Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  “But that doesn’t make him a murderer,” Ty said.

  “Probably not,” I said regretfully. “But it doesn’t look like he’s mourning for Priscilla at all. In fact, it seems like he wants her estate settled as quickly as possible. He’s very eager to get out of town—or ‘Podunk,’ he called it. ‘Cabbage Patch.’”

  He raised a perfect black eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t like anyone trashing my adopted town,” I said. “Antoinette Chloe, while I’m thinking of it, will you come into the front room and try on a pair of boots I have for you?”

  “But, Trixie . . .”

  She was going to fight me about boots, but this wasn’t really about boots. It was about getting the gray clam cell phone from her.

  But she picked up on my clandestine wink.

  “Oh, okay. If it stops you from nagging me, I’ll try on the darn boots.”

  “Ty, we’ll be right back. When the coffee stops chugging, help yourself.”

  We hurried to the front room and talked about boots.

  “Here you go, Antoinette Chloe. If you like them and if they fit you, they’re yours.”

  She got the phone from somewhere in her cleavage and passed it to me. I pointed to the stairs, where I planned to get a piece of paper and copy as many recent contacts as I could.

  “Would you excuse me? I have to make a trip to the ladies’ room. Ty, will you let Blondie back in?” I shouted in the direction of the kitchen.

  I took the stairs two at a time. By the time I got to the landing, I couldn’t inhale enough oxygen. No more hand pies! I got a pen and a piece of paper from my nightstand and started pushing buttons and writing.

  The more recent phone calls in the phone’s memory were ones Peter had made and were mostly to the same number—and the same number, it seem, had called him multiple times as well. The number corresponded to someone named Stan Booki. Peter had also called Jill Marley a couple of times and someone by the name of Jake Orlando, who had a New York City area code.

  Hold on! I knew that name. It was a last name on the package that had been sent to Priscilla in care of me. I remembered the name of the law firm because Orlando was one of my favorite places in Florida: the home of Mr. Mickey Mouse.

  Orlando, Biltmore, Orlando and Fischer, Esq.

  I copied everything down furiously. Luckily, there weren’t that many contacts and the same numbers were called again and again, not only by Peter, it seemed, but by Priscilla, too.

  Finally I had to quit before too much time went by and Ty started to wonder where I’d gone off to. I pocketed the phone and went back downstairs.

  Ty and ACB were sipping coffee. Antoinette Chloe found some shortbread cookies that Sarah Stolfus had made for me to try to see if I’d like to sell them at the diner.

  Of course I would!

  The two of them were making small talk and Ty was absentmindedly scratching Blondie’s chin. She was sitting in front of him and gazing up at him adoringly, as most women did.

  Sheesh, Blondie.

  I winked again at ACB to clue her in that my mission was accomplished.

  Ty pulled out his phone and punched in some numbers. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve been calling this number periodically, to see if anyone answers it.”

  His finger paused and hovered above the glass. I held my breath and broke out into a sweat. This wasn’t good!

  “Huh?” ACB asked eloquently.

  “I’ve been trying to locate Priscilla’s cell phone. Neither Jill nor Peter could find it. I’ve been calling in the hope that someone found it and will answer. We’ve been trying to locate it via GPS, but the phone company said that it’s too old. So I just keep calling it.”

  I hurried to my freezer, pulled the phone out of my pocket, discreetly slipped it in, and shut the door.

  Why hadn’t I left the darn thing in my dresser drawer? Why hadn’t I figured out how to shut off the ringer?

  Ty’s finger continued punching the buttons on his cell, and Priscilla’s phone rang in my freezer. It was faint, but we all could hear it.

  ACB and I exchanged glances. We were dead women walking!

  Ty’s eyes grew as wide as one of the old rodeo belt buckles he sports when he wears jeans.

  He stood and followed the ringing right to my freezer.

  Opening the door, he found the clam, right where I’d put it—sitting on a carton of marshmallow chocolate walnut ice cream.

  “Are you kidding me?” Ty said, pulling it out.

  “We were going to give it to you,” I said.

  “When? When it was frozen and wouldn’t work?” he shouted. “You two are more dangerous than I could have imagined. I hope to heaven that you haven’t tampered with evidence.”

  “Of course not!” I said, getting mad and realizing that I had no good reason to get mad.

  “I won’t ask how you got it. I don’t want to know,” Ty said.

  “Peter McCall had it,” ACB blurted. “He was using it. It fell on the floor of my kitchen with some Oreos. When I picked up everything, I got that phone mixed up with Sal’s phone. They are identical.”

  ACB wasn’t a great liar, but I was impressed. Well, it wasn’t a lie. It was mostly the truth.

  “Peter lied to me, and I don’t like people who lie to me,” Ty said, pressing in numbers on the clam’s buttons. “Looks like he started making calls about an hour after Priscilla died and has been doing so ever since then. At about two in the afternoon when we searched Priscilla’s motor home, about two hours after she died, both Peter and Priscilla denied that they knew where her phone was.”

  “And his own cell was found at the scene,” I pointed out.

  “He claimed that he had lost it and doesn’t know how it turned up there. He insisted that it was planted in the snowbank.”

