A Second Helping of Murder

by Christine Wenger

  Laura shifted on her butt cheeks. “I suppose she had to be found someday.”

  “Did you know she was pregnant?” I asked, turning to Laura.

  “She was what?” Laura asked, clearly shocked. If she was acting, she was certainly better than me.

  “Pregnant. Bun in the oven. Knocked up. With child. Preggers. Baby mama,” I said.

  “I didn’t know that.” Laura’s face immediately turned red.

  Carla cleared her throat. “Claire Jacobson was a loose woman—everyone knows that. And she got pregnant before those who really want a child. Like my poor Laura.”

  “Mother! Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

  I touched her arm. “I’m so sorry, Laura. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

  Laura pulled her arm away. “I don’t want your pity, Trixie.”

  “I’m not pitying you. I know how you feel.”

  “No. No, you don’t.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Laura looked away, and dabbed at her eyes.

  Ty cleared his throat. “Ah . . . um . . .”

  Subject change!

  “Please,” I said. “I want you both to come to the Dance Fest. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Me, too,” Ty said. “The more beautiful ladies there, the happier I’ll be.”

  I kicked him under the table. Enough flattery already.

  Then Grant VanPlank walked in. He was tall, slim, and tanned. He had a phony smile, shocking white hair cut in precision, probably in New York City. His eyes were a bright green and striking. He gave Carla a robotic kiss on the cheek and gave Ty a strange look.

  Ty stood and offered his hand to Grant. They shook, gripped forearms, and grunted manly. Then Grant never took his eyes off Ty, sizing him up.

  Interesting.

  Ty offered to buy him a beer, and he declined, but he pulled over a chair and nudged Carla with his shoulder. She sat as still and as frozen as a marble statue.

  More trouble in paradise?

  I was dying to talk to him, but Ty took the lead.

  “Mr. VanPlank, it’s truly a pleasure to meet you. How long are you staying in Sandy Harbor?”

  He pointed to his wife. “It’s entirely up to Carla. She seems happy staying with Rick and Laura, but I like my privacy. If this town had a decent hotel, we’d move there.”

  “I have cottages on the lake,” I said. “I have one available, and it’s very private.”

  “You know, that’s an excellent idea,” said Carla. “I think I’ll take you up on that, Trixie. Your grounds are beautiful, and I enjoy the view of the lake. How is tomorrow morning for check-in?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Cottages? Are you sure, Carla?” Grant asked. “Anything less than five stars in Michelin, and you think it’s camping.”

  “It’ll be just like our first years of marriage—when we were poor and struggling and very happy. Remember those few days when we were happy, Grant?”

  He was silent for a while. “How long are you going to punish me?”

  Carla sat very still, then through her pinched lips said, “Until your dying day or mine, whichever comes first.”

  “Excuse me, everyone.” Grant stood and nodded at everyone, like a chicken pecking at grain. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Trixie. I believe that we’re checking in.”

  I waved good-bye.

  As he left, Laura appeared. “Was that Daddy I saw leave?”

  “Yes. Your father graced us with his presence for at least three minutes.”

  Ty drained his beer. “I have to get to work, ladies. Will you all please excuse me?”

  “But you haven’t ordered any food, Ty. You either, Trixie.” Laura shuffled the corners of the big plastic menus in her hand.

  Ty tweaked his hat to her. “Sorry, ma’am. I’m going to have to take a rain check on that. Trixie?”

  “Me, too, since I drove with Ty. Sorry, Laura, but I’ll be back. I have a lot of last-minute things to do for the Dance Fest.”

  “I understand,” Laura said.

  “See you tomorrow,” said the icy Carla. “When we check in.”

  “Mother? Check in to what?”

  “Your father and I are checking in to a cottage. One of Trixie’s cottages.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m as serious as a cheating husband.”

  * * *

  The next morning, true to her word, Grant and Carla VanPlank checked in. Honeymooners, they were not. I could hear them sniping at each other all the way up the stairs to the Big House.

