Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  There wasn’t time for a coat or boots, so my sneakers would have to do. After two steps, I already felt them leaking.

  I fingered the key in the pocket of my jeans—the key to Priscilla’s motor home, which I’d palmed when I’d collected everyone’s keys.

  Feeling like Nancy Drew with my flashlight, I opened the door with the key and went in. I knew exactly what I wanted to look at: the contents of that vanilla bubble mailer from the New York City lawyers.

  I hurried to the bedroom. The mailer was in a red tote bag under the small desk.

  Just as I was reaching for it, a hand clamped over my mouth and I was pulled against a hard body. I screamed, but nothing came out.

  “Trixie, what the hell are you doing?”

  I relaxed so much that my knees wouldn’t lock in place. I slumped to the floor.

  Nancy Drew I wasn’t.

  “Ty?” I whispered. “Wha—”

  “I saw a light moving in here, and I thought I’d investigate. Now, let me repeat: What the hell are you doing?”

  “Searching for the package that Priscilla sent in care of me. I want to know what was so important in it.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” he asked.

  “Ty, just pretend you’re not a cop for a while. Or you’d better get out of here, because I’m going to commit a crime.”

  “You already have, darlin’.”

  I shined my flashlight around the items on the floor.

  There it was! I pulled out the mailer from a tote bag and slid out a stack of papers. “I, Mabel Elizabeth Cronk Connors McCall Foxworth, do hereby . . .”

  “Obviously, it’s Priscilla’s last will and testament,” Ty said. “I’ve been in contact with her lawyers. Jill gave me their names, as did Peter.”

  “Do you want to know what this says?” I skimmed the document.

  “I know what it says. I talked to Priscilla’s estate lawyer.”

  “This says that everything goes to Peter. It’s not signed, and I know why: because Jill never gave it to her. Then Priscilla was murdered.”

  Ty didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the look on his face that he knew the answer.

  “I’d bet a couple of my housekeeping cottages that there was a prior will and that Jill was the beneficiary! No wonder she doesn’t like Peter. And she had to be totally angry at Priscilla for excluding her.”

  “Stay out of it, Trixie, and get out of here. Or I’ll arrest you right now! And be careful!”

  “I have to tell you a couple of things that I found out about Dottie Reinhardt Spitzer Harvy, the church lady.”

  “I knew there was some kind of grudge, but Dottie wouldn’t give it up to me. She’d said it was old news and didn’t pertain to the death of Priscilla, but I’m going to interview her again,” Ty said.

  “I don’t think you have to interview her again after what I have to tell you. What about Marylou, Ty?”

  “I can’t find a motive for Marylou.”

  “I think that Dottie has been holding a grudge against Priscilla for a very long time, ever since Sid, her husband, left her to be with Priscilla years ago. Dottie knew that Priscilla was going to be here, and she gathered up a busload of church ladies to come with her. I mean, they were all rip-roaring mad about the cookbook, but Dottie also had a real ‘frenemy’ relationship with Priscilla.”

  “I’ll question Dottie about it, but we’d better get out of here.”

  “Ty Brisco, this is the most that you’ve shared anything with me. I’m not letting you go anywhere. What about the two chefs? Are they still suspects?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “What about Peter?”

  No answer.

  I looked up at him, and in the glow of my flashlight, I could see his bright blue eyes and the dimple on his left cheek, which sometimes made an appearance. Those lips of his always made m . . .

  I grounded myself. “We gotta get out of here. Now,” I echoed him. “Go!”

  I raced down the steps, and Ty followed behind me. Locking the door, I turned around and he was gone.

  Hi ho, Silver! Away!

  I walked around the Big House to the back door, which actually faced the water. The wind had picked up, and grainy snow blasted against my face.

  I brushed the snow off myself before I slipped into the kitchen.

  “You were outside?” Jill asked, meeting me at the door. “In this weather?”

  “I—I . . . uh . . . was calling for Blondie. I can’t find her.”

  “She’s been in the front room since the party started. She’s been sleeping at the side of your chair.” Jill raised an eyebrow.

