Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  Of course, LaVolney was “Stan the Bookie”!

  And now I had official verification of everything that Stan told me at breakfast.

  Sometimes I had to lead Hal in the direction I needed. “I wonder what BCI verified about the Saint Dismas cookbook.”

  Hal leaned back on the red vinyl cushion. “Jimmy said that Priscilla’s version was definitely lifted from the Church of Saint Dismas.”

  “Is there proof?”

  “A used bookstore in Saratoga remembered Priscilla coming in and saying that she was buying the old cookbook to donate it to the Sandy Harbor Library. The bookstore even took a picture of Priscilla with the cookbook, because she was a celebrity. It was the Saint Dismas one. Then Priscilla and Jill had a fight. Jill wanted to keep it, but Priscilla insisted that she had no use for it.”

  “Well, that doesn’t prove that Jill did anything wrong. Besides, after Priscilla died, Jill accused Priscilla of copying it.”

  Hal’s eyes lit up. He was waiting to deliver a punch line. “But a computer was confiscated by BCI. It showed extensively that Jill was the one who copied it, changed a few things, and sent it by e-mail to the publisher. There was nothing to indicate that Priscilla was in any way involved. Jill finally admitted to Jimmy and Ty that Priscilla hadn’t been entirely involved in the last several cookbooks. Jill wrote them. And when I did Priscilla’s autopsy, I discovered Priscilla was borderline middle-stage Alzheimer’s.”

  If I had false teeth, I would have dropped them. “Hal? What did you say? Priscilla had Alzheimer’s?”

  He nodded. “And she was taking a cocktail of meds.”

  “I can’t believe it.” An overwhelming sadness came over me. Poor Priscilla. No wonder Jill told me that Priscilla couldn’t concentrate at times. Jill probably was helping Priscilla with her cookbooks, and later, as Priscilla got worse, maybe Jill got a little overwhelmed with everything she had to do to cover for Priscilla.

  Priscilla had had Alzheimer’s disease! Whoever killed her wouldn’t even let her die in peace in her own time.

  “The church ladies want the profits from the cookbook donated to the church, and it appears that Jill is going to do that,” I said. “That’s a good thing.”

  “I heard that, as well,” Joan said.

  “Hal, did the lieutenant say anything as to who had a strong motive to kill Priscilla?” I asked.

  “Jill toiled in the salt mines for Priscilla. From what Jimmy told me, Jill was Priscilla Finch-Smythe, because at times Priscilla was too sick to work. She tried to save her energy for her TV show, since it was taped and they could do a lot of takes. On her good days, Priscilla insisted that they tape more than one show. Sometimes they did three.”

  That was just what I’d concluded.

  “Interesting,” I said. “Priscilla must have been exhausted most of the time.”

  I wondered if she’d broken the news to Peter about a year ago. That might explain his sudden appearance back in her life. Maybe he figured if he could ingratiate himself with his ailing stepmother, he could gain control of her finances before she passed.

  “Probably.” Hal leaned over and whispered, “I know you won’t tell anyone that I told you all this, Trixie, particularly Ty. He likes to play his cards close to his vest.”

  “My lips are sealed.” I raised my hand as if I were swearing to silence.

  Joan gave me a big smile. “And I found out that one of the ladies from Saint Dismas used to live here.”

  “No way!”

  “Oh, yeah. I ran some checks on against the Lure’s database,” Joan said. “Dorothy ‘Dottie’ Spitzer and her husband, Sidney, ran an ad every summer and fall in the Lure. They advertised U-pick berries, apples, pumpkins, and squash.”

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” This information hit me like a bolt out of the blue. “She must have known Priscilla back in the day.”

  “It’s very likely that she could have. They graduated in the same class—Dorothy was Reinhardt back then, Priscilla was Mabel Cronk back then, and your aunt Stella and uncle Porky were themselves. Oh, and Antoinette Chloe was in the same graduating class.”

  “Antoinette Chloe never said anything about knowing Dottie!”

