Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery

by Christine Wenger

  I let myself in the back door. Juanita and Cindy were busy filling orders.

  “Trixie! Isn’t this great?” Juanita said. “They’re all ordering lunch, too.”

  “Did you make a special, Juanita?”

  “I made cream of tomato soup with basil and grilled cheese sandwiches for them.”

  “Excellent!” Thank goodness for Juanita.

  “And they’re loving it,” Cindy added as she dipped a ladle into a big soup pot and poured the contents into a white bowl.

  “Do we have enough desserts?” I asked.

  “We did a lot of baking this morning—pies, brownies, cakes—when we found out that they were going to meet here,” Cindy said. “The pies in the carousel from Sunshine Food Supply were…uh…old. We got rid of them.”

  Thank goodness they did. I slipped into a clean white apron and plucked an order from the rack. “Cheeseburger, medium rare, and fries.” That was easy. I plucked off a couple more orders and worked on all three. It was good to get back into the swing of cooking. An hour zoomed by, and it seemed like only five minutes.

  “The crunch is just about over,” Juanita said. “We’re okay.”

  “Thanks so much, ladies. I really appreciate it.”

  Both Juanita and Cindy shooed me out the door. They both worked like crazy, and I vowed to give them both a raise. Someday. When the diner was back on its feet.

  I walked into the diner and people were sitting everywhere. There were still a lot of empty seats—the diner seated about seventy-five, and only about forty people were present—but I wasn’t complaining.

  As I walked around with pots of decaf and regular coffee, grinning from ear to ear, I knew that I’d joined the ranks of ACB and Laura Tingsley.

  But I needed a theme: “Hawaiian floral explosion” and “First Lady” were already taken.

  I looked down at my dark denim jeans and navy blue polo shirt. It was slimming, and casual. Perfect diner attire.

  I felt like I was walking on sunshine. Here I was in tiny Sandy Harbor, New York, with a coffeepot in each hand, in my own diner, on my property, and I had customers.

  I had finished refilling everyone’s coffee cups, so I fixed a large tray with the various desserts and began passing them out. No charge for dessert today, or even coffee. I’d let Chelsea and Nancy know that it was on the house. I felt like I was welcoming them into my house, and I wanted them to return.

  I met lots of new people, and got reacquainted with others, many of whom remembered my family coming to Cottage Number Six every summer and when I worked at the apple orchard.

  “Don’t let that health inspector thing bother you, dearie,” said my former communications professor from Oswego State, Mrs. Leddy. “That sexy cop from Texas will get to the bottom of it.”

  I wanted to believe her, but this was the same professor who still maintained that the Internet would never catch on.

  I’d already decided to muddle through on my own, either with or without Ty’s help. I’d done a pretty good job so far. I was the one who’d followed through on the muumuu clue.

  Right about now, Ty should be getting a warrant to search ACB’s house. I wondered if she would associate me with the sudden warrant.

  If she could add two plus two, she would. I was the one inside her closet. I was the one with the fishy story about a tour of historical homes.

  “Mrs. Leddy?”

  “Yes, dearie?”

  “Do you know who is the president of the Sandy Harbor Historical Society?”

  “Why, I am, dearie.”

  My luck continued. I should buy a lottery ticket today. “Have you ever thought of a tour of homes, maybe as a fund-raiser?”

  “We used to do it at Christmas, but we haven’t done a tour in years. It was just so much work, and most of it centered around getting the houses clean and presentable.” She tugged at my arm to get me to bend over, and whispered in my ear. “You can’t believe some of the housekeepers in this town. Terrible!”

  “Have you thought about trying it again?”

  “We can’t get a volunteer to coordinate it.”

  “I volunteer!” This job would be a good opportunity to make more friends in the community.

  “That would be wonderful, dearie! I’ll tell the board of directors of the historical society.”

  “Do you think they’ll go for it?”

  “Absolutely! It was our best fund-raiser.”

  “Well then, Mrs. Leddy, I’ll get started immediately.”