  “I . . . um . . . guess I was so busy with the party that I didn’t see her.”

  “You were feeding her some chicken,” Jill said.

  I laughed. “I was? Imagine that!” I took her arm. “Let’s go back and join the party. It’s just getting started.”

  “I think I’ve had enough. I’m headed back to the motor home. Thanks for the party, Trixie, but I’ll take my keys now.”

  In a brilliant move that even David Copperfield would be amazed at, I cupped her keys in my hand, took down the basket, and made like I was pulling them out of the basket.

  Now, for my next trick . . .

  Peter McCall walked into the kitchen and leaned against my sink. “So, Jill, I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I was that you blamed the cookbook fiasco on Priscilla and offered to give a cut to Saint Dismas church. For a moment I was worried that it would screw up the dissolution of Priscilla’s estate.”

  I could see a stain of red creeping up her neck. “What are you talking about, Peter?” Jill said through gritted teeth.

  “It was you who copied their cookbook, not Priscilla. You know it, and I know it, and you blamed poor stepmummy.”

  As he said stepmummy, he paused and grinned, knowing that Jill hated it to the core when he called Priscilla that.

  “And, darling Jill, Priscilla finally figured out why the cookbooks were still coming out and she wasn’t writing them. She shared her concern with me, and I checked it out. We both know that she wasn’t herself, that the Alzheimer’s was getting worse. That’s why you got away with so much.”

  “But you didn’t care when those royalties started pouring in, did you, Peter? It was more money than you could take from Priscilla.”

  “She gave me money. Priscilla was very generous.”

  “When you asked her for it, she was generous. She shared with me that she was worried about your gambling debts.”

  “And you know that I’m the executor of her estate, don’t you, Jill? That’s something that I’m sure Priscilla told you, too.”

  “I have to go. I can’t stand listening to him anymore.” She pointed her chin at Peter. “Thank you for the invitation, Trixie.”

  The party started to break up after Jill’s exodus. Antoinette Chloe volunteered to take everyone home, leaving me on cleanup duty.

  Well, I’d rather do that than hit the snowy roads.

  I drained the aluminum tub, put the wineglasses and the dishes in the dishwasher, and dusted the end tables. I folded up the pizza containers for recycling and then took the recycling and the trash out.

  This time I put a coat on and mittens, but I didn’t slip into my boots. My sneakers would do. I wouldn’t be long. The trash containers were behind the Big House—which was really the front because it faced the parking lot. Trash pickup was tomorrow.

  The snow pummeled me. I pushed the snow off the trash containers so I could open them. Since my little party had started, we must have received four inches of snow—the thick, heavy stuff.

  I hoped that Antoinette Chloe would make it back safe and sound. When it was dark out, the falling snow could be hypnotic, especially in the path of headlights.
r />   As I walked back to the Big House, I pinched the bridge of my nose to stop a headache that was hovering at the corners of my temples.

  My list of suspects grew, than shrank, then morphed into a mushroom cloud. I put their names in order, then changed the order, then changed it back again.

  I’d never been so confused in my life.

  Oh! Hold everything!

  I took several deep breaths and let the cold air sweep out the used cells from my brain.

  I hadn’t ruled out Walt DeMassie. It was the lust-struck ACB who had, but I wasn’t quite sure yet.

  Great. Just great. I was back to two suspects.

  Wasn’t I?

  Chapter 15

  I called Ray and asked him to shoot over to the Big House.

  “Ray, could you do a quick search on Walton DeMassie?” I asked.

  “Sure, Trixie.” He pulled out his laptop from his backpack and set up on my kitchen table, just like he’d been doing a lot lately.

  He typed and typed and finally said, “There’s tons of stuff on him. Oh! A scandal!”

  ACB laughed as she entered the kitchen. “I love scandals, as long as they aren’t mine.”

