A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  I just had a feeling that Claire had hidden something in the wall—something that she had to hide from her family, but something that she wanted to retrieve later.

  The panel was finally free. I examined the inside of the wall. And just as I thought, there was a yellowed piece of paper folded and lying on the floor. There seemed to be a long piece of yarn attached to it with a piece of yellowed tape clinging to the yarn. Yes! This was how she’d retrieve the paper later with the yarn. Ingenious.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .” That was all I could say.

  “Don’t touch it! I need to take a picture.” Ty snapped photos in every direction. I almost expected him to stand on his head.

  “Oh . . . my . . . goodness!”

  “Go ahead and read it, Trixie. You knew that something was here all along.”

  He gave me a pair of gloves and I could barely put them on because my hands were shaking as if I had the d.t.’s.

  I carefully moved the blue yarn aside. “Ty, do you see this dried-up, yellowed piece of tape on the yarn? I can see a yellowed tape mark on the letter.”

  He took more pictures. I looked where I found the letter and pointed to another strip of old tape that lay on a board. Ty took more pictures.

  “It looks like Claire taped the yarn to the letter and then taped the yarn to the inside of the wall. She wanted to retrieve it, wanted to keep it,” Ty said. “Probably when her stay at the cottage was over.”

  “Just what I thought. Just what I’d do.”

  I unfolded the letter and read it out loud:

  Dear Claire,

  I don’t know when I’ll be able to visit you again, if ever. I guess I’ll have to wait until you are back in Sandy Harbor.

  I know that we probably shouldn’t have made love last night. I should have been strong. After all, I’m older, but I couldn’t help myself. I just had to. It was beautiful and being that it was the first time for you, it was extra special.

  I love you and want to spend my life with you. You’re the only girl—

  “Ty, he crossed out ‘girl’ and put ‘woman,’” I said, then continued:

  You’re the only woman that I’ve ever loved. As soon as I can, I’ll ask you to marry me. Until then, we’ll have to be satisfied by writing letters. I don’t dare to call you because of your parents.

  Think of me. I’ll be thinking of you.

  All my love,

  B

  XOXOX

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why the hell didn’t he sign his damn name?”

  I handed Ty the letter, and he read it. “I can see why Claire hid this from her family and why she wanted to keep it.”

  “Exactly! I’m sure she didn’t want her parents to find out that she lost her virginity to ‘B’ when he surprised her by visiting her at home. Yet it was a romantic letter full of promises for the future. Claire was the type who would fall for that. And obviously he drove to Rochester, where she lived.”

  Ty grimaced. “I’m wondering if Claire got pregnant the first time she had sex with ‘B.’”

  “That’s my guess. Was there anything in her record? Anything that Dr. Francis wrote down? Anything that Claire might have said?”

  “Not that I found, but since you’re going to go through her file again, maybe you can find something.”

  “You know, Ty, I don’t think that this letter is the key to Claire’s death. It’s just a love letter with a pseudoapology and promises for the future. There must be something else, something more.” I looked around at our mess. “I think we have to finish tearing up the place.”

  “Might as well. We have the bedroom to do. Maybe she hid something in the wall there, too.”

  But there was nothing. Nothing.

  “Okay. Let’s call it a day,” Ty said. “It’s almost one fifteen.”

  “One fifteen?” I was late for my lunch with Carla VanPlank. I looked like a construction worker, but I didn’t have time to change. “Ty, I have to fly. I have a lunch date with Carla VanPlank that I’m late for, and she isn’t the type of person that would tolerate lateness.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful time,” he said sarcastically.

  I took off my gloves and tossed them onto a pile of wood. “I’d like to get to know Carla better. I’d love to find out what makes her tick, other than her loyalty to her husband and to the mayor. And, of course, she adores Laura. Maybe she’ll give me some good information.”

  Trotting from the cottage to the back of the diner, I washed up in the back tub. Then I put a white chef’s jacket over my filthy clothes. It’d do.

  Carla VanPlank was sitting at a window booth toward the back of the diner. I could smell the Chanel No. 5 even from halfway there.

  She rolled her eyes as I slid into the red vinyl booth. “I thought I might have had the wrong time.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. VanPlank. I was busy.”

  Her eyes bored a hole through my chef’s jacket. “I can see that you were occupied. I watched things being tossed out of one of the cottages. What on earth were you doing?”

  I didn’t know how much I should tell her, so I decided to lie. “I’m doing a little remodeling.”

  “I see,” she said. “Are you remodeling all the cottages?”

  “Uh . . . eventually.”

  “But you started in the middle?”

  What did she care where I started? “Yes. To be blunt, I thought it would be a good idea to remodel it since there was a murder there.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “Oh yes. Of course.”

  “It’s too bad that Laura couldn’t make our little luncheon.”

  “Mayor Tingsley needed her. Of course, her place is with him.”

  What century was she living in?

  “I see. Is there another Sandy Harbor crisis?” I asked.

  “Obviously. The mayor depends immensely on my Laura.”

