My Monte Cristo sandwich sat like a cinder block in my stomach. I had to take care of the mail, and quickly. I decided that I needed to get settled into Aunt Stella’s office—now my office—in the main house. There was a laptop sitting on a big rolltop desk, and with any luck, she might have a spreadsheet set up or some kind of program that she used.
Gathering everything, I stuffed myself into my coat, pulled on my gloves, swaddled my scarf around my head and walked to the front of the diner.
I picked up a menu by the cash register. On it was a scribbled note that the evening special was pork and scalloped potatoes. Yum. Pork and scalloped potatoes had been my mother’s specialty for years. That was, until Mom decided to hand over her overstuffed cookbook—filled with favorite recipes from the Matkowski family, Aunt Stella’s Timinski ancestors, and my mother’s Bugnacki family—to me.
Then pork and scalloped potatoes became my specialty. It was a dish that was always served at most of our family gatherings. It was hearty and easy to keep hot for latecomers or anyone who might drop in. I didn’t exactly know who started the tradition, but when I thought of family getting together, I thought of pork and scalloped potatoes served in a big turkey roaster.
It seemed like the Silver Bullet Diner could do better than a note scribbled in black felt marker and paper-clipped to the menu. Maybe a handout with the whole week’s specials would be better. Or a nice whiteboard. Or one of those funky neon blackboards. I could even search Web sites for cute ideas to make the diner even homier.
And I had some ideas for specials and new menu items that I couldn’t wait to introduce. The menu hadn’t changed in more than thirty years. Maybe it was time to put my mother’s cookbook to use.
Or maybe I shouldn’t mess with a sure thing.
Before I left, I tipped Nancy and noticed Tyler Brisco’s uneaten meal nicely boxed in a white foam carton with his name on it. Should I leave it for him in his apartment over the bait shop? He probably would be hungry when he came back from whatever crisis he was handling in Sandy Harbor.
A crisis in Sandy Harbor? The biggest problem that ever happened here, according to Aunt Stella, was tangled fishing lines. And once, when a fisherman was casting on the bridge, his line got caught on the antenna of a passing car and the pole was yanked from his hands. He called the Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department to stop the car. After all, he had a top-of-the-line Henderson Fishblaster Plus rod, and he wanted it back.
I decided to let Nancy handle Ty’s dinner. She seemed to have the hots for him.
As I walked outside, the blast of cold air made me gasp. Flakes drifted around me, and I nodded to Max and Clyde, who were still clearing the parking lot. I’d promised Juanita that I’d talk to them about their pranks. I would, but not now, not while they were busy working.
I shuffled along with my grocery bag full of mail and tried not to slide on the hard-packed snow of the parking lot and fall on my face. Luckily, someone had cleared a path to the main house, but the steps weren’t shoveled. I gripped the metal banister with a mittened hand and pulled myself up each snow-and-ice-crusted step.
Once inside, I stepped out of my boots, put them on a rubber mat, and unwrapped myself, glad to be free of my parka and the rest of my winter gear.
Heading for the kitchen to make some tea, I stood for a moment in the doorway and surveyed the huge country kitchen with its long counters and walk-in pantry. Thick oak cabinets lined each wall, and the stove, fridge, and microwave were all commercial-sized. What I loved the most was the “nook” where a round oak table stood, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see the diner from the nook.
It was a perfect place to invite friends over for dinner, if only I had friends here.
Aunt Stella had updated the kitchen, yet the room seemed to maintain the original ambience. I put on the kettle, then sat at one of the oak chairs around the thick oak table and watched the snow fall. Fat, fluffy flakes drifted to earth, piling up on every surface and drifting into places where people had to walk.
Watching it was peaceful and calming, taking my mind off the numerous tasks I had waiting, not the least of which were unpacking my Focus and picking out a permanent bedroom.
I watched as a mother and her son, who were eating pie at the counter when I was at the Silver Bullet, walked down the stairs of the diner. I held my breath at the unsteady balance of the mother on the sidewalk.
