A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  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.

  I found Rick Tingsley to be an arrogant worm who gave politicians a worse reputation than they already had.

  At the Dance Fest, Laura might be able to tell me more about the bonfire evening, or maybe her mother would put a lid on whatever Laura said. I’d just have to separate them somehow.

  And Rick Tingsley from them all.

  As I walked over to the Silver Bullet, I stopped and looked up at the sky. The stars were brilliant and so close I felt I could pluck them out of the darkness and put one on each finger, like diamonds.

  Speaking of diamonds, I wondered if “B” had promised to marry Claire when he found out that she was pregnant. Or maybe she hadn’t even told him.

  She must have. Claire was so happy, even I could see the joy on her face back then. Certainly, the father of her baby could see her happiness, too.

  So who was the father of her baby?

  I thought I needed to hit the library and pull out the yearbook of the class of 1989. Nothing like a yearbook to find out information about the past. I’d bet my tomato pants that I’d find someone with a B name if it’s the last thing I did.

  Question: why hadn’t I thought of that sooner?

  Answer: because this chef had too much on her plate.

  I should have brought my lists with me. In between orders, I could make more phone calls and do more planning for the Dance Fest.

  Going in through the back door, I noticed that Juanita and Cindy were doing some cleaning. Everything was neat and tidy, and the floor was so clean, I c
ould eat off it.

  “Fabulous!” I said. “Everything looks wonderful.”

  “Thanks,” Cindy said. “We got a little slow, so we thought we’d straighten things up.”

  “Well, things aren’t going to be slow for long. I’ve decided to reinstitute the Dance Fest,” I said. I could feel the excitement bubbling through my veins. This was going to be fun!

  “Really, Trixie? My parents have told me about them and how much fun they were. Bonfires, dancing, food, men!” Cindy giggled.

  Juanita clapped. “Perfect. It’s about time this stretch of beach heard laughter again!” She suddenly sobered. “Too much death. Time for fun.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” I said, still hoping that I could get good tidbits of information from those attending.

  “Trixie, I almost forgot . . . you have a message,” Juanita said. “Laura Tingsley can’t make lunch with you, but her mother will be here at one o’clock.”

  “Carla?” It was strange that she’d come alone. I didn’t really know her mother from the latest boy band, but what the heck? “Okay. Lunch with Laura’s mom.”

  I told Juanita and Cindy to go home, that I’d start my shift early, and thanked them again.

  “I want to tell you that I hired a busboy. His name is Ray Myerson. He starts tomorrow at noon.”

  “I know him,” Cindy said. “He’s in my sister Maria’s class. She told me how he got into trouble for hacking into the school’s computer and giving everyone A’s and B’s.”

  “We’re going to give him a chance,” I said.

  Cindy nodded. “I won’t bring it up.”

  “Yeah, there’s no need,” I said.

  “About the Dance Fest, Trixie,” Juanita said. “You know I’ll do anything to help.”

  “Me, too!” Cindy said.

  “I knew I could count on you both.” Tears stung my eyes. I was blessed to have such a great staff. There weren’t any problems that we couldn’t handle together.

  I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

  My waitresses tonight were Judy Daniels and Laurie Lanco, two veterans who had worked for Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella, so it should be an easy evening. I told them about the Dance Fest also, and like Juanita and Cindy, they volunteered to do whatever I needed.

  I didn’t expect a big evening crowd tonight, so I’d have some time to work on my lists. I was going to inventory the meat and veggies that I had on hand, and then I’d make a list of veggies and meat that I’d need. Then tomorrow I’d place a big order at the local organic farm and the rest at the local food supplier, Sunshine Foods.

  I also had to watch for Sarah Stolfus the next time she dropped off an order. I wanted to ask her to make several dozen biscuits for strawberry shortcake and a buggy load of chocolate chip cookies for the kids.

  And I was going to make Michele’s Chocolate Cowboy Cake. Michele was a pal of mine from the old neighborhood who was noted for this cake. The best thing about it was that the cake could be frosted when hot—a wonderful timesaver.

  Oh, I had to call my liquor distributor, too. I’d need a couple of kegs of beer, a few boxes of wine, and several cases of soda.

  Laurie greeted me and gave me seven orders for the Friday night special: fried haddock with coleslaw and fries and a side of either macaroni salad, potato salad, or mac and cheese.

  The Silver Bullet’s coleslaw was just fabulous. It was all in the dressing—Uncle Porky’s special recipe that was passed to him from a good neighbor, Grandma Wojcieson.

  And he always put a “secret ingredient” in his macaroni and potato salad—dill weed. I’ve told a few people, but I’ve always made them promise not to tell anyone else.

  A fistful of orders came in from Judy. She was tall and slender with brownish red hair that was always up in a twist. She reminded me of a very professional waitress. She never took a wasted step or forgot a thing that the customer wanted. Laurie, the other waitress on duty, was a people person and could talk the ears off an elephant.

  Laurie was a librarian by trade, but her library was downsized, and she was cut. She was as short as Judy was tall, and she was always on a diet. Laurie seemed scattered, but she did a wonderful job and the customers loved her wit and happy-go-lucky attitude.