  “Whenever I saw him, he always had a phone in his ear,” ACB said. “And if he was sitting, he always put it down in front of him or to the side. Someone could have easily picked it up and planted it at the scene to cast suspicion on him. As a matter of fact, he was looking for it at the time of Priscilla’s book signing. I remember that he had a phone in front of him on the table as the church ladies went through the line. One of them could have easily picked it up, strangled Priscilla, and then planted the phone.”

  “Or Peter McCall could be the murderer,” I pointed out. I refilled our mugs with coffee.

  Ty didn’t move a muscle or say a word. ACB raised her royal-blue eyebrows.

  “Maybe we can help you investigate the contacts,” I volunteered.

  “Forget it, Trixie. This is a matter for your friendly local sheriff’s department.”

  “It’s not been that friendly lately,” I said.

  “Well, at least it’s not putting you both in jail for interfering with a pending criminal investigation.” He took another sip of coffee. “At least not yet.”

  Wow. I’ve never seen him so mad.

  Blondie flipped over on her back to have her tummy rubbed.

  Traitor!

  He scratched her tummy and behind her ears, pulled out a couple of dog biscuits from his jacket pocket, and made her sit for them.

  I had to smile. Blondie just adored him, and we both adored Blondie. I had primary custody of her because Ty knew how much it meant to me to have her in my life. I’d never had a pet before we found Blondie half frozen by the Dumpster behind the restaurant.

  Besides, it was kind of lonely here in the Big House by myself.

  I had to remember that feeling when I had a houseful of guests I didn’t want to entertain.

  Ty took a gulp of coffee. “Is there anything else I should know about Peter McCall?”

  “I believe we told you everything,” I said. “But he really thinks he’s going to inherit Priscilla’s estate and all the money that goes along with i
t. That’s a great motive for killing her.”

  “There’s nothing else that I can remember,” ACB said.

  “Tell me more about Sal’s phone,” Ty ordered.

  “The battery’s dead, but I suppose he’ll try to charge it. He could always dial Sal’s old gambling contacts.” ACB laughed.

  Ty’s lips moved into a brief smile. Anyone else would have missed it, but for some reason I look at his lips—a lot.

  Then I remembered one of the names on the clam. Stan Booki. Wait. Was it supposed to stand for Stan the Bookie? “Uh . . . Ty . . . did you happen to find out if Peter McCall has a gambling problem?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Um . . . just wondering. I thought it would explain why he needs Priscilla’s estate settled fast. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  He stood and drained his coffee cup. “I gotta go.” He squatted down and gave Blondie several pats on the head and some back scratches.

  “But you didn’t answer me,” I pushed.

  He shook his head. “You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, Trixie. I’m bound by law.”

  That was what he usually said, and I really understood that. I didn’t like it, but I understood. After all, I wasn’t law enforcement. I was a civilian. And as he recently reminded me, I don’t have a criminal investigation degree either.

  And ACB wasn’t law enforcement. However, it was due to her bait-and-switch skills that Ty was walking away with Priscilla’s phone.

  ACB, Blondie, and I walked Ty to the door.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’m sorry that I got so mad with both of you, but I need you to leave things to me.” He took a deep breath. “Now, get some sleep, Trixie. Linda Blessler is doing a great job holding down the fort at the Silver Bullet, so don’t worry. I had dinner there tonight. Her macaroni and cheese dish is fabulous.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s not as good as yours, of course—or yours, Antoinette Chloe—but it’s still fabulous.”

  I wondered what Linda’s secret was. I’d make a point to stop in at the diner again and see her. First to thank her for subbing for me, and then I could ask her about her mac and cheese recipe.

  I’m always up for new recipes for the Silver Bullet’s menu!

  I like to keep the menu fresh and exciting with new dishes.

  And although I wanted to take Ty’s advice and get some sleep, there were some things I needed to do.

  First I was going to talk to Antoinette Chloe about what I’d found on Peter’s phone. And then maybe I’d call Stan the Bookie and place a bet myself.

  I’d bet that Peter McCall was in hock to Stan up to the roots of his wavy black hair.

  Chapter 10

  When Antoinette Chloe came back downstairs from another change of flip-flops, she poured herself an iced tea and sat down at the kitchen table. I was unloading the dishwasher.

  “I’m convinced that Peter McCall has a gambling problem. There were a lot of calls on Priscilla’s phone to a guy called Stan. Stan the Bookie.”

  ACB’s eyes went as wide as platters. “You’re kidding? Stan the Bookie? I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

  “You know him?”

  “Unless there’s another Stan, he was my husband Sal’s bookie. I think he lives in Salmon Run Corners, about twenty miles from here. They did a lot of business together.”

  “Small world,” I said. “Let’s arrange a meeting with Stan.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I think I’ll place a bet.” I got a spiral notebook and a pen from a drawer. “Do you know how to do it?”

  ACB shrugged. “I haven’t placed a bet in a long time. I always left that kind of thing to Sal. We can figure it out. Do you have his number?”

  “I do. I copied it down from Peter’s phone.” I picked up my cell and my notes.

  “Punch it in.”

  “Wait. What do I say?”

