A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  I wished she would have been able to come.

  I waved good-bye to Frankie and the Polka Dots, checked in with Clyde and Max, and peeked at the tables under the tent. Someone had picked wildflowers and set them on each table.

  “Who picked the flowers?” I asked Juanita later.

  “Ty. He went to the meadow early this morning and picked them. I put them in vases.”

  “He did? Really?”

  Ty never ceased to amaze me, but he didn’t seem like the wildflower-picking type. I wondered if he had an ulterior motive. Maybe he was looking for more clues or more loose manuscript pages from Phil’s typewriter. It had been windy. Maybe some pages that we’d overlooked before had blown around.

  Ty hadn’t said a word to me, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t found something.

  My cheeks heated. I was getting mad at him all over again over nothing.

  Out the back door, I noticed Buddy Wilder in the parking lot. He was getting something out of the van that he drove here in. I’d been waiting to catch him alone. Now’s my chance!

  “Later, Juanita,” I said, running out the back door of the diner. I slowly walked toward him and feigned surprise when he noticed me.

  “Buddy! Hello. How are you enjoying your stay here?”

  “It brings back old times.”

  “I know. That’s one of the reasons why I love this place so much. Such good memories, and some awful ones, too. Claire’s murder, for one, and then Mr. Burrows.” I shook my head. “Horrible.”

  “I know. I sit on the beach, and I can remember Claire and Phil building sand castles.”

  “Who was she in love with, Buddy? You?”

  He shook his head. “I tried like hell, but I couldn’t get anywhere with her.”

  “Did that make you mad?”

  He made a face and stared down his tanned nose at me. “What are you asking me? Was I mad enough to kill her?”

  He spoke through gritted teeth, and I thought he was going to get physical. I stepped back. “I didn’t mean that, Buddy.”

  He shook off his anger, and I could see him transform back into the charming con man that he allegedly was.

  “I could have any girl I wanted. I moved on. Besides, no one could stay mad at Claire for long. She was the sweetest. But maybe too sweet, and more than a little too naive. I was worried about her because she didn’t know how to handle all the men who came sniffing around her.”

  “Who were the sniffers, Buddy?”

  “Some old guy. Matter of fact, he’s staying here. I almost fell over when I saw him.”

  “Grant VanPlank?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name, but he wasn’t the only one.”

  “Rick Tingsley?”

  “Yeah. He hung around her like a love-struck puppy.”

  “Did she like him?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I think she did.”

  “Who else?”

  “All the males in Sandy Harbor High School. They all loved her. She was a friend to all,” he said. “But someone obviously didn’t like her—probably a woman.”

  That was an offhand remark and just what Billy Swenti had said. Interesting.

  “Like who?”

  “Laura VanPlank, the snob. She was the direct opposite of Claire. I felt bad for Ricky. She sank her claws into him and never let go.”

  “What about Antoinette Chloe?”

  “She was the exception. She was Claire’s only gal pal.”

  “Oh, wait. Wasn’t Antoinette Chloe with Sal Brownelli back then? Wasn’t she worried that Sal would be attracted to Claire?”

  “Nope. Sal only had eyes for Antoinette Chloe and vice versa.”

  Good for ACB. She was secure in her muumuus.

  “Were you questioned by the cops back then, Buddy?”

  “We all were, but mostly we had to prove that we never left the bonfire all night.”

  But someone else could have arrived at the bonfire who was not part of the senior class and killed Claire!

  I reminded myself that Claire was just considered a missing person back then. That’s probably what the one Sandy Harbor deputy was going on twenty-five years ago, but now everything had changed.

  “Thanks for the information, Buddy. Sorry if I upset you.”

  “It’s old news, but it seems like just yesterday. It was like the end of innocence for the class of eighty-nine, know what I mean? Growing up here was idyllic, easy, for the most part. Some of the kids’ folks were farmers, and they had to work hard, but we also played hard. Fishing, boating, swimming, tubing—we did it all, but I can’t think of one of us who would kill someone.”

