Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery

by Christine Wenger

  “It’s your kitchen, Trixie. You should run the meeting,” Jean Harrington, the co-owner of the Gas and Grab on Route 3, said.

  Thankfully, there was a knock on the door, and I hooked Blondie’s leash on her collar. She knew it meant a walk, and she just about jumped out of her fur.

  “That’s Ty Brisco. He’s going to take Blondie,” I explained. “Come in, Ty.”

  The committee members quickly fluffed their hair, applied lipstick, and waited in anticipation for Ty to walk into the kitchen.

  Sheesh.

  “Well, hello, ladies.” Ty tweaked his white cowboy hat with his thumb and finger.

  Yes, his jeans were perfect, his snakeskin boots were polished, and he was wearing the hell out of a brown suede bomber jacket that probably was as soft as it looked. And his eyes were as blue as Lake Ontario on a clear summer day.

  Not that I noticed.

  I handed him Blondie’s leash, and he leaned over and whispered, “Bad meeting?”

  “The worst.”

  He winked. “I’ll keep Blondie for the rest of the day. I think I’ll go for a jog.”

  “Good-bye, Deputy,” said Kathy Prellman, the owner of an auto-repair shop. Kathy could take apart a motor and put it back together again, and she looked like a swimsuit model. Actually, she still modeled for the Ford Models agency in New York City from time to time. She was going to be the head Salmon judge.

  “See you, Kathy. Ladies.” He tweaked his hat again, and we all watched him walk away.

  “Nice butt,” ACB said, expressing what we were all thinking.

  “Let’s get down to business,” I said. “I’m sure that we all have things to do, so let’s rock.”

  I decided that I’d lead the meeting after all, because I had to cook at the diner in about ten hours, and I needed to get some sleep.

  “We need to discuss accommodations for the out-of-town contestants. I understand from Antoinette Chloe that there are twelve contestants who need a place to stay for a week or so before the Miss Salmon pageant to practice routines with Margie Grace. I’ve volunteered to house them all here. This house. They’ll have to double or triple up. Antoinette Chloe will move in to help me and to chaperone. She will prepare breakfast and lunch for them. They can walk over to the Silver Bullet for dinner.”

  “What will be the charge for dinner?” Kathy asked.

  “I didn’t think of that,” I said honestly.

  “I’ll cover the cost,” ACB said. “I should have thought about the lack of accommodations in town when we decided to go forward with this idea.”

  There were protests around the table, and it was finally decided that we’d charge the contestants a minimal amount and ACB could cover the rest.

  More items were raised, and Margie Grace agreed to put together a dance that would signify the importance of salmon to Sandy Harbor. Again, that was ACB’s idea, and when I glanced at Margie’s notes, I saw a doodling of two rows of fish heads complete with legs and arms.

  I could just imagine the contestants wearing salmon heads and tap-dancing or doing a kick line.

  We accomplished a lot more, including accommodating the five contestants from the Sandy Harbor Golden Age Apartments. All five were in wheelchairs and they called themselves the Wheeling Grannies. We were proud of the fact that the Miss Salmon pageant was open to all ages eighteen and up, and Margie Grace assured us that she’d be able to work them into her program.

  I brought up a few more items—an emcee for the event was one of them. Several names were hashed around, including Antoinette Chloe, Ty Brisco, Reverend Clem Reynolds of St. Luke’s of the Lake, and Chef Nick Brownelli.

  The mention of Nick’s name sent ACB into a fit of hysterics, then rage.

  The alarmed committee members voted for ACB to be emcee, probably just to shut her up—which worked, I might add. She turned into a ray of sunshine, giddy with being selected. As she talked about designing a formal muumuu for the event and decorating new flip-flops, one by one the committee members put their dishes into the sink and backed out of the kitchen to the front door.

  As I walked them out, all of them expressed concern for Antoinette Chloe and her mental health. Kathy, Pam, and Margie were at the Silver Bullet when ACB shouted Nick’s name and violently stabbed her side order of sausage. It had left them quite shaken and worried.

