The phone rang. No one called this number except for cancellations.
Aw hell, I thought.
But everyone canceled. How could there be more?
Tentatively, I answered the phone.
“Trixie, it’s Ray. Buddy said to remind you about the keys.”
“Oops. I totally forgot. I’ll be right there.”
I found the keys in the usual cabinet. At least there would be people at the cottages for a while. It was only a long weekend, but it would give the moths in my wallet a little snack.
I went back to the diner and handed out keys. Buddy had it all organized.
“I’d like Cottage Nine or Seven for myself,” he said.
It was interesting that he wanted to be so close to Cottage Eight.
I handed him both keys. He chose Seven. Then he referred to the back of his place mat, all scribbled with names and arrows running in all directions along with cottage numbers.
He began calling out names and handing keys over to those people. I noticed that most of the time, there were three people in one cottage. Buddy seemed to be the only one staying by himself.
I wondered if Buddy Wilder was up to something, and if the Dance Fest was only a cover for him to drive to Sandy Harbor.
They all disbursed as soon as they received their key. Buddy was the last to leave, and he peeled two hundred-dollar bills from a fat wad of cash.
“Keep the change,” he said to Laurie.
Her eyes lit up, and she stood taller. He must have left a substantial tip for her. I’d find out later.
“That’s for the excellent service here and the excellent food,” he told her.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Wilder,” she said.
“Please, call me Buddy.”
“Thanks, Buddy.”
“Did you have the special—meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans?” I asked him.
“I always get the daily special.”
“Always?” I asked, this being the first time in a couple of decades that Buddy had been at the Silver Bullet.
He laughed and his blinding white teeth were, well, blinding.
“I’ll let you get settled in Cottage Seven,” I said, making my way outside.
Five minutes later, I was in my too-small gray car with the folder, heading for Dr. Huff’s office.
I pulled over into the parking lot of the drugstore and skimmed through Claire’s medical folder one more time. There was nothing exciting in any of the pages and no notations that named the father of Claire’s baby, just as Ty had said previously.
Matter of fact, there was a notation that read:
Patient came alone to appointment. Says her age is 21 and she is unmarried. Pregnancy exam performed with positive results. Estimated time is two months. Patient refuses to indicate the putative father, but happy to be pregnant. Refused alternative procedure to eliminate pregnancy or to place child up for adoption. Follow-up appointment, two weeks.
“So Claire really did give her age as twenty-one,” I said to my dashboard. “Probably so her parents wouldn’t be responsible for the bill, and therefore they’d never find out she went to the doctor.”
But how could she afford a doctor’s bill at the age of seventeen? She wasn’t working, unless she had babysitting money saved.
She probably got money from the father.
Hmm . . . Grant the politician would have the money. Buddy was working as a lifeguard back then. I didn’t know about the rest of the B List. But I’d find out.
Some things were still tweaking me. Buddy Wilder paid a huge bill in full for all his friends that he brought up from New York City. And—wait for it—he wanted either Cottage Seven or Nine. In other words, Buddy-with-a-B wanted to be right near Cottage Eight.
That was pretty suspicious and interesting. Buddy was definitely worth keeping an eye on.
I turned left on Broadway Street and pulled into Dr. Huff’s parking lot. Hopefully, he’d be golfing again. I’d brought a big purse so it’d be easier to transport the folder downstairs to the file room.
I parked and walked across the parking lot, up the steps of the doctor’s office, and into the reception area.
“I’m so sick,” I said, with a sniffle. I pulled out several tissues from a box in front of her and gave a hearty sneeze. “I need to see Dr. Huff. The name is Trixie Matkowski.”
Shannon rolled her chair away from me.
“I’m such a mess. I feel awful.” Then I leaned over and whispered, “I have diarrhea, too.”
“Yuck,” said Shannon, looking through her appointment book. “But you don’t have an appointment, Miss Matos—”
“Matkowski.”
“Uh, yes. And the doctor is very busy. We’re overbooked.”
But there was no one in the waiting room. What was the dear doctor doing?
“I know,” I answered. “But couldn’t you make an exception for me?” I sniffed, sneezed, and blew my nose. “Can I just wait until the doctor can work me in?”
“I suppose so, but it might be a long time.”
“I’ll wait,” I said, taking an orange plastic chair. After watching CNN for a while, I decided that it was time to go to the ladies’ room.
I walked to the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I use the ladies’ room . . . illness and all?”
“Ick,” she replied.
I hurried downstairs, but everything looked different from before. Room was made for more file cabinets, and they were arranged differently.
I opened the cabinets—the older ones—that weren’t locked. As I opened one olive green cabinet, I found a bunch of leather-bound appointment books. Wow! This would show who had appointments back then. I looked for one from 1989. There it was! I pulled out the heavy thing with the yellowed pages and knew that the huge book wouldn’t fit into my purse.
I wanted to read it right there to see what I could find, if anything. I knew she was here on August third, so I leafed through the pages. I had to hurry because I didn’t want to risk being seen by Shannon Shannon or Dr. Huff.
