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

by Christine Wenger

  That was enough of that! I got up from the couch and let Blondie spread out. She could be such a lazy pup sometimes. Stopping in the kitchen, I greeted the pageant contestants.

  “Hi, ladies! Is everything okay? Do you need anything?” I asked, turning to a contestant who had her hand raised. I stifled a smile. “Hello. You don’t have to raise your hand to speak to me.”

  “Uh . . . Miz Matkowski, we didn’t know you were a judge at the pageant until Antoinette Chloe told us.” The speaker was a beautiful olive-skinned woman with almond-shaped eyes and long, shiny black hair.

  “Call me Trixie. And you are?”

  “Cher. Cher LaMontagne. I’m from Poughkeepsie.”

  “That’s a long way from here. How did you hear about Miss Salmon?”

  “My father’s a fisherman. He was up here not too long ago, and brought a copy of the Lure back with him. I saw an article about the pageant in there, so I decided to try it.”

  “Well, Cher, I am a judge, but don’t hold that against me. Though now that I think about it, I do have an unfair advantage over the other judges, since I get to know all of you ahead of time. I should probably talk to the committee members about it and sequester myself as much as possible.”

  “No, don’t do that, Trixie!” said Aileen Shubert. “We love your company. And we are so sorry we talked about Antoinette Chloe behind her back. We feel absolutely awful. She really is a lovely person.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is.”

  “And we are all carpooling tonight to go to her boyfriend’s wake,” added a redhead with streaks of gold in her hair. She wore a black athletic bra and black spandex capris with a fuchsia stripe down the sides.

  A person who looked that fabulous in exercise clothes didn’t have to exercise. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

  “I hate to interrupt your sugar high, but shouldn’t you all be getting to Margie’s?” I asked.

  There were groans all around and a couple of lames. Then someone whispered “Judge,” and their tone completely changed.

  They had started to rush out of the kitchen when I called them back.

  “Hey, ladies! Please put your dishes in the dishwasher! And put what’s left of the pastries away. The empty boxes go into the recycling bin. And wipe off the table.”

  There was a litany of “Sorry, Trixie,” and I left them to clean up. Going upstairs with my sweetie of a dog following me, I thought of my big, comfy brass bed with each step.

  I was just about to collapse onto it when I remembered that I needed an evening gown. I made a U-turn toward the attic stairs and Aunt Stella’s cedar-lined closet. She’d told me to help myself to whatever I wanted and to donate the rest, but I hadn’t had a chance yet.

  Aunt Stella and I weren’t really close to being the same size. For one, she was about a foot shorter than I. She had bigger boobs than I, and I have hips with their own zip code. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to try—you never know!

  Walking past the bedrooms, I couldn’t resist looking wherever the doors were open. Most of the rooms were cluttered but clean. Most of the beds were made. I had to smile as I walked by ACB’s room. It was a complete disaster. I wondered how she could ever find anything in that mishmash. It crossed my mind that maybe someone had been in ACB’s stuff, but ACB would probably be the only one who could tell. And even she would have trouble. I shook my head as I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic.

  The closet with Aunt Stella’s clothes was just to the left of the entryway. It was a huge thing, and I remembered playing with dolls in it with my sister, Susie, when we were kids.

  I opened the doors and caught the scent of cedar—the same scent I remembered from all those years ago.

  I slid the hangers one at a time to take a good look. There were a couple of classic gowns—the kind that never go out of style. Of them, there was one that I really liked. It had a glittery copperish bodice and the rest was a creamy crepe. It’d never be long enough, but maybe I could pass it off as tea length.

  Closing the closet, I took the gown back to my room and hung it on a hanger on the back of the bathroom door to let it air out.

  I’d try it on later, but first I needed to sleep for a good twenty-four hours.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I slept, but the sound of a phone ringing annoyed me like the buzzing of a grass trimmer.

  Would someone please answer that?

  Then I realized that the buzzing was my cell phone and it wasn’t going to stop.

