Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  But I had yet to ask the big question. I took a deep breath. “Peter McCall seems to think that he will get all of Priscilla’s estate. He’s been telling a couple of guys that he’s going to take over as CEO of Finch-Smythe Enterprises because he’s related to her.”

  I thought she was about to turn her head in circles as if she were possessed and barf up her red drink.

  “I don’t think a stepson from a long-ago marriage should actually be considered a relative. I worked hard for many, many years and covered for her and . . .”

  “Covered for her?” I pushed.

  “Yes. Cilla was . . . um . . . scattered sometimes.”

  “Scattered?”

  Jill looked around, and her gaze settled on a display of fluorescent fishing lures.

  “She wasn’t as focused on her career as she once was. She was talking about retiring.”

  “And you think the business should be yours?” I prodded. “Because you’ve covered for her and helped her?”

  She smiled. “Not only with her professional life, but her personal life, too.” Jill took a big gulp of the red stuff. “Besides, she doesn’t have any real relatives anymore, and I’ve been with her through thick and thin. I was the one who helped her publish triple the number of cookbooks and booked her for numerous talk shows and other events—like your mac and cheese cook-off—for more publicity. I was the one who steered her toward lucrative investments. I was the one who encouraged her to leave her last husband and told her to stop funding Peter’s gambling addiction,” she said quietly.

  Standing, she pulled her cart toward her with a white-knuckled grip. “I’m going to check out. Thanks for the drink, Trixie.” She looked around the store. “Do you think we could leave soon? I have a lot of business to take care of.”

  “I’ll give them a five-minute warning.”

  “Good.”

  And then she was off. But I believe that I got the information I wanted. I surmised that Miss Jill Marley was ticked over the fact that Peter McCall may—or may not—get the business that Jill had worked hard for.

  Would that be reason to kill Priscilla?

  No. That would be a reason for Jill to kill Peter McCall instead, wouldn’t it?

  Until I could narrow down my list of suspects, everyone was a suspect. That meant all the players in Priscilla’s life. Peter; the church ladies who seemed more than incensed; the two very vocal and combative chefs who thought that by giving Peter money to bribe Priscilla, their careers would skyrocket.

  Who else?

  I didn’t know quite yet, but I at least was able to rule myself out!

  Twenty minutes later we were headed back home. Ty talked nonstop about Cousin Ronnie’s Pepperoni, which he’d finally found at the Gas and Grab. Apparently he’d been searching for it for forever. He said that he’d first had it as a kid when his father and grandfather rented one of the cottages here for a salmon-fishing expedition.

  Fishermen’s cheese, Cousin Ronnie’s Pepperoni, crackers, and birch beer soda were part of their happy-hour ritual every day.

  I kept nagging Ty to invite his parents to the point. I’d reserve their old cottage for them, and they could re-create their memories and make new ones. Although his grandfather had passed on, Ty’s mother had never been here.

  Besides, I would just love to meet both of Ty’s parents.

  Antoinette Chloe chatted about the fishing lure she’d found that would look perfect on the new fascinator she was going to make. She debated whether or not to take off the large glow-in-the-dark rubber worm which was on it.

  She decided to keep the worm.

  Jill was silent for the whole ride and just stared silently out the window.

  I thought about our conversation. If she was expecting to inherit Priscilla’s zillions and her business, she might be out of luck.

  But maybe I was jumping ahead of myself and just assuming what Priscilla’s wishes were. Maybe she had split everything equally between Peter and Jill. Maybe she’d left it all to charity.

  On the way back, I typed Orlando, Biltmore, Orlando and Fischer into the Google search app on my phone, to see what kind of firm they were. But of course, I couldn’t get an Internet connection. I swear, if Sandy Harbor didn’t get good cell service soon, I was going to start my own company! Trixie Talks, Inc., or Sandy Harbor Speaks.