I opened the ledger.
I tabbed over to August 3, 1989, and saw that Claire’s appointment was at nine a.m. Oh! Bingo. Laura VanPlank and Carla VanPlank were scheduled right after her. I wondered if Claire was so happy that she spilled her pregnancy news to them.
I quickly put everything back and hurried back upstairs.
“You know, Miss Shannon, I think I’ll just stop and get some cough syrup and some cough drops and maybe a box of allergy tablets. I should be perfect in a couple of hours. I do feel a lot better. Thank Dr. Huff for me. He’s just a miracle worker.”
“But—” said the receptionist.
I shook my head. “He’s just a great doctor. Wow! I’m going to refer everyone to him. No sense driving to Watertown or Syracuse. Right?” I said, walking backward to the door.
“Right,” said Miss Shannon, looking confused.
I hurried to the car and drove away, back to the drugstore’s parking lot. There I relaxed and calmed my jittery nerves.
* * *
Later, back at the Big House, I told Ty what I’d found.
“If Claire was as happy as I think she was, she might have given it away that she was pregnant. Picture this: Laura and her mama were in Dr. Huff’s waiting room. Laura is my number-one suspect—well, I think there’s a six-way tie.”
Ty chuckled.
“Laura couldn’t have children because of an accident—Antoinette Chloe told me that. Maybe Laura was totally jealous of Claire’s pregnancy. She was already upset that Rick Tingsley was attracted to Claire, at least at the bonfire—although she denies it. If she thought that Ricky had fathered Claire’s baby, she’d be totally jealous—maybe even jealous enough to shoot Claire.”
Ty thought for a minute. “Do you want to get a
bite to eat at the Crossroads?”
“Brilliant,” I said. “I always get hungry when I perform on Broadway. Let’s go to the Crossroads. Maybe Laura and her parents are there.”
When we got to the Crossroads and went into the rustic restaurant, only Laura and her mother were sitting at a table.
There was no sign of Grant VanPlank with the wandering eye and the slippery zipper.
Laura took one look at Ty and me and scurried off into the kitchen.
What was that about? It looked as though she was guilty to me.
I gave Ty a nudge in case he missed Laura’s record-breaking exit.
I smiled sweetly. “Well, hello, Mrs. VanPlank . . . Carla. I’d like you to meet Ty Brisco. He’s one of the deputy sheriffs here in Sandy Harbor.”
“Oh yes, the cowboy sheriff from the wilds of Texas.”
Carla casually lifted her hand with the zillion-carat diamonds and then turned her palm over, as if she expected Ty to kiss the back of her hand.
Instead Ty gave the underside of her hand a slight clap, then slid his back clawlike so only their knuckles were hooked together. Then he gave the back of her hand a tap with his fisted hand.
A hip handshake.
I tried not to laugh at the expression on Mrs. VanPlank’s face. It was a cross between horror and more horror.
Without missing a beat, Ty said, “So-oo very pleased to meet y’all, ma’am.” He took his hat off and put it over his heart. Then he put it back on.
Ty didn’t suffer snobs lightly, but it was more than that. If she thought that he was a hick, he’d give her hick. Maybe then she’d relax her guard around him.
“Certainly,” she said, turning her nose up.
“I don’t recognize your accent, ma’am. Where y’all from, ma’am?” he asked. “U-tah?”
He was pouring it on a little too thick, but I supposed he knew what he was doing.
“Utah? Certainly not! I’m from right here. And we have a home in Port Palm!” she said, uncrossing her legs, then recrossing them.
“Where’s that? Wisconsin?” he asked.
“Florida!”
“That was my fourth guess, right after South Dakota, Iowa, and Kansas.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said. She moved both of her hands as if she were shooing away a fly. “So, this is the state of the local sheriff’s department?”
“Yep. Sandy Harbor is in New York, ma’am. This is the right state,” he said. “You’re in the right one.”
“Excuse me, Sheriff—” Carla stood.
“Brisco. Ty Brisco, ma’am.” He pulled up a chair next to her, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Don’t let me drive you away. Get the load off your feet.” He slapped the seat of the chair she’d just vacated.
I don’t know what made her sit back down, but she did.
“Ma’am, where’s that other purty little filly that we scared away?”
“My daughter? Laura?”
“What a beautiful name, darlin’. Almost as beautiful as you.” He took his hat off and put it over on his heart. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch with your big sister.”
“My big sister? Oh my!”
If I didn’t see First Lady VanPlank put her hand over her heart and almost swoon, I wouldn’t believe it. That line was so corny, it could have been popped.
“I’ll go get her,” she said. “Join us, won’t you?”
I started walking toward the kitchen. “You stay put, Mrs. VanPlank. I’ll go ask Laura to join us.”
But Laura was in the midst of a fight with her husband, the mayor.
“Richard Tingsley, I don’t want to go to the Dance Fest.”
It was a loud whisper, the kind you use on someone that you’re mad at—through gritted teeth.
“Laura, look at my position. How would I look without you there? People will think something’s wrong. It won’t look good for my campaign.”