  Buddy looked close to tears, and I hoped that the allegations against him were false. But that was up to Ty and the New York City Police Department to figure out.

  “Buddy, I don’t want you or any of your friends to pay for the Dance Fest. It’s on me.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but I won’t hear it. I know you are losing business because of Mr. Burrows’s murder, and I want to support businesses in Sandy Harbor.”

  “You’re sweet, Buddy.” I took a deep breath, convinced that Buddy wasn’t a suspect, or had I already ruled him out?

  Still, Buddy didn’t give me any information that I didn’t already know; he just seconded my conclusions.

  But he did get me thinking that someone else could have been at that bonfire. A nonsenior person. An uninvited person with killing on his, or her, mind.

  I saw Grant walking with Carla again. They looked up and waved to me, then stared at Cottage Eight. They were very interested in that cottage. Even when Grant sat on a chair by the water, Carla still seemed morbidly interested in the cottage.

  Ray jogged toward me wearing his new golf shirt and carrying a handful of white paper.

  Oh! That reminded me that I forgot to pass out everyone’s “uniform.” I picked up the box that I’d left on a chair and gave it all to Juanita to do. I needed to see what Ray found out.

  Cars were coming down the main road that led to the diner, and Vern McCoy was blowing his whistle and parking them in the parking lot and a nearby field as fast as he could. As I waited for Ray, even more cars came, making a solid line down the road and onto the highway.

  It was going to be a great turnout.

  Ray handed me the stack of papers from my printer.

  “Anything exciting, Ray?”

  “Nah. I didn’t think so, but you might. I think that one B nickname turned up.”

  I looked at the top printout. “Bond is Grant VanPlank’s middle name,” Ray said.

  “His middle name is Bond! Really? That’s interesting.”

  I didn’t see Claire or anyone calling him by his 007 middle name. But maybe he’d been much more dashing and debonair back then and charmed her.

  “And also, I don’t know if it’s a big deal, but some reporter from Central High School’s newspaper, called the Bobcat Bulletin, said that—” Ray took the stack of papers from me and leafed through them. “Uh . . . said that Rick Tingsley should be called Boomer for the way he knocked over ‘Central High’s Bobcats like bowling pins.’”

  “Boomer, huh?” That definitely could be a big deal. It was good to have a hacker on your side.

  “Was that an expression way back then?” Ray asked.

  “How do I know, Ray? I was ten at the time.”

  “I wasn’t even born yet!”

  The nickname apparently never caught on, because none of his classmates ever called him that.

  This was so overwhelming, and I felt so useless. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to get rid of Headache Number Twenty before it camped in my temples.

  I should have read up on Grant VanPlank on the Internet more. I’m sure I would have found out that his middle name had started with a B a l
ong time ago. Instead I took the low road and read all the gossip about his various affairs.

  My only excuse was that I had a lot on my mind, or what was left of it.

  I wondered if Ty knew about Grant’s middle name. He probably did.

  But I’d bet that he didn’t know that Rick Tingsley was Boomer with a B.

  People filed in as I leafed through the papers. When I looked up again, the tent was packed and I heard my name announced by Frankie. The Polka Dots were doing a drumroll.

  I tucked the papers into my back pocket and hurried to the dance floor. I’d forgotten to ask Clyde or Max to dance the first dance with me.

  As I stood there with the drum still rolling, I felt as if every pair of eyes were on me, which they were.

  It was a beautiful night. The sun had set in an orange-purple glow, and now the inky sky was littered with bright stars. The air was warm and the smell of the lake was in the air.

  The sides of the tent had been rolled up so everyone could enjoy the beautiful evening. If it turned too cold or started to rain, they could be rolled down. The tent glowed from the little white lights that were strung up and the bigger white lights over the buffet tables.