  I slid the green arrow thing. “Huh?”

  “Trixie! Thank goodness!”

  “What’s wrong, Antoinette Chloe?” She must have had me on speed dial.

  “Chad Dodson is in town! He’s riding around in that classic red Thunderbird of his. I saw him pull up to the Crossroads and go in.”

  “Hmm . . . he’s probably in town for Nick’s calling hours. Maybe we could talk to him tonight and find out what the bad blood was between him and Nick.”

  “Should I tell Ty that I saw him?”

  “You should. Yes.”

  “But, Trixie, I’m just so tired. It was a long day with Ty, and although he’s positively a piece of eye candy and I just adore the way he speaks—you know, like a Houston cowboy—I am simply tired of thinking. I think I’ll just point Chad out to Ty tonight.”

  “That’ll probably be okay.” I yawned. “Antoinette Chloe, what time is it?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “No way!” Where had the time gone? I had a million things to do. Plus I had to get ready for the calling hours. “I’ll see you in a bit. Are you coming back here?”

  “Yes. I have to get ready for tonight.”

  “Just what I was thinking. See you in a while.”

  I jumped in the shower. Every now and then, I scored on the perfect water temperature. Today was that day, and I didn’t want to get out. Finally I forced myself to turn off the water, and I blow-dried my hair with lots of product in it so I could have some version of a hairdo for a while, until it drooped.

  I slipped on my only black dress, bought purposely for wakes and funerals. Then I went down to the kitchen to get something to eat and to let Blondie out.

  After emptying the dishwasher, I put everything away, made a tuna-fish sandwich on rye, poured myself an iced tea, and went out to the porch.

  The fishermen were gathered around the cleaning stations and filleting their catches. Large white coolers were scattered around the lawn, and the gulls were squawking overhead.

  It looked like they had had a successful catch.

  A group of men were eating at the picnic table next to Cottage Two. A family was playing badminton. Cottage Nine’s residents were grilling something and it smelled divine, like burgers or steak. A couple was going out in a canoe.

  I loved the fact that my cottages were full and that people were enjoying themselves.

  Looking to the right, I saw Ty walking my way. He looked like he had on a pair of black khakis and a black blazer. As he got closer, I noticed that his hat was black, his shirt was white, his alligator boots were polished, and he didn’t wear a tie.

  He looked marvelous, actually, not that I was looking or anything.

  “Howdy, Trixie.” He tipped his black cowboy hat. “You’re looking mighty fine.”

  “Thanks.” His compliment made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and it’d been a long time since I’d felt warm and fuzzy. “Have a seat, Ty.”

  He sat down in his usual chair. “I thought I’d find you sitting here, enjoying the nice day.”

  “It’s a beautiful one for fall, isn’t it? It’s really warm. Would you like a tuna-fish sandwich or something to drink?”

  “I’m good. I had an open steak at the Silver Bullet. Dee-licious.”

  “Was it crowded?”

  “Packed.”


  “Good.

  Ty ate most of his meals there. I really should give him a meal plan or a flat fee for the month.

  “Ty, why don’t you figure out how much you spend per month on meals at the Silver Bullet? Then I’ll work out a flat fee for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Just do it,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How did your day go with ACB?”

  He groaned. “I think ACB has ADD. Attention deficit disorder. It’s very hard to get her to focus.”

  “She has a lot on her mind, Ty, and she was probably nervous.”

  “She spews whatever’s on her mind—that’s for sure—and it’s hard to corral her when she’s loose like that.”

  I laughed. “I think she’s upstairs, getting ready.”

  “She’s right here. Sorry I’m late. I was looking for my motorcycle earring and I couldn’t find it,” Antoinette Chloe said. “And I do have a slight case of . . . oh, look, a bunny!” She pointed at the lawn and laughed. Nothing was there.

  Ty got a kick out of that and he laughed loudly, but his laughter was drowned out by the roar of engines. Motorcycle engines. A lot of them.