  It was fun bantering with both of them, and I still managed to make some progress on the Dance Fest.

  Soon my shift was over and Darlene Wilson came in to cook. Dar worked on the weekends and was on call to fill in. She was an English-as-a-second-language teacher who did a lot of work with the migrant workers in the area. Dar seemed to always run in fourth gear. Just five minutes with Dar and her energy made me feel like a slug.

  Ty Brisco walked into the diner with his cowboy boots and hat, perfectly faded jeans, and a white long-sleeved shirt. You could cut your hand on his creased sleeves.

  But I wasn’t looking.

  Laurie immediately reached for the coffeepot, pouring him a cup of coffee.

  Ty took the coffee with a “Well, thank you very much, darlin’,” looked at me, and slanted his head toward a back booth.

  I got the message. Hopefully it was good news! I poured myself a cup and joined him.

  “Cottage Eight has been released on the condition that I take pictures and document everything we do.”

  I was thrilled. I just knew that we’d find something related to Claire. “That’s just what you said would happen.”

  He grinned. “When do you want to start tearing down the walls?”

  “Is now too soon?”

  Chapter 10

  I hurried to the Big House, excited to start the search for clues.

  “Is this your morning jog?” Ty asked.

  “Jog? In my dreams.”

  His long legs made short work of keeping up with me.

  “I left the tools on the porch, but I want to change into some old clothes. I don’t want to ruin my tomatoes.”

  He chuckled. “That would be a shame.”

  Ty sat down on a rocker as I ran upstairs. The answering machine was blinking, but I didn’t want to answer it. It’d probably just be more cancellations.

  After I destroyed Cottage Eight, I needed to go to the library and find B names from the 1989 graduating class. I shuddered to think that the baby daddy might not be a local male. Then how on earth would we find him?

  Unless there was a clue in the walls of Cottage Eight, it would be next to impossible to find the guy. Obviously, the father hadn’t come forward in twenty-five years.

  I slipped into a pair of jean shorts and an old T-shirt and went to meet Ty on the porch.

  Then I remembered something important. “Ty, where’s the folder that I borrowed from Dr. Francis’s office? I want to go through it.”

  “I already did. There’s nothing exciting in it.”

  “I want to read it anyway. Maybe something will click with me that didn’t click with you.”

  “If such a folder did exist, it’d be in my office under lock and key,” he said. “And, you know, you probably should put it back.”

  “That’ll be fun. And if I get caught?”

  “You’d better hope that Miss Shannon Shannon calls me so I can get you off,” he said as we walked down the stairs with our tools.

  “Don’t you love her name? At least it’s easy to remember,” I said. “And she certainly will remember your name. You charmed her.”

  Ty grinned. He was pretty proud of himself, the cowboy flirt that he was.

  I had to admit that Ty wasn’t like my ex, Deputy Doug. Sure, Ty powered up his Texas drawl to get information when he was working a case, and it worked like a charm.

  Ty was a natural flirt who loved women of all shapes and ages, but he wasn’t a player.

  Deputy Doug, on the other hand, used his uniform to pick up women—younger women—who were obviously imp
ressed by his blues, badge, and gun.

  He thought he was a player.

  I shook my head to clear out the Deputy Doug cobwebs and concentrated on the task at hand.

  Ty pulled the yellow crime scene tape away from the door of Eight. It felt good to see some of that go, but the cottage was still tightly wrapped. I opened the door with my extra key.

  “Nothing has changed, huh?” I asked Ty.

  “The typewriter is still on the floor,” he said.

  “I’m going to pick it up, Ty. Okay with you?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah, go ahead. It’s been photographed enough.”

  I lifted the typewriter with a grunt and put it on the table, just where Phil Jacobson had placed it. I wished that I had the scrapbook that I’d seen on the table.

  The murderer had taken it.

  “Ready?” Ty asked, handing me the sledgehammer.

  “You know, I thought I was ready for this, but it seems like I’m ruining the history of the place. Look at all these names of people who stayed here. Look at the dates: 1952, 1954, 1961 . . . It’s just so cool.”

  “I’ll take pictures before we start. Would that make you feel better?”

  “I guess so.”

  He had an official-looking cop camera, so the pictures should come out good.

  “Go for it, Trixie. Let’s start by the door and work around the main room first.”

  I took a deep breath and then swung the hammer—whack!

  I dented a big chunk of the wainscoting. Ty worked the crowbar and the sledgehammer. We traded tools and kept ripping, making a big pile of wood. It became so high that we started tossing additional paneling out the door.

  I hated to see the cottage being destroyed like this, but there was a black cloud that hovered over this cottage. Maybe with renovations, it’d become the fresh, new cottage that Uncle Porky had built in the 1950s.

  It was exhausting and dirty work. I used muscles that I didn’t know I had.

  Ty swung the sledgehammer as if it were as light as a badminton racquet.

  Finally it was time to wreck the bathroom.

  That’s where I’d wanted to start this project, where I thought Claire would hide something because of the big knothole behind the medicine cabinet that someone had made much larger, but Ty insisted that we do this methodically and in a logical pattern. Sheesh.