A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  Wow, gossip traveled faster than Tony’s Harley. ACB even heard the news on a sidecar on the highway of life.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “When we rolled into town, we stopped at the Grab and Go. The headlines in the Lure caught my eye. I’ve always wondered what happened to her. She was such a sweet girl.”

  “Someone didn’t think so.”

  “That’s true. I remember that night. We were having so much fun at the bonfire, singing and all. I remember that Marvin Cogswell brought out his guitar and yelled, ‘Antoinette Chloe Switzer, sing us some songs.‘”

  “Any thoughts on who would want Claire dead?”

  “Not at all. Everyone liked her. We’d gotten to know her since she came here every summer. She was like one of us.”

  “Did everyone feel the same way?”

  “Naw. Laura VanPlank Tingsley didn’t like her in the least.”

  “Wonder why.”

  “Probably because her Ricky asked Claire to the bonfire.”

  “As his date?” I asked.

  “It looked like it to me. Matter of fact, Ricky looked more in love with Claire than with Laura, and he’d been going steady with Laura for years.”

  I knew it! I just knew it.

  “At any point did Rick and Claire go off together?”

  “Not that I can remember, but they were holding hands.”

  “I’ll bet Laura didn’t like that.”

  “She was sitting at the bonfire, staring at Ricky and Claire, and steam was shooting from her ears. I told her that she should cool off in the lake. She told me to shut up and sing.”

  ACB laughed loudly, sounding like rusty springs, and the noise bounced around the kitchen. Her laugh was so contagious, I couldn’t help joining in.

  I said good-bye, promised that I’d stop by for dinner with “that hunk of a cowboy cop,” and left.

  My head always spun after an encounter with ACB, but basically I got some good information: Rick Tingsley definitely was with Claire Jacobson, and Laura VanPlank Tingsley hated seeing them together.

  But there was no “B” still and did Laura hate enough to kill?

  Chapter 8

  I told Ty what ACB had said.

  “I should get her down to the station and get an official statement from her.”

  “Can you hold off for a while? Don’t scare everyone off.”

  “Maybe it’ll be good to shake everyone up, especially those who were interviewed for the Lure back then.”

  “I don’t get it, Ty. Claire was two months pregnant before she even showed up at the cottages the year she died. It couldn’t have been a townie. It must have been someone from her hometown!”

  “It still could have been a townie. Someone with wheels who took a trip to visit her in—” He checked the file. “In Rochester. I still want to interview everyone in that senior class, but that’ll take such a long time, and probably less than a third are still here. Maybe I’ll just start with Rick Tingsley.”

  “If you law enforcement types start getting all official with the future president of the United States, he’ll suddenly take an extended vacation or lawyer up.”

  “It’s just questioning.” He shook his head, obviously frustrated. “I’ll take that chance.”

  “If the First Ladies get wind of that, they’ll be all over you like salt on french fries.”

  “The . . . who?”

  “Laura Tingsley and her mother. They just remind me of . . . Oh, never mind. It’s just me.”

  He was silent for a couple of miles. “You know, Trixie, I’m getting kind of tired of chauffeuring your butt around.”

  “Hey, wasn’t it your idea to drag me around?”

  “I believe that it was your idea,” he said.

  “Everyone was blabby today. I got some stellar gossip.”

  “Uh-huh. Like what?”

  “Nothing much. Just gossip. If it turns into anything, I’ll let you know,” I said.

  A misty rain started falling, just enough for Ty to turn the wipers on slow. On the right side of the SUV was a rainbow.

  “Isn’t that just beautiful?” I asked, pointing to the right.

  Ty looked quickly, then returned his gaze to the road. “Look for a pot of gold.”

  “I could use a pot of gold, but I’d settle for solving these two mysteries.” I sighed, suddenly feeling that I was concentrating on Claire and wasn’t paying enough attention to Mr. Burrows.

  “Ty, let’s figure out if Mr. Burrows was in fact Claire Jacobson’s brother—or even a relative of hers.”

  “The state police are working on that now—matching fingerprints, doing DNA, and contacting any living relatives. I expect a phone call in the next couple of days.”

  “I feel it in my bones that he’s Phil Jacobson,” I said, feeling my innate impatience boiling. I was confident I recognized his eyes.

  “I suspect that you’re right.”

  A plan formulated in my mind. “Ty, I have a scathingly brilliant idea. I was already planning to reinstitute the Saturday night Dance Fest, and all the cast of characters will probably attend. I can circulate, make small talk, gossip, snoop, whatever. Everyone will be in one place, drinking beer and wine, and liquor loosens the lips.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to deal with a lot of drunks.”

