Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  I walked over to help. “Let’s go into the ladies’ room, Antoinette Chloe, and repin your hat. And you should probably cool off a bit. You’re looking flushed.”

  She grabbed me around the waist and pointed me toward the ladies’ room. Whispering into my ear, she said, “He’s totally hot, Trixie. I never realized what a hunk he is.”

  “Antoinette Chloe, be careful. His show got canceled because he put the moves on a coworker and there was a scene. He seems like a player.”

  “And a player is just what I need. No strings. No melodrama. Just fun and maybe a little hanky-panky.”

  I chuckled. “You are too much.” I found the bobby pins holding her fascinator and made some sense out of her hair without a brush or a comb. “Do you want this back in?”

  It was a conglomeration of minuscule plastic forks, tiny plates, and a set of miniature books. I got her theme immediately: library fund-raiser.

  Impulsively, I hugged her. What a sweetie she was. Unless you looked into her heart, all you saw were wildly printed muumuus, crazy hats, sequined flip-flops, and wild jewelry and makeup.

  “Did you manage to find anything out about Chef DeMassie other than that you’re hot for him?”

  “I don’t think he did it, Trixie. He’s so arrogant, he thinks he’s better than Priscilla, and soon the world will know it. He has other plans of a comeback, but winning the contest would have fast-tracked him. His biggest beef was directed at Peter McCall. He wants his money back.”

  I nodded. “I can’t blame him. Or Kip either.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Are we ruling DeMassie out?” I asked.

  “I’d like to, but you know my past record with men.”

  “Yeah, I do. Your judgment is lacking when it comes to believing criminals.”

  “I know, so maybe we shouldn’t eliminate Walton just yet.”

  Dottie was next on my list to be investigated, and she had the biggest pile of axes to grind with Priscilla.

  * * *

  Judging by the number of people sitting in my diner, the mini fund-raiser was already a great success. I loved watching everyone, and there were certain people I’d picked out especially to watch.

  It was interesting to see Jill and Peter make eye contact across the crowded diner, glare at each other, and then sit in separate corners of the room.

  Peter sat with none other than Stan the Bookie.

  They huddled together over a table for two and were oblivious to anything around them. Finally Nancy, one of my evening waitresses, offered to make them each up a plate of food from the buffet. They shook their heads, and a good half hour later they left together without eating.

  I wondered what they were up to. I hurried to the front door, making like I was going to seat some customers, but instead I watched the two of them out the window.

  Stan the Bookie took off in a slick black car, and Peter walked back into the diner. He took his old seat, ordered a soda from Nancy, and then heaped his plate at the buffet.

  He ate in silence and periodically sneered at Jill.

  I craned my neck and saw that Jill was busy in conversation with a couple of the Tri-Gams—Megan and Connie.

  I walked around with two coffeepots—regular and decaf—and tuned in to their conversation.

  “I sure hope they find who did it soon. It’s not good for Sandy Harbor,” Connie said.

  “They will. Our sheriff’s department is very good,” Megan said. “And speaking of our sheriff’s department, here they are. I wonder who’s minding the shop.”

  Connie laughed. “Everyone’s here, Megan! They can watch us all at the same time.”

  I turned to see Ty, Lou Rutledge, and Vern McCoy walk in—our entire Sandy Harbor Sheriff’s Department.

  And there was a line beginning to form of people waiting for tables. I had to get people moving out of the diner so others could be seated.

  Karen Metonti, one of the snowplow drivers, walked in, looking half frozen and hungry. She made a face when she noticed the line.

  Ty walked over to me. “Trixie darlin’, you have a very successful event going on here, but I believe you’ve exceeded the maximum capacity of your diner.”

  “Ty darlin’, how do I get them up and out? They are mostly just talking.”