  “Since Cottage Eight is being . . . uh . . . remodeled,” said the First Lady, “how about Cottage One?”

  “I’d like to stay in the middle,” Grant said. “Near Eight.”

  Another person who wanted to stay near Eight, and another interesting coincidence.

  “Seven is taken. I can give you Cottage Nine.” I held up the key.

  “That’s fine,” she said.

  “I think that Laura is going to miss you,” I said to Carla.

  “She has her husband to worry about.”

  “Oh. Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “The mayor just hasn’t been himself lately,” Mr. VanPlank offered.

  Interesting. “I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

  “Like what?” Grant asked.

  “I can certainly cook and bake, if there’s anything in particular he’d like.”

  “Food isn’t the answer to everything, Trixie,” said the frosty First Lady.

  “It is for me.” I grinned, already wondering what I could make for our mayor and maybe have an audience with him, even though I’d rather clean the diner with a toothbrush.

  “Let’s get settled, Carla. I’d like to take a swim and get my new suit wet,” Grant said.

  “Which one of your girlfriends gave you that?” snapped Carla.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head. “I know that this is a mistake, but let’s see it through.”

  I almost felt sorry for him. It seemed that this was a standard fight between the two of them. Judging by his hopeless demeanor, Carla never missed a chance to remind him of his affair—or affairs.

  She should have just kicked his cheating butt out.

  At the Dance Fest tomorrow night, I was going to find a way to ask him about Claire Jacobson without the First Lady’s presence.

  “Can you find Cottage Nine or would you like me to show you?” I asked.

  “Of course I can find it,” Carla said, adding a sniff. “They’re numbered, aren’t they?”

  Okay. I wasn’t needed here. I thought I’d go to the kitchen and see how everyone was doing.

  It was a beautiful day, and I totally enjoyed the breeze coming off the lake as I walked the short distance from the Big House to the diner.

  I turned my face up to the sun and let it warm me for a while. I’m not one for sitting or lying in the sun, but once in a while, I love sitting in a chair on the beach and watching the sun sparkle on the water.

  I heard laughing, and saw Buddy Wilder and his party playing volleyball on the beach. I squinted. It looked as though Buddy was wearing his old red trunks with the white flowers.

  Couldn’t be. The elastic had to be shot by now.

  But I didn’t have any time right now to relax. I had the Dance Fest on my mind. The VanPlanks were taking up space there, too. And Buddy Wilder, and Ty, who doesn’t want me to help him, and Laura, and the mayor . . .

  I needed a larger mind or less on it.

  Going into the kitchen, I saw that it was perfectly clean and empty of people. Chelsea, Cindy, and ACB were sitting at the counter in the diner, sipping coffee. There were only four parties eating, and Judy was ringing out a fifth.

  Ray was sitt
ing next to ACB, but when he saw me walk into the diner, he jumped to attention.

  “Relax, Ray. It’s fine if you take a break,” I assured him.

  They all looked tired. One thing about being a chef and cooking is that you’re constantly on your feet.

  ACB’s hat with her “salute to our forty-ninth state” looked as if the sled dogs at the Iditarod were ready to run off the fuchsia brim.

  Juanita’s eyes were at half-mast.

  Cindy, the youngest of us all, had her head down on the counter and was snoring.

  “How’s it going?” I asked. “Anything I can do?”

  “Everything on your list is done,” Juanita said. “And more.”

  “We decided to bake hamburger and hot dog rolls instead of you buying them,” ACB said, smiling. “They came out beautiful.”

  “And we had fun.” Cindy yawned, stretching.

  “The most fun I’ve had in months,” ACB said, nodding. Her sled team hit the floor, and she bent over to pick it up with a grunt.

  “And Ray was indispensable,” Juanita added. “He cleaned up and washed pans as we went along and kept track of the front, too.”

  “You ladies, and Ray, are fabulous. What’s left for me?”