  Ray skimmed the articles. “It looks like DeMassie had an affair with Tessa Martin. She has a show called Cake Lady on Channel Fifteen, and it was on just before his show. DeMassie’s wife, Ruth, found out about it and tried to rip Cake Lady’s hair out by its roots. Now they’re divorced, and he’s moved in with Cake Lady.” Ray laughed. “And get this: The article quotes Priscilla. She said, ‘Ruth DeMassie and I were having lunch together at the restaurant in the Savoy North Hotel when Ruth saw Walton and Tessa come out of one of the nearby rooms. It was obvious that they were engaging in a tryst. Well, Ruth was just so terribly heartbroken and hurt.’”

  I laughed, too. “Wow! That’s a biggie.”

  “Sounds like Priscilla set them up to me.” ACB grinned. “But I don’t like cheaters, and that’s based on my own experience.”

  “I’ll ditto that,” I said. “But if Priscilla set up DeMassie and got him fired, he’d certainly be fighting mad. I’m going to call the channel to see if I can find out anything.”

  I looked up the number before I lost my courage.

  “Channel Fifteen. We are here to entertain you.”

  “Hi. Can you just tell me if Chef DeMassie, Priscilla Finch-Smythe, and the Cake Lady all worked out of your studio?” I asked. “I know it’s a strange question, but I’m such a fan, and I have a little bet going with a friend. A steak dinner depends on your answer.”

  “Why, yes. They did.”

  “And obviously they must have known one another.”

  “Oh, yes.” She laughed. “They sure did.”

  “You’re laughing,” I said cheerfully. “How come?”

  “There was no love lost between them. And it’s so quiet now with only the Cake Lady.”

  I laughed with her. “I do miss Chef DeMassie. Is there any chance he’ll be back on TV?”

  “Funny you should ask. Now that Priscilla is . . . um . . . deceased, God rest her soul, we have recently asked Chef DeMassie back.”

  “Thank you so very much,” I said. “Bye now.”

  “Thank you for letting Channel Fifteen into your home.”

  I shut off my phone. “You’ll never believe this. Now that Priscilla is gone, Walton DeMassie will soon be back on Channel Fifteen.”

  “Oy,” ACB said. “Motive!”

  “I wonder if he knew that he’d be able to come back if Priscilla was gone, or was that just a recent perk?” I said.

  “I don’t know if he could have predicted that.”

  “Maybe he could have. There would have been only one show—a cake show—and no cooking shows.”

  All during my conversation with ACB, Ray was typing. He grinned. “DeMassie’s cooking show—Cooking Around the World with Walton—was pretty successful before the scandal. There was an Internet campaign going to get him back. It had six thousand signatures, but Channel Fifteen was still balking.”

  “Walton DeMassie had to know how popular he was. And with Priscilla gone, he probably figured there would be a really good chance he’d be asked to come back!” I said. “Now, that’s really a motive!”

  “Maybe, but Chef DeMassie never left the cook-off, did he?”

  “I didn’t see him at the end, after he stormed off.”

  “I did,” Ray said. “Remember? He was in the men’s room with Kip.”

  “And this was about two o’clock, the time of Priscilla’s death?” I asked.

  “Yes. I remember checking my watch because I had to work here at three o’clock.”

  “Hmm . . . I think we can rule out Chef DeMassie,” I said. “Thanks for all your help, Ray.”

  “Anytime, boss.”

  When Ray left, I turned to Antoinette Chloe. “Feel like making more calls?”

  “To whom?”

  “I want to see what we can find out about Peter and Jill.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Maybe we should have another pizza party!” she joked.

  “No, thanks!”

  “Trixie, do you mind if I take a trip to the drugstore while you make your phone calls? I’m running out of blue eye shadow, and I want to get another bottle of Sock It to Me nail polish.”

  “Oh, sure! I can make the calls myself.”

  The important package was still tweaking me, so I decided to call Orlando, Biltmore, Orlando and Fischer. I checked my list of contacts from the phone Peter had. Jake Orlando was the man he kept calling.

  I punched in the number.

  “Orlando Law Firm.”

  “Jake Orlando, please. This is Miss Kowski calling.”

  All right, so I lied.

  “One moment, please.”

