular drink was a taste of the good life to come. In anticipation of his coming good fortune, he had spent almost the last of his final paycheck on Wild Turkey instead of his usual rotgut. His stomach was warm, his chest felt the glow of good bourbon, and he even had a second glass—imported dark ale—to chase it down.

  As he savored his own excellent taste, he regarded his usual drinking buddies with a newly discovered disdain. He’d always known he was better than these bums. They’d be jealous as hell when they heard he’d won big at a casino—which was the story he was going to tell them—but he wouldn’t even come back to toast his own luck and buy them a round. Let ’em buy their own damn beer, bunch of drunks, Eddie thought. As soon as he got his fresh start, with his fresh wad of dough, he was through with joints like this, and with lowlife people.

  “I could join the Yacht Club,” he proposed to himself, and then he voted himself into membership by acclamation. “Yeah, and I’ll get a yacht.” It suddenly struck him as very funny that there could be members of that snooty club who didn’t even own a yacht. But he knew there were. Stanley Parker was one; the old man thought sailing was a bore and big boats were a waste of money. “If I want a fancy cruise, I’ll call one of my foolish friends,” he used to say. “All a person needs is a runabout to get them from here to there on the water.”

  And who’s the fool now? Eddie thought, with a private smirk.

  He spent a few minutes imagining the kind of boat he’d buy first: a real man’s boat, something flashy and loud that he could roar around in with sexy women stretched out on the back of it. Monster dual diesel engines. He’d stock it with the finest whiskey, beer, and scotch. Cruise it down the Intracoastal Canal all the way to Miami. Hell, you could live in a boat like that; the best ones had all the comforts of a first-class apartment, and they’d rock and roll you to sleep.

  “Hey, Eddie, you got a telephone call!”

  His heart felt jolted, his hand shook. This could be it.

  A bartender held out the receiver to him, past the faces of two women who glanced back curiously, saw Eddie, and immediately turned back to the other men seated on either side of them. He snatched the receiver, stretching the cord past the long, messy black hair of one of the women, and had to restrain himself from wrapping it around her stupid neck. Pull her clear off the barstool, that’s what he’d like to do, choke her with the cord, see if she ignored him then. She’d be interested in him tomorrow, oh yeah, but he wouldn’t give her a second glance by then.

  “Yeah?” he said into the receiver.

  “All right. You win,” a voice said. It was a disguised voice, which amused the hell out of Eddie. No one listening in on an extension would have been able to tell if it was a male or a female who had called him. With a triumphant grin, Eddie replied, “Like, you had a choice.”

  “Public docks,” the voice said, sounding angry. “One A.M.”

  “Hey, I’ll be the one who—”

  But he was talking to a dial tone. Dammit, he was supposed to be in control now, he should be setting the time and place to meet, not this loser on the other end of the phone. Flushing with anger, and embarrassed because one of the women had seen that somebody had hung up on him, Eddie tossed the receiver back onto the bar so that it barely missed hitting her.

  “Hey! Watch it!” the woman protested.

  Eddie muttered an obscenity at her and walked away quickly.

  The men seated near the women were bigger than he was, and this wasn’t a good night to be picking a fight with anybody. Now the bartender was pissed at him, too, for doing the telephone like that, and he was yelling something at him.

  Eddie muttered a series of curses under his breath.

  It didn’t matter what these losers thought of him anymore. What mattered was what they’d think of him tomorrow when he was the big new winner in town. Women

  wouldn’t snub him then. He could say what he wanted to them, do what he wanted, and nobody could stop him, because people with money got their way in life. He’d just roar off in his new cigarette boat, and leave them choking on exhaust fumes.

  Suddenly, remembering the best part of the telephone call, he felt a pleasure so deep it hurt. “You win.” They were words he’d never heard before. He hadn’t really believed it would happen this quickly. But this was it, tonight! He looked at his watch. In less than an hour, he would be a rich man, a new man. Damn, he needed something special to celebrate. Holding his bourbon high in one hand, he fished in his pockets with his other hand, finally coming up with two five-dollar bills. This was it, the only money he had left from his bad old life.