  “Maybe she didn’t recognize her. It’s been years, after all,” Joan said. “And I can’t cross-check Dorothy Reinhardt against the Sandy Harbor yearbook, so I really don’t know if she’s changed a lot. The yearbook isn’t online, of course, as it’s too old, and all the yearbooks were lost when the library’s roof collapsed. I haven’t gotten around to digging up a yearbook from the locals yet. Things have been kind of hectic with all the press bugging me for background information and old issues of the Lure.”

  “I know just where to find a yearbook. Aunt Stella has a whole collection of them in her office, off the kitchen.”

  I hadn’t gotten around to making Aunt Stella and Uncle Porky’s office my own. There was too much history in it, and their history was my history.

  This information was invaluable.

  Then I had to pause. Maybe, just maybe, in her own way, by taking the Saint Dismas cookbook and putting Priscilla’s name on it, Jill had really been trying to help Priscilla and keep her on track. From what I knew about the disease, stress could bring on forgetfulness—and having a stressful job in television could have made the situation worse. Personality changes might ensue also. I wondered briefly if that was why Priscilla had acted like such a diva while she was judging the contest.

  Joan gave me a slight smile. “I can’t print a lot of this just yet, but I will. Just as soon as an arrest is made, I’m ready to go. I’m going to get the scoop on everyone!”

  I nodded. Joan worked hard, and if a scoop was to be made, Joan deserved to make it. But Joan did more than scoop. She always wrote sensitive, caring pieces.

  “Is her body going to be released soon, Hal?”

  “In a couple of days. Just as soon as I get the word from Jimmy and Ty.”

  “Is there going to be a service?”

  “Peter and Jill are supposed to be arranging something, but I think they’re bickering about it. Last I knew, they were planning to have something at my place due to the fact that all of her old friends are here.”

  “The Tri-Gams?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d like to think that Priscilla knew this might have been her last trip to Sandy Harbor. Maybe she wanted to revisit her roots and be surrounded by her friends one more time.

  And maybe I hadn’t been fair to her. Maybe she acted like a cranky diva due to her illness.

  I vowed yet again that I’d find out who’d pushed her into the fire hydrant and strangled her with her own scarf. And bring her some belated justice.

  Hopefully, my plan to do some investigative work during the pizza party tomorrow would work. I shuddered, thinking about what might happen if I got caught.

  But right now I wanted to hurry back to the Big House and check out Aunt Stella’s old Sandy Harbor yearbooks.

  Then, as luck would have it, ACB and I were going to entertain two church ladies, one of whom I was almost positive was the former Dorothy Reinhardt.

  * * *

  “Antoinette Chloe, do you recognize this young lady?” I pointed to a picture in the black-and-white yearbook, where each student photo was in alphabetical order.

  “Dorothy Reinhardt. I haven’t seen her in decades. She married . . . um . . .” She leafed through the pages. “He farmed out on Mile High Road. What was his name? Sidney . . . Sidney . . . uh . . . Spitzer! That’s him.” She pointed to a fairly good-looking guy. “He was the captain of the football team. All the girls had a crush on Sidney, and we were all astonished when he asked skinny little Dorothy with an overbite to marry him.”

  “Was she a Tri-Gam?”

  “No. Her mother wouldn’t let her hang out with us. She said that we were a cult of th
e devil.”

  I grinned. “What?”

  “True.” ACB nodded. “If she only knew that three of our members became nuns. And that the worst thing we did was paint ‘Tri-Gam’ on the water tower in red. But we were caught and had to paint silver over it.”

  “Well, I think that Dottie, who we are entertaining any second now, is actually Dorothy Reinhardt Spitzer.”

  “Naw. That can’t be her. I would have recognized her when I was talking to her, wouldn’t I? Although we didn’t associate very much in high school—she didn’t like me. She was fairly dull and quiet and I was . . . um . . . loud and colorful.”

  “And, Antoinette Chloe, I’d bet you a hand pie that you were the one who painted the water tower.”

  She put the palm of her right hand against her heart. “Moi?”

  “Yeah, you!”

  The doorbell rang, and I put the yearbook away in a drawer. “Make sure you take a good look at her. And then maybe we can ask her some pertinent questions.”

  “Absolutely.”

  We both went to answer the door.

  “Welcome to my home,” I said, opening the thick oak door for Dottie and Marylou while trying to keep Blondie away from them at the same time. She wanted to lick them to death. “I think you remember me as the cochair of the mac and cheese cook-off, Trixie Matkowski.”