  Well, it seemed like no estate lawyers were ready to act on Priscilla’s will yet. I was certain Peter would’ve blabbed about it if he had received word about the will.

  I decided to invite everyone on Ty’s “don’t leave town list” to the Big House for some food, wine, and talk. There was nothing like a cold night in front of fireplace of the Big House, chatting and sharing a gooey pizza and wings and enjoying a couple bottles of wine or ten.

  I wondered how far Ty had gotten in his investigation. Maybe I should invite him to pizza, wings, and wine night, too. Maybe liquor would loosen his perfectly fine, delicious-looking lips.

  Not that I’d noticed.

  I had to get Ty aside and see what information I could get from him. Oh, and Joan Paris, too. She’d spill information about Hal Manning’s—the coroner’s—findings. And then there were the church ladies and the two chefs. I might as well have a big pizza party and see what happened.

  What a great idea!

  Ty let us all out in the parking lot on the side of the motor home.

  “I can help,” he said.

  “Antoinette Chloe and I can manage. You help Jill. She has the most.”

  He lifted up the tailgate, and Jill pointed out which grocery bags were hers. They both were loaded down, so ACB and I helped, too. I was dying to see the inside of the motor home anyway.

  My parents have a motor home—way smaller than this one—and were, in fact, in Tucson right now in a trailer park, soaking up the sun, playing golf, and “shuffling,” which is code for shuffleboard.

  Priscilla’s motor home was magnificent. In a motor-home magazine, this would be the centerfold. It had marble countertops, recessed lighting, and a glass cabinet to display china. It even had a king-size bed in the back. A small desk had stacks of paperwork and books, mostly cookbooks, falling all over everything, even onto the floor.

  It looked as though Priscilla and Jill had been behind on her work.

  All the while, I looked for the bubble mailer with the lawyer names on it. It had to be here somewhere.

  And there it was, on the floor, under the desk.

  My fingers were itching to take it and see what the contents said.

  But I couldn’t. Jill was right behind me.

  I needed a plan. It was already formulating in my brain. And I’d execute it the night of the pizza party.

  “What a beautiful motor home, Jill. I can see why you wanted to stay here,” I said.

  “I love it!” Antoinette Chloe raved. “I could sell my house and Brown’s Four Corners Restaurant, buy one of these bad boys, and travel.”

  “Wouldn’t you miss Sandy Harbor?” I asked.

  “Not in the winter. It’s not good for my flip-flops, as you’ve pointed out several times, Trixie,” she said. “Remember how I was going to open a drive-in?”

  “Yes, I do. You wanted it open in the winter so people could drive their snowmobiles in and watch the movies outdoors.” I tried not to smile.

  “Maybe I’ll create a mobile-home park on my land instead and park my motor home here in the summer and drive somewhere warm in the winter. Sandy Harbor needs some extra places for people to stay, so a trailer park is definitely needed. I can have some of those cute cabins brought in, too.”

  This was a better idea than her drive-in, but her boyfriend’s body had been found on that land. I wondered if the memory was still too fresh for her to handle.

  “I’ll put a memory garden where we found Nick,” she said, as if reading my mi
nd.

  “You know, Antoinette Chloe, that sounds like a fabulous idea. Your heart hasn’t been in the restaurant business lately.”

  “I could sell my restaurant to Fingers, my chef. He’s doing an excellent job. My business has tripled ever since he took over as the manager.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you keep your restaurant? You have all that money coming in, and you don’t have to do a thing. You don’t even have to be there,” Jill said, putting her groceries in a cabinet.

  ACB shrugged. “But Fingers is the one who deserves the credit, not me.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jill said abruptly.

  “It’d be like you taking the credit for something that Priscilla did,” I said.

  “Thank you all for your help,” Jill said quietly. “I appreciate the ride to the grocery store. It was an . . . um . . . interesting trip.”

  Guess that was our cue to get out.

  Ty led the way down the stairs and helped us both down the last step.