“I’m sick of always campaigning. When are you going to be someone?”
“I’m someone now, aren’t I? I’m mayor of Sandy Harbor.”
She sighed. “Oh, Rick. I mean, when are you ever going to be senator?”
“Someday soon. Just stick with me. It’ll be soon.”
I knocked on the kitchen door, and they both spun around. “Hello, you two! Would you join us for a bite?”
“I can’t,” Rick said. “I have to get back to the office. I have a meeting with our tax department.” He quickly turned to leave, without even kissing his wife good-bye.
The last I knew, the Sandy Harbor Tax Department consisted of Zeb Young, the part-time tax collector and full-time flea market owner.
“Mayor, tell Zeb that I have some flea market items for him,” I shouted to his back.
“I will,” he yelled back.
Laura was left in the kitchen, leaning against a long butcher block table. Her cheeks were pink.
“My waitress isn’t here yet, and neither is my cook. They both are tied up—probably to each other. So I’ll have to make up any orders,” she said, tying on a white apron and ready to burst into tears. “And my feet are killing me in these damn heels.”
“What size do you wear? You can wear my sneakers. They’re probably more comfortable than those heels.”
“I wear an eleven.”
“Sorry, Laura. I wear a nine.”
“That’s okay. I couldn’t wear sneakers anyway. My mother would carry on something awful.”
Not for the first time, I felt sorry for her. Putting my hand on her shoulder, I asked, “If it’s a cook you need until someone comes, I’ll be glad to pitch in.”
“No. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help,” she snapped.
“Hey.” I held my hands in the air. “Okay. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Wait!”
I waited.
“Look, Trixie, I’ve been kind of stressed lately. My mother is very . . . demanding. She’s always wound so tight, and she never cracks a smile. I—I just need time away from her.”
“Maybe I can help, Laura. I’ll invite your parents to move to my cottages. That’ll give you a break.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“You never know.” I opened the kitchen door a crack. “Does that look like your mother?”
Mrs. VanPlank was laughing so hard that she was doing some unladylike snorting.
“What did that cowboy do to my mother?” Laura asked. “And where can I find me one?”
Laughing, we both pushed opened the doors to the Crossroads dining room and went to join Ty and Mrs. VanPlank.
What was Ty up to now?
Chapter 15
Ty stood as Laura and I returned to the table. The Crossroads was empty, very empty.
“Your place is usually crowded, Laura. Where’s everyone?”
“When they found out that the cook was going to be late, they left. Apparently, they don’t like my cooking. I think they all went over to Brown’s with that horrible woman who wears flip-flops and muumuus. How can she even show her face with her husband in jail?”
“She didn’t do anything,” I pointed out. “And, Laura, you know very well that her name is Antoinette Chloe Brown. You went to high school with her. You even graduated with her.”
“That doesn’t mean I like her.”
“Ladies, can I get you something to drink from the bar?” Ty asked.
The two First Ladies asked for red wine. I asked for clear water with cubes.
As soon as Ty disappeared, Laura leaned over the table toward her mother.
“What are you up to, Mother?” Laura asked.
“I’m just enjoying the deputy’s company. That’s all.”
Laura rolled her eyes as if her mother was enjoying herself way too mu
ch.
“Laura, I’ve always told you to make friends, because friends are the best voters.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mother! He’s a cop. That’s not the kind of friend I need.”
“He’s not so bad,” Carla stated. “Besides, everyone is a potential voter. Deputy Brisco is a fun cowboy. You just don’t trust anyone. That’s your problem.”
Laura whirled her head around, exorcist-style. “What do you think about Deputy Brisco, Trixie? You know him the most, I hear.”
“He does stay over the bait shop next door and he eats most of his meals at the Silver Bullet. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t really, really know him.”
Laura pursed her lips. She was going to either spit at me camel-style or whistle for a cab.
I shrugged. “It’s true. I don’t really know him. All I know is that he came here from Houston because he needed a break from big-time crime.”
“Why here in Sandy Harbor?” Laura asked.
“Because he used to fish here as a kid. He remembered how nice it was.”
Laura sniffed. “I see.”
I wondered what was up with her. Why did Laura have such a phobia about cops? I thought she just broke out of the six-way tie.
I didn’t have much time to think about Laura, because Ty was coming back from the bar with three drinks in his hands and a bottle of beer in his front pants pocket.
“Here you go, ladies.” He easily set the drinks on the table, then slid them to each one of us. He took his old seat, straddled it like before, slipped the beer out of his pocket, and held it in the air.
“A toast to long, happy lives and to two lives cut short: to Claire and David.”
“To Claire and David,” everyone said in unison.
Ty took a long draw on his beer, and every woman at the table watched his Adam’s apple move on his somewhat shaven neck. “Thank God that I’m not on duty. This tastes good.”
I chugged some water. “Yes, it does.”
“What do you two ladies think of us finding Claire’s body after all those years?” Ty asked.
“I don’t have an opinion one way or another,” said the elder First Lady. “I suppose it was a good thing.”
A Second Helping of Murder Page 17