  “Hmm . . . watch me clear out the place.” He stood in the front of the diner and called for attention. “Sorry for interrupting your meals, folks, but don’t forget to pick up your fifty-fifty raffle tickets at the Gas and Grab for tonight’s drawing for the library. The drawing is in about an hour, and I hear there’s a lot of money in the pot. Route 3 is cleared, but don’t speed, please!”

  That worked. Half of my customers got up and moved toward the door. Others, who were waiting in line, hurried to the vacant seats.

  “Ty, you’re brilliant.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  He settled onto a stool at the end of the counter. “How about some of that coffee, Trixie? I need—”

  “I know. Coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe.” I poured him a hot, steaming mug and one for myself. Then I made more. My waitresses were going to need it.

  “Are you here for the buffet, Ty?”

  “You bet. I heard that four of the best chefs in town cooked for this event.”

  “You heard right.”

  He took a sip of coffee and raised a perfect black eyebrow. “What are you up to, darlin’?”

  “It’s a fund-raiser, Ty, for our library. The same library that is now an ice and snow storage facility because the tarps that were covering the roof have blown into Canada.”

  “Yeah, but what are you up to?”

  I turned and straightened the coffee cups behind the counter to gather my thoughts. I had to be careful with Ty. If he thought I was investigating on my own, he’d watch me like an eagle, and I’d rather he work on solving the murder than babysit me.

  I had ACB for that.

  “Ty, we all decided to pool our talents and do something good. The chefs can’t leave town, and they are getting bored. I came up with this idea.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe that you came up with this fund-raiser and that you all worked together, but I’d bet my badge that you wanted to pump them for information related to Priscilla’s murder.”

  I swallowed. “We talked as we chopped, baked, and boiled.”

  “Did you find out anything I should know?” His brilliant blue eyes peered over the rim of his coffee cup.

  “Just that I don’t think either of them had enough motivation to kill Priscilla.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Because they were madder at Peter than Priscilla. Peter took five grand from each of them to fix the contest, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “I do. So does all of Sandy Harbor about now. What else do you have?”

  “Kip was worried that Priscilla would squeal to his employer about his criminal record, but basically, he has another job to go to. A better job. Long story short, they both took a shot at TV chef stardom, but it didn’t work out. And neither of them is really that mad about it. Chef DeMassie is regrouping, and Kip is heading to Syracuse University to paint dorms.”

  He held his coffee cup up for a refill.

  “So, Ty, what do you have on them?”

  He smiled, that cute—but annoying—cowboy smile complete with one stray dimple and brilliant white teeth.

  Not that I noticed.

  “You don’t have anything on them!” I concluded. “You’re going to have to let them go!”

  “I sure am starving. Time for me to go to the buffet.” He got up and walked toward the tables.

  I watched as he walked away. Nice view.

  But I had m
ore important things to do than to watch Ty’s butt.

  Chapter 14

  The next evening, our pizza party guests arrived right on time, and we were ready for them.

  There were six bottles of wine and a case of beer chilling in a big galvanized tub filled with snow. If six bottles weren’t enough, then I had more. We had the fixings for mixed drinks if they didn’t want beer or wine.

  I had a couple liters of ginger ale for those who didn’t imbibe, which I hoped wasn’t anyone tonight.

  ACB and I were ready to rock and roll and to pour drinks freely.

  Because liquor loosens the lips!

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, holding up a basket. “I will be collecting everyone’s keys, and Antoinette Chloe and I will be the designated drivers tonight and will drive you back home. Your vehicles will be safe in my parking lot overnight, and I’ll give you a ride back here in the morning to pick up your car. Just remember that this is your party. We know how hard it has been, staying cooped up, so this is your time to cut loose. And remember, whatever happens at the Big House stays at the Big House!”

  ACB added, “Heather Flipelli, our local weatherperson, said that tonight was going to be clear, so expect a blizzard. We don’t want anyone to drive in it after they’ve been drinking, so one of us will be driving each of you home.”

  I held the basket in front of every guest. “Drop in those keys.”

