We stepped into the kitchen of the diner. “Billy, do you remember Claire Jacobson?”
“Yeah. Claire. They just found her body.”
It seemed as if each word pained him to speak.
“How well did you know her?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“All those years ago, she was a friend of mine, and I owe her.”
He didn’t ask me what I owed her but walked into the kitchen.
“I owe her, too,” he said. “She came into the grocery store in town now and then. I had a summer job there. She was always with her parents, but we found time to talk. She was easy to talk to, and I needed to talk.”
“Did you go out with her?” I asked.
He shook his head. “That was the summer I came out. My parents went crazy, and Claire listened to me. That’s all. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know anyone whose name starts with a B that she might have been friends with?”
He thought for a while. “Buddy. Buddy . . . um . . . Wilder. He hung around Claire as much as he could.”
“Were they going out?” I asked. “Like a couple.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just saw them together a lot, and I think she liked him, but I don’t know if they were a couple. She liked everyone. I hope they find the guy—or woman.”
“Woman?” I asked, surprised. I never thought that Billy would think a woman had killed Claire.
“They were all jealous of her.”
“Like who?” I think I already knew, but I wanted him to say her name.
He looked at the floor, not moving.
“I don’t know if I should name someone. It’s not fair to gossip. I know how it feels, true or not.”
“This conversation is just between us.”
He hesitated for what seemed like hours. Finally he choked out a name.
“Laura VanPlank. She’s now Laura Tingsley. She hated Claire because Rick liked her.”
I knew that.
“Were Claire and Rick a couple?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Locker room talk had him with Claire. And I think he wanted to be with Claire, but Laura was always in the way. She clung to him like a spider clings to a web.”
“Thanks, Billy.” I held up a finger. “Wait a second. I want to pack up some chocolate chip cookies for your hard workers.”
I gave him a bag of Mrs. Stolfus’s cookies and walked him out.
“See you at the Dance Fest. The last one I went to was the one . . . the one . . .”
“The one where Claire disappeared,” I said.
“I’m hoping, probably like half the town, that this new Dance Fest will erase that one.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“And now another guy turned up dead in one of the cottages.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe the Dance Fest can erase that one, too.”
What was wrong with my brain? I never even gave it a thought that my Dance Fest was the first one in ages. I remembered that Aunt Stella gave them up because of Uncle Porky’s health, but I wondered if another reason, of equal merit, was Claire’s disappearance.
Something near the cottages caught my eye. I put my sunglasses on and saw Carla VanPlank standing on a small step stool and looking into the windows of Cottage Eight.
What on earth?
The windows were shuttered from the outside, but only a hook and eye anchored them to each other. She must have unhooked a set of shutters.
What nerve!
I hurried off to the cottages and approached her. “Carla, what on earth are you doing?”
“I’m just looking. No harm done.”
“What are you looking for?” I tried to keep my voice even, but I was livid.
“I don’t know yet, dear. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see if Phil Jacobson left anything behind.”
“As you can see, everything was taken by the police.”
“Not his typewriter,” she said.
“Apparently, that wasn’t important to the police.” I took a deep breath before the top of my head blew off like a volcano. “Mrs. VanPlank, please get down from that stool immediately. I don’t want you falling. I don’t want you hurt.”
I held out my hand to help her down, and she finally took it.
Whoa! I just remembered something she’d said.
“Wait one second, Carla! How did you know that the man who was murdered in this cottage was Phil Jacobson? His name was not released by the police yet. I repeat: not released.”
She seemed totally unconcerned and waved a hand across her face. “Oh, I heard it somewhere. Small town, you know.”
“Not that small.”
She grinned. It was a strange, lopsided grin and her eyes looked glassy. Was she drunk?
Something was wrong with her. Maybe she needed to go to the doctor.
I took her hand and helped her back to her cottage. I knocked on the door, and finally her husband, Grant, answered. “Mr. VanPlank, I think something is wrong with your wife. She was standing on a chair, looking in on Cottage Eight.”
“What? What were you doing that for, Carla?”
“Because I wanted to.” She sniffed. “If you can do anything you want, Grant, so can I. And I wanted to see the inside of that cottage.”
“Don’t start with me again. I want to have a nice, peaceful day. I’d like to enjoy my daughter’s company, my goof of a son-in-law’s inane ramblings, and even your company, dearest wife. For a while yesterday, I thought we might have buried the hatchet and were making some progress on our marriage.”
“You’re dreaming, Grant.”
“I guess I am.”
“Well, I’ll let you two go,” I said. “I have work to do to get ready for the Dance Fest.”
“Thank you, Trixie.”
“No problem. Maybe you should take her to the doctor.”
He nodded, but I didn’t think he was going to exert himself.
I walked to the diner, thinking about the episode with Mrs. VanPlank. She had a lot of nerve looking in the window of Eight.
And she knew that it was Phil Jacobson who was murdered there.
I dismissed her from my thoughts until I could tell Ty what she’d said. I had a lot of other things to think about.
