“Miz Brown, I’d like to talk to you about Nick’s estate. I realize that now is not the time, but I’ll be in town for a day or two.”
“Where are you staying?”
“In my motor home. This town is crowded, and I haven’t found a place to park it yet, but—”
Antoinette Chloe looked at me.
“What?” I asked, hoping that she wasn’t going to ask me what I thought she was.
“Trixie, why doesn’t Chad park in the back of your lot? There’s room over there, by the woods.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose—”
“Yes, you can!” ACB said, nudging me with her shoulder.
What on earth was I supposed to say?
“Of course you can park your motor home in the back of my parking lot. It’s to the left side of the Silver Bullet Diner, off Route 3. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m also towing my car.”
The red Thunderbird.
“There’s room for your car, too.”
He put his hand in my right hand, and . . . oh, no! He was going to kiss it.
I winced as his lips touched the back of my hand, and I forced myself to smile and stay put when I wanted to run to the ladies’ room and scrub my hand.
Who does that anymore? Maybe scores of other women would swoon over that, but Trixie Matkowski wasn’t one of them.
Feeling someone watching me, I looked up. Ty Brisco. He had a grin the size of Texas. He knew just what I was thinking about Chad Dodson: This is one smarmy man.
Chad left for parts unknown, and Ty walked over to me.
“Interesting guy,” he said. “What do you think?”
“He makes my skin crawl, and I don’t know why. At least not yet anyway.”
Ty raised his chin in the direction of the front door. “Well, you think that was interesting, wait until you see what’s going to happen next.”
Chapter 7
As if by command, four armed officers—complete with ugly-looking rifles—escorted a shackled Sal Brownelli into Hal Manning’s Happy Repose Funeral Parlor.
ACB fluttered over to him like a butterfly. But the armed guards sprang to attention, not letting her come closer than three feet from Sal.
I watched as Chad Dodson and Sal exchanged a slight nod. It crossed my mind that Sal and Chad had to have met before. Maybe they knew each other well.
“Hello again, sweetie,” Sal said, turning his attention back to Antoinette Chloe. “You look great.”
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Last-minute decision by the correctional officials. Sorry about my clothes.”
“Orange is the new black,” ACB joked. After an awkward silence, she added, “Come over and say good-bye to Nick.”
Sal’s shoulders slumped as he looked at the casket. “Nicky . . . Nicky . . . my brother. My only brother.”
Even the guards looked sad.
“Who did this to you, Nicky?” Sal cried, then shouted louder, “Sheriff Brisco! Where are you?”
Ty walked over to them. “I’m right here, Sal.”
“You find out who did this to Nicky. Ya hear?”
“I’m doing my best.”
Sal nodded. “Thank you.” One of the guards pointed to the door. “Looks like I gotta go now. Bye, Antoinette Chloe, my love. I forgive you for taking up with my brother.”
ACB put her hands on her hips. “Salvatore Brownelli, you have absolutely no say in who I go out with. We are divorced. And, dammit, you tried to kill me.”
“A slight mistake on my part.”
Antoinette Chloe’s lips moved, but nothing came out. She turned and flip-flopped over to me. “Ugh! The nerve of some men.”
“Yes, I know.” Then I decided to change the subject. “Antoinette Chloe, why don’t you invite everyone over to the Silver Bullet for some refreshments and sandwiches when this over? I’ll give Juanita a call and tell her to get a few platters ready.”
“Oh, thank you, Trixie! I closed my restaurant today. I should have had everyone over there, but I just didn’t think!”
“Don’t worry. Juanita will do a great job. A little buffet will do.”
She gave me a kiss on the cheek. Then I noticed that the Miss Salmon contestants had started filing in.
Chad Dodson’s eyes sparkled with interest. His teeth glowed like a beacon. And instead of looking at Nick, I noticed that they all gravitated toward Chad Dodson, with the exception of Aileen Shubert. She greeted ACB but ignored both Nick and Chad and went to sit in a dark corner.