  “Your special Dixie chicken sauce has to be made and the chicken marinated,” Juanita said. “Everything’s in the cooler.”

  I decided to take a peek at what they’d done. Going into the walk-in cooler was always a fun time. I loved to slip on the mohair sweater that Aunt Stella kept on a hanger near the door of the cooler. It reminded me so much of her.

  The cooler was loaded with aluminum pans. I saw four pans of potato salad, four of macaroni salad, baked beans, and coleslaw. There were numerous other pans of sausage, pulled pork, meatballs, macaroni and cheese, and ziti.

  Tomorrow, we’d barbecue the chicken on Porky’s old homemade charcoal grill, brush on this fabulous chicken sauce that had been in a friend’s family for an eternity, and make up pans of crispy chef salad.

  There’s nothing that I hate more than a warm, droopy salad. At the Silver Bullet, I served salad in chilled bowls. Yum.

  In my big binder, I found the recipe for Dixie Barbecue Sauce and Marinade and calculated it to make ten times the amount. Then I poured it all over the chicken for it to marinade in the cooler.

  One more time I made the recipe, to baste the chicken with while it barbecued.

  It was melt-in-your-mouth good, and it reminded me of all the neighbors getting together in someone’s backyard. The parents used to take turns, and all of us kids couldn’t wait until it was Mr. and Mrs. DiFantelli’s turn.

  Mrs. D was from one of the Carolinas, I forgot which one, and I loved listening to her talk about the big plantations and Civil War history.

  I always got the impression that Mrs. D felt a little superior to us Yankees, but we forgave everything on chicken barbecue day.

  Checking my list against everything that had already been done, I didn’t see any strawberries in the cooler for the strawberry shortcake that Sarah Stolfus was making.

  I went into the diner and found Juanita sitting with her eyes closed and her index finger through the handle of a coffee cup.

  “Juanita, are you awake?” I said softly, and her eyes blinked. “Did any strawberries come from the organic farm?”

  Nothing.

  I gently nudged her arm. “Juanita? Strawberries? Are there any strawberries?”

  “Clyde, you are my life.”

  Say what?

  She was dreaming about Clyde, my senior handyman? The two of them fought like heavyweight boxers.

  Juanita and Clyde seemed as far apart as crème brûlée and unsweetened gelatin.

  That just added more strangeness to a strange day that started with the VanPlanks’ checking in.

  “Juanita, wake up.” I gave her arm a stronger nudge. “You’re having a bad dream.”

  She blinked awake. “What?”

  “What did you do with the strawberries?”

  “Huh?”

  “The strawberries for the shortcake. Did you clean them, slice them, sugar them?”

  “I forgot to tell you.” She yawned. “They didn’t come in.”

  “I’ll give Various Veggies and Fruits a call right now. And I’ll take care of washing and cutting them. Go home and get some sleep.” I looked over at Cindy. Her head was back down, and she hadn’t moved since I last saw her.

  Having my employees snoozing at the counter wasn’t exactly good for business. Customers might think that the Silver Bullet was a halfway house for chefs with sleeping disorders.

  I phoned Ronnie Owens at the organic farm.

  “Various Veggies and Fruits. This is Ronnie. How can I bring some sunshine into your life?”

  “Ronnie, this is Trixie Matkowski at the Silver Bullet Diner. I received my order—lettuce, carrots, cukes, tomatoes—but I’m looking for my fifty pounds of strawberries.”

  “Hi, Trixie. The kids and Billy are picking the rest of them now, and Billy will deliver them just as soon as they are finished. I’m thinking it’ll be two hours, depending on how much they eat.”

  “That’s fine. How do the berries look?”

  “Magnificent.”

  “Just what I needed. Thanks, Ronnie. Oh, will all of you be coming to the Dance Fest?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  We said our good-byes, and the next call I made was to Clyde. “Clyde, how’s the bar set up? Got enough ice and tubs? Is the soda set up?”

  “All okay, Trixie. Come out and look. The rental tables aren’t here yet, but when they come, we’re ready to set up.”

