And darn, the man could cook.
I’d follow him around like a puppy every rainy day during the summer when I was a little kid, and whenever I’d ask to help him, he’d wrap a bright, white apron around me, find me a floppy hat, and we’d cook orders together for the diner.
Uncle Porky would give his last dollar to anyone who needed it. He was always throwing benefits for someone who was sick, or for the library, or for anything and everything for kids—probably because he never had any of his own.
A tear slid down my cheek. I felt like I was failing him, failing to keep his legacy. I had to solve this murder to save his legacy.
An hour went by and then lights flashed across the diner. For a second I thought it was Uncle Porky sending me a message. But it was a car pulling in. A customer!
I quickly cleaned up my booth and stuffed my notebook back into my purse. I tried to look nonchalant and less like a piranha waiting for prey.
Someone rolling in at two in the morning might want some serious food. Nah, probably not. Probably just coffee. Maybe a cinnamon bun.
I rearranged the buns to show them off.
The bells above the door jingled, and in walked…Mayor Tingsley.
“I didn’t think you’d be open,” he said, looking around at the empty diner.
“Twenty-four hours, seven days a week. We are open even on Christmas, in case someone needs a place to go. They are welcome at the Silver Bullet.”
This was Uncle Porky’s usual speech, and I knew that he never charged anyone for their meal on Christmas Day. I was planning on continuing that tradition.
I sure was channeling him tonight.
“What can I get you, Mayor?”
“I’d like to remind you about my offer for the Silver Bullet, the cottages, the boat launch, and the farmhouse. The whole point. Two million bucks. Cash.”
I stepped back. He sure cut to the chase. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you’re going to jerk me around or not.”
I poured him a cup of coffee anyway and slid it in front of him at the counter. “Mr. Mayor, it’s been a long day. I’m dead tired. I don’t even know my own name about now. It’s not a good time.”
“Just remember these words: two million bucks.”
“I remember them from when you made an offer to me before.” My head was pounding, and I was getting cranky. “What, no flowers this time?”
“Laura and I want this place, and we usually get what we want.”
Isn’t that special?
“The poisoning of the health inspector in your kitchen has turned this diner into a ghost town,” he said.
I wished people would quit reminding me of that.
I remained silent, but I wanted to toss the pompous jerk into the nearest snowbank.
“I can either buy it from you now or when it goes up for auction.” He sniffed. “Obviously, you’re going to go under.”
“I don’t think it’s all that obvious, at least not to me. The season hasn’t even started yet.”
“It’s the diner that keeps this place afloat. Ask Stella.”
He took a big gulp of coffee and grunted. I should have told him that it was flaming hot, but he seemed to know just about everything.
“Where is Stella anyway?”
I didn’t want her involved in this. I was the owner. “She’s incommunicado.”
“Where’s that?” he asked.
I bit back a grin. “Italy.”
“Oh.”
He slammed back the rest of his coffee and winced. “Terrible coffee.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card and tossed it on the counter in front of me. Then he was gone. He didn’t even offer to pay for the coffee.
I would have charged him for it, too, just because he was an ass.
I read his card: RICK TINGSLEY, REAL ESTATE AND INVESTMENTS. MAYOR OF SANDY HARBOR, NEW YORK, SALMON CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.
Did Mayor Tingsley want the point so badly that he’d try to put me out of business? Would he go so far as to kill Mr. Cogswell? Maybe he had something against Mr. Cogswell.
I returned to my favorite booth, got out my notebook, wrote his name down, and circled it.
Mayor Tingsley had a motive. He wanted the Sandy Harbor Guest Cottages and the Silver Bullet Diner. He wanted my Victorian house.
He wanted my memories.
Well, he could just forget it.
I was here, and I wasn’t moving. I’d just moved, and I had the unpacked boxes, bags, and plastic bins to prove it!
I stared at his business card. He probably wanted to develop the property. Condos and private boat slips? Something like that.
