Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  “Interesting again,” I said. “Maybe he was trying to learn more about what Priscilla did.” I leaned over the table to see Ray’s screen. “Can you tell how they did in the class? Any grades or comments online?”

  “Let me see if I can access their grades,” Ray said, typing away. “Nope. Oh, yes! This is what Priscilla said about Kip: ‘This individual should never pick up a cooking utensil ever again.’”

  I grinned. “What did she say about Peter?”

  “‘Peter McCall is a very promising chef who will soar in the culinary world.’”

  “Hmm . . . think she’s a little slanted?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I didn’t think he knew a thing about cooking when I spoke with him at the contest,” ACB said.

  “Okay. Let’s recap,” I said, feeling like Jessica Fletcher talking to Seth in Cabot Cove. “Kip has a criminal record. He’s in the hole for child support. He was in a class that Priscilla taught, and Peter McCall was in the same class. So what does all that mean?”

  ACB called for more coffee for us.

  I wished I had a pen on me so I could doodle on the notepad as I thought. When I draw daisies, I really think.

  “Do you have a pen, Ray?”

  He handed me a thin-point permanent pen. Perfect!

  Around a circle, I started on the petals of the daisy. “Do you guys think that Peter knew about Kip’s record?”

  “Maybe Peter found out and told Priscilla at the cook-off, and she threatened to call and turn Kip in,” ACB said. “Priscilla was very . . . uh . . . what’s the word? . . . condescending to chefs who weren’t top-notch and as pure as the snow falling outside. I can see her dropping a dime to the jail or to the food service. And Kip would probably have lost his job over it.”

  “That would give Kip a motive to stop Priscilla.”

  “I agree,” ACB said. “But how on earth would we ever find out if Priscilla or Peter was going to snitch? Kip can’t make child-support payments if he doesn’t have a job, and he didn’t win. Now he’s probably ruined financially.”

  I drew the leaves on my daisies. “Somehow we have to get Peter to tell us if Priscilla was going to tell the authorities about Kip’s criminal record.”

  * * *

  Later, in my kitchen at the Big House, I was making a ham and cheese on rye and a phone was ringing. This time it wasn’t muffled like Priscilla’s clam cell in the freezer. It was mine, and on the charger where I’d left it.

  “Hello?”

  “Trixie, it’s Linda Blessler,” she whispered. “I hate to bother you, but I think you should know something.”

  Immediately, my heart started racing. “What’s that?”

  “Jill Marley is here, in the kitchen. She’s crying in the diner, and she seems very distraught. The customers are getting a little uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll be right there, Linda. Hang on.”

  “She also wants to look at your recipe book. She said she was sure you had one and that you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Be right there!”

  Throwing on my coat, boots, hat, and mittens, I stomped, slid, and skated my way up my driveway and through the parking lot that led to the Silver Bullet.

  Seeing it at night always amazed me. The windows glowed and the light spilled over to the blanket of snow on the lawn and on the snowcapped bushes around the diner. As I got closer, I could see the shadows of people enjoying their meals, and I could hear the din of the diners and the clink of silverware on china.

  Remembering what had summoned me here, I prepared to see what I could do for Jill.

  I swung open the door and closed it quickly behind me so as not to let out the warm air. I wiped my feet and hurried to the kitchen.

  The first person who waved at me was Carlee Churchill, one of the Tri-Gams who’d worked on the tea committee.

  “The library is being cleaned up,” she said. “And Mayor Tingsley hired a roofing company.”

  On that note, I smiled and waved to everyone and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I found Jill and Linda engaged in a tug-of-war with my recipe binder.

  “Jill, what’s going on?”

  “I want to finish the new cookbook Cilla started. The publishers want me to hurry.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me, Jill? I would have helped you.”

  “I couldn’t find you, Trixie. I tried, but you didn’t pick up your phone. My publisher said that I need to get moving on it while there’s a lot of publicity about Cilla.”

  “I see.” My face flushed, and not from the heat in the kitchen. “They are going to capitalize on her death.”

  She shrugged. “It’s going to be publicized as Priscilla’s last cookbook. The one she was working on at the time of her death. It’ll sell like crazy.”

  If I’d been softening about giving some of my recipes to Jill, I was absolutely going to refuse now. “I won’t participate in exploiting Priscilla’s death. Forget it.”

  “It’s not as if I can go to the library here and get recipes, can I? The library is underwater. It’s not as if I can leave here and go to another library because I can’t leave Sandy Harbor. And your Internet here is hit-and-miss. And my printer won’t work.”

  Her face was redder than my tomato plants.

  “And Peter has the absolute gall to promise the publisher that it’ll be done in a month. Can you imagine that? He’s got a lot of nerve, that big overgrown stepmummy’s boy.”

  Peter didn’t miss an opportunity to trash Jill, and vice versa.

  “You two don’t get along, huh?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her.

  “Of course we don’t get along. He didn’t bother with Priscilla for years. Then he appears from nowhere and suddenly is the son she never had, and she’s giving him a lot of money.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Do you know for sure that she was giving him a lot of money?”