  Eddie weaved back through the crowd to the bar, but farther down, where another bartender was pouring drinks.

  “I want a bottle of champagne,” he told the guy.

  “You?” The bartender barely glanced at him and laughed when he did. “You ain’t the champagne type, Eddie. Try a draft beer, why don’t you?”

  “I said I want champagne.” He wanted to toss his drink in the smart mouth’s face. “I got ten dollars. Give me a damn bottle of it.”

  The bartender grinned at the people on either side of Eddie. “Wow. A ten-dollar bottle of champagne. Man, that’s a first-class party. When you go, you go all the way, don’t you, Eddie? Okay, you want some champagne, I’ll give you the best we got that ten dollars will buy.” He turned away, knelt down, and opened a cabinet. After moving some bottles, the bartender fished out a dusty bottle with a champagne label. He put out his right hand, palm up, and Eddie slapped his money into it. Only then did the man release the bottle into his custody. Around them, other drinkers were laughing and joking with each other about the exchange. “Have a blast, Eddie. If you can’t drink all of it, you can use it in the morning to clean the fine silver.”

  A burst of hilarity greeted that mockery.

  With his head full of booze and hatred, Eddie turned away without a word, because he knew who would have the last laugh.

  The cool night air didn’t clear his head at all when he stepped outside.

  He pressed the warm champagne bottle against his ribs.

  So it’d been sitting back in a cupboard, so it wasn’t chilled on ice, who cared? Champagne wasn’t supposed to be real cold, anyway. He’d show what a classy guy he was. Classy guys always used champagne to close their deals, that’s how it was done.

  When he reached the public docks, he looked around for his “mark.”

  There weren’t any security guards here, not like the clubs where you had to prove you belonged before they’d even let you walk onto a dock. Choppy waves banged against the pilings and bottom of Dock A, making it shake, when he walked out onto it. For a wobbly moment, Eddie had to fight to put one foot in front of the other. Maybe he was a little drunker than he’d thought he was, but who could blame him? Eddie made himself stand up straight on the unsteady dock and told himself he was going to straighten up in all ways from now on. He wouldn’t screw this up, not like he’d been screwed all his whole friggin’ life. Tonight was the beginning of good things. Eddie felt grand as he imagined himself buying the power boat, and also a cabin on a salt marsh. Or a condo right on the ocean. And he was going to need a deep-sea fishing boat, and not one of those puny skiffs like his loser so-called friends owned. A fifty-footer, with a cabin below and a flying bridge up on top. He’d need something big enough to haul red crabs, pull some pots, spear some swordfish, something big enough to cruise the shore, and also go way out to sea. Maybe he’d take it on down to the Caribbean, maybe through the Panama Canal, and over to California. There was no stopping him now.

  He r
eached for a railing, steadied himself, clung to it.

  The sky was heavily clouded, covering the moon, not like the night when old man Parker got killed. That night was a miracle, Eddie truly believed, a miracle, the way the moon lit up the path right where it happened, so Eddie could see it all perfectly. The rain had come up soon after that and there were clouds all over the rest of the sky, but there was that one spot where it was clear, where the moon beamed like a spotlight exactly where Eddie needed to see what he saw: the approach. The greeting. The angry argument. The upraised arm. The weapon, and the blow, so strong and murderous it not only knocked the old man sideways, but his motorbike, too, sending both man and bike tumbling over the hill. And then Eddie had watched with eager interest the rest of it, which was horrible and fascinating: how the old man had fallen midway down the cliff and sprawled there, not moving, and then how the attacker had climbed down after him, striking him again and again, and then using the weapon to shove the old man’s body until it rolled all the way down to the beach.

  The old man had to be dead after the first blow.