  “When are the tables and chairs supposed to be here?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “Call me if there’s a problem.”

  “Will do.”

  I still couldn’t see Clyde and Juanita together, but I’d been wrong before, like when I gave my heart to Deputy Doug.

  But that’ll never happen again, I thought as I wiped the counter. There will not be another man in my life.

  No. Not even Ty Brisco, although he made my cheeks heat and my heart flutter like a teenager’s. I had the constant urge to buy a pink diary and write his name in it with a heart over the I on his last name.

  I’d put all my energy into making the Silver Bullet and the cottages a moneymaking endeavor. Okay, I wasn’t succeeding with the cottages, but the diner was netting enough money for me to keep making payments to Aunt Stella.

  I loved this place with my whole heart and soul. Always had, always would. I’d grown up here, and I’d always remember the great times I’d had with my family and friends.

  Including Claire Jacobson. I didn’t feel I’d come close to solving the mystery of her death, but a couple of things were adding up.

  I still thought her murder had something to do with the fact that she was pregnant. Someone didn’t like it, and wanted her out of the way.

  Was it “B” or someone else?

  It couldn’t be “B” of the love letter. He adored her. Things change, though, and something could have happened.

  I puttered around the kitchen and made up the orders that the waitresses turned in because I was here and my two chefs had narcolepsy.

  Cindy did drag herself into the kitchen when she heard the bell ring. “I’ll make up those orders, Trixie. My shift isn’t over yet.”

  “Yes, it is. Go home. Tomorrow will be a big day, and I’ll need you wide-awake and alert.”

  “Thanks. I’ll come in early tomorrow.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Ray walked in with a gray bin full of dirty dishes and started loading them into the dishwasher.

  “How’s everything, Ray?”

  “I’m not that busy. Is there anything else I can do?”
r />   What a sweet kid!

  “Sure. Why don’t you see if you can help out Clyde and Max in the yard? They are overseeing the tent setup and the bar and waiting for tables and chairs. The tables need to be arranged and covered.”

  Out the back door, I could see a huge white truck roll in. SANDY HARBOR PARTY RENTALS was written on the side in bright balloons.

  “There’s the truck now with the tables and chairs,” I said.

  “Cool,” he said, and hurried out. I was sure that he’d enjoy working outside for a while. Even computer nerds need sunshine.

  I made up more orders. A party of five all wanted corned beef sandwiches. Two wanted mac and cheese. A party of eight wanted breakfast, so I was busy with launching bread on the Ferris wheel to toast, making omelets, and grilling bacon and sausage. The egg orders were tricky: up, over easy, over light, lightly scrambled, over dry.

  A horn blared at the back door just as I finished the breakfast order. I saw a VARIOUS VEGGIES AND FRUITS sign on the van door and surmised that it was Billy Swenti with the strawberries.

  Billy was one of my original suspects from the B List. Although I didn’t really suspect him, he might still remember some detail about Claire that would help the case. I couldn’t wait to talk to him.

  Opening the door, I saw a half dozen children sitting in the van. Billy was tall and thin and had a receding hairline, but the majority of his hair cascaded down his back in straggly strands. His jeans were dirty and torn and he wore a black Grateful Dead shirt.

  “Are you Billy?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “With my strawberries?”

  “Just picked. Fifty pounds. Me and the kids did it. They are still warm from the sun.” He smiled and I saw that Billy needed major dentistry, and fast.

  I waved to the kids who were leaning out of the van window. “Thanks for picking my berries. If you come tomorrow night, you can have strawberry shortcake, and I’m going to tell everyone that you picked the berries just for them.”

  The pride showed on their cute faces, all races and various ages.

  “Ronnie said that he’d bill you,” Billy said.

  “Okay, but can I have a moment with you alone?” I asked.

  His brow furrowed. “I guess so.”

  He yelled to the kids that he’d be right back and to behave. In my family, that was a signal to me, my sister, and brother to act up.