Midnight Snacks are Murder

by Libby Klein

  I put some fruit and coconut milk in the blender with chia seeds and flax seeds and made smoothies for the two of us.

  Aunt Ginny looked through the contents of the envelope. “I think the DA is building a case against me.”

  I put straws in our smoothies and joined Aunt Ginny at the table. “To be honest, I don’t think they’re even looking for other suspects yet. But try not to worry, I have a couple of leads to follow up on today.” I put my hand on top of Aunt Ginny’s. “We’ll figure this out. I’m going to rock around the clock.”

  Aunt Ginny smiled weakly.

  “‘Happy days are here again. Sunday, Monday, happy days.’”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  “You won’t be doing the ‘Jailhouse Rock’ on my watch.”

  Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes and pulled her hand out from under mine. “Where’s my flyswatter?”

  “What? Too far?”

  The smile on her face was worth it.

  Chapter 27

  One batch of banana black-walnut Paleo muffins—check. One batch of Paleo pineapple upside-down cupcakes—check. One bowl of flour, boobytrapped by Momma to dump on my head when I started the Hobart mixer—check. It was gonna be one of those days.

  I had a text from Gia saying he had news from his contact at the chamber of commerce, and to come over ASAP. I hurriedly cleaned up my station, and the cold station, and the dry goods storage, and the dish station. Because falling flour travels like a New England blizzard.

  About forty minutes later, I took the deliveries through the front door of La Dolce Vita. Karla was working the register and serving pastries, while Gia was pulling the shots—um, literally—and making lattes. The whole room froze in their tracks when I showed up looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Karla took one look at me and lost it, but Gia took my hand and led me through the back and out the door to the parking lot, where he proceeded to swat me down with a dish towel.

  “What happened, mia bella?”

  “There was an incident.”

  “Capisco. You look like the Pillsbury dough lady.”

  “Not the most flattering icon.”

  “You are still beautiful.”

  Gia turned me to face him and tipped my chin up. He leaned down to kiss me, but we were interrupted by some obtrusive coughing. Karla said something in Italian, to which Gia answered sharply. He kissed my forehead. “Karla said there is a line forming for your muffins. Shake the flour out of your hair and come in, bella. I have news.”

  When the morning rush died down we had a chance to sit and talk.

  “So, my friend in the chamber told me there were two other charities nominated for the humanitarian award last spring.”

  My God, his eyes are blue. What shade of blue is that? Robin’s-egg? Summer sky?

  “Each charity is governed by a board of directors.”

  When he says friend … does he mean female friend? Just how friendly is this friend?

  “One was the Shore Animal Shelter and the other was South Jersey Hospice.”

  How pretty is this friend?

  An amused smile broke across Gia’s face, as though he could read my mind. “Are you listening?”

  “Hmm? Yes. What?”

  He breathed a little laugh to himself, then handed me a piece of scratch paper. “I’ve written down the names of the presidents of each board.”

  South Jersey Hospice: Glynnis Jackson

  Shore Animal Shelter: Kenya Martin

  “Do you really think one of these charities could have been angry that Brody got the money for the Teen Center that they felt they deserved?”

  “Maybe. But angry enough to kill him?” Gia shook his head. “I have a hard time believing that someone who rescues stray cats or helps the terminally ill would be that ruthless.”

  I checked my watch. “I’m going to Gleason’s Garage this afternoon to try to charm Kylie Furman’s boyfriend into giving me his alibi. I‘ll stop at these charities while I’m out.”

  “Why don’t you come back when you’re done and tell me how it went. We can have dinner together.”

  “I want to … but I feel like I should be with Aunt Ginny.”

  “Bring her with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t she like to get out of the house?”

  I thought of Aunt Ginny in her poodle skirt and saddle shoes and smiled to myself. “I’ll ask her.”

  *

  The offices of South Jersey Hospice were in a cozy bungalow in West Cape May. The cheery waiting room was painted pale yellow with chintz overstuffed chairs and painted distressed-wood tables. A beautiful vase of yellow roses and white hydrangeas sat on the reception desk.

  The CEO, Glynnis Jackson, an older woman who exuded style and grace from her white hair done in a sleek platinum bob to her flouncy black satin skirt and pink silk blouse, was able to give me a few minutes before her next appointment.

  “So, what can I do for you, Ms. McAllister?”

  “I’m doing research about the Cape May Humanitarian Award.”

  “I’m not sure I have much to offer you. I’m not on the committee for the award.”

  “No, but you were nominated for it last year.”

  “We’ve been blessed to be nominated a few times. It’s a peer nomination process.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The businesses who are a part of the Lower Township Chamber of Commerce nominate local charities each year. We provide in-depth information to the chamber, such as our policies and procedures, testimonials, and financial information. The review board votes to narrow down the entries to three finalists and starts a campaign for the community to vote.”

  “How do people cast their votes?”

  “Online and mail-in ballot. Voters have to register to prevent any one person or charity from flooding the ballot box and skewing the results unethically.”

  “And the winner gets an award?”