A lot of family resort places were selling out to developers. Given the choice, wouldn’t a kid opt to hit a famous resort with thrill rides and high-tech whatnot rather than camp with his family in a sleepy cottage colony that didn’t even have cable TV?
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Juanita was calling my name.
“Trixie? Trixie, wake up. Go home.”
She nudged my shoulder, and I reluctantly tucked away my dream of a full diner and children making sand castles and mud pies on the beach.
I opened my eyes. Ick. Instant headache. I tried to stand, but every bone in my body was sore and stiff.
“You look like something that the dog dragged in,” Juanita said.
The dog did drag in something last night. I scooped up my notebook with the gardenia material tucked inside. As soon as I saw Ty, I’d remind him to get the threads from the Dumpster and send everything to the state police lab.
How could I get into Antoinette Chloe Brown’s house to see if she had a piece missing from her gardenia muumuu?
It was just too early in the morning for my brain to be swirling like it was. I fished in my purse for some aspirin.
“Juanita, I’m going to go home, take a shower, and crash for a while. Can you take care of things here?”
“Of course,” she said, looking at me like I had the impression of the spiral metal of my notebook tattooed on my face. Feeling my cheek, I realized that I did.
I gathered up all my things, stuffed myself into my coat, laced up my boots, and headed out the front door. Blondie followed me, taking care of her business on a snow-covered dip in the lawn. I made a mental note of the location. Not that I was going to clean it up—hell no!—but I’d tell Ty. He could pick it up.
It was seven-something in the morning, and a strange foreign object was beginning to light up the sky. Could that actually be the sun?
And then I stopped crunching on the snow to hear…what? Was that actually a bird chirping?
I didn’t hear it again, and I decided that the noise must have been me, wheezing from exertion.
My shower felt heavenly. So did the big springy bed when I burrowed under the fluffy comforter, wet hair and all. Blondie curled up on the braided rug next to the bed.
My body was exhausted, but I couldn’t get my brain to shut down.
I kept thinking of tropical flowers, dancing mushrooms, Roberta Cummings storming out of the fire hall, her scarecrow of a brother making deliveries to all the local restaurants, and the late health inspector, Mr. Cogswell the Third.
Who would want him killed? And why?
I thought of Mayor Tingsley’s offer to buy everything, and how I’d never sell to him. Not even for millions.
And then it hit me. No, it wasn’t a breakthrough on the case, or a clue that dropped from the sky—it was that I’d forgotten to eat the piece of Wacky Cake from Juanita.
That wasn’t like me.
The cake was calling to me more than the mystery, so I finally gave in and went downstairs. I got the cake from the counter and sat down at the kitchen table, ready to indulge.
Blondie stretched across my bare feet, keeping them warm.
This was living!
Just as I looked lovingly at the m
oist cake, the doorbell rang.
Wacky Cakeus interruptus!
Blondie was on full alert, which meant her ears were up. If it was an intruder, she’d probably lick him to death.
But it was Ty Brisco, complete with a white cowboy hat, mirrored sunglasses (the foreign object was still bright in the sky), jeans faded to perfection, and his snake cowboy boots.
I had bare feet and wore a ratty chenille, snap-up bathrobe over a Mickey Mouse nightshirt. My reflection in the window of the door showed lumpy, still-damp hair, and puffy eyes.
What did I care? I wasn’t trying to impress Ty Brisco or any man, but I didn’t want to scare the stuffing out of anyone either.
I opened the door and motioned for him to come in.
“Are you okay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow or two at my hair.
“Just cranky because I’m dying to eat the cake I got from Juanita.”
He grinned. “Don’t let me stop you.” He sniffed the air. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“You know darn well that I don’t have coffee on, Wyatt Earp, but I can take a hint. Come in the kitchen. And don’t worry about taking off your boots.”
My floor was a mess anyway. I still hadn’t cleaned up from the impromptu visit from Mayor Tingsley a few days ago.