  “Max will tend bar. He’ll keep an eye on everyone’s intake and won’t let things get out of hand. Clyde will walk around and make sure no one has brought any liquor in. At eleven o’clock, the coffee will come out, and so will the designated drivers. Of course, you’ll be in attendance. They’d have to be stupid to overdo it with you there.”

  “And Vern McCoy. It’ll be his night off, but he’s talked about the Silver Bullet’s Dance Fest since I hired on. You can be sure he’ll be attending. He can park cars, too.”

  “Let’s see . . . today’s Friday. I can get the word out and be ready to rock this coming Saturday.”

  “That fast?”

  “Faster than you law enforcement types move—that’s for sure.”

  He chuckled and pulled into the Silver Bullet’s driveway. He left the car on but opened his door. “I’ll go in and get our lunch. You stay somewhat dry.”

  It was raining harder, and the breeze had morphed into wind.

  “Thanks.” For once I didn’t want to go into the diner. It had been a long couple of days, what with finding a body and everything. What I wanted was to have my burger and do the payroll in the kitchen of my house. Maybe I could be on time with the paychecks for once.

  Ty came out with two take-out bags. “I hate to drop you off and run, but I’m going to eat at my desk downtown. I want to check on a couple of things.”

  “And you’ll let me know if David Burrows is Phil?”

  He nodded and drove me the short distance to the Big House. He’d better give me some information, or I was done giving him any information that I obtained.

  As I walked up the stairs, I realized I couldn’t withhold information from Ty. He was Sandy Harbor’s lead investigator. No matter how trivial it might seem, I’d tell him.

  Just as I opened the door, Blondie greeted me with a whine. Then she zoomed past me and ran down the steps as if she chasing a bird or a rabbit or a cat. That was unlikely as she was scared of all three, plus her own shadow.

  “Blondie!”

  Oh! She was watering the already-soaked lawn. I had taken too long in getting back from my travels with Ty.

  I waited on the front porch as she rolled in the grass, lay on her back with her paws raking the air, sniffed several square feet of grass, and then started pacing in a line. Oh, time for Number Two.

  Poor sweetie.

  She decided to sniff the side yard, so I followed her onto the wraparound porch. Then she sniffed the lawn on the
lake side of the house. I still followed, getting chilled, and so were my burger and fries. Then we progressed to the left side.

  Then she put her paws to the metal and sniffed right along the trail of the mystery woman that I saw walking the night of Mr. Burrows’s murder.

  “Blondie! Come!”

  Blondie had been a half-frozen, filthy, and wet stray when she showed up at the back door of my diner last winter. Every now and then, she ignored my commands whenever she got a taste of freedom. But sometimes she surprised me, like now.

  Then again, she was just hoping to get a handout of burgers and fries.

  She sat in front of me on the porch and looked at me with those big brown eyes of hers as I opened the bag. She was already soaked.

  Was it ever going to stop raining for more than five minutes? This town was starting to feel like a tropical rain forest without the humidity and the funky vegetation.

  I pulled out a fry and handed it to her. She took it ever so gently from my hand. I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost Blondie. All my love was directed at that furry blond dog. Since I’d never been able to have children of my own, Blondie filled a void in my heart. The rest of the void I filled by dishing up nourishing comfort food at the diner.

  I shared some of my takeout with her, then let her back into the house and toweled her off.

  She shook off and got me wetter than before. Deciding that I couldn’t look any worse, and Ty couldn’t get madder at me, I was going to explore the field where I saw the footprints.

  The cops had to be finished with the area by now, so I didn’t feel as though I’d be disturbing a crime scene. If the tape was still up, I wouldn’t go there.

  I slipped and slid through the long weeds and grass of the meadow—the wet vegetation wrapping itself around my jeans and the wet ground seeping into my boat shoes.

  Taking a deep breath of the moist air, I felt rejuvenated and my head seemed clearer. I should find the time to walk more often. I could make it a habit to walk Blondie more often. We could certainly walk the beach as far as the marina, some five miles away.

  I was busy looking for something, anything, when I tripped. Like a giant redwood, I flew through the air, wincing in anticipation of feeling the impact of my pounds-per-square-inch when I hit the ground.

  But my impact was negligible. The tall grass cushioned my fall and flossed my teeth at the same time. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I opened my eyes and stared into the thorns of a burdock plant. Missed it!

  Clinging to the prickers was a soggy piece of white paper. I could see the dark letters of typewriting bleeding through. Wait. Typewriting! Carefully, I plucked the paper off the burdock, and opened it.

  . . . the trail of Claire’s murderer. I know that the answer lies in Cottage Eight, and I don’t care if I have to take the whole building down—I will find the final clue that will put the murderer behind bars for life.

