Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery

by Christine Wenger

  I, however, was breathing hard with my short, choppy steps. I vowed that when the New Year began in four short months, I’d exercise more, and not just kid myself that the Silver Bullet Shuffle was my aerobic workout.

  And I had to cool it with the carbs. For every dinner roll that came out of the oven, all hot and begging to be smeared with a couple gobs of butter, I must have eaten fifty.

  I waved to Ty, and he jogged over. “I suppose you want our dog back.”

  Blondie wiggled and looked like she was about to jump out of her skin. Squatting down, I hugged her and got a load of puppy kisses in return.

  “If you have more exciting things to do with her, please keep her. I’m only going to clean for a horde of Miss Salmon pageant contestants.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no room in the inns or the trailer parks in the vicinity, so the Big House is going to be sorority central for a while.”

  He laughed. “Yikes!” Then he snapped his fingers and raised a perfect black eyebrow. “Beauty contestants, huh? Need any help?”

  “Sure, Ty. The ladies who entered from the Sandy Harbor Golden Age Apartments need wheelchair transportation. How sweet you are to volunteer! I’ll write you in.”

  “Oh . . . um . . . okay. Anyway, I was going to take Blondie to the dog park. She can run around and play with the other dogs, and I can read on a nearby bench.”

  “Blondie will love it.” Then I thought about Nick and our quest to find him.

  I should probably tell Ty about Nick being missing. “I want to tell you that Antoinette Chloe and I went to Nick’s place to see if there were any clues as to where he might be—you know he’s missing, right?”

  “Of course. ACB called yesterday.”

  Ty shared my abbreviation for Antoinette Chloe Brown’s name.

  He shook his head. “She also filed a missing-persons report.”

  I nodded. “She must’ve called it in right after we left his place. We couldn’t find anything. No notes. Nothing. And the place was so clean and sterile that every worker in the Health Department and Housing Codes Enforcement would cry in happiness.”

  “I hit the computers, but no luck,” he said. “He hasn’t used a credit card; he hasn’t used his cell phone. He hasn’t reserved a plane or a bus seat. We are all keeping an eye out for him.”

  By all, I knew that he meant all three deputies of the Sandy Harbor Sheriff’s Department. Yeah, that’s right: three.

  “His car and his motorcycle with the sidecar still attached are in the garage.”

  “I know. I checked.”

  “How? ACB has the key.”

  “It was as simple as looking in the window, Trixie. After all, I am a detective.” He said it sarcastically, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

  Okay, I deserved that. “I didn’t mean to insult your cop-ness, Ty, but he’s been missing for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nick’s been missing two weeks, not two days. ACB is beside herself with worry.”

  “Then she should have called us earlier. I can imagine she’s upset, but I’ve already kicked up the investigation a notch,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “I put Nick’s information in on the New York State Police system. The troopers are looking for him, too.”

  “Oh, good!”

  “What? Do you think that all I do is jog and hang out with Blondie all day?”

  “Of course not. You eat three meals at the Silver Bullet, too.”

  He patted his flat stomach. “You need a diet menu.”

  I laughed. “I’ve been meaning to get around to that.”

  Looking over at the lake, I thought about how I wanted to bring something up, but I didn’t want to accuse Ty of not doing enough.

  “What’s on your mind, Trixie? Spill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re petting Blondie so much, she’s losing fur.”

  “Okay. I didn’t want to get ACB alarmed, because she thinks that Nick’s coming back for her, and I kind of encouraged that kind of thinking, but—”

  “But?”

  “But I have this feeling in my gut that Nick just didn’t up and run away. I think something happened to him.”

  “I do, too, Trixie. I do, too.”

  Chapter 3

  My cell phone rang just as Ty jogged away with Blondie. I checked the number. It was ACB.

  “Hello, Antoinette Chloe.”

  “Trixie, do you remember that you were supposed to meet me at my land? We are about to break ground for my drive-in.”