  “Maybe Laura should have run for mayor.” I smiled, thinking that complimenting her daughter might be a way to soften her up.

  “Nonsense! Women shouldn’t be in office. It’s a man’s job, but there’s always a great woman behind every powerful man.”

  Oh boy. Where’s she been living?

  “Didn’t I hear that your husband was the senator of somewhere at one time?” I think that Clyde or Max told me that.

  “The Northern District of New York,” she said, tilting her head as if I should have known this information.

  “And he retired instead of moving on to a higher office?”

  She was about to take a sip of coffee, but she set the cup down so hard, it sloshed into the saucer.

  “Grant was going to run for president, but he . . . he . . . couldn’t keep it in his pants. So all my work campaigning for him was for nothing. Nothing! He withdrew in disgrace.”

  I motioned for Judy to come over before Mrs. VanPlank really lost it.

  Judy held up her order pad. “What can I get you ladies?”

  “I lost my appetite,” said Mrs. VanPlank, grabbing her purse.

  She couldn’t go yet. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask her about the old days in Sandy Harbor.

  “Please, Mrs. VanPlank, stay and have lunch with me. I apologize for asking about Grant. I didn’t know.” But I was going to do a computer search and read up on Grant VanPlank just as soon as I could.

  She opened her purse, took out a brown prescription bottle, and shook some white pills into her hand. She passed up the glass of water with ice that was sitting in front of her and tossed them down with her coffee.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Judy smiled widely. “Would you like me to come back, ladies?”

  “No. I’ve stared at the menu long enough,” she said. “I’d like a BLT with mayonnaise on toasted wheat bread, b
ut first, I’d like a bowl of your split pea soup.”

  “Got it,” Judy said. “Trixie, how about you?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  I loved Uncle Porky’s split pea soup. After the split peas were done cooking in chicken broth, with ham chunks, carrots, and onions, he whipped it up in a blender with equal parts cream and milk until it was a lighter green and all the ingredients were melded together. Delicious. I, of course, kept his brilliant recipe the same.

  We talked about the Dance Fest over soup and the “old days” when Carla’s husband, Grant, was the senator of the area. They moved to Port Palm, Florida to escape the scandal.

  Carla made it clear that she considered Port Palm her primary residence now, but she “just can’t stay away from the mayor and my daughter, especially during campaign time when her husband is running.”

  “You know, I don’t even know if you have any other children or grandchildren,” I said.

  “Laura doesn’t have any children. She’s my only child, so I’ll never have any grandchildren.” Her voice faded into her coffee cup, which she held in front of her face like a shield.

  “I’m so sorry. It must be hard for Laura.” I understood her pain. I took a deep breath and changed the subject to her favorite topic. “I’m sure Laura could use your help and expertise when the mayor runs for higher office.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be here.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. VanPlank, did you know Claire Jacobson?”

  “A little.”

  Our split pea soup arrived and there were the appropriate oohs and aahs over the pure deliciousness of it.

  “You knew Claire just a little?” I prodded.

  “Why, yes. She was just a summer visitor, so why would I know her well?”

  “Did Laura know her?” I asked.

  “Just a little.”

  She wasn’t helping much at all. “But you were living here when Claire disappeared, right?”

  “Yes. There was quite the search for her, and personally, I thought she ran off with someone. I thought she was that type—a little loose.”

  No way!

  “But I thought you said you didn’t know Claire very well.”

  She put down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth. “She had a . . . reputation.”

  “Oh?” I was adamant that if Claire had the reputation of being loose, the gossipers should be put in a room and forced to watch the channel guide for a month straight.

  “If we are going to continue to talk about Claire Jacobson during this luncheon, I’ll be leaving,” Mrs. VanPlank said.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. VanPlank, but I’m very interested in this matter. It’s a personal thing, but I’ll change the subject.” I gathered my thoughts and proceeded with my lame questioning. “Since you’ve shared so much with me, can I just ask you a personal question?”

  “I don’t suppose I can stop you. You’re very nosy.”

  Ouch. But fair.

  I took a deep breath. “My husband cheated on me, and I left him quicker than the time it takes to poach an egg. Can I just ask you how could you stay with Grant when his unfaithfulness was so public?”

  She closed her eyes as if it pained her to discuss it. Of course it would pain her. What kind of hostess was I?

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. VanPlank. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just wondering how you handled Grant’s cheating. I handled it very poorly when I found out that my husband was cheating on me. I called his mother and tattled. Then I donated all his clothes, his motorcycle, and his boat to the Salvation Army, so when he came home, he had nothing to wear but the clothes on his back. Our only car was registered to me.”

  She didn’t laugh, but her eyes twinkled.

  “I did give him the receipt for his income tax,” I said.

  Mrs. VanPlank took a sip of her water. “I will share my reason with you, since I’ve been interviewed about it by several media sources.” She sighed. “My reason was, and still is, that I simply felt that I should continue to support him. I think that his reputation can still be salvaged and he can get back into politics. Others have done it. Besides, I’ve worked hard for him. I deserve a reward. I couldn’t let his dalliance with a young hussy ruin my life.”