  I went back up the stairs and said to Jill, “I’m having a pizza party at my house later this week. It’ll be nothing special, but I’d love it if you’d come. How about it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “C’mon, Jill.” I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll be glad to get out of this tin can by then. You can socialize, have a lot of laughs, and have great food and wine.”

  She was ready to protest, but I insisted. “I’ll expect you. If you aren’t here, I’m just going to have to drag you out of the motor home.”

  She smiled weakly. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Great.”

  We all went back to Ty’s SUV. ACB and I got our groceries, and Ty helped us lug everything up the sidewalk.

  Blondie greeted us like long-lost friends, jumping around us and whimpering. She’d missed us. Ty let her outside, and she rolled in the snow, then pranced like a gazelle.

  “I’ll come back in about an hour and take Blondie for a run,” Ty said.

  “She’ll love that. She’s been cooped up inside too much lately.”

  “Wish I could say the same. It seems like I haven’t been in my apartment in days. This case has me hopping.”

  “How so?” I asked, knowing that he wouldn’t tell me a thing.

  “How about another cup of coffee first?”

  “Sure.” I put in a K-Cup.

  ACB was still putting groceries away and half singing and half humming “Oklahoma,” a tune she was way too fond of.

  Finally the coffeemaker stopped, and I slid a mug of black coffee in front of him.

  “What’s going on, Ty?”

  “Hal Manning’s report came through. Of course, you know that Priscilla was strangled with her scarf, but it appears that she hit her head on the fire hydrant first. Hal figures that she was pushed. She must have been groggy. And the scarf was knotted in the front, so the murderer was face-to-face with her.”

  “That’s cold-blooded.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Got any suspects who are in the lead?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “They all had somewhat of a reason to kill her, but not good enough to commit murder.”

  “You’re probably going to have to let some of them leave town soon, huh?”

  He took a big gulp of coffee. “I’m getting a lot of hassle from our illustrious mayor to let them go.”

  “Does that include me, too? Can Antoinette Chloe and I part ways?”

  He laughed. “You two are doing fine. Like two Tri-Gams in a pod.”

  “I’m not an official Gamma Gamma Gamma member,” I pointed out. “I didn’t attend Sandy Harbor High.”

  “Neither did I,” he said. “I guess we’re the two outsiders.”

  “You know it. And lately I’ve been given a wide berth.”

  “Trixie, that’s your imagination. I don’t think anyone seriously considers you a suspect.”

  “Then why am I chained to ACB? And why did you tell me I can’t leave my property?”

  “Because I wanted you to leave the investigating to me, and I wanted to keep an eye on you. I know you, Trixie.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” I wasn’t sure if I should be happy at this revelation or mad at the man. “Tell me, are you at least getting close to an arrest?”

  “I just need one good break. We’re still looking at Priscilla’s phone contacts, but we haven’t found anything exciting yet.” He drained his coffee and got up to leave. Ty rarely lingered over his coffee if he was working on a case. “Thanks, Trixie. I’ll be back to pick up Blondie for a run later.”

  I walked him out and waited as he put on his boots. I caught the scent of his aftershave—pine and musk.

  Nice.

  For some reason I always looked forward to seeing him. He’d be back in his winter jogging attire, but it was his summer outfits that made my heart palpitate—shorts and a tank top. On hot summer days, he didn’t wear a shirt at all.

  I lived for those days.

  Watching him walk to his SUV was a treat, too. He had on a leather bomber jacket, and his tight butt was encased in perfectly faded jeans. Spectacular.

  Not that I noticed.

  Antoinette Chloe was sitting at the table when I got back to the kitchen.

  “What’s your next plan, Trixie?” she asked.

  “I want to put a pizza party together. Here at the Big House. If we get some of the suspects together, maybe we could get some clues,” I said. “This may be like fishing in the dark, but what the heck?”