  “Already? Antoinette Chloe, you told me next Thursday.” When that woman had a bee in her bonnet, or various flora, fauna, poultry, and birds, she worked fast.

  “Well, Excavating Ed Berger had a job fall through, so he and his backhoe and other equipment are available. So we’re rocking and rolling today.”

  “You don’t need me.” What was I supposed to do? Watch Ed the Excavator and his crew move dirt and cut trees?

  “Joan Paris of the Sandy Harbor Lure is going to be there, so it’s a photo op for our mayor. Besides, it’ll be good publicity for us, too. And as my best friend, I’d like you to cut the ribbon with me.”

  Aww . . .

  “Hurry, Trixie! Oh, this is so exciting!”

  I walked to my car and drove to ACB’s land. There were four other cars parked in a line along the highway, and I pulled in behind them.

  ACB was there, holding a long yellow ribbon that looked like crime-scene tape at first glance. At second glance, it definitely was crime-scene tape.

  ACB handed an end to the mayor and the other end to Ed Berger, whose loud, obnoxious backhoe was running.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Trixie,” ACB shouted over the noise. She handed me a pair of scissors, and as Joan Paris began taking pictures for the Lure, ACB and I posed like we were cutting the crime-scene tape.

  ACB had on a subdued muumuu—yellow and blue bird-of-paradise flowers on a fuchsia background. I wished I had the time to change from my tomato-print chef’s pants and red chef’s coat. Sandy Harbor mayor Rick Tingsley was all suited up with a red-striped tie. His light blue shirt was stretched across his belly, with a couple of buttons straining to keep the shirt closed. The buttons were fighting a losing battle.

  Joan Paris was dressed in a black fitted skirt, aqua sweater, and tall black boots. She always looked fashionable, even when she was taking pictures in the mud.

  When ACB brought out the champagne and glasses, Mayor Tingsley was the first to hold his glass out. Ed Berger shook his head at the champagne and made a motion that he was going to get to work. It was useless to talk over the roar of the motor, so we smiled at each other, drank champagne, and watched Ed dig. Joan took more pictures.

  At about the third scoop of dirt, I spit out my champagne and dropped the glass into the grass.

  “Stop! Ed! Stop!” I ran in front of the backhoe, waving my hands and screaming. “Stop! Stop!” I ran my hand across my throat in a gesture for him to cut the motor.

  “Oh my goodness!” Annette Chloe flip-flopped across the field to where Ed had started digging. “Oh no! It’s Nick! Those are his tattoos. That’s his Harley shirt!”

  I tried to keep her away from the dirt-covered body of Nick Brownelli. He was on his back, and his face and eyes were covered in mud. There was a dark spot on the left side of his neck, and I thought it must be blood from either a knife or a gunshot wound. Dirt clung to it.

  “Mayor Tingsley! Call the sheriff’s department!” I shouted. I couldn’t do it. I had a two-handed grip on ACB’s bird-of-paradise.

  But Mayor Tingsley was puking in the weeds.

  “Joan! Call the cops!” I yelled.

  “I’m on it!” she said.

  Excavating
Ed appeared and, with hands on hips, said the brilliant words “I hope this isn’t a Native American burial ground.”

  Good grief. “Ed, get a grip. This is Nick Brownelli! He’s Italian!”

  “My Nick!” ACB twisted out of my grip and knelt next to Nick in a clump of sod. “My beloved.” She reached for his hand and held it. “Who did this to you?” She was sobbing and her tears were dropping on his hand.

  I gently pulled her hand away. “Antoinette Chloe, don’t touch anything. The cops will want to preserve the crime scene.”

  ACB’s future drive-in was now a crime scene with a dead body in its dirt.

  Who would have thought that the crime-scene tape would be an omen?

  We waited for an eternity with ACB’s head on my shoulder and my arm around her. The seat of my cute tomato pants was feeling damp.

  Finally, Ty arrived. I could see Blondie in the back of his cop car.

  He rushed down to where we were and looked at me. “Is it Nick?”