  “A trophy and a cash donation.”

  “How much of a donation?”

  “Last spring it was ten thousand dollars.”

  “Wow. Where does the money come from?”

  “Mostly from chamber fund-raising events and community support. Why are you so interested? Do you have a charity you want to nominate?”

  “I’m more interested in the last charity to win. Do you remember who that was?”

  She thought for a minute, “I think it was one that did something with kids.”

  “It was the Teen Center in the Villas.”

  “That’s right, I remember it was their first year to be nominated.”

  “Did you know the founder?”

  “No, we’ve never met. I don’t attend the chamber functions very often. I send one of our regular nurses to the networking events, but we work twenty-four hours a day, as you can imagine. There isn’t a lot of time for self-promotion.”

  “Do you know who nominated you?”

  “It’s usually a family member that we’ve worked with. Hospice is a delicate ministry and families are in a fragile state when we’re involved. People are so grateful to have help with their loved one’s end-of-life care that we get many accolades just by word of mouth.”

  “Is there anyone at the hospice who would personally have anything to gain by winning the award or the grant money?”

  “We all like the validation, if that’s what you’re asking, but we’re a well-funded charity. I have a staff of twenty-four full-time nurses with a medical temp agency on call if we need short-time backup. A lot of what we do is covered by Medicare and some private insurance. We rely on donations and grant money to be able to provide for patients who don’t have insurance.”

  “So, no one member of the charity keeps the donation, as a bonus maybe?”

  “Heavens no. And if someone ever did, the auditors would catch it right away. We’d lose our tax-exempt status.”

  The receptionist knocked on the office door and told Mrs. Jackso
n that her next appointment had arrived. Glynnis excused herself, offering to meet with me again if I needed her. I thanked her and let myself out.

  One down, one to go.

  *

  I had to drive into the Villas to find the Shore Animal Shelter. The shelter was in one of those low, aluminum-siding industrial-type buildings ubiquitous to South Jersey. It could be a health food store, swimming pool supplies, or a day care. You could never tell by appearance.

  There were partitions outside in the back, made out of a twelve-foot-tall chain-link fence. Dogs in every shape, size, and color ran the maze of partitions, burning off restless energy. A barking chorus of hope hailed my arrival.

  Inside, the shelter was a stark waiting room of green linoleum with a tall tan counter of off-white linoleum, and a few metal chairs. A bulletin board was covered in fliers advertising veterinary services and pet care classes. Whatever grant money these people got, it definitely didn’t go to the decor.

  Kenya was a young African-American woman, dressed in khakis and a green golf shirt with the animal shelter logo embroidered over the top pocket. She bounded into the room like a Labrador retriever, friendly and full of energy.

  “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you. Are you here for a dog, cat, or guinea pig today?”

  “I hope I didn’t give you false hopes. I’m not here to adopt. I’m looking for some information about the humanitarian award you were nominated for last spring.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. Well, come back to my office and let’s chat.”

  Her office was at the end of the building, and we had to walk through many cages of small cats and dogs looking for someone to love them and take them home. Smart strategy, Kenya.

  I had to be strong. It wouldn’t take much for me to load five or six cats into the car and take them with me. We’d have to rename the B and B the Litterbox.

  Kenya’s office was small and cramped. Motivational posters featuring all manner of wildlife hanging in there and being the leader of the pack hung from one end of the office to the other. A wall calendar from Iams pet food sat on the desk.

  “Have a seat.”

  From the only chair in her office I picked up a stack of new piddle pads for house training, but having nowhere to set them down, I placed them on my lap. I asked Kenya the same questions I’d asked Glynnis, and she relayed the same process for nomination. The main difference was the animal shelter’s need for the grant money.

  “We’re a no-kill shelter. That means if we don’t find homes for these little guys they live out their lives in here. Frankie, our Jack Russell terrier, has been here for seven years. Now he’s our official mascot. Local government only provides so much in the way of financial support, and it barely covers the cost of room and board.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been nominated for the humanitarian award?”

  “Oh, no. We’ve been nominated many times. We have a lot of outreach programs, so we’re well-known in the community. In fact, we won the award in 2013. See, here’s my trophy.”

  She handed me a bronze statue of an angel holding up a star on a base shaped like a seashell. It was heavy, smooth, and could do some critical damage if you cracked someone over the head with it.

  “So this is what the director gets when you win?”

  “We all get one. Well, this and a check for the shelter. We used the grant money to expand our veterinary clinic to provide health care for our lodgers. Many of them come in with all kinds of problems—mange, fleas, infections. Our veterinarians donate their time, but medicine and labs cost money.”

  I handed the statue back to her. “You said we all get one. Who is we all?”

  “All the officers get a trophy. This one’s mine. I’m here all the time, so I keep mine in the office.”

  “Do you know who won this year’s award?”

  “I do. It was the new youth center. My cousin’s kid has spent a lot of time in that program. It’s done him a world of good.”

  “So you weren’t upset that they got the money instead of you?”