  “I see.”

  I didn’t see at all, but her statement confirmed my opinion that she believed that a woman shouldn’t hold office herself but could shine in the limelight through her husband.

  Just what Laura Tingsley seemed to believe! Nothing like brainwashing.

  I dropped my spoon into my pea soup and it splattered on the table.

  Oh my! Could Grant VanPlank be the older man who’d fathered Claire’s baby?

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m so clumsy. My hand seems to be weak from all the work I did on Cottage Eight.” That was true. My wrist was killing me.

  She nodded and took a drink of water.

  “Mrs. VanPlank, I can’t believe that I’m asking you this, but if you don’t want to answer, I completely understand. Here goes: I knew who my ex-husband was fooling around with. Did you know who your husband was . . . uh . . . with?”

  She hesitated and stared me down like a gunslinger at high noon. Then surprisingly, she answered, “No. I didn’t want to know. All I know was that she must have been very . . . young. He said that she made him feel like a teenager again.”

  Claire! Oh no!

  Grant VanPlank would have been old enough to be her father. Could he have written that sappy love letter to her?

  She looked out the window, and I realized that this had to be a painful conversation for her. I didn’t want that, but I continued to be surprised as to what she’d shared with me.

  Time to change the subject.

  “Mrs. VanPlank, I hope you, Grant, Laura, and the mayor will come to the Dance Fest. It should be a fun time. Just like the old days when Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella ran the Silver Bullet.”

  “I’ll be attending. I’m hoping that some of my old friends will be there, and, of course, I’ll be campaigning for the mayor’s election as senator.”

  “Of course.”

  That was just what I needed at the Dance Fest, a side campaign for Rick Tingsley.

  I wanted to ask her whether or not her husband had a nickname, but I couldn’t figure how to broach that subject. Oh, I just got an idea!

  “Carla. May I call you Carla?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “Carla, I wanted to ask you if you know my aunt Beatrix. I’m hoping that I can get her and my aunt Stella to fly up for the Dance Fest. It’ll be so good to see them. You know I was named after my aunt Beatrix. It’s funny, she hates to be called Trixie and I hate to be called Beatrix. Did you ever have a nickname?”

  “No.”

  “What about Mr. VanPlank?”

  “Never.”

  Darn it. I was hoping that he’d be “B.”

  But then who wrote that letter to Claire?

  Grant VanPlank had a motive. It wouldn’t look good in the media for him to have a seventeen-year-old pregnant mistress, would it? He killed her so the scandal wouldn’t be hanging over his head when he ran for president of the United States.

  Was Phil Jacobson onto him? Was that why he had to go?

  I looked forward to meeting Grant VanPlank at the Dance Fest. I had a couple of questions for him.

  The rest of the lunch was mired in small talk. I couldn’t wait to see Ty and tell him what I’d found out.

  Did Grant VanPlank kill both Phil and Claire? Maybe, maybe not, but he was certainly number one on my leader board of suspects.

  But I had more investigating to do.

  Chapter 11

  “I’d like that tour that you promised me, Trixie,” Carla said, but more like a command than a request.

  I told her that the meal was on me, but the least Carla could have done
was to leave a tip for Judy. She didn’t even make an effort to reach for her purse. Maybe it was too much of a strain with all the diamonds that she was wearing.

  We walked by the lake. I ran out of small talk, but she rattled on about campaign advertising, Republicans vs. Democrats, the current president, and her recipe for sauerbraten.

  And don’t even get her started on insurance companies!

  Soon I realized that she was walking toward Cottage Eight. In her heels, she sank into the grass, a little less than the sand, but it was still a struggle for her to walk.

  She surveyed the mess of wainscoting in the yard. “Remodeling, you say?”

  “Yes. I’m going to either remodel it or tear it down.”

  “Oh!” Her lips pinched tight until they lost their color. You’d think that the place held some importance to her.

  “Carla, does Cottage Eight mean something to you? I mean, did you ever stay in it?”

  “Never. But I do remember visiting Jean and Mel Jacobson on occasion. Jean and I were in the Daughters of the American Revolution together. We both had ancestors who participated in the Boston Tea Party.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  “I wouldn’t call it cool. I’d say it was historic, patriotic, and radical.”

  “Oh, sure. All of that, but pretty cool, too.”

  She sniffed. “How far can you trace your ancestors?”

  “On my father’s side, I can trace them all the way from Warsaw, Poland. On my mother’s side, to Russia.”

  “So they were immigrants.”

  “Yes. Just like your ancestors.”

  She didn’t like that. I’ve never known such a snob.

  “So you visited the Jacobsons?” I asked.

  “Yes. They were very nice people.”

  “I wonder whatever happened to their son. I can’t remember his name,” I said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  We were standing in front of Cottage Eight.

  “I was hoping that we’d get a chance to go inside,” she said.