  “Say you want to place a bet. Aqueduct. One hundred on number six in the ninth.”

  “Then what? I give him my credit-card number?”

  She laughed. “No. It’s an honor system.”

  “Honor system?” I made an unladylike noise. “I think I just figured out how Peter got in trouble gambling. He kept placing bets and then never paid up.”

  “Yup. And now apparently Stan probably wants to break his kneecaps.”

  My thumbs got to work calling Stan.

  “Speak to me.”

  “Uh . . . um . . . Aqueduct number six in the ninth. One hundred.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Uh . . . Trixie.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No. But you know a friend of mine, Peter McCall.”

  “He’s cut off. If you see him, tell him that I hope he enjoys his . . .”

  “Kneecaps?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stan, you seem like an okay guy. Can I just ask you a question?”

  “Depends. Try me.”

  “How much does Peter McCall owe you?”

  “Why? You going to cover it for him?”

  “Maybe. How much?”

  “Half a mil.”

  “Uh . . . actually, I don’t think that’s a possibility.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  “How can I find you to pay you for my bet?”

  “Where do you live, Trixie?”

  “Sandy Harbor.”

  “I know the place. Meet me at the Silver Bullet Diner tomorrow at eight in the morning. Know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “The food is good there.”

  “How will I know you, Stan?”

  “You’ll know me.”

  Click.

  I shut off my cell. “Antoinette Chloe, I think I just placed my first bet with a bookie. We’re having breakfast with him tomorrow. Eight o’clock at the Silver Bullet.”

  She laughed. “How did that happen?”

  “Beats me.”

  * * *

  Next I called Ray Meyerson, who was busing tables and washing dishes over at my diner.

  “Ray, after you’re done with the dishes, would you mind coming over to the Big House? There are a couple of people I’d like you to look up for me, if you don’t mind.”

  “I have my laptop with me, Trixie. I’ll be right there.”

  “That’d be perfect.”

  He knocked on the door about fifteen minutes later. He knew the drill. Kitchen table, open laptop, boot it up, and help out Trixie, the computer klutz.

  After a while Ray said, “Okay. I’m ready to go. Shoot.”

  “Now, remember: Anything you do for me is private and should be kept under wraps. Okay?”

  “Of course. You don’t have to keep telling me that, boss.”

  “Okay. Sorry for nagging.” I put a bottle of lime-green Gatorade in front of him along with a large glass of ice. “Will you look up Kip O’Malley for me?” I asked. “He works in food service over at the Watertown Jail.”

  Ray typed and pecked on his keys as ACB and I sipped our coffees and talked.

  “Kip is also known as Christopher,” Ray said. “He has a criminal record. He’s been arrested three times for forgery, assault, and failure to pay child support. It’s a recent arrest for child support, and he was arrested just a couple of months ago. He’s in arrears thirteen thousand dollars.”

  “Sheesh!” I said.

  ACB put her cup down. “How can he work in the jail if he has an arrest record? I thought that was a civil-service job, and I happen to know that you can’t have a criminal record if you’re hired for a civil-service job. My sister’s older kid—she named the poor thing Clarence after her husband’s rich uncle she hoped to get money from—and then she found out
that the guy’s real name was William, but he liked the name Clarence for some reason, and—”

  “Antoinette Chloe, focus!” I ordered.

  “Anyway, poor Clarence was arrested for chaining himself to some historical monument in a park. Apparently he heard the city of Syracuse was going to take it down, and he really loved this Civil War guy on a horse. He was arrested for criminal mischief, criminal trespass, and defacing governmental property due to the chain marks on the guy’s sword, and—”

  “Antoinette Chloe, is there a point?”

  “Well, the point is that the city of Syracuse was just going to restore the guy to his former luster. That’s all. Clarence got his wires crossed.”

  “Is there another point?”

  “Well, yeah. He passed the civil service test to be an Account Clerk I and was offered a job at the Onondaga County Comptroller’s Office, but they couldn’t hire him because one of those crimes was a felony. At least, I think that’s the story. I really can’t remember the details.”

  Ray kept typing, and Antoinette Chloe kept drinking more coffee and was getting even more buzzed as the time went by.

  Ray looked up. “Kip’s position is not a civil-service position, actually. The jail’s food service is contracted out to USA Foods and Catering,” Ray said. “But according to their work rules, Kip cannot have an arrest record to work in any kind of quote state, county, or municipality with a criminal record, unquote. See footnote three.”

  ACB sighed loudly. “If he owes that much in support for his kids, then why did he pay one thousand bucks to enter our little contest? He could have put it on his tab for his kids. What’s wrong with him?”

  “He probably thought that with the TV appearance, his career would soar and he could get another job before they found out. After all, he took a correspondence cooking class,” I said sarcastically.

  Ray kept typing. “Ray, can you find a link between Priscilla and Kip?”

  Click . . . click . . . click . . .

  “Kip took a culinary class with Priscilla Finch-Smythe in New York City—the Academy of Culinary Production.”

  “So they knew each other,” I said. “Interesting.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ray said. “Peter McCall, who I remember from the contest, was in this class also. He happened to mention it to me and the other judges for some reason, like we cared.”