I didn’t want my customers to fall, and I was glad that Max and Clyde were clearing the snow.
Insurance! I’d never thought about insurance.
I pulled out my notebook and made an entry to check on it, although there was probably a bill for it in the bag in front of me.
The kettle whistled, and I plodded to the stove in my socks. I made my Earl Grey tea, added some sugar for pep, and grabbed the grocery bag of mail. I made my way to the rolltop desk in a large sitting room off the kitchen and started sorting the mail: handle immediately, handle now, handle at once.
A letter from the Health Department, Bureau of Restaurant Inspections, caught my eye. Reluctantly, I opened it.
Scanning the letter, I gleaned that the kitchen of the Silver Bullet had some problems as noted by the inspector on his previous visit. I read and reread the problems, trying to comprehend what it all meant.
The diner had some violations, none of which seemed critical: a dirty floor near the back door and the storage area, a broken thermometer at the steam table, the Dumpster lid left open, and employees were observed eating in the prep area.
It was signed by Inspector Marvin P. Cogswell III.
The dirty floor by the back door and storage area was likely due to Clyde and Max walking in and out of the kitchen and tracking in snow and mud on their boots.
They were probably the ones eating in there, too, and the ones who’d left the Dumpster lid open. The broken thermometer was easy to fix. Everything was easy to fix.
Then I noticed that the inspector had scheduled a return inspection for…today! Later this afternoon! If the diner didn’t pass, it could be closed down.
I decided that I should personally concentrate on making sure that everything was in order for the inspector.
I had to go back to the diner.
I took a sip of the hot tea and dressed again in my boots and winter survival gear. Clinging to the railing to make my way down the front stairs, I plowed through the snowdrifts with the health inspection letter stuffed in the pocket of my coat.
Pausing, I heard the wail of an ambulance. Then it got closer and closer still. Red lights flashed against the snow like a strobe light in a disco. Soon I could see an ambulance, a fire truck, and a couple of sheriff’s department cars hurrying as fast as they could down the road leading to the diner.
My diner!
My heart started pounding in my chest. I’m not the greatest in an emergency. My brain just sits there in my head like a lump of dough that won’t rise.
Max and Clyde ran toward me, and I rushed to meet them. The snowflakes hit my face and eyes and melted on my contact lenses.
“Trixie.” Max breathed heavily, and puffs of steam hung between us. “The kitchen.”
“Oh no! Fire! Is anyone hurt?” I immediately thought of Juanita. I knew that she was single, and, oh merciful heavens, I didn’t know anything else about her or how to contact her loved ones. I didn’t even know her last name. “Juanita?”
Clyde grabbed a chunk of my sleeve and pulled me down the path to the diner. “No! She’s okay. Everyone’s okay. Well, not everyone is okay.”
Either my brain wasn’t computing or Clyde was speaking Swahili. “Huh?”
“Marvin Cogswell,” Max said. “He’s not okay.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who? What happened?” My heart started to pound. This wasn’t good.
“Marvin P. Cogswell the Third,” they said in unison.
I stood frozen to the snow, wondering why my brain was frozen, too.
“The h
ealth inspector!” Max added. “It looks like he had a heart attack.”
The letter. The health inspector. Oh no!
In the parking lot, the procession of emergency vehicles stopped, and a dozen people hustled up the front steps. Nancy held the door open for them, and they disappeared into the silver building.
Clyde half pulled me up the diner stairs.
“He’s a goner,” Max mumbled.
“Goner?” Did anyone actually say goner anymore?
“Dead,” Max blurted.
Now that penetrated my brain.
Nancy, the waitress, nodded solemnly to me. I nodded back. “Where?”
“Kitchen,” she said.
I glanced around the dining room. The patrons were craning their necks to watch the action. Some were on their cell phones, no doubt passing along the news.