  But the killer made sure, and the moon made sure that Eddie knew who it was. And that wasn’t even all he knew from hanging around the Castle, especially during the last couple of weeks of the old man’s life. This was just the biggest secret, the main treasure chest of loot for him. The other things he knew, they were small change he could collect anytime he needed pocket money.

  Tonight, he’d go for the big payoff first.

  A sudden wind sent an empty paper cup skittering across the dock and into the water.

  The sudden noise made him jump.

  What time was it? How long had he been standing here? He couldn’t miss this appointment! Even if he was late for everything else in his life, he had to be on time for this.

  Eddie looked around, feeling worried.

  This couldn’t be right, this dock was too crowded, there were people in these boats, a few of them still sitting out on their decks. There was a radio playing on one of them, and the sound of soft laughter coming up from a cabin. Eddie turned and weaved back the way he’d come. He’d lost all track of time. He made his way down past the other docks, toward the last one.

  Finally, he saw a figure standing in the shadows.

  It was the dock where boaters tied up the smallest of the motorboats, not the kind you’d sleep on overnight, and it was empty except for the lone person standing there.

  “Hey!” Eddie called out, before he realized it wasn’t a good idea to shout. More softly, as he got closer, he said, “That you?”

  “Right here,” a restrained voice answered. “You’re late.”

  It made Eddie mad to be accused like that by this person.

  As he got close enough to see a face, he retorted, “I’m here when I want to be here.” Suddenly, he felt a need to hurry. “Let’s get this over with. Where’s my money?”

  “Come on out and I’ll give it to you.”

  “Out where?”

  The person walked out onto the dock between the two rows of tied-up motorboats. Evidently, Eddie was expected to tag along, and that made him mad, too. Oh, well, let the fool pretend to be in charge. They both knew who was really running this show and who would be leaving with the cash. When Eddie saw that he was expected to climb into a small boat, he balked, but only because he was already unsteady on his feet, and the idea of maneuvering his way into the hollow of the little motorboat seemed too difficult to contemplate.

  “Come on aboard, Eddie.”

  “Don’t want to. You come back out here.”

  “Oh, come on, I’ll give you a hand. It’s all here. We can sit down and talk about it. Anybody sees us, we’re just a couple of friends on a boat.”

  But Eddie snubbed the helpful hand that reached up to him.

  “Forget that, I can make it on my own.”

  He grasped a post on the dock with his left arm and let himself clumsily down into the boat, still clutching the champagne bottle under his right arm. The boat lurched just before he let go of the post, and he almost went in the water, in the narrow space between the side of the motorboat and the edge of the dock.

  “Damn! Whose boat is this?”

  “It’s the J&J.”

  “J&J? What’s that mean?”

  “It stands for Jason and Janie.”

  “Jason and—” Eddie got it, and laughed. “Perfect.”

  Once he was in and safely seated, he felt triumphant, as if he’d proved something important. He’d gotten into the boat on his own. He could handle things. He could handle this. “I can barely see you. Don’t they put lights on these docks?”

  “We don’t need any light.”

  “Afraid somebody will see you with me?” Eddie laughed. “They’ll say, ‘Hey! Ain’t that—’ ”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  It made Eddie mad to be talked to like that, but that was okay, because getting mad just made him more courageous. “Got us a bottle of champagne to seal the deal. Want a drink?”

  “No, I’ve had enough tonight.”

  Eddie fumbled with the plastic and wire top on the champagne, his thumbs slipping off it a couple of times before he got the hang of it. He didn’t want to look like an idiot. When the plastic cork finally popped, it flew off into the water, releasing a spray of fizz over the top of the bottle, wetting him, his knees, and the bottom of the boat. Eddie licked the wine off his fingers and made a face. It was sour. He’d rather have whiskey or beer. “Got any glasses?” he asked, and then laughed.

  “No.”

  “We’ll have to share the bottle.”

  “I don’t want any. It’s all yours.”