  “I know for sure. I keep track of her income and expenses for tax purposes. I balanced Priscilla’s checkbook because she couldn’t handle it.”

  I see. “Peter seems desperate to have her estate settled. I wonder why he needs the money.”

  Nudge.

  Jill twisted her mouth in a scowl. “Ask the bookies. Ask the loan sharks.” She chuckled. “He’s borrowed money from just about everyone in North America.”

  “Why?”

  “To support every bookie who handles sports parlays. Peter is a terminal parlay player.”

  “Say that fast a couple of times.”

  She laughed. She sure loved bashing Peter.

  “Did Priscilla know that Peter played parlays?”

  “Yes. And she told him to stop, that she couldn’t keep bailing him out. Then he’d stop for a while, but that was only the lull between hot games.”

  I shook my head. Gambling was a bad vice, but so were a host of others.

  “As for my recipes, Jill, the answer is no. Like Juanita suggested, someday I’ll do my own cookbook. So you don’t have my permission to use them. And, Jill, I have to ask you to leave my kitchen. I can’t have anyone but my staff in here. It’s diner policy. You understand.”

  Linda Blessler looked up from her cooking and seemed relieved that our conversation was winding down.

  I escorted Jill to the back door of the kitchen. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “I’ll be fine by myself. There’s probably no crime in this little town.”

  I looked at her as if snakes were crawling out of her ears. She had the good sense to lower her eyes and look ashamed. “Oh. I forgot about Cilla for a moment.”

  “And that means that there’s a murderer on the loose, so we can never be too safe. I’ll escort you to your motor home. I’m on my way back home, too.”

  I opened the back door, gave Linda a wave,
and waited as Jill walked out.

  “Linda, call me if you need anything. And thanks for working for me. You’ll get that Mini Cooper yet!”

  “Take as much time as you need,” Linda said. “I mean it.”

  “Thanks.” It was good to know I didn’t have to rush back to work so I could concentrate on finding Priscilla’s murderer.

  Jill and I walked mostly in silence. I decided it was a good time to ask about the package from the lawyers in New York City.

  I chose my words carefully, so I wouldn’t make her any more skittish than she was already.

  “Jill, I was wondering if you ever gave that envelope from the lawyers in New York City to Priscilla.”

  “Lawyers?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice the return address. It was from a law firm in New York City.”

  “Of course I gave it to her,” she mumbled.

  “Was it important?”

  “I’m assuming it was, since Priscilla had it overnighted to you. She didn’t share what it was with me.”

  “She was adamant that it be given to her as soon as possible. It must have been really important.”

  She shrugged.

  “Where is the package now? Did one of the sheriffs take it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where it went,” she mumbled.

  She spoke so quietly, I had to ask her to repeat what she’d said.

  “Why are you so interested in the package, Trixie?”

  “I thought it might have something to do with Priscilla’s death. Maybe it was her will or a real-estate sale or something else that might help us figure out why someone would want Priscilla dead so badly.”

  “Priscilla always received things from lawyers. She had several working for her. I’ll keep an eye open for the envelope.”

  “Thanks, Jill.”

  We were silent again. Finally we were at her motor home, and I said good-bye.

  “See you tomorrow morning after breakfast, Jill.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “For the grocery-shopping trip with Ty. Remember?”

  She grunted. “Oh, yeah. I remember now. A shopping trip with my three guides. Life can’t get any better than this.”

  Boy, she sure was acting strange, but with her job as Priscilla’s assistant gone, maybe she was counting on a big score with this last cookbook of Priscilla’s.

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Trixie. And I’m sorry that I was so rude about getting your recipes without permission. I was just . . . in a hurry and forgot my manners.”

  “It’s ancient history. Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.”

  I let out a deep breath as I walked toward the Big House. Jill was intense, and it seemed that her cheese had slipped off her cracker—at least tonight it had.

  I couldn’t wait to talk to Antoinette Chloe. That’s how desperate I was for normal conversation! Well, ACB conversation anyway.

  Antoinette Chloe was waiting for me, coat on. “We have to go back to my house.”

  “Now? It’s eleven at night.”

  “Megan Hunter called.” ACB closed the door behind her and stepped onto the stairs. “Milt got to know Walton DeMassie and Kip O’Malley while they were visiting at their place. They were playing cards in the Hunters’ rec room, and then they took off in a van. Apparently Milt shared a couple bottles of Lord Calvert with them, and they got to talking crazy. Megan is pretty sure that the two chefs are headed to my house to shake down Peter McCall. Seems like they have a gripe with him. She doesn’t want to call the cops because she doesn’t want bad publicity for the contest and any more bad publicity for Sandy Harbor . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah.”

  “But the contest is over.”

  “Seems like there’s still some animosity brewing over it.”

  “Why?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “Megan blathered something about how they both thought they were going to win for sure. Anyway, I warmed up your car. Let’s go!”

  The last thing I wanted to do was go back to ACB’s house tonight.

  I remembered how Ty had told me to stay out of the investigation. Well, I was. I was just going to ACB’s house—again. She simply must have forgotten a special pair of flip-flops.