The Roving Rubbers were next in line to pay their respects. Hal Manning held open the door as they walked in. Most of the gang wore black leather chaps, black leather vests, black or blue jeans, and lots of chains and spikes.
Toxic Waste pulled out something white from his vest pocket, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t make a scene. But instead he said, “Nick, you were a five-star chef and a five-star biker. Even though your Rubber days are over, you always will hold a place in our hearts. And even though you stole my woman and did her wrong, the best man won in the end.”
What did he mean by the best man won? Won what? And who was he referring to as the best man—himself or Nick? Hmmm. Maybe how Toxic Waste won this contest was the more appropriate question for me to ask myself. Did Toxic murder Nick to win and be the “best man”?
He unfurled the white cloth—a chef’s hat—and placed it next to Nick.
Mad Dog stepped forward next, and I noticed that he had a black item in his hands. “Nick, we called you Saint Nicholas for a reason. You were a saint. I hope that whoever did this to you rots in hell.”
He shook out the black object and showed the crowd. It was a T-shirt with SAINT NICHOLAS on the top and the Roving Rubbers logo in the middle. Underneath the logo it said, LAST RIDE.
Mad Dog put the shirt next to the chef’s hat.
Finally, nine o’clock rolled around, and Hal Manning stepped forward and announced that there was going to be a brief prayer service. The place cleared out quickly. In the end, only ACB, Ty, and I were left.
By the time we got to the Silver Bullet, the place was packed to the rafters. Four waitresses were working and pouring coffee, tea, and soft drinks for everyone. Juanita and Cindy were busy in the kitchen, making sandwiches and salads.
The trays had come out lovely, even though they’d had very little time to prepare. They’d made wraps of cold cuts and chicken salad on Italian rolls. Small sub sandwiches were on another tray with a mound of potato chips in the middle. A big pan of chef’s salad was sitting on the butcher-block table, along with three varieties of dressing.
“It’s all ready to go, Trixie,” Juanita said. “But I’m sure we’ll have to make more right away. This is quite a crowd.”
I tied on an apron and started helping with the sandwiches. Pretty soon we ran out of chicken salad, so I made tuna. “Let’s bring out the first round and keep making more. By the time the first wave of people goes through the buffet, we’ll have more sandwiches ready.”
“Great idea,” Cindy said. “And luckily, I made brownies and a white sheet cake today. We can put those out later.”
“Perfect,” I said, grateful for my wonderful staff. In between getting the buffet ready, Cindy filled orders for customers who wanted meals off the menu.
ACB knocked on the door. “Thanks for everything, ladies. I truly appreciate it. And Nick would have, too.”
My chefs all hugged her.
“I’ll be at the cemetery tomorrow,” Juanita said.
The others chimed in.
“Thank you so much.” ACB looked like she was on the brink of tears. She turned abruptly and went back into the diner.
Juanita took me aside. “I asked Linda Blessler if she’d cook tomorrow. She said that she’d be happy to cover. I hope you don’
t mind.”
“Mind? Not at all! Thank you for thinking of Linda. She’s a wonderful cook and a terrific person. I should have thought of her myself.”
“Trixie, Toxic Waste and Mad Dog want to talk to you,” said Nancy, one of my waitresses, bringing in an empty tray. “And we need more sandwiches.”
“Okay on both counts.” I carried out a platter of subs and set it on the buffet table. I found both Mr. Waste and Mr. Dog at the counter.
“Hi, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” I asked.
“We were hoping you could help us out. We don’t have anywhere to stay. The Wishing Well Campgrounds won’t let us stay, even though we had reservations. Seems like the owner doesn’t like motorcycle gangs. Mad Dog called him on that, and they argued. After that, I called every other campground in the area, and nothing is available.”
Oh no! Not the Rubbers, too!
“Guys, I don’t have anything but land. I don’t have shower facilities for all thirtyish of you. And I don’t have . . . uh . . . sanitary facilities.”