  I was proud of the fabulous job that my staff had done. Even Antoinette Chloe, who was not part of my real staff, had worked hard and had shown a definite talent for short-order cooking.

  As everyone continued their applause, I stalled for time to lower my heart rate. Then I thanked everyone for coming.

  “Everyone has welcomed me to Sandy Harbor and has supported the Silver Bullet Diner. There have been some awful things that have happened recently, but soon the sheriff’s department will get to the bottom of what occurred, and Sandy Harbor will be all right again. I’d like to thank everyone for coming to the first Dance Fest in twenty-five years. And I’d like you all to know that there will be a Dance Fest every Saturday until Labor Day. Thanks, everyone! Now dance, have a fabulous time, and don’t drink and drive. Select a designated driver or let me know, and I’ll find someone to drive you home!”

  Frankie announced that I’d kick off the party with a polka, just as Porky and Stella Matkowski used to do.

  I felt a little sad that neither of them was here to enjoy this. I missed them both dearly.

  As tears pooled in my eyes, I tried to inch my way off the dance floor until strong arms stopped me and whirled me around.

  Ty!

  He turned and turned me in perfect time to the beat. If this was a Texas two-step, I was boot scootin’.

  “Ty, how did you learn how to polka?”

  “My mother was Polish. Karpinski. I grew up being everyone’s partner at weddings when a polka was played.”

  “No way that you’re half Polish!”

  “Way.”

  “Karpinski?”

  “Karpinski. Sophie Karpinski.”

  I knew now why I’d liked him right from the start. I tabled this exquisite piece of information for later.

  The printouts from Ray were stabbing me in the back, and the fact that Grant Bond VanPlank was a definite suspect was making me breathless and flushed. Thank goodness there was a breeze tonight.

  I waved my arms for everyone to join us, and the dance floor was soon packed. “Ty, I have to sit. I’m pooped.”

  “Okay.” He put his hand at the small of my back as he often did and led me to a chair just off the dance floor. Suddenly my feet didn’t hurt, my breath wasn’t ragged, and I could have walked around the whole grounds with his hand on my back.

  “Thanks for bailing me out of that, Ty.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Oh, wow. Did he have to say that so sexy with his low, sweet Texas accent?

  I sat in the chair and pulled the printouts out of my pocket.

  “What’s all that?”

  “Something that Ray did for me. Ty, I think Rick Tingsley called himself Boomer or maybe Claire called him that first. Yes! Claire went to Central High in Rochester. The Bobcats! The Sandy Harbor Trout played the Bobcats, so she would have read about Boomer and the bowling pins in the Bobcat Bulletin. Oh, and Bond is Grant VanPlank’s middle name. And Carla knew that Burrows was really Phil Jacobon.”

  I looked at the clear, crisp typing on the page. I could even see it in the dim light of the lanterns and torches around the dance floor.

  Oh my! I gripped the arms of the chair to keep from falling to the floor.

  Type, type, type!

  Ribbons on old typewriters. Ink cartridges on the new computer printers, faxes, and copiers.

  Ribbons on old typewriters.

  Ribbons on old typewriters!

  “Ty, I gotta go!”

  Chapter 17

  I kept to the shadows and snuck to Cottage Eight. My heart was pounding so loud I could be another drummer in Frankie’s band.

  I pushed the tape away from the door and opened it. It was so dark, I couldn’t see a thing inside, and I didn’t want to crash into any of the boards that we’d stacked up or step on a nail.

  I flipped on the switch and unplugged all but one lamp so no one would notice the light leaking out of the cottage.

  Why didn’t I bring a flashlight? Why did I still not own a magnifying glass? It would have come in handy tonight.

  I knew the answer to both of those questions. I was impatient.

  I went to the typewriter, now on the kitchen table.

  Then I manually rolled the left spool of ribbon to the right spool. There had to be information on here. Good information.

  When I held the typewriter ribbon to the light, it would tell me what Phil was typing!