  “Ty will have a moose if he finds out we’re sneaking out again to investigate,” she said. “How about if we tell him I forgot a special pair of flip-flops? It isn’t really a lie. I should have packed the sequined black ones, too. But I thought the sequined blue ones would be sufficient.”

  I laughed. “Great liars think alike, Antoinette Chloe.”

  “I hate to lie to Ty. He’s such a good guy.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. But with any luck, he won’t find out.”

  Soon her house came into view. It was all lit up, and a black van was parked in her driveway. We parked in our same spot on the road, but when we walked in this time, we could walk in the valley of the van’s tire tracks.

  As we got closer, I could hear shouting and swearing coming from inside. I looked at ACB. “I don’t know if we should barge in on that, Antoinette Chloe.”

  Something thumped, then shattered. Like glass being thrown against the wall.

  “What on earth was that?” She threw open the door and stomped in before I could stop her. “What on earth are you men doing to my house and to my things?”

  She screamed so loudly, they could hear her at the International Space Station.

  I followed her and then moved to her side to present a united front. Her living room was a mess. Some kind of glass vase was lying in pieces on the floor. Lamps were upset, the rug was rumpled, and three men were wrestling on the floor: Walton DeMassie, Kip O’Malley, and Peter McCall.

  “Knock it off!” I yelled when one of the candy dishes on the end table hit the ground and rolled in a circle.

  “Fix up my house. Immediately!” ACB screamed.

  They all froze as if they were concrete statues. Blood leaked out of Peter McCall’s nose, and one of his eyes was already starting to swell shut. The other two men looked fine.

  It was two against one. Peter McCall should be grateful we arrived when we did.

  “What are you two doing back here?” Peter said. Not only was blood dripping from his nose; annoyance dripped from every word.

  So much for gratitude.

  “Apparently we are saving your face from getting beaten to a pulp!” ACB said. “And I’m picking up my pair of black sequined flip-flops.”

  Antoinette Chloe pulled out a pack of tissues from her cleavage—I call it her cleavage purse—and tossed them at Peter.

  “Take a seat immediately, gentlemen. Peter, you sit on the wing chair. You two bullies, sit on the couch,” ACB ordered, pointing her fingers at the furniture.

  “What’s going on here?” I added.

  “Are you two cops?” said the one with the bushy mustache, who I remembered was Walton DeMassie, from New York City.

  “They’re not cops. They were in the contest, Walt. Remember that atrocity with the salsa and kielbasa—”

  I felt the heat rush to my face. “Atrocity? My mac and cheese is delicious! I serve it at my diner and everyone gobbles it up and asks for thirds. What do you know, Mr. O’Malley?” I remembered the third-place winner, Kip O’Malley, the guy who cooked in the kitchen at the prison.

  “At least I used real cheese. Not that fake stuff like this one did,” Walton scoffed, gesturing toward ACB. “She used that fake orange cheese, and it was overloaded with fish. Ugh! Can you imagine?”

  “Look, we lost and you won, and we’re not cops,” I said. “But that’s not the point here. Antoinette Chloe here owns this house. The house that you’re destroying.”

  “That son of a pup.” Walton pointed at Peter. “That sucker cheated me out of firs
t place.”

  “He cheated me out of first place, too,” Kip said.

  “There can only be one first-place winner,” I pointed out, not that either of them saw the logic.

  “And it was supposed to be me!” Walton said. “Not the chick who worked at the soup kitchen. Appearing on Priscilla’s show was going to be my comeback.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Jean Williams won fair and square.”

  “That’s what you think. She must have just paid Petey-boy over here more than we did!” Kip O’Malley pointed at Peter.

  “Paid him? Peter?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Ask him yourself!” Walton shouted.

  Peter looked at the floor and shifted on the chair. We stood in front of him.

  “What do they mean, Peter?” I asked as my stomach sank to my shoes. “Talk!”

  “I don’t have to tell you two anything,” he said. “I already talked to the cowboy cop.”

  “Oh, yes, you do have to talk, or I’ll kick you out of my home,” ACB said. “You can sleep in a snowbank for all I care, since there is no place else for you to sleep in little Cabbage Patch—or should I say ‘Podunk’?”

  Peter looked at ACB. “I—I might have taken some money from them to get Cilla to pick them for first place.”

  “Cripes,” said ACB.

  “How much did these two pay you, Peter?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  I looked at Walton. “How much?”

  “Five thousand,” he replied.

  “Kip?” I asked.

  “Five thousand,” Kip said.

  “I don’t get it.” I pinched the bridge of my nose because I’d heard that it would stop a headache. “Why on earth would you pay that kind of money to win a little contest?”

  Walton snorted. “Your little contest would have been my gateway back into television. I could have outshone Priscilla, and legions of my fans would remember me and petition to get me back to my own show.” He grinned. “At least, that was my plan.”

  “Kip, what about you? Was five grand worth it?”

  “Worth it? Oh, yeah. Then I could kiss the jail good-bye and work around my peers, not criminals who are learning a trade. Mostly they are just stealing and selling food. A win would have legitimized me as a real chef.”