  With this book, I will make sure that the world knows that Claire—

  That’s it?

  Oh, for Pete’s sake!

  The excerpt from his book didn’t give me much information other than to verify that Mr. Burrows was writing a book, which I already had guessed. It did verify that the book was about Claire and that he’d specifically rented Cottage Eight, which I’d guessed, too.

  So far I was good at guessing.

  Over the falling rain and the rumbling thunder, I heard something coming toward me. Whatever it was was coming fast, like someone running toward me. Stuffing the paper into my bra, I lay still on the grass, closed my eyes, and hoped that this wasn’t the murderer returning to find that the last page of his manuscript was missing.

  There was nothing to defend myself with, other than a burdock plant. I gripped the roots, preparing to rip the plant out of the ground and scratch the killer to death.

  The rustling stopped, and someone was breathing hard on my right side. My heart was going to pound right out of my chest.

  Someone was licking my hair, then my cheek.

  “Blondie!”

  I scrambled to my feet and wiped off my face with the hem of my T-shirt.

  “How did you get out of the house?”

  The paper must have blown over here in the wind when the murderer raced away. Or maybe the murderer tripped over the same tree root that I had.

  Blondie walked next to me, her tail wagging happily after her escape from the Big House.

  We walked back. It was then I noticed that I hadn’t closed the back door carefully. Blondie could have easily pushed open the screen door and then the outside door with her nose.

  “Bad Trixie,” I said, feeling the same emptiness pre-Blondie that I’d had. I’d have to be more careful.

  In the warmth of my kitchen, I gently got the paper from my bra and set it on a paper towel on the counter to dry. Then I dried Blondie off again with her big fluffy towel.

  Upstairs, I shed my clothes and took a hot shower. Then I slipped into a navy blue Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt and matching sweatpants.

  On one rare occasion that Deputy Doug and I went out together, it was a Super Bowl party at another cop’s house. Doug insisted that I dress for the part, even though I couldn’t care less about any sport with the possible exception of the summer and winter Olympics. I am obsessed with the Olympics when they’re on TV.

  Then I slipped on my fuzzy pink slippers.

  At the kitchen table, I reached for a pen and my favorite notebook and opened it to a clean page. On the top, I wrote DANCE FEST TO-DO LIST.

  Then I started writing. I listed the buffet menu: pulled pork, three-cheese baked macaroni, chef salad with my special basil vinaigrette dressing, salt potatoes, baked beans, potato salad, hot dogs, Juanita’s burgers, kielbasa, and kraut. Oh, and that fancy cottage cheese and walnut salad that Aunt Helen always made. I’d make one with nuts, and one without.

  For dessert, I’d make trays of brownies and trays of my friend Michele’s Chocolate Cowboy Cake. That would take care of the chocolate lovers. Then for the others, I’d make a fruit salad, mini-cheesecakes, and trays of chocolate chip cookies.

  The list would get me started. I’d make another list of all the food, condiments, paper plates, and plastic utensils that I’d have to order.

  Then I’d have to find a band. I wondered if Frankie Rudinski and the Polka Dots were still around. I could still remember them after all these years. If they weren’t available, Juanita would know of a good band. And I’d have to rent a huge tent because I’d wager that it would rain. Then there was the “little” stuff like a dance floor and renting tables and chairs. And I needed lots of firewood for the bonfire, a few big rolls of plastic table covering, a couple of kegs of beer, some wine and wine coolers, lots of soda, and serving stands with liquid fuel to keep everything hot. And lots of ice to keep the salads and whatnot cool.

  There needed to be a bar. Clyde and Max would remember how to do that. They were working here at the first Dance Fest.

  Oh, and publicity! I needed a supply of posters to put in storefronts all over town. I’d buy some radio time, too. We had a few great local stations, and some of the DJs were diner regulars. The publicity was the most important part. Flyers! I could print up some flyers that could be handed out to every customer at the Silver Bullet and slipped into grocery bags at the Grab and Go and at Super Duper Groceries on Route 13.

  Aunt Stella surely had a good dozen more serving stands that the aluminum and/or metal pans fit on, but where could they be? The diner only had a handful that I used for the emergency buffet for the mystery bus people, but I definitely needed more for the Dance Fest.

  There were probably some stored here in the basement.

  I shuddered. Basements gave me the creeps. They were always musty and leaky, and in older houses, the furnace looked like a metal monster with dozens of arms.

  In the movies a
nd books, someone was always buried in the basement, or locked in by the villain to die a musty, damp death. And the lights never worked in the basement.

  I had to go down there. Those stands were the key to a successful buffet. I didn’t want to buy more if they were already here.

  “Blondie, come!” I opened the basement door. There was that creepy smell.

  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.