  “Bless you, dearie.”

  I let her get back to her meeting about the American Legion’s roof.

  Just then I heard the president of the Legion ask for suggestions as to where they could hold events like card tournaments and wine tastings and whatnot until the roof was replaced.

  I raised my hand. “You could hold them right here, Mr. President. The Silver Bullet is at your disposal.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Trixie. That’s very generous of you.”

  There was a murmur of comments about Mr. Cogswell’s poisoning that happened just inside those double doors, but it was Mrs. Leddy who saved the day.

  “If any of you believe that Trixie Matkowski would poison anyone, you need a shrink. She’s Porky and Stella’s niece, for heaven’s sake. She was the cutest little girl—always walking around with a grape lollipop. And, wow, could she swim! And the poor thing is divorced now. He was fooling around on her, you know.”

  Several pairs of eyes grew round, probably not because they just heard my life story in a couple of sentences, nor because they might have heard just about the same thing earlier from Mr. Farnsworth at the fire barn, but in amazement at how Mrs. Leddy could equate my innocence with grape lollipops, swimming, and being cheated on.

  The president asked for a vote as to whether they should hold their indoor fund-raisers at the Silver Bullet. Most all the hands were raised. The “ayes” won.

  Several people jumped up to shake my hand and to thank me. I felt accepted, and I loved the fact that the Silver Bullet would be busy, because people would still order food at their events. I’d have specials and discounts, and I would donate a share of my profits to the fund-raiser, but at least the diner would be busy.

  Suddenly I felt like I’d slammed into a brick wall. I was dead tired, even zombielike. Time to get some sleep.

  I gave everyone in the front of the diner a cheerful wave good-bye and ducked into the kitchen.

  “You look like something that Blondie dragged in,” Juanita said, reminding me again of how Blondie dragged in a piece of ACB’s gardenia muumuu. Was Ty searching her house for the garment at this very moment?

  “I’m going to get some sleep,” I said. “Is everything okay here?”

  “Go!” Both Juanita and Cindy waved me away. “And Chelsea and Nancy have the front covered.”

  “When do I have to come back to cook? Or is Bob back?”

  “Bob is still out,” Juanita said. “Come in after you get some sleep.”

  I was beginning to think that Bob didn’t exist.

  I plodded over to my house and was greeted by Blondie. She nudged my leg, wagging her tail. I patted her soft head and under her chin.

  “Do you have to go out, Blondie?”

  The dog got up, hustled down the front stairs, and walked to her favorite spot. When she was done, she hurried back inside the house, probably fearful that I would abandon her like her previous owner.

  She walked at my side, up the stairs and to my bedroom. I was too exhausted to change into nightwear, so I plopped on top of the comforter.

  It felt heavenly.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been sleeping when I felt something wet on my lips. Ty Brisco kissing me was the first thought that entered my mind. He had hung his cowboy hat on the bedpost, and he was snuggling in next to me. I felt the bed shift.

  Hmm…another kiss. This time it was much wetter. More like a lick. Ty?

  No. Blondie.

  She wa
s stretched out on the bed, next to me. Her head was on the other pillow, and she was staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  She looked at me and closed her eyes.

  I glanced at the clock. Three in the afternoon. I got up, hit the bathroom, and when I came back, Blondie was stretched across two pillows.

  I grinned. “Oh no, you don’t. Move over, you bed hog.” I gave her a gentle nudge, and she moved enough for me to slide in next to her.

  I tried to get back to sleep, but a steady parade of suspects filed past me, with ACB as a drum majorette, leading the parade.

  Then there was Mark Cummings, Roberta’s brother, the surly deliveryman for Sunshine Food Supply. He was at the diner around the time of Marvin’s demise.

  And let’s not forget the anonymous woman—perhaps ACB, also—who ordered a case of mushrooms to be delivered to the Silver Bullet, when no Matkowski had ever allowed a mushroom to enter its hallowed silver walls.