  I nodded.

  “Did any of you touch anything?” he asked.

  “I held Nick’s hand.” Antoinette Chloe hiccuped.

  Ty shrugged. “I guess that didn’t hurt the crime scene too much.”

  He took charge. “Joan, would you take pictures, please? All angles.”

  She nodded and walked gingerly around the overturned ground.

  Ty walked back to his car and returned with a full tote bag. He took pictures, too. He asked us all to move back so he could take wider angles. Then he talked to Ed Berger, our puking Mayor Tingsley, and Joan Paris. He must have realized that ACB was too distraught to make any sense, so he didn’t speak with her—at least, not yet anyway.

  Just after he asked me to follow him away from the scene so he could ask me questions, the crime-scene investigation van of the state police rolled in and a team of six exited and walked toward us. They all huddled with Ty like a football team, then broke and spread out around Nick’s body.

  ACB and I sat on the sidelines of the field. I put my arm around her, and she rested her head on my shoulder. She cried and cried, and out of the blue, she looked at me and said, “At least he didn’t just take off and leave me, right, Trixie?”

  How was I supposed to answer that?

  “Uh-huh.” That was my usual default response.

  “I want to leave here, Trixie,” ACB said.

  “I agree. Come over to my Big House and I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

  “Not right now, Trixie.” We got to our feet with a minimum of grunting. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go home and change and take a shower and take a nap. And tomorrow I think I should drive to Auburn prison and tell Sal about his brother. I know Nick and Sal were on nonspeaking terms ever since Sal tried to kill me . . . but I think he deserves to know that his brother is dead. And I’ll need to know what arrangements he wants me to make for Nick.”

  “Wait until you’re ready, Antoinette Chloe. You just had a big shock. Besides, Hal Manning will be examining Nick for a while.”

  Hal Manning was the owner of the Happy Repose Funeral Home and Sandy Harbor’s coroner. I didn’t want to go into details with ACB, but based on my faux training with my ex, I was fairly sure that Nick’s body wouldn’t be released for a while.

  How did I know this? Deputy Doug, my ex-husband, always brought his work home, and over dinner he’d tell me every detail of every crime scene he ever presided over. Eventually he stopped coming home for dinner—due to his affair with a very fertile twentysomething—and our big Colonial in Philly became silent—other than when I talked to myself.

  But I digress.

  “Antoinette Chloe, I’ll drive you home. You can take a shower or whatever you want, but I don’t want you to be alone. Pack up and move into the Big House. You’ve moving in to chaperone the Miss Salmon contestants anyway, so just do it sooner.”

  “That’s nice of you, Trixie.”

  “What are friends for? Let’s go.”

  ACB gave a last look at Nick’s body, and my stomach sank. She loved Nick so much, and it was a real shame that her last memory of him had to be of his body covered in a royal blue . . . uh . . . tarp? I’d prefer to think of it as a blanket.

  I motioned to Ty, and he came over. I told him what our plans were, and where we’d be in case he wanted to question us.

  “I want to take your statements as soon as possible.” He looked over at the state police investigators, who were sifting through the dirt. They always called in the troopers for assistance when something big hit Sandy Harbor. Little towns just didn’t have the wealth of technology that the troopers had. “I’ll be over after we finish up everything here.”

  Hal Manning had arrived and was peeking under the tarp covering Nick. He nodded at Joan Paris, and she waved back a greeting in return. Everyone knew that they were living together above the Happy Repose, and that Hal was known to spill some particularly juicy bits of information about the cases he was working on to Joan.

  After a little pillow talk with Hal, Joan might spill to me. In our book club, we discussed much more than books.

  Boy, I sure wanted to find out what happened to Nick. And I was certain that Antoinette Chloe wanted to know even more than I did. She was going to jump out of her flip-flops if she didn’t find out soon.

  Obviously, someone killed Nick, dug a hole, and placed his body there. I had already ruled out suicide, because even if he had dug the hole and killed himself, someone would have had to bury him. Duh.