  We went to the side porch to look. A procession of motorcycles, two by two, roared down Route 3 and turned into the parking lot of the diner. There had to be thirty of them.

  The noise was deafening, and I couldn’t hear myself think. The two at the head of the line took off their helmets and looked up at us on the porch.

  “That’s Toxic Waste, Trixie,” Antoinette Chloe whispered in my ear. “The other guy is Mad Dog Morgan.”

  Toxic Waste shouted over the noise of the engines. “Antoinette Chloe, we’re all sad to hear that Nick took his final ride.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Waste.”

  “Please accept our final tribute to him. We’ll go into your parking lot so we don’t tear up the lawn.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said, thinking that Toxic Waste looked a little like Billy Joel in his younger days.

  Because Toxic was considerate of my lawn, I was prone to like him. But my internal juror was still pondering whether he was a murderer.

  They revved up their engines and headed for the parking lot, where they did a series of maneuvers that would have earned them a spot at some type of marching-band competition.

  From corners they zigzagged, did a promenade from a circle, and zoomed in and out of from between one other. When they were done, we clapped, and Toxic and Mad Dog returned to where we were standing.

  “That was amazing!” ACB said, clapping.

  “Thank you. We practiced a long time so we wouldn’t crash into one other.” He grinned. “Antoinette Chloe, we’d love to provide you with an escort to Manning’s Happy Repose.”

  Any suspicions she had about him were soon forgotten as ACB just about vaulted over the railing. “I’d need my sidecar, though.”

  ACB’s mode of travel was to attach her sidecar to the side of Nick’s motorcycle like a barnacle.

  “Um . . . no sidecar. You’ll be in your automobile, and the Rubbers will escort you to Manning’s.”

  “Sweet!” ACB said.

  “Can you give us five minutes, guys? I have to get a couple of things,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Mad Dog. He reminded me of James Earl Jones, only taller and bigger.

  I turned to Ty. “You’re coming with us, too. Right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss being escorted by the Rubbers,” he said. “Go ahead and get ready to go, Trixie. I’ll tell these gentlemen the appropriate route to take. We wouldn’t want the homes of Sandy Harbor vibrating right off their foundations, would we?”

  Toxic laughed. As I walked away, I heard Ty introduce himself as one of three deputies in Sandy Harbor.

  I was hoping that Ty wouldn’t start interrogating Toxic right then and there. However, there would be only a brief period of time when Toxic and now Chad Dodson would be in town.

  That’s probably what Ty was thinking.

  Grabbing my pocketbook, I yelled up the stairs to ACB. “Are you almost ready?”

  “Almost! I decided to change my muumuu.”

  ACB came down the stairs wearing a black muumuu with white outlines of flowers—gardenias, maybe. A black fascinator was positioned on the right side of her head. There was a small blackbird, which looked more like a vulture than anything else, in a feathery nest on the hat. As for jewelry, she wore a gold chain with black balls on it and a set of matching earrings and a matching cocktail ring. Black flip-flops rounded out the outfit, which was definitely subdued for her.

  We got into Ty’s black SUV. I insisted on sitting in the back, so ACB could enjoy the Rubbers’ escort in the front.

  “Did you notice they are riding with a position vacant?” she asked. “That’s for Nick.”

  “That’s really nice,” I said. Even though Nick had stolen Mr. Waste’s girlfriend, he came to pay his respects. Maybe he wasn’t going to say anything negative at the services like he insinuated to ACB. I really hoped not.

  Just in case, I should take him aside and suggest he shouldn’t say anything stupid, or I’d rope his motorcycle to the cleats of the first boat out of the marina.

  I was looking forward to meeting Chad Dodson, and wondered if Joan Paris found anything through her sources. I’d look for Joan at the funeral home and get an update.

  We pulled into Hal Manning’s parking lot and parked by the front door. The Roving Rubbers parked on the side of the road. Smart. They filed up the steps of the funeral home one at a time, across from one another, helmets in their hands like a military honor guard. They waited there until we all passed between them.