  “The youth center needs the money as badly as we do. I believe that when God closes a door, he opens a window. There will be other donations for us and they’ll come at just the right time.”

  I thanked her for the meeting, and she walked me out. On the way toward the exit, I noticed a display of framed pictures hanging on one wall. They were photographs of successful adoptions and current residents looking for homes. In the center was a group photo of current board members, taken last spring. And there in the front row, standing next to Kenya, was none other than Brody’s boss at Freeman and Furman.

  “Isn’t that Ken Freeman?”

  “It is. He volunteers as our comptroller.”

  “What does a comptroller do?”

  “He handles the money for the shelter.”

  “So, when things are tight, he’d be the first one to know about it?”

  Kenya laughed good-naturedly, “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “He’s nice. Very …”

  “Crunchy?”

  Kenya laughed. “I was going to say very into nature, but I think crunchy is probably more accurate.”

  “You must trust him to let him handle the shelter’s money.”

  “I do. Ken is a straight arrow. I can see how he’s built his investment firm on the reputation of his integrity.”

  “Honesty means a lot to him?”

  “It’s his guiding principle. He only works with people who hold to the same code of honor.”

  “And all these people would have a statue like the one in your office?”

  “Yep, every one of them.”

  Chapter 28

  I had a bad feeling about Ken Freeman. Kenya said he valued integrity and honesty above all other things. Someone like that doesn’t murder in cold blood. But it couldn’t be a coincidence that the same person who fired Brody for embezzlement, was also on the board of a rival charity desperately in need of grant money. Of course, what kind of sicko kills someone because they were honored for helping kids in need? Maybe Gia was right and people aren’t always who you think they are.

  I drove down Fulling Mill Road into Rio Grande, heading for Gleason’s Garage, and the car pulled itself into the Starbucks drive-through. I had mixed emotions about the car’s decision to order a Frappuccino. Emotions like whether or not I was being disloyal to a sexy barista in Cape May, did I really need more caffeine this late in the day, and could I order a pumpkin spice cheesecake muffin without anyone finding out about it. I silenced these emotions with an iced Americano with two packets of stevia and a quarter cup of half-and-half. I only managed to break free from the muffin’s lure by coming up with a plan for a gluten-free copycat in tomorrow’s baking.

  Cape May County had thumbed its nose at progress and preferred instead the bygone days of the mom-and-pop business. We’re one of two states in the nation so afraid that you’ll blow yourself up if you try to pump your own gas that we pay attendants to do it for you. We still have small businesses that elsewhere were bought out and replaced by big box stores, although I’ve heard rumors that there is a secret underground Sam Goody in the Pleasantville Mall if you know where to find it. They run the entire store on a Compaq with a dot matrix printer. For all of our chain-hating ways, our cornerstone was a Dunkin’ Donuts. We’re not animals.

  Gleason’s Garage was the equivalent of a Cold War–era Jiffy Lube. Men wearing oil-stained jumpsuits were either bent over engines or rolled under cars on dollies. The sound of the air drill competed with a weak radio playing Top 40 hits, and the smell of machine oil clung to the air. A greasy man with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip and the name Toots embroidered on his jumpsuit, asked me if I needed any help.

  “I’m looking for Frank Trippett. Do I have the right place?”

  Toots hollered “Frank!” over his shoulder and went back to his engine thingy.

  Frank Trippett looked like the
cover model for Mechanic Monthly. He was tall and lean and his jumpsuit strained over his pecs and biceps. He came from the back room wiping his hands on a red towel. “Yeah?”

  “Poppy McAllister.” I extended my hand.

  Frank looked me up and down but did not take my offered hand.

  “What can I do ya for, honey?”

  “I wanted to ask you some questions about a man your girlfriend Kylie used to work with. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  Frank considered me for a minute, then hollered to anyone listening, “I’m taking a ten.” He led me out behind the garage to a wooden bench. The ground was littered with cigarette butts and crushed beer cans. A NO SMOKING sign was posted on the back of the building.

  Frank pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear and lit it. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Did you hear that one of Kylie’s coworkers, Brody Brandt, was killed this past weekend?”

  He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Kylie mentioned it.”

  “Did she happen to share any information with you about what might have happened to him?”

  Frank took a long drag on his smoke. “That sounds like a question better asked of Kylie.”

  “She was very upset the other day when we spoke, and I really don’t want to bother her again if I don’t have to.”

  “Funny, I don’t see a badge. Why should I tell you anything?” He gave me a patronizing smile.

  “Kylie worked in the same office with Brody every day. He was fired just days before someone murdered him. That makes her a suspect. If she’s innocent, any information you have could help clear her name.” Or better yet, incriminate her and get Aunt Ginny off the hot seat.

  “I don’t know what I have to do with it.”

  “I was under the impression that you knew Mr. Brandt.”

  Frank shook his head. “Never met him.”

  “Never? I thought I was told that you and he had quite an argument a few weeks back.”

  Frank was a cool one. He didn’t so much as flinch. He just leaned back against the bench and stretched his legs out. “Arguing ain’t the same as meeting, now is it?”