I really hoped that the Dance Fest would be a success. I wanted a huge turnout because I was going to eavesdrop like crazy.
Chapter 16
“Anything I can do to help?” Ty walked up on my back porch as I was enjoying the breeze and the white caps that were forming on the lake.
“Everything’s all ready for tonight. There will be some last-minute things to do, like barbecuing the chicken, but I have time for that yet. I don’t want it to be dry.”
There were about four hours to go before I needed to spring to attention as the Dance Fest attendees would be arriving. Right now I needed to get off my feet and relax.
Buddy Wilder’s group was playing another round of volleyball. They played so much volleyball I wondered if they were training for the summer Olympics.
Ty sat in the Adirondack chair next to me, and I was glad I had taken the time to put on makeup and curl my hair. I was also experimenting with a new lipstick that was guaranteed not to drip off my lips if I was working in a hot kitchen.
“I’m getting nowhere on the murders, Trixie. I can’t help feeling that I’m overlooking something important, but I can’t think of what.”
“All roads seem to lead to Laura VanPlank Tingsley. She was jealous of Rick paying attention to Claire. Also, she couldn’t have children and I think she knew that Claire was pregnant and thought that the baby was Rick Tingsley’s. And I think that Phil was murdered because he was
onto the killer. He was trying to lure him or her out but got killed. But there’s no ‘B’ anywhere in my theory.”
Ty snapped his fingers. “I got a call from the state police today. Ballistics tests showed that the gun found in Cottage Eight under the bed was registered to Phillip Jacobson and that it wasn’t fired in ages. Matter of fact, it looked like Phil never cleaned it. It wasn’t the murder weapon in either of the murders.”
“You found a gun in Cottage Eight?” I was so surprised, you could have knocked me over with a pastry bag. “Gun? You didn’t tell me you found a gun!”
He ignored my shock and anger.
“It seems that Phil Jacobson brought one with him, but when he needed it, it was under his bed, the queen bed.”
“You found it under the bed in Cottage Eight?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that either, huh?”
“I just found out that it wasn’t the murder weapon in either murder,” he said. “I’m telling you now.”
“Of course it wasn’t the murder weapon. Phil wouldn’t kill his own sister, for heaven’s sake. He was too young, and how would he drag her body into the cave?”
“It might have been planted on him for some reason. We have to cover all bases, Trixie. You know that,” he said.
Right now I was so mad at him, I could happily toss him off my porch, headfirst.
I sat stewing in my own anger. I was going to solve these two mysteries without him. He didn’t need me, and I didn’t need him.
I watched as Grant VanPlank and Carla VanPlank walked behind Cottage Eight. I don’t know why they showed such interest, but I perked right up. So did Ty.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“Snooping. That’s what everyone does with Eight.”
“They’d better not go in. Even though the cottage was released by the state police, I kept the tape up for a reason.”
“They’re not going in. They’re just walking around.”
Interesting.
It was interesting that they were even walking together since they didn’t seem to get along. To me, it seemed that Carla wouldn’t, or couldn’t, forgive him for blowing his senatorial run.
Tonight I was going to find out if Claire was the one that Grant had had an affair with. Was he also the one that “B” beat up for stalking Claire?
I didn’t know how yet, but I was going to polish my high school acting skills for tonight. After all, I was in the chorus of Bye, Bye, Birdie—back row, first one on the right, nondancing part.
Ty cleared his throat. “You’re mad at me.”
“Ya think?”
“Look, Trixie, I—”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “I know that you don’t want me helping you. I know that you’re trained, and I’m not. I know about confidentiality, but it’s not your cottages that are empty. It wasn’t your friend who was shot.”
I stood up. “I have to take a shower and change. Then I have to check that everything’s on schedule for the Dance Fest.”
“But, Trixie—”
“Gotta go!” I twirled like a newbie on a dance show and hurried into my house.
I was going to wear a new pair of black jeans and a royal blue sparkly top.
The front doorbell rang, and I saw that it was mail delivery. Oh! It was the embroidered golf shirts that I’d bought for Ray, Clyde, and Max. And I bought my waitresses white blouses with the same logo.
They could wear them for the Dance Fest.
I called Ray on his cell phone and left him a message to come over. He could deliver the new uniforms to my staff. We were going to look fabulous tonight.
Out my picture window, I could see Ray running over as if he were on the track team. I didn’t mean for him to break speed records getting here.
He took my steps two at a time. I opened the door and invited him in for some water and a towel to wipe his face. He was panting and sweating like a racehorse.
“Ray, I got the guys embroidered shirts and the waitresses embroidered blouses. Would you deliver these? They’ll sort out the sizes themselves.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“There’s a shirt for you, too.”
“For me? I just started here.”
“But you’re a part of the team, Ray, and you’re doing a fabulous job.”
Suddenly I had a scathingly brilliant idea. “Um, Ray, how good are you at running people’s names on the computer and finding out . . . things about them? Old things.”