  Nice.

  Ty offered an arm to both ACB and me. We both took them, and he escorted us inside.

  The funeral home smelled sweet with the scent of flowers. We were the first ones there, which was our plan. When ACB saw Nick lying in the front of the Crystal Room, she burst into tears.

  Ty held her up, and Hal Manning and Joan Paris arrived at her side, armed with bottled water and tissues.

  After an appropriate amount of time, I motioned to Joan with my eyes and a slight movement of my head for her to follow me to a corner of the room.

  “Did you find out anything about Chad Dodson?” I asked.

  “I printed out a boatload of stuff. It was easy. He’s all over the news, but mostly he appears in the society pages of the Massachusetts papers and the New York Times. I’ll give you all my material before you leave. In summation, I just want to say that Chad is one hot guy—oh, and he’s a philanthropist. He likes to spread his parents’ money around.”

  She pulled out an envelope from her purse, and I slipped it into mine. “Does Chad have a real job?” I asked. “Like at one of his family’s banks?”

  “Not my definition of a job,” Joan said. “He invests in different ventures—like Chef Nick’s. One of his restaurant investments went into a chain and sold nationally. It did well until the owners sued him for fraud. They settled out of court for an undisclosed sum, and Chad was forced to relinquish his investment in the restaurant. It looks like he was trying to get back in the game again by partnering up with Nick. Though the two of them must have clashed over something, and Nick walked away from their venture. And I’m sure that Chad couldn’t afford another lawsuit, so he had to let the restaurant flop. Rumor has it that he lost a lot of money because Nick backed out.”

  “So, Chad’s not in the family business?”

  “Not anymore—rumors are still rampant that they kicked him out of day-to-day operations or anything important—but it appears that they consider him their public-relations guy. He keeps their name in the paper and he does charity work, but only for the big charities. You won’t see him dishing out meals at his local soup kitchen, even though I doubt the
re is a need for one on Beacon Hill. Instead you’ll see him at some black-tie event for Soup Kitchens Around the World and Beyond for five thousand dollars a plate.”

  I chuckled. “I know the type.”

  Joan nodded. “Chad has some other investments, but they’re not exactly bringing in big returns, especially in this market.”

  “So if he invested in Nick Brownelli and Nick quit on him, could he afford to lose the investment?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t seem like he could. Nick’s place was on prime real estate in downtown Boston. I don’t know if Nick had any money to invest in the place or not, or if it all was funded by Chad and Nick was recruited as the master chef. You know, he lent his name to it.”

  “Nick was that great of a chef?”

  Joan shrugged. “From what I found, he sure was!”

  And I thought that Nick was simply a short-order cook at Brown’s Four Corners. I remembered him as unshaven, with a filthy apron and a greasy baseball hat.

  Don’t judge a meal by its picture on the menu, Uncle Porky always used to say. I should remember that.

  “Joan, I’d better see if Antoinette Chloe needs any support.”

  “Go ahead. I’m going to say good-bye to her, head back to the Lure.”

  I glanced over at ACB, and she looked like she was doing fine. She was smiling and shaking hands with everyone in line. Then I watched as her smile melted from her face.

  Chad Dodson.

  He shook her hand and gave her a hug. Joan Paris was right: He was hot if you liked the rich surfer-guy look. He had sun-bleached hair—more likely salon bleached. He had a perfect tan. It was so perfect I thought it had to have been sprayed on. And his teeth were dazzling white. If his investments sank, he could always try out for a toothpaste commercial. He was tall and slender, dressed in tan pants and a turquoise golf shirt. Chad must be going golfing after Nick’s wake.

  I should heed Uncle Porky’s saying about the not judging a meal by its picture and give Chad a chance, but I didn’t have any patience for smarmy, spoiled, rich kids with shady tendencies.

  I listened in. He was totally charming the pants off Antoinette Chloe, telling her how lovely she looked and how Nick just adored her. He said all the right things. Then he lowered the boom.