  After everyone else left, I sat down across from Antoinette Chloe at the table and took a deep breath. I might as well jump in with what I had to say.

  “Antoinette Chloe, do you think you might need someone to talk to? How about seeing a counselor or Reverend Clem or someone?”

  She raised a penciled eyebrow. “What for?”

  I put my hand over hers. “Maybe you can talk about Sal and how you feel about his incarceration.”

  “He tried to kill me. How do you think I feel?”

  “I know, sweetie.” And, trust me, I did. Sal tried to kill me, too. However, I pressed on. “But maybe you could talk about Nick? You said that you were lonely without both of them. And then you stabbed the sausage when you thought about Nick. You seemed pretty mad.”

  “I’m definitely mad, Trixie. And I’m feeling sad and lonely and betrayed, and all because of the Brownelli brothers. But why should I go to a counselor? I have you to talk to.” She studied a huge purple ring. “And I have to keep busy: the Miss Salmon pageant, for one, and I have to get Brown’s remodeled—yep, I’m going to do that—and then there’s the drive-in. I want to break ground on that soon. Hopefully next Thursday.”

  “You are definitely going to be busy.” That was good for a person like ACB.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Can you fit a counselor in?” I patted her hand.

  “Like I said, I have you!” She squeezed my fingers and then stood and stretched. “How about going to Nick’s house with me? Maybe there’s something I missed. Something that would give me a clue as to where he went.”

  “So, you’re not going to a real counselor and you are still going to search for Nick?”

  “Yes to both. So, will you come with me to Nick’s house?”

  “Now?”

  She nodded.

  I looked at the clock on my wall. I guess I didn’t need all that much sleep. “Let’s go, Antoinette Chloe.”

  “I’ll drive,” she said.

  “Let’s both drive. I don’t want you to have to come back here to drop me off.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll meet you at Nick’s. He’s at 1302 Third Street, and I have the key.”

  I gave her the thumbs-up sign, but I had a queasy feeling in my stomach. She was a friend, though, so I grabbed my purse, slipped into my yellow raincoat and headed for my boring gray car to spy on ACB’s boyfriend, the brother of her incarcerated husband.

  * * *

  Nick’s house on Main Street was a cute Craftsman bungalow. It reminded me of a cartoon house with windows that looked like two eyes; the roof seemed like it was wearing a beret, and the front porch could be its teeth.

  I stared at the house, willing it to talk like a cartoon and give up its secrets.

  ACB was already there, as the front screen door was open and banging on the side of the house in the wind.

  Walking up the stairs, I cautiously stepped over the threshold as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. No wonder ACB left the door open.

  “Antoinette Chloe? I’m here.”

  “I’m in the bedroom.”

  I half expected to see Nick’s body on the floor at my feet. I don’t know why. Maybe it was due to Deputy Doug and all his cop stories. Or maybe it was because I was addicted to all the cop shows with or without initials.

  Hearing a sob, my heart pounded louder. “Hello? Antoinette Chloe?”

  I followed the sobbing down the hall and came to what had to be Nick’s bedroom. It was a mixture of cooking-r
elated items and motorcycle paraphernalia. There were paintings and framed photos of plates of meat right next to various blueprints of motorcycles. There was a display of chef hats in various shades of yellowing, along with a rack of motorcycle bandannas and caps.

  His bedspread and curtains went with the motorcycle theme. His rugs had the name CHEF NICK’S—BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

  I wanted to ask ACB when Nick had his own restaurant. But now was not the time to ask her anything. She was sitting on the bed, hugging a black T- shirt to her chest.

  “This is Nick’s,” she said. “I remember when he wore it. We were riding with the Rubbers.”

  “The what? The who?”

  She turned the shirt around for me to see. “Roving Rubbers, 2013 Ride-a-lot Against Cancer,” I read aloud.