  “You already took care of Jill. I’ll contact Peter and invite him and the church ladies. We might as well throw in the two chefs. If nothing else, maybe we can find out more about Peter’s gambling from those two. Who else?”

  “Let’s see if Joan Paris is available, too, although Ty told me what I needed to know about Hal Manning’s findings. I think that’s good. Let’s leave out Ty. Maybe then everyone will talk.”

  “Leave everything to me. I’ll take care of ordering the food, too. I love Cindy Sherlock’s pizza and garlic wings.”

  “Thanks, Antoinette Chloe. I think I’ll talk a walk over to the diner and see how things are going.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll take care of getting a nice assortment of goodies ready for our lunch with the church ladies. I bought a lot of nice treats at the Gas and Grab.”

  How could I forget about that so soon? Senility, thy name is Trixie.

  I noticed the lights on in Priscilla’s motor home and could see Jill’s silhouette. It looked like she was on the phone and was shouting. Taking a little detour, I walked closer to hear what she was saying.

  It was a clear, quiet afternoon, and her voice traveled. It helped that she was loud.

  “I don’t care. Just settle the reading of her will already. I can’t have things in such a state of flux.”

  Yes. I needed to execute my scathingly brilliant plan on the night of the pizza party.

  And I’d need ACB’s help.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning I found that the media had mostly disappeared from their headquarters at my diner. There was only Joan Paris, the editor of the Sandy Harbor Lure, sitting in a booth with Hal Manning, Sandy Harbor’s full-time funeral director and part-time coroner.

  They lived together and were a wealth of information, and they were just the two people I wanted to see.

  Hal Manning loved to talk about his cases—unlike Ty Brisco—and I was glad that he loved to talk to me. All you had to do was toss him a topic, and he’d be off and running.

  I waved to them both, and Joan motioned me over. “How are you doing, Trixie?”

  “I’m just plain pooped. The Miss Salmon Contest led to Christmas and then right to the mac and cheese cook-off. With my shift at work, I was just sleepwalking e
verywhere. I’m taking a mini break now, though, and Linda is cooking for me.”

  “She’s doing a great job. This food is delicious,” Hal said.

  It looked divine and it was nicely presented on the plate. My waitresses were smiling and having a nice time while going about their duties, which made for a fun experience for my customers.

  Everything was going just fine without me.

  “Sit down. Join us.” Joan winked and shifted her eyes toward Hal. I smiled at Joan’s code. Hal had news and was ready to share.

  She moved over on the red vinyl seat, and I sat down. Bettylou came over with a glass of iced tea and placed it in front of me. From behind her back, she pulled out a dish. On the dish was a peach hand pie.

  How did she know that was exactly what I wanted?

  Bettylou grinned. “Sarah Stolfus made a big delivery. I saved this peach hand pie for you. All her baked goods are going fast, really fast.”

  “Remind me to give you a raise, Bettylou.”

  “Oh, I will!”

  “So, Hal, how have you been? Busy?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been getting calls left and right about Priscilla Finch-Smythe.”

  “From?”

  “Mostly the media. And several from Peter McCall and Jill Marley. They are both anxious to have Priscilla’s body released for her calling hours and interment. I have a theory myself. I think they just want to hurry everything up so they can have the reading of her will.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and he chuckled. “It’s common to hold off the reading of the will when foul play is suspected.”

  “Hal, honey, tell Trixie what you told me about Peter and his debts,” Joan instructed.

  “I was talking to my old pal Jimmy Bosworth, from the State University of New York at Albany’s forensic science program. Jimmy’s now a lieutenant with the New York State Police in their Bureau of Criminal Investigation. We talk frequently since Sandy Harbor sends all their lab work to NYSP headquarters in Albany. Anyway, Jimmy told me that Peter’s in hot water with a big-time loan shark and bookie by the name of Stan LaVolney. They’re keeping an eye on Stan so he doesn’t do anything to Peter. Peter has promised Stan full payment once Priscilla’s estate is settled.”