A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  “As you can see, it’s wrapped in police tape.”

  “But surely we can go in. You’re the owner.”

  That was curious. “Why on earth do you want to go in there?”

  “I—I thought it would help me remember Jean and Mel.”

  Carla didn’t strike me as the sentimental type.

  “Sorry, Carla. I don’t dare go in. Deputy Brisco has taped up the place for a reason.”

  “But you two were just in there, taking down the walls. Are you looking for something? Something that has to do with the murder?”

  “No. Not at all,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you wouldn’t tear down paneling with crime scene tape around it. You’d wait to remodel until the tape was gone.”

  She had me there. Time to shift gears.

  “Well, I think that this is the end of the tour, Carla. Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

  “Not particularly,” she snapped.

  I wondered if the reason she came to lunch alone was to see Cottage Eight. Why the fascination?

  I chalked it up to just plain curiosity. Something she could talk about during cocktail parties. Something out of the ordinary for an upper-middle-class matron.

  Whatever it was, I didn’t care about it now. I was ready to walk her to her car.

  “Well, thanks for visiting, Carla. I’m sure you want to head back. Maybe the mayor needs you. Or Mr. VanPlank.” I slapped my forehead. What kind of detective was I? I could have asked him some questions, also. “I’m so sorry. I should have invited your husband, too. I didn’t think of it.”

  “No. That’s not necessary.” She shook her head. “I like the time away from him. I think it’s very important for a married couple to live their own lives.”

  That was just what Deputy Doug had been doing while married to me—only he was living his own life way too much.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” I volunteered. “Or do you want me to drive it closer? Those shoes aren’t very good for walking outside.”

  “I have casual shoes in my car. I should have worn them on our little walk.”

  I nodded. “So, should I get your car?”

  “I’m fine, dear.”

  She was doing a fabulous job of aerating my grass, but it was taking forever to cross the lawn. It’d be faster if I carried her on my back.

  Finally we made it to her car, a candy apple red Chevy Malibu.

  “Thank you for coming, Carla. It’s been a lovely afternoon.”

  And interesting. But please start the car up!

  Finally, finally, finally the Chevy’s motor started and Carla VanPlank moseyed through the parking lot, up the road to the highway, and turned right onto Route 3.

  It felt as if I’d lost ten pounds.

  * * *

  “Will Beatrix Matkowski please approach the bench.”

  Ugh. Could I tell the judge of Sandy Harbor Justice Court that only my auntie goes by that name?

  I walked on the marble floor shined within an inch of its life. My new flats, which were half sneaker and half-dressy, if that can possibly be, were squeaking like crows on a rampage.

  Finally I was in front of the bench, which was a folding table set up in a huge hall often used for wedding receptions. It became the justice court on Wednesday nights.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Matkowski.”

  “No problem, Your Honor.”

  His Honor was Joe Newell, the owner of the Sandy Harbor Movie Theater and Arcade on the north side of downtown. Everyone was buzzing about the renovations he did to restore the theater to its original state, somewhere around the 1940s.

  Joe frequented the Silver Bullet regularly, and I knew him. He was a great kidder, mercilessly funny, and he often butted heads with Mayor Tingsley.

  Rick Tingsley couldn’t keep up with the sharp brain of Joe Newell.

  “Please take a seat. This is an informal hearing,” he said.

  “Then please call me Trixie, Your Honor.”

  “All right.”

  I took a seat in the folding chair in front of the table. Also seated were Ty and Ray Meyerson. Ty winked at me. Ray lifted his hand in a slight wave. I nodded back. I didn’t know Ray’s parents, but I assumed the couple holding hands were them.

  Ray’s lawyer was there with a floppy black briefcase and a stack of manila folders. A striking red-haired woman that I assumed was the district attorney smiled at me. She had more folders than Ray’s lawyer. Hers were stacked in a bright blue plastic milk crate.

  If this wasn’t a Wednesday night in a makeshift courtroom, I’d swear that we were all here for a bowling banquet.

  “Miss Matkowski, I understand that you have employed the defendant, Ray Meyerson,” stated Joe the judge.

  “I have, Your Honor.”

  “And how is that working out?”

  “Fabulously.” Was that even a word? And please don’t ask me to spell it for the court stenographer.

  Oh, she was also in the room. She was at least a hundred years old and wore two sweaters and a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  I thought it was hot in here.

  “That’s good. Can you tell the court what Mr. Meyerson has been doing for you?”

  “Computer work. And also, Ray is the head busboy at my diner.”

  Ray was the only busboy at my diner.

  Both Ty and Ray grinned. Judge Joe stifled a smile.

  Then the smile left his face. “Did you say computer work, Miss Matkowski?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. Ray did some wonderful pamphlets for me for the Dance Fest. I hope you’re coming, Your Honor.”

  He nodded. “Of course I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. But, Miss Matkowski, are you aware of the incident that Mr. Meyers is accused of committing?”

  “Yes. Ray has shared the incident with me.”

  “And you still let him use your computer?”

  “Absolutely. I trust him implicitly.” And don’t ask me to spell that. “Or else I wouldn’t trust him with my computer.”