“I’m outstanding.”
“This is nothing illegal. Nothing I want you to hack. I just want you to use whatever sites you think have the most information. I’ll give you the names, and you dig up the dirt. I mean, you dig up old things about them of interest. For the guys, I’m looking for anyone with a B nickname.”
“Okay.”
His eyes sparkled. He was ready to go.
“My laptop is on the kitchen table. Let’s rock.”
I found my B List and added more names to it. Rick and Laura VanPlank Tingsley, Grant VanPlank, Carla VanPlank, Antoinette Chloe Switzer Brown and/or Brownelli.
That was the list of everyone who knew Claire. In the case of the VanPlanks, I just threw them in to see what skeletons Ray might find.
“This is just between us, Ray, and you have to hurry. The Dance Fest is about to kick off.”
“Yeah. My parents and my girlfriend are coming.”
“Great. You’ll have to introduce me.”
“Yeah.” The whine of my laptop booting up seemed to hypnotize Ray. He sprang into action and started typing faster than the speed of sound.
After my shower and after redoing my hair and makeup, I found Ray still typing.
“I printed off the most interesting stuff. It’s on the printer tray,” he said, not looking up.
I skimmed the pages. There was nothing exciting. Ray kept typing and printing and I kept skimming.
“Ray. I’m sorry, but I have to go. It’s time to barbecue the chicken and make the chef salad.”
“I’m almost done.”
“Okay. Keep going. Finish up and bring me the printouts. I’ll pass out the tops to the staff.” I picked up the box and headed for the front door.
“All right.”
When I walked out the door, I noticed that Ty was still sitting on the porch.
He gave me the once-over and whistled long and low. My mouth went dry.
“You clean up nicely,” he said.
“Thanks.” I grinned, loving the look on his face. “What have you been doing here? Thinking?”
“Yeah. I was just thinking about the case.”
“Me, too, but I can’t deal with it right now. I hope to have hundreds of people coming to the Dance Fest. Oh my goodness, Ty. I hope we don’t run out of places to park.”
“I have it covered. Vern McCoy is going to let the latecomers park up the road and on the bank of Route 3.”
“Chelsea is going to take payments at the door and hand out wristbands. She’s going to check licenses, too. A green wristband means they can drink. Red means that they can’t.”
“Got it,” Ty said. “How about if I make sure that everything’s always full at the buffet?”
“Antoinette Chloe’s going to do that. She’s been a wonderful help, even though I have to constantly remind her to take her hats off so she doesn’t deep-fry the menagerie on top.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You can provide security, make sure that no one leaves the grounds for a bonfire somewhere else, and make sure that no one gets that close to our bonfire.”
“Will do.” He gave me a sharp salute. “Let’s go. I can barbecue the chicken for you in the meantime.”
“Thanks. Then I won’t smell like a smokestack,
and I can do other things.” I slipped a clean apron over my outfit. I didn’t want anything to happen to it.
I did some odds and ends and in between I thought about the case . . . and Ty. And how he looked at me.
Ty? Why was I thinking about him?
I found my notebook and flipped it open.
Juanita was still going to stay on chef duty just in case we got some customers who weren’t interested in the Dance Fest. I told her to try and talk them into the Dance Fest and/or the buffet.
If they didn’t want the buffet, she’d have to cook off the menu.
Ty and I walked together but parted when Ty kept on going to the diner and I stopped to check everything on the grounds. The band was setting up, and I introduced myself.
“I’ll trust you to get things hopping, right, guys?”
“I’m Frankie Rudinski, and I guarantee that the neighbors will complain to the police—if you had any neighbors.” A short, rotund man with friendly eyes, a perfectly bald head, and a huge smile stepped forward and took my hand. “Stella and Porky always danced to the first dance—a polka. Are you going to carry on that tradition, Trixie?”
I thought for a moment. Who on earth could I get as a partner? Ty was my first choice, and I’d bet my bank account—as anemic as it was—that he could do a mean two-step, but what did a Texas cowboy know about doing the polka? Clyde or Max could probably bounce around a bit with me.
The polka was exhausting, but I was up for it. I was in fairly good shape from all the work that I’d been doing, and I was continuously in motion, mostly doing the Diner Shuffle. The Diner Shuffle had to be a form of aerobic exercise. If not, it should be!
Just hearing that polka beat brought back so many memories of wonderful times, family times.
“Um . . . I’m not very good at doing the official polka steps, but I can bounce around with the best. And I’d love to kick off the Dance Fest.”
“Whoeee!” he said. “We’re ready whenever you are. It’s been a long time!”
I laughed. They hadn’t lost their energy, just most of their hair, over the past twenty-five years.
One guy was positioning a chair and unlocking a big case. He pulled out a cherry red accordion. I remembered Aunt Stella playing the accordion with Frankie and the Polka Dots. It was always the highlight of the summer for me.
A Second Helping of Murder Page 19