  “I remember this day.” ACB looked up at the Harley-Davidson ceiling fan. Her pale blue eyes pooled with unshed tears. “I was riding in Nick’s sidecar, and he kept smiling down at me. We had these helmets that were connected by wire, so we could talk. But we didn’t need to talk. His big brown eyes told me everything. They told me that he loved me. Why would he leave me without a word, Trixie?”

  “I don’t know, Antoinette Chloe. That’s why we’re here. To find out what’s going on. If Nick loved you like you think he did, then maybe he left you a note or something.”

  She raised her hands in frustration. “I looked for a note the last time I was here.”

  “Maybe it slipped behind something. Maybe it slipped under the fridge or an end table. Come on. Dry your eyes, and let’s look around.”

  The red bandanna appeared in a flash, and ACB dried her eyes and blew her nose. In another flash of red, the bandanna disappeared again.

  “Let’s rock and roll, Trixie.”

  Finally, ACB was back from the land of the lovelorn and ready for action. “Let’s search the kitchen first,” I suggested. “That’s where I’d leave a note.”

  For a man who always looked unshaven and grubby whenever I’d seen him, Nick was an immaculate housekeeper. Not a fork was out of place. Not a fragment of uncooked spaghetti was on the floor. Not a piece of eggshell was left on the stove. His stainless-steel fridge didn’t have one magnet on it or one fingerprint.

  And there wasn’t a note to be found anywhere.

  “Trixie, let’s try the living room.”

  The living room was sloppier. There was a Harley blanket draped over the couch, which was a little crooked. Oh, and the lines of his vacuum cleaner were not all going in the same direction. What a slob!

  No note. No tablet. No laptop. No cell phone. There was nothing electronic that we could check for a clue. A Harley calendar had nothing written on it except an entry for two days ago that said Doc Stanley. Noon.

  “Who’s Doc Stanley?” I asked.

  “Dentist. He’s on Seventh North Street in that ugly building that our not so beloved Mayor Tingsley owns.”

  “How about calling Doc Stanley? Find out if Nick went to his appointment.”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” ACB was already punching in numbers on her cell phone. I heard her ask if Nick Brown or Nick Brownelli had seen Dr. Stanley on Tuesday.

  It didn’t take long before she shook her head and mouthed the word no. She clicked off her phone and it disappeared into her muumuu. No wonder she never carried a purse.

  I shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  “Nick would never miss a dental appointment. He took great pride in the fact that all his teeth were his—no bridges, no caps, no root canals. He’s had just a handful of cavities.”

  ACB walked over to the couch and slid off the Harley blanket. She put it around her and flopped down on a brown recliner next to the couch. This must have been her spot when they were watching TV. She started drifting off into her memories again, and I quickly realized I was losing her.

  “And my Nick had a great smile. It was like Sal’s, but when Nick smiled, little dimples appeared. I loved to watch for those dimples. And his teeth were such a brilliant white. You know, Trixie, they reminded me of Ty Brisco’s teeth.”

  That was more than enough dental discussion, but it did remind me that I was long overdue at the dentist myself.

  Time to corral ACB and get her to focus. I needed to get back and get some sleep before my shift, or I’d fall asleep in the dough for the dinner rolls that I planned on making.

  “Let’s search Nick’s garage,” I blurted, startling Antoinette Chloe out of her daydreams.

  She blinked then turned to me. “Excellent. Let’s go.”

  After she locked the front door, we went to his two-car garage. As clean as Nick’s house was, his garage was even cleaner.

  Tools hung on Peg-Board in order of smallest to largest. Little plastic boxes with drawers were labeled: #4 NAILS, HEX BOLTS, WASHERS, FLATHEAD SCREWS, and on it went, cabinet after cabinet. Then the big red metal cabinets began and stood guard all around the circumference of the garage.

  “Antoinette Chloe. Is that Nick’s car?” It was a white Sebring convertible with a black rag top.

  “Yes. And that’s his motorcycle.” She ran her hand lovingly over the black leather seat, then the sidecar.

  “Does he have any other vehicles?”

  “No.” Her eyes grew as wide as my platters at the diner. She knew where I was going with my question.