  “Good.”

  “You should see him, Joe.” Oops. “I mean, Your Honor. He is a typing whiz. Very artistic. He should be working for a computer place, not the Silver Bullet. However, he’s the best busboy that I’ve ever employed. He’s a real self-starter. He knows exactly what needs to be done, and then he does it. And I just love him.”

  His mother sniffed and blew her nose.

  “Well, that’s good enough for me,” said Judge Joe. “Is there a motion from the district attorney’s office?”

  The redhead stood. “Yes, Your Honor. I’d like to make a motion that the defendant’s conviction be vacated, that he be adjudicated a Youthful Offender, and that his record be sealed.”

  “Mr. Udder?”

  His name was really Udder? The poor man must have been teased unmercifully at school.

  “The defense agrees, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Meyerson, will you and Mr. Udder please approach the bench.”

  Ray, swimming in a three-piece suit that must have belonged to his father, stumbled getting to the appropriate area of the banquet table.

  I looked at his feet. His shoes were so big he might as well be wearing the box that they came in. His father’s shoes?

  “Ray Meyerson, I am vacating your conviction. I am adjudicating you a Youthful Offender, and after reading the report from the county probation department, I am sentencing you to a one-year conditional discharge with the conditions that you maintain employment at Miss Matkowski’s Silver Bullet Diner for a year and that you remain out of all further trouble. If you get in trouble again, heaven help you. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Meyerson?”

  “Only that I won’t get in trouble anymore. My hacking days are over. And I’d like to thank Deputy
Brisco for getting me the job. And I’d like to thank Trixie . . . um . . . Miss Matkowski. She’s a blast to work for. It’s not really like a job.”

  “Good.” The judge pounded his gavel. “Court’s dismissed.”

  He motioned for me to come closer.

  “Yeah, Joe?”

  “What’s the special today?”

  “Chicken and biscuits with your choice of soup—split pea, French onion, or bean. A chef salad, rolls fresh from the oven, and your choice of dessert. You should see the pies that Sarah Stolfus brought over.”

  A piece of coconut cream was waiting for me.

  Mr. and Mrs. Meyerson came over and introduced themselves. Donna and Ed. Ed couldn’t stop pumping my hand, and Donna wrapped her arms around me and clung to me like a piece of lint.

  Finally Ty suggested that we all head down to the Silver Bullet and have something to eat.

  “Trixie must get tired of always eating there. I made a little spread,” said Mrs. Meyerson. “Please come. I have a lot to eat. I always cook when I’m stressed. I thought my little Ray—” She dabbed at her nose. “Was going to jail.”

  “Oh, Mom. It’s okay,” Ray said, looking helpless, as did Ed.

  “Don’t cry, Donna. It’s all over, and Ray made out fine,” I said.

  “It’s all due to you.”

  “I don’t think so, Donna. It’s Ray who worked hard.”

  Ray’s girlfriend, Liz, was hugging the stuffing out of him. Liz looked like a nerd herself. She wore a T-shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein and had on red polyester pants and black sneakers with lime green shoelaces. She could stand to lose twenty pounds—not that I’m pointing any fingers—and she had a nice smile. I could tell that she was head over heels in love with Ray.

  After we were all shuffling out, I saw that Liz was carrying a white plastic container. It looked as though she had made a cake.

  How sweet!

  I was just about to make some excuse to get out of going to the Meyersons’ for the “spread” when Ty whispered in my ear. Honestly, when he did that, it gave me the shivers.

  Yum!

  “Let’s go,” he said. “It’d mean a lot to the Meyersons.”

  I nodded. “Just for a short time.”

  “You got it.”

  Ty had taken me to court, so I really had no choice but to go.

  As we drove to the Meyersons’ house, I realized that by the twists and turns and the smell of cows, we were going deep into the Sandy Harbor countryside. The roller-coaster roads made amusement park coasters seem like anthills.

  Ray rode this on his bike to and from work?

  I was impressed, but I wondered if Ray would continue to work at the Silver Bullet after his sentence. Oh, wait. He was chained to me for a year!

  That was a long time. If Ray wanted to move on, I’d talk to Joe Newell myself.

  But I hoped he wouldn’t. Boy, did I have spreadsheets and some other things that Ray could set up for me on the computer!

  It was interesting being in Ty’s cop car. He had a laptop on a swivel stand somehow screwed to the floor. There was his radio and a bunch of other cop buttons that I had no clue as to what they were for.

  I stole a look at him. He had a strong jaw and the hint of a five o’clock shadow. It was seven thirty, so his shadow would catch up soon. He smelled of leather and pine trees and maybe a trace of vanilla.

  “You did a great job in court,” he said.

  “I didn’t do anything. Ray is the one who’s working hard. He has a good mind. I think he just did the hacking at school to be accepted by his peers. Kids do dumb things like that. I know, I always did dumb stuff.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Like taking dares. Not dangerous things, but things like singing Barry Manilow songs on the street corner. Or tap-dancing at a school dance. Oh, and one of my biggest blunders was rolling a grapefruit like a bowling ball down the school hall during change of class and watching everyone trying to avoid it or actually kicking it around.”

