I pulled in behind the van and took a deep breath; then, armed with banana bread, I climbed the stairs and rang the bell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the lace curtains of the side window move. After a few moments, Antoinette Chloe Brown herself opened the door.
She wore a muumuu covered in hibiscus flowers that billowed like a curtain in the early-morning breeze. I expected her to take off like a hot air balloon any second.
“Hello, Antoinette Chloe! I’m sorry to surprise you, but I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to drop by since we are both women in business.” I thought that the latter was a good hook. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I’d like to get to know you, since I’m new to the community and new to the restaurant business. Maybe you’d even let me pick your brain. Your restaurant is such a success.”
She stood for a while, billowing, but then finally opened the door wider and motioned for me to come in.
Looking down her nose at me, she finally said, “And you are?”
She obviously had no short-term memory. “Trixie Matkowski. I bought the Silver Bullet from my aunt Stella and uncle Porky. And although I’m a new permanent resident in Sandy Harbor, I’ve been coming here most every summer since I was a kid.”
“Oh yes. I remember you. I’ll make some tea,” she said.
She left me standing in the entranceway like one of her green plastic plants next to me. I looked up the dark wooden staircase and wondered how I’d get into her closet.
“What a beautiful, historic house. I just love houses like this!” I said loudly. “May I look around?”
“Suit yourself,” was the answer from somewhere in the back of the house. She didn’t seem glad to see me, but I did drop in unexpectedly. I slid off my boots and draped my coat over a chair by the door, since she hadn’t asked to take it.
I just couldn’t wander upstairs, could I? I settled for walking through her two parlors, all loaded to the gills with Madame Alexander dolls, glass, china, and swags of plastic and silk flowers. Everything was coated with two inches of dust. She had a fainting couch with a cabbage rose print and tassels, and furniture that matched. There were tassels hanging from the curtains, the lamps, and from doilies. There were more tassels in that room than at a strip bar.
Antoinette Chloe appeared at my side. “Would you be more comfortable in the kitchen?” She eyed the banana bread that I was holding like a football.
I handed it to her. “Banana bread. It’s still warm.”
“I’ll slice it up.”
That sounded a bit ominous. “Antoinette Chloe, do you mind if I look around upstairs? I just love your house.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Old houses are really my thing. That’s one of the reasons I love my aunt Stella’s house. There are so many nooks and crannies in the old place. I haven’t even begun to explore it. Would you mind me looking?”
I could tell that she was going to say no. But I had another brilliant idea.
“The Sandy Harbor Historical Society is in the planning stages of a tour of the old houses in Sandy Harbor—you know, as a fund-raiser. And I think that your house would be the highlight of the tour, if you were willing to open your doors.”
Her green eyes sparkled for a brief second, then narrowed. “I’m in the historical society, and this is the first time I’ve heard of such a tour.”
Oops. “Well, it’s totally in the planning stages. Very hush-hush.” I lowered my voice. “You know how it is in a small town.”
“Oh, I do.” She put the banana bread on a dusty round table and raised her muumuu, showing me red flip-flops. She walked up two stairs and then turned to me. “You’ll love the second floor. I even have a third floor.”
“No!” I proclaimed.
She nodded, and I thought that the white turban on her head would fall off. She tugged it back into place.
When we got to the top of the stairs, she showed me three bedrooms, all equally gaudy and equally dusty. I sneezed into my sleeve.
Finally, we got to her bedroom, which had a queen-sized sleigh bed piled high with pillows and stuffed animals. There wasn’t a square inch of wall that didn’t have a hat hanging from it. Straw bonnets, felt hats, hats with netting, turbans—there was even a sombrero.
I didn’t see a closet. It must be camouflaged by all the hats.
“There’s never enough closet space in these old houses. Don’t you agree, Antoinette Chloe?”
She headed for a black mantilla. Under it was a doorknob.
“Look, a walk-in closet,” she announced. “I have a lot of closet space.”
“The committee will be astonished.”