  I figured that Mayor Rick Tingsley and probably ACB and Sal Brown made offers to Aunt Stella for her little corner of the Sandy Harbor, now my little corner. She’d turned them both down.

  Would they have tried to close me down, thinking that I’d sell to them? If one of them had a grudge against Mr. Cogswell the Third, it would be like eliminating two birds with one stone.

  Mr. Cogswell and I were the two birds!

  I thought of Mr. Cogswell as a seagull, scavenging for meals. I preferred to think of myself as a…flamingo—a pretty fuchsia color with long skinny legs.

  I liked Sal Brown. He was absolutely devoted to his wife. He had twinkly eyes and seemed to be a sweet guy. But I’d been wrong before, such as in my choice of a husband.

  I didn’t have an opinion on Laura Tingsley. She seemed okay, having the guts to go bootless and to wear white shoes before Memorial Day in Sandy Harbor, one step down from the North Pole.

  Mayor Tingsley was another story. He was blunt, rude, and pushy. I didn’t know yet what his mayoral skills were, but he was definitely absent the night of the American Legion roof collapse. He should have been there helping, or at least checking on the townsfolk.

  And I totally didn’t like the way he was pushing me to sell—shoveling the guilt on me like quick-setting concrete if I didn’t let him bring jobs to the area.

  I’d never be able to concentrate on my long to-do list for the diner if I kept hashing and rehashing the same suspects. I had to solve this soon.

  There was a knock on the door. I willed whoever it was to go away. But Blondie hoisted herself up, jumped down from the bed, and headed downstairs.

  I quickly ran a brush through my hair and ran a cold washcloth over my face. I noticed that my eyes were brighter and less puffy, and I felt more alert.

  I answered the door. It was Ty Brisco, dressed in full deputy sheriff regalia. I opened the door and stifled a yawn.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I thought you’d want to hear what’s new in the Cogswell case.”

  He bent over to pet Blondie, and her tail wagged in sheer pleasure. I couldn’t help but look at his lips, remembering my Blondie-induced dream.

  Snap out of it!

  I motioned for him to come in. “Did ACB confess? I hope so.”

  “No. In fact, there was no gardenia dress in her closet or anywhere else in her house.”

  My stomach dropped. “Come on, Ty. I saw it. I touched it. I picked it up from the bottom of her closet. It had a chunk of material missing that matched the piece that Blondie found.”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone? What did she do with it?” I asked. “And that proves that she’s guilty, doesn’t it?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  I needed coffee or perhaps something stronger like a giant milk chocolate candy bar with almonds—I’d heard that almonds are healthy.

  “What can I get you, Ty?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  I went to my fridge and pulled out a bottle of iced tea, twisted the cap, and took a long draw. Then I put fresh water into Blondie’s bowl, and she slurped noisily. I smiled. Now there was a gal who enjoyed her drink.

  I wanted to keep her. All the time. Forever.

  Ty pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and stretched out his long legs.

  “ACB said that she hasn’t been to your diner since before Stella left, and if she wanted to visit, she’d use the front door, not hang around your Dumpster.”

  “I tipped off ACB, didn’t I?” I asked, the guilt settling in. She must have hidden the evidence after my illicit visit.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He was just being nice. I knew that I had blown it.

  “What about Sal the biker? Is he mad about the search?”

  “Livid. ACB called him when we knocked on the door, and he arrived in less than a minute. She kept sobbing into his chest, wailing about how she could never hold her head up in Sandy Harbor again.”

  “Ick. Did you ask her about the muumuu?” I asked.

  “She said that she never owned a gardenia muumuu.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said, maturely. “What did Sal say?”

  “He said that he doesn’t know one flower from another.”

  “Someone must remember seeing her wearing the gardenia muumuu the day of Mr. Cogswell’s funeral. That’s when I saw her wearing it. At her restaurant.”

  “I don’t need to ask anyone. Not yet. I know she’s lying.”

  “And her motive?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He scratched Blondie’s ears, but he seemed to be thinking.