  He chuckled.

  “I got detention for that one. Five days. Sister Mary Mary said that I could have really hurt someone if they tripped over the grapefruit or something. Mostly, the grapefruit just turned to mush. Oh, I had to clean up the remains, too, under the supervision of Mr. O’Neill, the janitor.”

  “Such a juvenile delinquent.”

  “Ah . . . the good old days—high school. But no one got murdered. No one got hurt. If anyone carried knives or guns to school, no one knew about it and no one used them. I don’t want to preach, but I feel sorry for kids these days.”

  “Me, too.” He put on his blinker to turn right. “In my high school days, there weren’t any armed police officers or security guards in the school.”

  “Maybe there should have been a couple for the Sandy Harbor class of 1989. But, Ty . . . I just can’t get over the feeling that no kid in Sandy Harbor would have killed Claire.”

  “You never know. I’ve seen some awful stuff as to what kids do to other kids.”

  “Sad.”

  “Yeah.”

  Finally we were at the Meyersons’ house. It was getting to be sunset, and Ed hurried inside and turned on a passel of lights even though we could still see.

  The house, a creamy yellow, was mostly a ranch with interesting windows and a fancy roofline. It had a huge front porch and looked warm and inviting.

  Just like the Big House.

  Ed escorted us into a foyer where we dispensed with our Windbreakers and sweaters. Donna scooted away, muttering something about “getting the spread out.”

  “I’ll help Donna,” I said, hurrying after her.

  The kitchen made me gasp. If I ever died and went to heaven, I’d want a kitchen like Donna Meyerson’s. There was a big island, blue granite countertops, pale oak cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. Huge windows looked out over grasslands with long-legged horses in a white fenced-in area away from the house, and cows dotted the fields in the distance.

  “I don’t know horses, Donna, but those look extra fine to me. Like racehorses.”

  “It’s a hobby of Ed’s. He’s been known to ship them to a trainer and race them at Saratoga or Meadowlands or the like. I think they’re mostly a money pit, but I have to admit that a couple of them have done well. And I like looking at them, especially when they have a little one. The babies are just darling.”

  Donna had the oak table in the kitchen set already. She had a lace tablecloth and it was set for what looked like twelve people.

  She stuck her head into the commercial fridge and started pulling out plastic-wrap-covered dishes.

  “Let me help you,” I said.

  “No. You’re a guest.”

  “I want to help.”

  “Okay.”

  Bowls full of salads and fancy plates with rolled ham, turkey, roast beef, and cheeses came out. I took them from her and put them on the island as she handed them to me.

  “We’ll put everything here and eat at the table. That’s what I often do because everything won’t fit on the table.”

  “Are you expecting the army from Fort Drum to stop in?”

  I shouldn’t talk! I always cooked way too much food myself. I still hadn’t mastered the art of toning it down.

  Everything was out of the fridge, and Donna and I fussed with positioning everything on the island. She had a good eye.

  “Ty Brisco is just fabulous, don’t you think, Trixie?” Donna asked.

  “Uh, yes. Just fabulous.” What did she want me to say?

  “I owe him so much for all that he’s done for Ray. You, too, Trixie.”

  I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Enough said. Ray was the one who did it.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  “He is. And smart. I enjoy him a lot.”
<
br />   “Good. Did he tell you that he’s saving up his diner money for a new bike?”

  I smiled. “Don’t tell him, but his new bike is on me. I owe him for some computer work, and there’s more that I’d like for him to do. I know what I want, but I don’t have the skill that he does. And I don’t have time to learn it.”

  She sniffed. “You’re so good to Ray.”

  I was afraid that there would be a flood of tears soon. “Donna, be happy. He just made a stupid kid mistake to be liked. I don’t know about you, but I can understand it.”

  But what I couldn’t understand was murder. Again, I thought of Claire and her brother. I would be front row and center, eating popcorn and sipping soda, if the person or persons who killed them were in court, answering for their crime.

  But my popcorn was going to be stale and my soda was going to lose its fizz, because I wasn’t close to finding out who killed them.

  “Donna, is that dill weed I see in the potato salad? Oh, it’s in the mac salad, too.”

  “Shh. I’m not supposed to tell.”

  “Said who? Porky Matkowski?”

  “Yes!”

  I laughed. “It’s the worst-kept secret in the world.”

  She grinned, and it was the first time I saw her eyes light up all evening. “I’ve never told a soul.”

  “You’re a good friend of Porky’s, Donna, but I think that the secret is out.”

  “Not from me.”

  We both laughed.

  “I wish I knew you were putting out a spread.” I thought I’d use her words, but they sounded so foreign to me. “I would have brought something.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. Is that my aunt Helen’s lime, cottage cheese, and nut dessert?”

  “Guilty,” Donna said.

  “Sheesh.”

  The coffee started perking, and the scent permeated the room. I just loved the smell of brewing coffee.

  “Donna, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You knew Claire Jacobson, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely. I worked for Porky and Stella as a room attendant through my four years of high school. I was a year behind her.”

  “So you didn’t go to the bonfire for the class of 1989?”