  Kip O’Malley dropped his keys into the basket. “I drove me and Walton.”

  “Peter, how did you get here tonight?” I asked, remembering that he’d originally arrived in Priscilla’s motor home.

  “I rented a car from some guy who was selling and renting cars out of the parking lot of the Spend A Buck. I hope he’s legit. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “That’s Barney Pardo and his roving lot. He’s legit.”

  “What kind of car did you rent?” I asked, just making small talk.

  “A red Mini Cooper.”

  That was the car Linda Blessler wanted to buy. “I hope you’re taking good care of it.”

  Peter McCall nodded absently, gulped down two fingers of whiskey, and tossed his keys in. ACB was already refilling his drink.

  The two church ladies, Marylou Cosmo and Dottie Spitzer, already had the giggles from the Riesling.

  “Milt and Megan Hunter let us use their car again. They practically pushed us out the door,” Marylou said, laughing. “When Dottie went back to get something she forgot, she said they were running upstairs hand in hand like two kids!” She dropped the keys into the basket. I saw that there was a big M on the chain.

  I went on to Jill. “Your turn, Jill.”

  “Don’t be silly. I walked here.” She threw back a half glass of Merlot just as ACB came flip-flopping toward her to refill her glass.

  “But you must have keys to the motor home,” I said. “Drop them in, Jill. We wouldn’t like you to take a motor-home tour of the countryside while over the legal limit on wine, would we?”

  She didn’t seem to like it, but she dropped in her keys. I noticed that they had a tag on them that said P’S MOTOR HOME in red print.

  I put the basket on top of my china cabinet, right behind an ornate fleur-de-lis carved out of the same mahogany as the cabinet.

  After more drinks and chatter, Ray Meyerson, the high school senior who was my computer guru and dishwasher, delivered four large pizzas along with dozens of garlic, mild and “atomic explosion” chicken wings and several containers of blue cheese dip.

  ACB continued to pour freely, making sure that they all had enough liquid to “wash the food down” with.

  As the time ticked by, the volume of the conversation got louder.

  “I miss Priscilla,” Jill told the church ladies. “She was my mentor, and she gave me a lot of freedom to do things.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” Peter snapped. “And I wonder if she knew exactly what you were doing.”

  Jill took a sip of wine and mumbled, “Leave me alone, Peter.”

  “Oh, my,” said Marylou, shifting on the couch. “I’m getting light-headed. I’d better eat. Are there more garlic wings?”

  “Sure. I’ll get you some more,” ACB said, flip-flopping over to the table to open a foam container.

  “By now everyone knows that the contest was rigged, don’t they?” asked Kip O’Malley.

  “What? Are you serious? I didn’t know any such thing,” said Jill, immediately looking at Peter. “What did you do?”

  Walton DeMassie smoothed his mustache. “Petey-boy here took five thousand bucks from each of us. One of us was supposed to win and get on Priscilla’s TV show. It would have been a real boost for my career.”

  Peter shrugged. “Well, the best recipe won, and that was Jean Williams’s mac and cheese with lobster meat.”

  “Did Priscilla find out what you did?” Jill asked Peter.

  “Yeah. She found out. She overheard one of these two dopes on their phone, calling their lawyers.” Peter pointed at the two chefs. “Priscilla was grilling me about it when, thankfully, she lost her train of thought.”

  The two dopes stood up. They looked like they were ready to pick up where they left off on Peter’s face, but ACB and I stepped in front of them.

  ACB was trying to draw Peter out of his bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but Peter was tight-lipped tonight.

  So far we weren’t getting any information we didn’t already know.

  Suddenly Marylou let out a long, ungodly sound. I took the wineglass from her hand. This was going to be epic. “At the contest . . . Dottie, we shouldn’t have yelled at Priscilla, should we have? And then, when you went back to apologize to her, it was too late, and . . . and she was already dead!”