  “Of course we remember you, Trixie. Thanks for inviting us,” said Marylou. “I believe that Megan and Milt are going to enjoy a break from us for a while.”

  “I’m sure you both need a break, too,” I said diplomatically. “Welcome, Dottie.”

  We all shook hands.

  “Let me take your coats,” ACB said.

  Dutifully, they pulled off the coats and handed them to ACB, who tossed them unceremoniously over the banister. Then they unlaced their winter boots, which looked a lot like L.L.Bean’s rubber boots, and put them on my boot tray.

  I knew immediately by their winter etiquette that they came from a four-season place.

  “Where are you ladies from?” I asked.

  “Downstate. Poughkeepsie.”

  Bingo!

  “Another tropical place at this time of year,” joked Antoinette Chloe. She was wearing a muumuu with little palm trees sprinkled between massive purple hibiscus flower heads.

  When they were both dewinterized, I escorted them to the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind sitting around the table. It’s my favorite thing to do. And lunch is ready.”

  I’d heated up the pea soup Antoinette Chloe had made and stirred in a hint of cream. I figured that it would be the perfect meal on a cold winter day like today.

  “Can I fix everyone a bowl of split pea soup?” I’d poured the soup into a tureen that matched my Syracuse China pattern and brought it to the table.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Count me in.”

  “Me too.”

  As I ladled the soup into bowls, ACB pulled out the tray of tea sandwiches we’d made earlier with the luncheon meat we’d bought at the Gas and Grab.

  “I made us a pot of tea,” ACB said. “Cranberry spice. Is that all right?”

  The two church ladies nodded.

  “Dottie,” ACB began. “You look so familiar. Do we know each other?”

  Dottie hesitated, then said, “Dorothy Spitzer, formerly Reinhardt. I went to Sandy Harbor High School. I believe we were in the same class.”

  “Small world,” ACB said. “But you look very different, Dottie.”

  “It’s probably my wig—my hair is very thin—and I’ve gained a lot of weight since high school.”

  “Haven’t we all?” ACB laughed. “And I don’t remember you wearing glasses.”

  “Old eyes.”

  “I hear you. Luckily, I’ve avoided them so far,” ACB said.

  “Dottie, did you know Priscilla back in high school, too?” I asked.

  “I did. Back when she was Mabel Cronk, that is. I followed her career throughout the years with interest.” I handed Dottie the platter of sandwiches, and she reached for ham with maple mayonnaise.

  “Did she remember you, Dottie?” ACB asked.

  “Of course she remembered me. We used to be very friendly. She’d always come to my parents’ farm during U-pick season and work for them. She was maid of honor at my wedding to Sid. We kept in touch years after we graduated.” Her smile turned into pinched lips. “Then, after a while, things turned ugly between us.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad. Do you mind me asking what happened?” I pressed, dying to know.

  “I don’t particularly want to talk about it right now. Let’s just enjoy our lunch.” Dottie smiled dimly.

  “Please, have as many sandwiches and helpings of soup as you want, but I should warn you to save some room for Sarah Stolfus’s hand pies,” I said. “I apologize, ladies. I would usually bake something special myself, but lately time has been flying. And her hand pies are simply delicious.”

  We chatted for a while about nothing special, and I was enjoying their company. However, after too much idle chitchat, I felt that I should try to get more information out of them, but of course, ACB beat me to turning the conversation around.

  “Marylou, how about you? Did you know Priscilla before now?”

  “Not really. I felt like I sorta knew her from watching her show on TV, but I can’t say I knew her. Then, when the cookbook scandal broke, Dottie and I were elected to represent the Church of the Covered Dish. She was the original editor of the cookbook. I was in charge of finances.

  “And we did a ton of work on it,” Marylou said. “Everyone in the church had participated and sent in their family recipes and anecdotes. We sold a lot of cookbooks, and the money all went to the church. We even copyrighted it. Priscilla violated our copyright.”

  “Can you copyright recipes?” I wondered.

  “Well, no. Not the actual recipes themselves. But all the stories and text around it can be copyrighted!” Marylou said. “And Priscilla stole everything from us, word for word.”