She pulled a cord, and a bare lightbulb lit up her wardrobe, which I can only describe as a floral explosion. I quickly scanned the hangers for a gardenia muumuu.
She exited the closet. There was not enough time!
“Oh, Antoinette Chloe! Did I hear your teapot whistling?” I was brilliant. “Go ahead and tend to it. Don’t worry, I’ll shut your closet light off.”
She took off, her muumuu floating around her. Nice exit.
And she’d left me in her closet. Alone.
I zipped through the rack like it was a sale at Walmart. But the muumuu wasn’t there. Darn. Then something made me look at the floor. There it was, surrounded by flip-flops of all colors, the gardenia muumuu.
Picking it up, I quickly scanned it. Yes, it had a chunk missing, and it matched the piece of material that Blondie had found.
Now what was I supposed to do?
I wadded up the muumuu and tried to stuff it in my purse. No chance. Why didn’t I bring a bigger purse?
I put it back where I’d found it. Maybe Ty could get a warrant after all.
I shut off the light and closed the door behind me just as I saw Antoinette Chloe Brown standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed in front of her, and she looked down her nose at me.
Had she seen me looking at the muumuu? Yikes!
I smiled, trying to appear casual, but my heart was thumping wildly and my face was on fire. I was sure I looked guilty, for heaven’s sake.
“Let’s talk about our restaurants.” I took her arm, and we went downstairs.
“What about the tour of homes?” she asked eagerly.
“I am going to definitely recommend your home.”
“You are?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Antoinette Chloe Brown was putty in my hands after that. Over tea and banana bread, she told me her life story and how she met her husband, Sal, in high school, and how she wanted to build a year-round ice-cream parlor onto Brown’s.
Now, I like ice cream more than anyone, but I doubt that I’d make a special trip to an ice-cream parlor in the middle of winter.
She leaned over and whispered as if telling me a grand secret. “And the fact that the health inspector was poisoned in the Silver Bullet did a world of good for Brown’s Four Corners Restaurant. We’ve never been so busy! It was heaven-sent for my restaurant.”
Hell-o? Would she want the business enough to sabotage me?
She driveled on. “And Sal said that we are making oodles of money.”
“Oodles is good.” I nodded. I needed some oodles.
“And the Ladies of the Lake asked me to be the chairwoman of their annual lawn party and fund-raiser for town beautification. They said I was the perfect choice for chairwoman, being such a successful businesswoman.” She actually giggled. “I’ve been waiting for them to ask me for years. It’s quite the honor, you know. Only the most prominent women in Sandy Harbor are asked.”
I raised my flowered teacup in a toast to her. “Good for you, Antoinette Chloe.” Dabbing at the corners of my mouth, I smiled at her. “And since we are both businesswomen, maybe we can help each other out—or at least you could help me. I’m pretty new to the diner business, and you have a lot of experience.”
I wanted to leave the door open to talk to her at a later date. She nodded li
ke a bobblehead, and her turban shifted over her left ear. Copper-colored hair with four-inch gray roots made an appearance. She truly needed a trip to the beauty parlor, as did I. Pushing the turban back to center, she tugged it over her ears.
“I’m noted for my Hawaiian muumuus,” she said, lifting her chin and stretching out her arms as if posing for Muumuus “R” Us.
“Not to change the subject, Antoinette Chloe, but I haven’t seen you at the Silver Bullet lately. When was the last time you paid a visit?” I wanted to place her at the scene, I thought, feeling like a faux investigator on TV.
Her mouth moved, but no words came out. She finally blurted, “I’ve been quite busy.”
“Oh, but I thought you might have come to visit the diner, maybe welcome me to Sandy Harbor.”
“Forgive me for not welcoming you. Like I said, I’ve been very busy. You should have come into my restaurant. I would have welcomed you with a free dinner!”
I waved away her apology. “I did visit your restaurant. Remember? But you were very busy, and then I left when you brought up the poisoning incident for all to hear. It was very upsetting.”