I got the coffee started and took a seat across from Ty at the kitchen table. He was rubbing Blondie’s tummy. She was lying on her back, legs spread apart. If a dog could actually smile, she was smiling.
Ty pointed at the cake. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Oh, I won’t.” I finally, finally took a bite. Heavenly. “What brings you here?”
“You didn’t get much sleep, did you?” he asked.
“I dozed in the booth.”
“What did our esteemed mayor want?” he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“You saw?”
“I noticed his car pull in. It was pretty late for him to be paying a social call. I got dressed, started downstairs, but then I noticed that he was driving away.”
“How come you decided to come to the diner?”
“Something just didn’t sit right with me.”
I liked the fact that Ty was looking out for me. It wasn’t necessary, but I liked it anyway.
“So, what did Mayor Tingsley want?” he asked again.
“He offered me two million bucks for everything.”
Ty whistled, long and low. “That’s a lot of meat loaf specials.”
“Sure is. I really didn’t answer him, but I’ll turn him down. He’s not family. Aunt Stella wouldn’t like it. She offered the place to me, Ty, and I believe that she turned the mayor down before. And probably the Browns, too, but I don’t know for sure.”
I took another bite of the cake, and then I decided that I was being impolite. “Can I make you something to eat? Eggs or something?”
Notice that I didn’t offer him a piece of cake.
“I ate at the diner. Juanita can make a mean western omelet.”
“Any other customers there?” I don’t know why I asked. I could just look out the window at the parking lot.
He shook his head.
“We have to solve this mystery, Ty. I’m going to go bankrupt.”
He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket and set it in front of me. “I took these fibers from a metallic protrusion located on the southwest corner of your trash receptacle.”
Cop talk: the art of being verbose.
“I thought you blew off my ‘Antoinette Chloe Brown hiding by the Dumpster waiting to poison Mr. Cogswell when Juanita turned her back’ theory.”
“After sleeping on it, I think your theory might be worth looking into.”
“Good!” I cleaned up every crumb of the Wacky Cake and got up to pour him a cup of coffee.
“Where’s that piece of material with the flower on it?”
“Hang on.”
I set a mug of coffee in front of him, got my notebook, and handed him the fabric. “Gardenia.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Can you search Antoinette Chloe Brown’s closet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I’d ever get a warrant. What would I tell the judge? That she wears muumuus?”
“Yes!”
“Probably more than half of the women in this county wear muumuus.”
“Or caftans.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked.
“Not much.” I don’t know why I brought up the caftan vs. muumuu debate in the first place.
“I need more, Trixie. But in the meantime, I could get this to the lab and at least get a positive match.”
“Good.” And I was going to add Antoinette Chloe Brown to my list of suspects in my trusty notebook.
But the list was ever-growing. I think I had just about all the population of Sandy Harbor listed in it. It might have been easier just to use the phone book.
“Ty, what could Antoinette Chloe Brown’s motivation be for killing Mr. Cogswell?” I asked, flipping my notebook open to a new page. “To put me out of business and increase hers?”
He sighed. “You’re not going to quit investigating, are you?”
“No,” I said, meeting the glare of his eyes. “Can’t we just share information? Maybe I can help you. Heaven knows, I have time on my hands.”
He still didn’t agree to my helping him, but he said, “I’d have to do some checking for sure, but you’re right. I’ve noticed that Brown’s Four Corners Restaurant has been hopping since the poisoning.”
I nodded. “So has the Crossroads Restaurant, Mayor Tingsley’s place.”
“And the mayor made you an offer. I wonder if he made the same offer to Stella. If he bought you out, there’d be one less restaurant to compete with, or he could make more money with two.”
“Aunt Stella was vague when we were talking about it. She just said that two people were interested, but they weren’t family, so she wouldn’t sell to them.”