  “Aw, come on, don’t you want to celebrate?” It was said sarcastically. Eddie raised high the fat bottle. “Here’s to us, a great partnership.”

  “No partnership. A one-shot deal. You shut up. I pay up.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He took a swig, made a face at it. “Cheers.”

  “You think it was easy for me to get this money?”

  “Yeah, matter of fact, I do. And I think you ought to throw in something else, for all the trouble I’m saving you.” This idea had only just come to him, but it seemed so logical and right. “You gotta get me a place to live free. Not over a damn garage, either. I want a nice place, like you got.”

  “I can’t do that much for you.”

  “Why not? It’d be easy for you.”

  “You’re greedy, Eddie.”

  “And you’re not?” He laughed, took another swig. “You got the power to do things for me.”

  “I haven’t got any power, Eddie.”

  “Sure you do, and there’s lots of things I want.”

  “First things first. I brought the money.”

  “Where is it? Give it to me.”

  “Here.”

  The other person reached back, grabbed hold of something.

  Eddie lifted the bottle again and closed his eyes. He had to laugh. Old Man Parker was always telling him how he ought to grab the opportunities life gave him. Well, this was it. Heaven was opening, and hell was closing up tight. In another minute, when he opened his eyes, there’d be a spread of cash in front of him, more cash than he’d ever seen outside of the cashier’s cage in a casino. He groaned out loud with pleasure and anticipation.

  Some sixth sense made his eyes fly open.

  He saw the arm swinging toward him, holding long, hard metal quahog tongs. There was no time for him to move out of the way. It came so fast it was a blur. He felt an instant of blinding pain when the tongs slammed into his skull and heard a terrible crunching within his own head. The champagne bottle fell from his grasp, spilling its sour yellow contents all over his pants legs, flooding the bottom of the boat with the smell of alcohol. The tongs crashed into his skull a second time, then a third and fourth, but Eddie didn’t feel those. He didn’t hear the splash when the tongs went into the dark water of Narragansett Bay, and he didn’t feel the boat rock when the other oc
cupant stepped out of it.

  Nor did he hear the words, “One more job to do.”

  18

  TOO MANY COOKS

  Genia’s curled, sleeping body felt the noise before it registered in her mind. One of her shoulders twitched, as if it had been shoved by an invisible hand. Instantaneously, her eyes flew open. What was that? She shot up in bed, every nerve ending alert.

  Did I hear something, or only dream it?

  She blinked, fighting to see through the darkness of the bedroom. Although the curtains at the windows were pulled back and the shades were raised, no moon or starlight shone through to illuminate things for her. Either the moon was busy elsewhere, or black clouds covered it tonight. Gradually, she made out shapes of furniture, humped and inhuman in the shadows.

  There’s nothing in here that shouldn’t be here.

  At least not that she could see. Genia realized she was holding her breath. She let it out quietly, and just as quietly took in another breath. Her ears strained to catch any untoward sound from this floor or the one below her. Through an open window, she heard the branches of the slender pine tree outside her windows slide against each other as a slight breeze moved them. Everything, otherwise, seemed unnaturally silent, except for the pounding of her own heart, which sounded as if it were beating in her ears instead of in her chest.

  She glanced at the small round clock beside the bed: one-thirty. Long enough for her to have drifted off into a deep sleep for several hours. She had fought sleeplessness by reading Stanley’s old cookbook until her eyes drooped. Then she had closed the cookbook and laid it down beside the clock. And now a noise—actual, or dreamed?—had jerked her back to wakefulness. She reached for the light near the clock and book, but before her fingers could touch the small brass switch, she heard something. Or thought she did. A muffled sound, partly thud, partly click. It sounded distant but distinct, a real sound coming from downstairs. This was no dream.

  I really heard something.

  She reached instinctively for her robe, which lay across the foot of her bed. The sound was inside the house, she was sure of that now. Something—someone!—was in the house.