A tall, thin deputy with rosy cheeks stood in front of the double doors that led to the kitchen, blocking my way. He had twinkly blue eyes, but they weren’t as blue as Ty’s, and he reeked of my grandfather’s favorite aftershave, Old Spice.
He looked down at me and suddenly seemed formidable.
“I-I’m the owner. Trixie Matkowski.”
He finally smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Vern McCoy. I’m a fan of the Bullet’s meat loaf. Matter of fact, you’ll always find the entire Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department—all three of us—here on Tuesday night for the meat loaf special.”
I pulled off the wet mitten on my right hand and we shook. As soon as I could function, I’d have to make a note to keep the Tuesday meat loaf special for the entire Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department—all three of them.
Deputy McCoy opened the door for me. “Don’t touch anything.”
I wondered why he’d said that. It was probably just a cop thing.
The kitchen was packed with official-looking people. Juanita was crying, not very quietly, by the back door of the kitchen away from the circle that had gathered around the prep table. My former lunch date, Ty Brisco, standing a head taller than the others, had an arm around her.
An EMT shook her head, then bent over to take something out of a bright orange duffel bag. I had a clear view of a man in a camel-colored dress coat sitting on the top rung of the kitchen’s step stool in front of the stainless steel prep table.
It was the same step stool that Juanita had stood on earlier to escape the (probably) imaginary mouse.
The man was slumped over with his face in what looked like a plate of the dinner special—pork and scalloped potatoes. He still had a fork in his hand.
But he wasn’t moving. It was then I realized the EMT was zipping up her bag, not looking for something in it.
Poor Marvin P. Cogswell the Third, health inspector, was obviously dead.
I guessed that Juanita had given him a plate of the evening’s special, and I hoped that he’d enjoyed his last meal.
The pork and scalloped potatoes was originally my great-grandmother’s recipe, and my family’s favorite dish. Uncle Porky adapted the recipe to make large quantities for the diner.
Deputy Ty Brisco was writing furiously in his notebook. Juanita was crying and dabbing at her eyes and nose with a wadded-up tissue.
“We’ll talk again later, Juanita,” Ty said. “At the sheriff’s office.” Ty hugged her tight to his side, and she wailed louder.
Juanita met my gaze and sniffed. She rushed over to where I was standing and stomped her foot. “I quit. No más. No more!”
“Juanita, this isn’t your fault, and—” A man having a heart attack next to her was far worse than a phantom mouse.
She stomped her other foot. “No! I quit. I can’t take it anymore!”
“Go home and rest,” I suggested softly, taking her arm and escorting her out the double doors. Deputy McCoy nodded to us, and I nodded back. “Try to forget all this and rest.”
I quickly escorted her out the front door of the diner and down the stairs to her car. I hugged her, and she clung to me like a cat on a curtain. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
She shook her head. “They are going to need you here. I’ll be okay.”
“Drive carefully, Juanita.” With a nod and a sniff, off she went.
I needed to do damage control at the diner. The customers were waiting to hear something. I entered the diner once again and went straight through the double doors to the kitchen.
I asked Ty if I could tell my patrons that the health inspector had suffered a heart attack. He hesitated, then shook his head.
“No. Not until his emergency contact identifies the body.” He consulted his notebook. “A girlfriend by the name of Roberta Cummings. She’s meeting the body at Manning’s Happy Repose Funeral Home. Apparently, Hal Manning is both the county coroner and the local funeral director.”
“Small town,” we both said in unison.
“Mr. Cogswell has no living relatives that we know of,” Ty added.
“So what should I tell them? That it’s a suspected heart attack?” I asked.
“Tell them that the cause of death is being investigated by the Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department. Don’t mention the pork and scalloped potatoes, though, and it’s no longer today’s daily special. I’m confiscating all of it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “But why? What on earth does that have to do with his heart attack?”
“We’re still investigating,” he said, seeming very coplike and cagey.
The rip of the zipper on the body bag echoed through the din of the kitchen. I scooted out front. I didn’t want to see poor Mr. Cogswell being slipped and zipped into it. No, thanks.