  If it was like the ribbons of old, there would be three rows of type on it. When one row would finish, it’d kick over to the next row. The print on the one page of Phil’s manuscript that I’d seen was dark, so maybe he’d used a new ribbon and it wouldn’t be struck over a lot.

  I couldn’t wait to look at the spool, so I sat down at one of the kitchen chairs, unwound the right spool, and held the ribbon to the light.

  It was rather slow reading, and the black ribbon looked like a mound of thick spaghetti on the floor, but I read:

  I found Claire’s diary under a loose floorboard under her bed. In it, she wrote “I hope that Boomer will still love me after I tell him that I’m pregnant. I’m really very excited to have his baby—our baby—but I doubt if my parents or his parents will be happy.

  “And the woman who calls herself Boomer’s girlfriend has something to think about. I’ve heard it through the grapevine that Laura VanPlank can’t have children because of an accident. I don’t want Laura hurt because of my feelings for Boomer, but I want him to be a father to our baby. We’ll be a family, but first, he wants to get a job and get some money.”

  Boomer was Rick Tingsley! I knew it. He was the “older man,” by a whole year!

  There was more, but the loose floorboard had gotten to me. I had to find the diary. Maybe Phil had put it back, thinking that it was safer there until he could get it to the police or finish reading and writing about its contents.

  It was so dark, I had to turn another light on in the smaller bedroom that had two sets of bunk beds. That’s where Claire and probably Phil had slept when they were kids. I got down on all fours to look for a board that might be loose. My inky fingers felt all over every crevice and plank of open space. I pushed the right set of bunks out of the way and looked for anything unusual—other than dust elephants—that might be there.

  Nothing.

  I pushed that bunk bed back and went to the other. I got that out of the way and knelt back down.

  Oh!

  With what little fingernails I had, I picked at a board that was just a bit out of sync with the rest and managed to pull it up, along with the board next to it and the next.

  Then I saw a little pink leather book wi
th gold lettering that said DIARY. It had a little flap with a tiny lock. I picked up the diary and looked at it. There was a small indention in the gold-tipped pages. Gently, I pulled out a tiny rusted key.

  My heart was pounding so hard I had to sit down. I shut the light off and went into the kitchen.

  Stepping over the ribbon on the floor, I sat down, ready to unlock the secrets from Claire’s diary.

  My hands were shaking. I couldn’t do it. I had to boot up or something.

  Finally I took the little key and unlocked it.

  There it was, on the inside cover, written in curlicues and hearts and other girlish doodles:

  Ms. Claire Tingsley

  Mrs. Rick Tingsley

  Mrs. Richard Tingsley

  Mr. Richard and Mrs. Claire Tingsley

  Boomer Tingsley and Claire Jacobson Tingsley and son or daughter

  Oh my! Boomer was really Rick Tingsley.

  Did that mean that Laura killed two people?

  Something was still tweaking me about Laura. She was a woman who just about fell apart when her cook and waitress were late. Did she have the guts to pull off two murders?

  I remembered how her high heels were killing her feet that day in her kitchen. She didn’t even dare to take them off for fear that she’d suffer the disapproval of Carla.

  Poor Laura. Even if she was successful in getting into the White House via Rick—which was highly unlikely—Carla would want to redecorate and would kick the antiques to the curb.

  Carla. I hated to think this, but my housekeeping cottages were way below her standards. She wanted to leave Laura’s beautiful four-hundred-square-foot contemporary, which, rumor had it, the VanPlanks had paid for, to sleep in my rustic cabins? Then again, I’d caught her staring into Cottage Eight. This cottage! Phil Jacobson’s cottage at the time of his murder.

  What was she looking for?

  I looked at the diary in my hand. I think I knew.

  Suddenly the vapors of a gallon of Chanel No. 5 surrounded me. There she was, Carla VanPlank, in black flats with a big, ugly gun pointed at me.