  “Ty, do you have other suspects?”

  “I shouldn’t discuss this with you, Trixie.”

  “Ty, you said that we’d work together; then you won’t share anything.”

  “I agreed that we’d work together?” He rubbed his chin. “I think I remember only agreeing to work together relative to Sunshine Food Supply. Nothing else. But if I did, how do you explain going to ACB’s house without telling me? Matter of fact, you lied and told me that you were going to get some sleep. Then you snuck out.” He raised a black eyebrow. That was his “I gotcha” tell.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Sure was, darlin’.”

  He sang his last sentence and reminded me of George Strait.

  “But you aren’t including me in anything! You won’t tell me anything about the investigation, and it’s my diner. It’s my life! So, if there’s anything you can tell me, anything at all, spill it, cowboy.”

  Chapter 13

  Ty shifted in his chair. “Trixie, like I said before, there are some things I can’t tell you. I probably shouldn’t have even told you about our search of the Browns’ today.”

  I let out a deep breath. This was so frustrating.

  “Have you searched around the Browns’ house? You know, garbage cans, the woods behind their house, dug-up dirt?”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, Trixie.” He looked amused rather than angry.

  “Okay. Rick Tingsley, our loudmouthed mayor, has made it public that he wants your property,” Ty said.

  “Yeah. I know. I was the one who told you that.”

  “But the interesting news is that he doesn’t have the money to buy you out. There’s not a lot of real estate moving on the market here, or anywhere for that matter. As for investments, he’s made some bad decisions in a bad market. He’s going under,” Ty said.

  “If he doesn’t have any money, then why is he making it his mission to buy me out? He made me a cash offer. Two million.”

  “Bringing jobs into a depressed area makes for a good political campaign. His party has nominated him for the senate, so it’s a go.”

  “Laura is already starting to campaign for him.”

  “Speaking of Laura VanPlank Tingsley, her parents live in Palm Beach, and they’re loaded. They gave her the best house in Sandy Harbor for her wedding, and they bought the Crossroads for her because she wanted something to d
o. They bought the building where the mayor’s real estate and investment business is located.” Ty shook his head and frowned like he couldn’t imagine living off someone else’s money. “Maybe they want Laura to be married to a senator. It certainly would be several rugs up the social ladder from being the mayor’s wife in a small town in upstate New York. It’s probably his in-laws’ money that he’s going to use to buy you out.”

  That made sense to me. “And since his campaign is depending on him creating new jobs, maybe he decided to bankrupt me to buy the land. Since paying cash didn’t work.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “But did Mr. Cogswell really have to die because Rick Tingsley wants to be a senator?”

  Ty shrugged. “If he wanted to bankrupt you and force a quick sale, it would make sense.”

  My headache was returning.

  “What other suspects do you have, Ty?”

  He shook his head. “ACB and our mayor are about it, but all I have is suspicion so far, with nothing specific to go on.”

  “Ty, what about Mark Cummings, the Sunshine Food Supply deliveryman and Roberta’s brother? He was at the diner prior to Mr. Cogswell’s poisoning. He could have slipped poisoned mushrooms into his meal when Juanita wasn’t looking.”

  “He has no prior criminal record, and I found him to be a weird duck when I questioned him. But he volunteered to take a lie detector test and passed,” Ty said.

  “Oh.” I guessed that ruled out Mark Cummings. “I understand that Marvin abused Roberta. That’s what’s floating on the gossip grapevine anyway. What else have you found out about the victim?”

  “There’s nothing but three arrests for disorderly conduct. Cogswell has no convictions and no ties to anything criminal. Roberta reported domestic violence on Marvin’s part, and the Sandy Harbor police were called for a couple of loud fights between him and Roberta. And it was well-known that he mooched meals from area restaurants.”

  “In exchange for favorable evaluations,” I said.

  “Yeah, but it’s been going on for years. Why would anyone kill him now?”

  “Maybe someone got sick of it. Or maybe he was going to fail someone, regardless of how well he was treated.”