  I opened the door of my car for Antoinette Chloe and she got in. Without a word, which was unusual for her, we drove to her house.

  ACB’s Victorian house in the middle of the town was a plethora of paint. Every piece of gingerbread trim had a different color. It stood out on her street like a flashy Vegas showgirl next to a congregation of Amish.

  We went into her house, and though I had been in her home before, every time I visited it was a fresh experience. To say that it was overdosing with boas, hats, fascinators, and tchotchkes is an understatement. Swags of silk flowers were draped everywhere: cabbage roses that somewhat matched her living-room couches; rows of artificial ivy, hibiscus, hydrangea, and other silk flowers that I couldn’t tell the genus or species of the real flower that it was supposed to represent.

  Antoinette Chloe was in a decorating category by herself.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Trixie. I’ll be right back.”

  I went into the kitchen, where at least I could escape some of the kitsch. But even the kitchen was still crammed with several hundred salt and pepper shakers in every shape and size ever made in this country and beyond.

  My head swiveled in awe.

  Then I closed my eyes and thought. The Miss Salmon contestants were arriving in no less than five days. Five!

  About a dozen were moving into my house, and I needed to start getting things ready. I figured I would rally ACB to help me, as it would force her to take her mind off Nick. Besides, in the committee meeting, she said she would chaperone and cook. But first I needed her to be a maid . . . er . . . a room attendant and help me to get the rooms ready.

  And she needed to move in to her room. Our two rooms were off-limits to everyone but us two.

  Speaking of which, I wondered how ACB’s new chef was working out at her restaurant. I’d have to remind her to check, or we could swing by.

  I heard a thump, then another. The noise was coming from upstairs. Hurrying to the stairway, I had to dodge black plastic garbage bags being tossed over the railing.

  When ACB came into view with two other bags, I shouted up to her. “What’s all this?”

  “My muumuus and flip-flops. I won’t toss my suitcases. I’ll put my makeup and nail polish and accessories in those. Speaking of my nails, I’m missing my pinkie nail from my Salute to Glitter gel nail kit.”

  I couldn
’t care less about her glitter gel nails. There were twelve bags and they were still coming.

  “I’ll start loading these in my car,” I yelled.

  “Thanks, Trixie.”

  I wondered how everything would fit in my small, alleged gas-saving car. We should have taken her van.

  After everything was finally loaded, we made our way to Brown’s Four Corners restaurant to check on the new chef and how things were coming along without ACB.

  We both were pleasantly surprised and impressed. The dining room had a good crowd, and as I glanced around, the plates looked nicely prepared. The waitresses looked happy and efficient, and the place looked much cleaner than in the past.

  ACB flip-flopped her way into the kitchen and gasped. “Wow! Everything is so clean since I’ve been in here last. What did you do, Fingers?”

  Fingers?

  “I hired a crew. Had it steam cleaned and power washed from top to bottom with an antigreaser. Remember, Antoinette Chloe? You approved it.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. Fabulous, Fingers. Great idea.” With hands on hips, she looked around and grinned.

  “Fingers, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Chef Trixie Matkowski. Trixie, this is Chef Phil Gallman.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He had a tough-looking face, like he was a boxer or a wrestler, but when he smiled he looked young and sweet.

  He held up his hand in a wave to me, and I discovered why his nickname was Fingers. He was missing two of them.

  “One big meat hatchet,” Fingers said in response to the question I was dying to ask. “At the Culinary Institute of Brooklyn.” He laughed and put three plates of fried haddock and french fries with coleslaw under the heat lamps. He rang a bell, and a waitress came into the kitchen immediately.

  “What took you so long, Debby?”

  She giggled. “What took you so long to make it?”

  Swaying her hips, she sashayed away, knowing Fingers was watching. He gave a low wolf whistle.

  “Do you need anything?” ACB asked.

  “Not a thing, Antoinette Chloe. We’re making money, and I have everything running like a well-oiled Harley.”