“Wish you could get in touch with her,” Ty said. “But it’s a good guess that the two are the Browns and the Tingsleys.”
“I probably could if I tried, but I don’t want to, Ty. Let her have fun. She needs it, especially after she lost Uncle Porky. I can handle this.”
Yeah, sure I can. And I’m doing such a great job of it.
It was then I decided that I was going to get into Antoinette Chloe Brown’s house and somehow see her muumuu collection.
And see if a chunk of material was missing from the gardenia one.
But first, I had to get rid of Wyatt Earp. He’d never agree to my searching her closets.
“Ty, I hate to give you and Blondie the bum’s rush out of here, but I sure could use more sleep.”
“I have to get going anyway.” He drained his coffee. “I’m heading over to the American Legion, or what’s left of it.” He snapped his fingers. “Which is another reason why I’m here. Seems like the commander of the Legion, John Nunnamaker, and the Ladies Auxiliary have some meetings scheduled, and they can’t use the Legion Hall. I suggested that they could meet in the Silver Bullet. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Ty, that’d be great!” Finally, people in the diner.
“There will be a lot of meetings because now they have to plan some fund-raisers for a new roof. I think they have a high deductible.”
“I don’t care how many times they need to meet. They can use the back corner with all the tables. It’s more conducive to meetings than the booths.” My mind was whirling already. I’d have a big pot of coffee ready for them, and maybe Cindy could make her cinnamon rolls, and…
“Good. I’ll let John Nunnamaker know.”
“Thanks for suggesting the Silver Bullet, Ty.” A wet wool blanket of guilt settled over me. Ty was wonderful and considerate for steering business my way, and I was going to sneak behind his back and search Antoinette Chloe Brown’s closet.
I walked him to the door. “Get some sleep,” he said.
I pretende
d to stifle a yawn. Not my best performance.
He tweaked the brim of his hat and headed for his black SUV. I took a quick power nap on the couch, then zoomed up the stairs to get dressed to pay a visit to Antoinette Chloe Brown and her muumuu collection.
Chapter 11
A half hour later, I was in my car armed with several banana nut breads, courtesy of Juanita. Juanita was killing time baking. She didn’t like Sunshine baked goods any more than I did, and we had a lot of produce to use before it spoiled.
I had to find the time to visit Mrs. Stolfus.
I dropped six banana breads off at the fire hall for today’s volunteers and headed for Brown’s Four Corners Restaurant with the seventh.
I didn’t have a clue where the Browns lived, but I was going to find out.
I made my way through the throng of people waiting to get into the restaurant. There was still a cloud of smoke hanging in the air, the windows were still dirty, and the food being delivered was plentiful, but it looked like nothing special.
The Silver Bullet was so much better than this place.
I smiled at the young girl with the moussed crown of hair behind the scratched black podium.
“Is Mrs. Brown here today?” I asked. “I have a meeting with her, but I can’t remember if we planned to meet here or at her house.”
“She doesn’t come in until dinner today.”
“Then our meeting must be at her house.” I looked confused. “Hers is the big white house on Pine Street?”
“No. The Browns live on Sycamore. Yellow house with lavender shutters.”
“Of course. Thank you very much.”
That was easy. I made my way back through the crowd, got into my car, and drove to Sycamore Street. It was a left turn by the small movie theater, the Bijou, which I remembered fondly.
I noticed that they were playing Gone with the Wind. Yup, that was what they were playing the last time I’d driven by here some ten years ago.
The bright yellow house with the lavender shutters was easy to find, but the lime green and fuchsia touches were a surprise. The whole house was as ostentatious as the owner herself, and it stuck out like a tie-dyed T-shirt in a neighborhood of pastel blouses.
A white van was in the driveway, with fancy red letters painted on that proclaimed BROWN’S FOUR CORNERS RESTAURANT. EAT IN, TAKE OUT, CATERING. YOU’LL LOVE OUR WINGS.
Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery Page 12