Once in the dining room, I raised my hands for silence and waited. When everyone was quiet, I said, “It appears that someone has passed on, but that’s all I can say until his family members have been notified.”
I turned to go back in, but then I remembered that there was no special available, and no cook, and I didn’t know how long everyone would be in my kitchen. I had this sick feeling in my stomach, knowing that I had to close the place, probably for the first time ever. But what could I do? “And the kitchen is closed for the evening. But pastries and beverages are on me. The waitresses will serve you.”
I nodded to Nancy and to a waitress whom I didn’t know, and they both sprang into action.
“Help yourself, Deputy McCoy,” I said.
“I will,” he replied as he opened the doors for me.
I made the same announcement to those milling around the kitchen, and gradually they moved from the kitchen to the front of the diner, mumbling their thanks. Ty and the third member of the Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department remained. I read his gold nameplate: RUTLEDGE. I didn’t know his first name yet.
“Lou, hand me the evidence tape,” Ty said.
Okay, so his first name was Lou. Lou Rutledge. He was a Santa Claus clone, with twinkling brown eyes and a face that was friendly and bright. He had white hair and a white beard, and his stomach hung over his belt. Probably anyone who’d been naughty would admit his guilt to Deputy Rutledge.
Ty dropped Mr. Cogswell’s fork into a plastic bag, sealed it with evidence tape, and initialed the tape where the bag met the seal.
Then he did the same with his pork and scalloped potatoes. In went the plate, too.
“Ty, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Covering all bases, darlin’. That’s all.” He smiled at me; then the smile left his face. “By the way, where were you when Mr. Cogswell was here?”
My face heated up and my stomach lurched. “Why are you asking me that, Deputy Brisco?”
“Just answer the question,” he said curtly.
What on earth…?
“This sounds like CSI: Sandy Harbor,” I joked.
A corner of his mouth turned up into a half smile. “So where were you?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “At Aunt Stella’s house. I mean…at my house. I was going over some bills that Nancy had given me. And then I came back to meet Mr. Cogswell.�
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“So you knew he was here?” Deputy Rutledge asked.
“No. I didn’t. I was just coming back to fix things up for his inspection.”
“Then you knew he was coming?” Ty asked.
“Yes. I found a letter from him in the mail, saying that the Silver Bullet had to fix some problems from his latest inspection—minor things—and that he would be returning today in the afternoon.”
“Did that make you mad, Miss Matkowski?” Deputy Rutledge asked.
“No. It made me worried.”
“Anyone see you at your house?” Ty asked.
“Well, Clyde and Max saw me leave the house to return to the diner.”
“But they never saw you actually inside?”
“I guess not,” I said. “But they saw me walking down the porch stairs.” Merciful heavens, what was going on here?
“Can I have the letter?” Ty asked.
I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it to him. He read it with Deputy Rutledge looking over his shoulder as I stood there, breathing hard.
“I’m going to keep this,” Ty said. “Okay with you, Miz Matkowski?”
He used to call me Trixie. Now he was all business.
“I have nothing to hide. Keep the letter.” I watched as he bagged the letter, too. “Do I need a lawyer, Deputy Brisco?”
“Do you think you do, Miz Matkowski?”
I shrugged. “Didn’t Mr. Cogswell have a heart attack?”
I’d thought Ty Brisco was cute when I first met him. What was I thinking? He was a cop, just like my ex, and I had to remind myself that I wasn’t interested.
“I don’t know for sure if he had a heart attack or what happened here,” he said. “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy reports to be sure, or maybe Mr. Manning will have a preliminary finding. Then he’ll send samples to the New York State Police lab. Then we’ll know for sure.”
“What are you looking for, Deputy Brisco?” I asked.
Several seconds ticked by.
“C’mon, Ty, this is my restaurant. I think I have a vested interest in what happened here. Please, tell me what you think.”
Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery Page 3