She squirmed in her chair, and part of me was glad. Now it was time for me to exit.
I stood. “I’m so glad that we got to know each other. And thank you for your hospitality. I’ll surely recommend that your house be on the tour.”
“I just don’t understand why I haven’t heard of this tour. The historical society—”
I put my index finger over my lips. “Don’t breathe a word! Things are strictly hush-hush at this time.”
“Yes. Hush-hush.” She copied my gesture, and I tried not to laugh. “My lips are sealed.”
“See you soon, Antoinette Chloe.”
I hurried down her lavender stairs and was soon on my way.
Since I was downtown, I should do something—anything. But what?
I headed to the fire barn. Maybe I could do something to help today.
As I drove, I thought about what I had discovered about Antoinette Chloe Brown. She’d been hanging around the Dumpster at the back of my diner. The chunk of material proved it. And she was obviously uncomfortable when I asked her if she’d been to the diner lately.
So what did it all mean?
My stomach took a dive. How would I confirm that Antoinette Chloe was peeking around my Dumpster, lying in wait for Marvin P. Cogswell on the day that he died?
I slapped my forehead. I had forgotten to look for poisoned mushrooms in her home! I was even in her kitchen, if that was where mushroom poisoners kept the tools of their trade.
What kind of detective was I?
A pathetic one.
For heaven’s sake, I was a tourist information guide in Philly. What did I know about being a detective?
I thought about getting a How to Be a Detective book from the library. It might help me with my investigation. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.
First, I decided to call Juanita at the Silver Bullet. She was full of news: Yes, she could handle things. Chelsea, the waitress, decided to go home because she had things to do and there wasn’t any business. Juanita was baking for the American Legion volunteers again, and she was filling up the freezer with baked goods, just in case we had a big rush. Bob, the elusive other cook that I’d never met, was still sick and he was thinking of going to Atlantic City to see a specialist.
Hmm…office hours at the Borgata? Or maybe the Showboat?
I pulled into the library’s parking lot and went in. I loved the old place with the big cement pillars out front and shiny marble floors. It was filled with thick, dark wooden tables and desks with green banker’s lamps hovering over each one for extra light. It was a cavernous place, the kind of place where the smallest whisper echoed for an eternity.
The library was relatively busy. Many of the residents seemed to be gathered there, reading in kiosks or Queen Anne chairs or working on laptops at the desks. This was the only place I knew that had an old-fashioned, dog-eared, card catalog complete with ancient fonts on the majority of the cards.
I thumbed through the card catalog, looking for “Mystery: How to Solve a—” when I came to Mushrooms of New York State, When to Eat Them and When to Run.
Cute. And just what I was looking for. I found scrap paper and pencil stubs located in a basket on top of the dark oak cabinets and wrote down the Dewey decimal number.
I wandered through the stacks, and as luck would have it, I found the book. Skimming the index, I found amanita mushrooms.
Bingo. Page 23l. I skimmed the chapter.
One kind of amanita mushroom, the Destroying Angel, is commonly found in North America in the spring and fall…in the woods…base of trees…One cap would kill a man.
Destroying Angel…What a creepy name.
There was more. Pictures of a pretty white mushroom with an umbrella cap. It looked harmless enough.
Just then, I was approached by May—or was it her sister, June?—my pal from the fire barn.
She looked at the book that I was reading, then stared at me, her eyes popping out of their sockets.
I held my hand up like Deputy Doug, the traffic cop. “No! No! I was just…doing research!”
That didn’t help. She pointed to me, and not a sound came out of her mouth. She took two steps back.
“Please, no. It’s not what you are thinking. Please don’t scream.” I snapped the book shut, put it on the nearest shelf, and led her over to a chair.
She took several deep breaths. “I’m so sorry, Trixie. I don’t know what made me react so. Maybe it’s because I was just talking to Mayor Tingsley, and the subject of Mr. Cogswell came up and how unfortunate it is that the Silver Bullet isn’t doing well. It’s been a landmark in Sandy Harbor for more than sixty years.”