“No problem, Miz Matkowski,” said Toxic. “I have a pal in the portable-crapper business. And he has showers, too. I took the liberty and called him. He’s dropping off six of each tonight.”
“Oh.”
“And we’re all thinking of staying a couple of days. Antoinette Chloe said that she has Nick’s stuff that she’s going to sell. His bike and car, too. She’s waiting for the sheriff’s department to release his house, I believe she said.”
“Well, I guess it’s all settled, then,” I said, resigned. “You can camp on the land on the other side of the Big House. That’s my Victorian. It’d be to the right of Chad Dodson’s big rig in the parking lot.”
“Thanks so much, Miz Matkowski,” said Toxic.
“Call me Trixie.”
“And the Roving Rubbers would love to get a couple of recipes from you—your chicken salad is the best I’ve ever had. You know we’re all chefs, right?” said Dog.
“I do know you’ll all chefs, and I’m flattered that you want some of my recipes, but I don’t cook anything fancy. I am strictly in the diner-food business. I make simple comfort-food meals—the kind Mom and Grandma used to make—and a lot of it,” I said.
“Works for me!” said Toxic.
“Well, then, I’d be glad to give you any recipes that you’d like.”
They both shook my hand and headed back to the buffet.
Well, how do you like that? Wasn’t it just convenient that the two suspects I had in mind for Nick’s murder, Chad Dodson and Toxic Waste, were going to be camping right on my property?
As soon as I could, I was going to have a chat with them both. I know Ty had warned me not to get involved, but he didn’t understand. Antoinette Chloe is my friend, and she’d asked me to help her figure out what happened to her beloved Nick.
And that was just what I was going to do.
* * *
The group at the cemetery the next day was quite an eclectic bunch—a collection of Rubbers, Miss Salmon candidates, Chad the bon vivant, and friends of ACB and Sal Brownelli. Thankfully, they were all respectful and no one spoke ill of Nick.
Pastor Trish O’Brien of the Sandy Harbor Community Church said a nice, solemn prayer that guaranteed Nick would motor right into the gates of heaven.
I just hoped that said gates would be open for him.
As soon as the service was over, Antoinette Chloe stepped forward. “I’d like to invite you all to my restaurant, Brown’s Four Corners, for breakfast. It’s in the middle of town at the intersection of Main and Flower streets. You can’t miss it.”
Chad Dodson looked exceedingly respectful, but as soon as we were walking to our cars, he asked if ACB could find the time to talk to him about Nick’s estate.
She told him that she’d chat with him over breakfast.
Ty drove us both to Antoinette Chloe’s restaurant. The parking lot was full of motorcycles. The Miss Salmon contestants weren’t present, due to their practice at Margie Grace’s all day today. This was going to be their last practice on Margie’s back deck, because Margie had to babysit her granddaughter for the next couple of days in Alexandria Bay.
The next time they practiced their routine, it would probably be in my yard. Good grief.
While ACB went into her kitchen to check on things, Ty and I sat at a table for four.
“Ty, you’ve been awfully quiet. Is everything okay?”
“Just thinking,” he said.
“About what? Can I help?”
“No. You can’t help. Not yet anyway,” he said, moving to the side as a waitress filled his coffee cup.
Antoinette Chloe joined us and held up her cup to be filled. “Thanks, Debby.”
Chad Dodson appeared at her side. “Do you have a moment, Miz Brownelli?”
“Sure. Have a seat.”
He nodded to Ty and me. “What I have to discuss is private.”
She waved him away. “These are my friends, Chad. You can talk freely in front of them.”
“I don’t think—”
“Chad, have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Nick owed me almost a million dollars.”
Antoinette Chloe jerked her head so fast that the fake blackbird in her fascinator almost dove into her coffee. It missed, hitting the table instead and lying there, stunned.
“It’s not possible to get that kind of money from Nick’s . . . estate. First of all, there isn’t one. I have to sell the contents of his house and then the house itself before there’s any estate.”