  “So, if Nick left town, it had to be by some other way. Like what?”

  “Bus,” she said. “But he’d have to get to Watertown or Syracuse to catch a bus. Both are about an hour’s drive away. If he took a plane, he’d have to do the same thing.”

  She continued. “Nick would never take a bus. He hated them. The same with a plane. He said they’re both too confining. So is a car, but he always rolled down the windows and the top, rain or shine or blizzard.”

  “And did you notice that he didn’t . . . uh . . . disconnect the sidecar? I think he was still planning on riding with you.”

  “Oh, Trixie! Oh! I think you’re right!”

  I looked into the sidecar, not really expecting to see a note from Nick, but stranger things have happened. The metal floor looked like Nick had even shined it up, and there wasn’t a blade of grass, a leaf, or a grain of sand to disturb the mirror finish.

  “Sorry, Antoinette Chloe. No note.”

  She shook her head. “I just don’t know where he went. I think he would have told me.”

  “We can always search more at another time. Maybe you’ll think of something that he told you that you’ve forgotten about.”

  “Maybe . . . but I’ve racked my brain already.”

  We walked to the door, and I waited until she locked it. “I have to get some sleep before I drop in my tracks.”

  “I have to see how my new chef is doing, and make some phone calls,” she said. “Thanks for coming here with me, Trix. You’re a real pal.”

  “Anytime. You know that.”

  “Thanks. I don’t have too many friends, but you are at the top of my list.”

  She gathered me up into a great bear hug, and I tried not to gasp for breath from either my lungs being squished or the fog of scents.

  After I could breathe again, I hugged her back with equal enthusiasm.

  “See you later, Antoinette Chloe.”

  “Later.”

  “If you remember anything about Nick that will help us locate him, give me a shout.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  “Do we have any pickled eyeballs?” Barb Hern was subbing tonight as a waitress on the graveyard shift. That was my usual shift.

  “We do. How many would you like?”

  “A dozen. We have some fisherman out front who said that they’ve heard that your pickled eyeballs are the best.”

  I pulled out a gallon jug of my hard-boiled, pickled eggs from the fridge.
They were a perfect dark pink color because they had been soaked in beet juice.

  Putting them all in a pretty bowl lined with endive, I rang the bell for pickup. Barb returned with more orders. I checked the wheel. Most of them were for the haddock special, but several were breakfast orders: omelets, pancakes, various toasts, eggs, muffins, and quiches.

  I got to work doing the Silver Bullet Shuffle, a type of dance that reminded me of being in the chorus line of Sister Mary Mary’s fourth-grade play.

  I leaped to the fridge, twirled to the Ferris wheel toaster, and spun to the steam table.

  The fried fish were floating in the oil, which meant they were done. I plated them and added a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, unless they had asked for fries. I had the fries bubbling in another fryer, out of the way of the fish.

  Soon the last order was completed, and I rang the brass ship’s bell that signaled Barb that her orders were done.

  Barb pushed through the double doors and picked up her order that I’d put on big oval tray for her.

  Several hours of twirling and leaping later, I heard the back door squeak open, and my morning chef, Juanita Holgado, entered the kitchen.

  “Hola, Trixie. Good morning. Sorry I’m a little late.”

  “I didn’t notice, but hola and adios, Juanita. The kitchen is all yours. You’ll see that I made pea soup for the soup of the day and that dinner rolls are on the racks.”

  “I could smell the fresh bread from the parking lot. Delicious.”

  “The daily special is—”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs. Go. I can take over.”

  As I took off my apron, I ticked off a bunch of things I needed to do today. First, I wanted to pick up Blondie from Ty and head home. If I was going to house a dozen or so beauty-queen wannabes—and, yes, that included ACB—I’d better do some serious cleaning.

  I saw Ty and Blondie jogging around the grounds. She looked so beautiful with her tail wagging and her blond hair shining in the morning sun.

  Ty didn’t look so bad himself. It was cool this morning—about sixty degrees—and he was in navy blue sweats. His long strides looked effortless.