“Isn’t that nice of Mayor Tingsley to be so concerned about my diner?” I asked sarcastically, but May (or June) didn’t get it.
“The mayor was talking about his plans to buy your property and develop it. I must say that he has the town in a buzz. He said that he’d be able to bring in many needed jobs to the area.”
“Oh?” My stomach took a dive.
“Condos, boat slips, tennis courts, ice skating, a health spa—there’s plenty more. He’s calling it a residential resort. And it would cater to the rich and famous. Can you believe it? Maybe Harrison Ford would stay here! Or the Kardashians. Maybe even Brad Pitt!”
The mayor had big ideas to match his big mouth.
“But the Sandy Harbor Guest Cottages cater to families,” I said in protest. “It’s always been a place where families can boat, swim, and have fun together.”
“Mayor Tingsley said, ‘May, we have to keep up with the times. Those little cottages are too old-fashioned.’”
Tears stung my eyes. Was I too starry-eyed to think that families would want to vacation together on one of the best lakes in New York? Would the average family be content to watch the sunrise and sunset together or sit around a campfire toasting marshmallows?
According to May, it seemed like the whole town was thinking like Mayor Tingsley.
Speaking of Mayor Tingsley, he had a lot of nerve talking up a project that concerned my property.
Was this his way of putting pressure on me to sell to him?
What had May said? That it would bring many needed jobs into the area?
Talk about pressure!
I mumbled some lame excuse to May and hurried out of the library, my boots squeaking on the marble floor to a fast beat. Getting into my car, I drove to the nearest doughnut and coffee shop with a drive-through window and placed an order for a loaded coffee and a chocolate doughnut.
Pulling into a parking space, I popped the white plastic lid and let the scented steam fill up my little car.
I dove into the bag and pulled out the chocolate doughnut. It was soft and chewy, and I was in heaven.
Did I eat when stressed? Most definitely. And I was a pressure cooker these days. And I ate when happy, and when
content, and when bored, and tired, and—well, you get the drift.
Then it hit me. The murder of Mr. Cogswell had to be premeditated! The murderer was waiting for the appropriate time to use the Destroying Angel.
And who would know enough about mushrooms to know that the Destroying Angel was grown locally and that it was poisonous?
A chill went right through me. Which one of the townspeople could be that evil?
I ticked them off one by one as I downed the last bite of doughnut and sipped coffee. Leading my pack of suspects were Antoinette Chloe Brown and Mayor Tingsley. With his grandiose development ideas, Mayor Tingsley seemed to have the most to gain.
Then there was Roberta Cummings’s overprotective brother, the Sunshine delivery guy, Mark Cummings. I’d almost forgotten about him.
People I didn’t know, but probably should get to know, were Mr. Brown and Mrs. Tingsley, spouses of my primary suspects.
I started up my car. I knew just where to find Mr. Brown. Since Antoinette Chloe was home, he’d be working at the restaurant.
It wasn’t a long drive, just up the block. The parking lots for Brown’s Four Corners and Tingsley’s Crossroads, across the street, were jumping.
Well, it was lunchtime, and probably those who worked in town were grabbing lunch.
I waited in line at Brown’s, choosing to sit at the counter. I could see two cooks behind a half wall. The bibs of their aprons looked like they’d worn them for a week. Their baseball hats were grimy, and if I were the owner, I’d require a hairnet on their chins, too.
They were both the same size and build, about five foot ten and just as wide. Were they brothers?
The waitress, a hard-looking woman with gobs of eye makeup, stood in front of me with her order book positioned on her ample boobs. “Do you know what you want?”
“Could I see a menu?” I asked.
She slid a paper place mat in front of me. “Lunch is on there.”
“Oh.” I read the place mat quickly as she breathed heavily. I just didn’t want to eat here. “I’ll have a piece of cherry pie and a cup of coffee.”
Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery Page 13