  She was spunky, whereas Dottie seemed to be quietly seething.

  “Did you manage to speak with Priscilla about the copyright violation at all before she died?” I asked.

  “Briefly.” Marylou nodded. “The three of us went outside at the cook-off to talk in private, but we talked quickly because it was cold, and we weren’t dressed for it. Anyway, Priscilla asked us not to talk about the cookbook to the press and said she’d talk to us more after the contest.”

  Dottie fished in her purse and pulled out a tissue. “Priscilla also said that she didn’t know anything about our cookbook and that she didn’t plagiarize from us, but I find that hard to believe. She was in the cookbook business, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Dottie, calm yourself. You said yourself that Priscilla didn’t seem like the same person you’d once known.”

  “She wouldn’t be the same after the thirty-something years since I’d last seen her.”

  “Why didn’t she seem the same to you?” I asked.

  “She kept losing her train of thought during our conversation,” Dottie replied. “She fished for words constantly. Just like my aunt Patty used to.”

  “Did your aunt Patty have Alzheimer’s?” I asked.

  “Yes, she did. Oh! Priscilla seemed to have a touch of it, too.” Dottie put her hand on Marylou’s. “I wonder if she had Alzheimer’s, Marylou. Oh, my! When Aunt Patty was under pressure or experienced some kind of emotional upheaval, she usually got kind of scattered. And sometimes she got obnoxious.”

  Scattered. That was the word Jill had used.

  Obnoxious. That was the word I had thought.

  We sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea and enjoying our soup and sandwiches. Big flakes swirled outside, and it was pretty to watch.

  Blondie was curled up in front o
f the door that led to my wraparound porch. If anyone from outside saw us, it would look like we were a gathering of friends, not suspects. Well, only three of us were suspects: Marylou, Dottie, and me.

  Dottie fidgeted in her chair. “Later, we went back outside in the frigid cold and talked again. In exchange for our silence, Priscilla promised to give us some money for our church. It’s in terrible shape and in need of extensive repair, and fifty thousand dollars would go a long way.”

  “Wow! Fifty thousand!” ACB said.

  “Well, I’m sure she made millions with our cookbook! Still, that was a lot of money. That’s why we backed off Priscilla and sat nicely in our chairs for the contest,” Marylou said. “Even though Dottie was upset about it and made it known to Priscilla in no uncertain terms.”

  Dottie looked ready to bolt, but instead she took a deep breath and reached for a roast beef sandwich with horseradish mustard.

  “Let’s compare the cookbooks, shall we?” I said. “Antoinette Chloe has Priscilla’s.”

  “I have ours right here,” Marylou said, pulling a yellowed, dog-eared book out of her purse.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” ACB said. “Priscilla’s cookbook is upstairs.” ACB’s flip-flops faded; then their slapping became louder as she walked up the stairs.

  “You two are good friends, aren’t you, Trixie?” Marylou asked.

  “Yes. She was the first person who became my friend when I bought the restaurant. Then we became closer as certain things . . . unfolded.”

  Dottie’s eyes began to tear, and I handed her tissues and paper napkins that were handy. Marylou and I sat quietly until she composed herself.

  “Dottie, if you feel like talking, please do,” I said. “You’re among friends.”

  ACB plodded into the kitchen, and I held up a finger so she wouldn’t speak. She nodded slightly, then took a seat.

  But Dottie wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and gave a slight smile. “Let’s compare those books, shall we? Then you can see why we at Saint Dismas are so upset.”

  Dottie took the books and opened them both. Priscilla’s cookbook, The Countess of Comforting Comfort Food, was opened to page ten; the Saint Dismas cookbook to page four. “See? Grandma’s Apple Betty, with an introduction by Grandma Allister of Poughkeepsie, New York. It’s word for word! Only Priscilla called it Aunt Betty’s Apple Betty with an introduction from Betty Smudler of Glens Falls, New York. On page eleven, there’s the same story and recipe with Cousin Diane’s Chicken Marinade from Poughkeepsie and Cousin Barbara of Aspen, Colorado, in Priscilla’s cookbook, page five. Cousin Diane writes about her chicken barbecues around her pool. Same goes for Cousin Barbara.”