“What about his life insurance policy?” Chad asked.
“Life insurance?” ACB’s eyes grew wide. “Honestly, I never thought of that. I haven’t gone through Nick’s papers yet, since Ty hasn’t released Nick’s house.”
Ty nodded. “Do you know something about Nick’s life insurance policy, Mr. Dodson?”
“Oh no. Undoubtedly not!” Chad said as he raked his hand through his hair. Those rows stood up like spikes in an otherwise perfectly feathered hairdo. “How long will it be before you release his property, Deputy?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re still investigating, but do you have any proof that Nick owed you that money?” Ty asked. He had on his cop poker face. It was impossible to read him, but I just knew something was going on. He was asking leading questions.
“I have our contract, and proof of the fact that he wrecked everything before he drove away, never to return.”
“Where’ve you been for the past several months, Mr. Dodson?” Ty asked.
“Deputy, why do I have a feeling that I should be calling my lawyer?” Chad asked, raking another row of his hair. “I’ll answer this one last question: I’ve been following Nick’s whereabouts very closely. My lawyers have filed all the paperwork possible, but, as they told me, I couldn’t get blood out of a stone. But now I can. Oh, and I’m sure you know that Nick’s house wasn’t even in his name.”
“Whose name is it in?” I asked.
He raised his chin toward ACB. “Antoinette Chloe Brown.”
When she heard her name, she was obviously startled. “Nicky put it in my name? My name? Are you sure?”
“He did, and I’m sure. I had my lawyers check. You know, you can find anything about anyone if you have the resources.” Chad tried not to show it, but I could see his lip curling a bit in a self-satisfied smirk.
“Then it’s not Nick’s. You can’t lien it,” Ty said.
“I know. I was counting on his life insurance policy,” Chad said.
I didn’t really know anything about the way insurance works, but it didn’t seem like a life-insurance policy could be touched by anyone other than the designated person or persons. And I was banking on the fact that Nick had probably named ACB as his only beneficiary. And that Chad knew it.
Chad flashed a major smile at ACB. “I was hoping that fairness would rule. That Antoinette Chloe, being an honest person and a lovely woman, would give me the funds due me, or some form of recompense, at the very least.”
Ty raised an eyebrow. “Pay her former brother-in-law’s debts out of the goodness of her heart?”
“I know it sounds like I’m naïve, but I have faith in my fellow man, or, in this case, a delightfully charming woman.”
Smarmy. The man was smarmy.
Antoinette Chloe was ever the lady. “Chad, I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll consult my lawyer. How’s that?”
He picked up her hand and kissed it. I winced. But ACB didn’t look like she minded at all.
Chad stood. “You’ll find me in my motor home in the Silver Bullet’s parking lot for a couple of days yet.”
“Matter of fact, Mr. Dodson, I’d advise you not to leave town until you hear further from me,” Ty said, putting his forearms on the table.
“You can’t be serious!”
“I’m very serious,” Ty said.
Chad’s face flushed. “Do you think I killed Nick?”
“You’re a person of interest, and I’d like to talk to you in my office this afternoon. Shall we say two o’clock?”
“I have nothing to hide, Deputy.”
“Excellent. See you at two, then.”
Chad turned and hurried out of the restaurant as if his expensive chinos were on fire.
I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath. This was too much drama on only one cup of coffee.
“Ty, do you really think that he killed Nick?” ACB asked, her eyes wider than the flowers on her muumuu.
“Like I said, he’s a person of interest. I also want to talk to Toxic Waste. Call him over, will you, Antoinette Chloe?”
“What do I say to him?”
“Just thank him for coming. I’ll do the rest,” Ty said. “And, Trixie, you don’t have to talk.”
Humpf!
“Oh, William! Billy Gerard!” ACB waved him over. “Over here, William!”
Mr. Waste hurried to our table after Antoinette Chloe wouldn’t stop calling his name.
Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery Page 10