  Dottie stood and snapped at her friend, “Marylou, that’s enough.”

  Nothing like a scene at a party. Mouths dropped. Eyes grew wide. All the air left the room.

  Marylou had just let it spill that Dottie had gone back alone to talk to Priscilla. Or had she gone back to kill her?

  “Ladies, please. Relax. We are here for fun,” ACB said.

  Dottie held up her glass, and it swayed in the air. “I suppose we should have a toast to Priscilla, the husband-stealing, book-plagiarizing, superstar TV chef.”

  All eyes focused on Dottie, and we wondered what she would do next.

  I couldn’t wait!

  ACB broke the silence first. I figured she would. “Did you ask Priscilla why? Why she had to have Sid?”

  “Of course I did. She said that she couldn’t keep Sid away from her, but that she was doing me a favor. She said that after a little time with her, he’d come running back to me. And he did. But things were never the same. He always carried a torch for her. She couldn’t extinguish that.”

  “So she thought she did you a favor?” I asked. “By sending Sid back?” I just wanted to make sure where she was coming from.

  Dottie laughed. “I suppose she did.” She laughed harder and held up her glass. “To Priscilla!”

  “To Priscilla!” everyone said.

  “And to Dottie,” ACB said. “You poor thing, Dottie. Your life was never the same after Sid died.”

  “Hell, no! It was better! Soooo much better!” Dottie held up her glass again. “Here’s to Harry Harvy, the love of my life!”

  “Harry?” I asked.

  “My husband of fifteen years. After Sid died, I met Harry at the cemetery. He’d just buried his wife. We talked, went out for coffee, went to his house for a little romp, and eloped to Vegas thirty days later. Harry owns a chain of pet-supply stores, and we’re rich! We have a house in Palm Beach, a condo on the Strip in Vegas, and we keep the Poughkeepsie house as our headquarters.”

  Marylou giggled. “I’ve visited their house in Palm Beach. Oh, my! They have a . . . a . . . yacht floating in the front yard.
”

  Dottie stifled a hiccup. “Harry is going to match Priscilla’s donation for the church’s roof. He’s also going to remodel the rectory and add on a community center.”

  “So, after all you’ve been though, you’ve done well, huh, Dottie?” I asked.

  “Priscilla did me a favor. She sent Sid back to me, and after a while he had the decency to die. And then I met Harry.”

  “But, Dottie, what about your speech about how she stole your husband and your cookbook and all that!”

  “Well, she did.”

  “But you were distraught. You were a mess. You were falling apart.”

  “I know. But they were old memories and not great memories. It kind of hit me at once. We could have stayed friends, Mabel and me, and that made me sad. It also made me sad when I saw her. And then to find out she had Alzheimer’s, well, it broke my heart.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “And it made me realize that I have to live each day to the fullest and spend as much as I can of Harry’s money while I have my health. At least I am enjoying fifteen years of happiness—and counting! Mabel had a bunch of boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands, but she never was truly happy. God rest her soul.”

  I was mentally kicking myself that I didn’t own a chain of pet-supply stores.

  I made eye contact with ACB. That was quite the heartwarming speech, and now all of my guests were swarming over Dottie, congratulating her with hugs and kisses.

  And I just crossed Dottie off the top of my suspect list. She’d been a great candidate, too.

  After her remarkable toast I concluded that she had no reason to kill Priscilla. She was over Sid and what Priscilla had done and had been living it up for fifteen years with Harry Harvy. She’d just wanted to see Priscilla and tell her off for stealing from the church, get some restitution, and maybe gloat a little. Instead, when Dottie had met Priscilla, Dottie had felt sorry for her.

  Now it was time for me to institute my plan.

  “How about some dessert?” ACB asked. “We have fruit hand pies and a white-chocolate cheesecake. Who’s in?”

  That was my signal to leave. Hurrying, I ducked out the back door, grabbing a little flashlight on my way out.