  “This is Jake Orlando.”

  “Mr. Orlando, this is Miss Kowski. I represent Peter McCall, and I was wondering when you plan on settling Priscilla Finch-Smythe’s estate and whether we need to meet.”

  “No. We don’t need to meet at all. Peter isn’t in the will. Jill Marley is the entire beneficiary. Cilla was going to change her will and leave everything to her stepson, but she never signed the paperwork and returned it, so I’m assuming she changed her mind. I will be releasing Priscilla’s assets just as soon as there is an arrest and a conviction, so we’re in for the long haul on this one, Miss . . . Miss . . .”

  “Kowski.” I took a breath. “So let me understand you—you’re not going to release the assets to Jill until there’s an arrest and a conviction? Is that customary, Mr. Orlando?”

  “It is when I’m the lawyer.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Orlando. Have a nice day.”

  Holy crap! Jill was the beneficiary. It was official!

  Now I was absolutely positive that she never gave the new paperwork to Priscilla. And then Priscilla was murdered.

  All things considered, Jill had the most to lose if Priscilla changed her will and gave it all to Peter.

  I had to find Ty and tell him. I looked out my bay window at his apartment over the bait shop next to the Silver Bullet, but there weren’t any lights on.

  * * *

  I was making chicken salad when the phone rang. It was Antoinette Chloe.

  “Trixie! Oh my! You’re never going to believe this!”

  “What’s up?

  “I decided to go to my house and pick up my flip-flops—you know the ones that I lined with fleece? Well, I figured that since it was below zero and you were nagging me, I should—”

  “Antoinette Chloe, what’s going on?” As Ty said on numerous occasions, sometimes you just had to corral that gal.

  “Okay . . . okay . . . Well, I turned the corner, and in front of my house there’s two sheriff�
��s cars with their red lights flashing. I swear my neighbors are going to petition to get me out of there, and Mayor Tingsley will—”

  “Antoinette Chloe!”

  “Okay! Anyway, I saw Vern McCoy and Lou Rutledge bringing out Peter McCall in handcuffs! Yes, handcuffs! And Peter didn’t look very happy in the least, but Vern and Lou did.”

  “Wasn’t Ty there?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen him, but maybe he’s inside gathering more evidence. I hope he locks the door when he leaves.”

  “He will.” I let out a deep breath. “Peter? Arrested! And just when I decided to cast my vote for Jill, the overlooked worker who covered for Priscilla for years.”

  “Nah. I thought Dottie had the real motivation, though I don’t know if she could have done it in the end. But it’s Peter!”

  “Thanks for the information.” I breathed a sigh of relief that a killer wasn’t running around lose in Sandy Harbor anymore.

  She lowered her voice and tried to sound like a TV announcer. “This is Antoinette Chloe Brown, coming to you from in front of a beautifully painted Victorian home, the scene of Peter McCall’s arrest for the murder of Priscilla Finch-Smythe. Now back to our studio for a wrap-up with Trixie Matkowski.”

  I chuckled. “See if you can find out anything more from Lou or Vern.”

  “I’m on it.”

  I hung up. “Well, I’ll be a dieting vegan! Peter McCall did it.”

  Deciding to take the recycling and trash out for pickup tomorrow, I got the bags ready and quickly slipped into the sleeves of my parka. I didn’t get all winterized as I was just going out around back—which faced my parking lot.

  But something tweaked me. If Peter wanted to kill Priscilla to get his inheritance and to pay off his gambling debts, he could have done it long ago—not now. Not in Cabbage Patch, as he called Sandy Harbor.

  Since he was living and working with Priscilla, he could have arranged a fatal fall at her California home or a drowning in her pool.

  Jill’s lights were on in her motor home, and I thought I’d pay her a visit. Maybe she’d invite me in for coffee. I could tell her the news about Peter being arrested. It would be interesting to see her reaction.

  I knocked on the door, but Jill didn’t seem welcoming. She stood on the steps and blocked the way in. She was wearing her coat, boots, and hat. “I’m really busy, Trixie. Did you need something special?”