Macaroni and Freeze

by Christine Wenger

  “Priscilla didn’t pick either one of you.”

  “That’s because Petey never told Priscilla,” Kip said. “And she picked Jean Williams.”

  “So Jean never paid you anything?” I asked Peter.

  He shook his head. “She refused.”

  “Then she won fair and square,” I said, relieved. Then it hit me. “Peter, how many other contestants paid you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Tell me, Peter! This was my contest, and my good name is on it!” Okay, it was mine, the town’s, Megan’s and a zillion Tri-Gams’, but I was here, and I was tired and mortified at what they’d done to my friend’s house.

  Peter shrugged. “About two or three more chefs.”

  “And you promised all of them they’d win?”

  “Yeah, but I never figured that anyone would squeal,” Peter snapped. “It’s like admitting they’d bribed a judge.”

  I looked at Antoinette Chloe and she looked at me. Her eyes grew wider than mine.

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Must be we don’t think like crooks,” I replied. Not true. If we got caught by Ty, we were going to lie to him. There had to be some kind of penal law crime that covered that.

  “So, Peter, why don’t you give these gentlemen their money back?” I asked.

  “I can’t believe that I’m sitting here and taking this.”

  He stood to leave, but I whipped out my newly charged phone. I smiled. “Why don’t I just call the Sandy Harbor Sheriff’s Department and let them sort this all out?”

  Peter swore under his breath, but he sat back down.

  “Answer the woman, Petey-boy. Where’s our money?” Kip said.

  He swore again. “It’s gone.”

  ACB raised a black penciled eyebrow. “Ten grand plus more, give or take a lot more? All gone?”

  “There’s no way you can spend all that in Sandy Harbor in four days,” I said. “There’s nothing here to buy for that kind of money. Not even Barney Pardo’s roving car lot has cars for that much money.”

  “He gambled it away,” Walton said. “Or it went to pay the debts he already had.”

  “My ex-husband had a gambling habit,” ACB said. “He’s in state prison now. Well, actually, he’s not exactly in there for gambling, but he had a gambling problem—and a girlfriend problem.”

  I nodded to Antoinette Chloe, and she nodded back. Then I decided that her statement deserved a high five.

  And a low five.

  And a butt bump.

  And snapping of fingers.

  When we were finished, we turned back to the chefs and Peter.

  I scanned the three of them. “How about picking up and cleaning up Antoinette Chloe’s house? Then you can each contribute . . . um . . . fifty dollars for the damages.” I turned to ACB. “Is that enough?”

  “Thirty dollars each should do it,” she said.

  “Just like I said. I want you each to pay fifty dollars.” I held out my hand. “I’ll collect the money.”

  “What about our money from Peter?” Kip asked.

  “I told you that when Priscilla’s estate is settled, I’ll pay you back,” Peter said through gritted teeth.

  “And what makes you think you’re going to get money from her estate for sure?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Tell her what you told us, Petey-boy,” Kip said, making a show of cracking his knuckles.

  Petey-boy definitely noticed and heard the knuckles cracking, just like Kip meant him to.

  “Cilla told me I was her sole heir and that I was going to be CEO of her company when she passed away.”

  “So you mean that when Priscilla died, it was all going to be yours?” I asked Peter.

  “That’s what he told us when we were beating the snot out of him.”

  “This conversation is over. Let’s get out of here, Kip.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go. Let Petey-boy clean up.”

  They handed over fifty bucks each and scurried out of ACB’s house as fast as they could.

  I stood in front of Peter, hands on hips. “Being in debt as much as you are because of gambling and you wanting to hurry and settle your stepmummy’s estate makes you look kind of guilty, doesn’t it?”

  He stared at his hands.

  “What about you answering that question, Peter?” ACB said.

  “As I told that cowboy cop, I liked Cilla. I’d never kill her.”

  “Not even for her estate?”

  “Of course not.” He stood and straightened out the rug. Then he stared at me. “I’ve been in worse straits, and I’ve always managed to come out smelling like a rose.”

  “Roses do grow best in manure,” ACB mumbled.

  “Look, Priscilla was my father’s third or fourth wife. Who can keep track? But she was by far the richest. And she was very generous to us both. You see, neither my father nor I liked to work, but we have several vices, and Priscilla didn’t mind bailing us out. All we had to do was treat her good. That’s about all she wanted, and she showered us with money. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  Ugh!

  I couldn’t believe he’d said that. Even though Priscilla Finch-Smythe wasn’t my favorite person, she didn’t deserve that kind of talk.

  That was another reason to hurry this investigation: to get Peter out of my sweet town.

  Chapter 11

  I couldn’t sleep all night. Who can sleep when there’s a murder to solve and scenes from yesterday keep playing over and over in his head?

  Of course, just as I closed my eyes, I awoke to Antoinette Chloe singing a country-western song—something about a bar, and drinking beer, and dancing the night away to a sad tune.

  Seems as though I’ve heard that one before.

  I dragged myself out of bed, stood under a cold shower, and got dressed. As we were drinking coffee and making toast downstairs, I realized that I was kind of nervous to meet Stan the Bookie at the Silver Bullet.

  But I didn’t have to worry.

  Stan the Bookie was sitting in the fifth booth from the front. I knew it was him because he didn’t look anything like what I expected him to look like—which was a black-suited, heavy man wearing a fedora with a red carnation in his lapel and a wet cigar stub in his mouth.

  Instead Stan wore a royal-blue jogging suit with black stripes down the sleeves, and he was drinking a large glass of orange juice.

  “Stan, I’m Trixie, and this is a friend of mine, Antoinette Chloe—”

  “Brownelli,” he finished. “How ya doin’, Ant’net Chloe?”

  “Hi, Stan.”

  “How’s the old man doing in Auburn Pen?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  “He shouldn’t have tried to kill you.”

  “No kidding, Stan.”

  “Sit down, ladies. Breakfast is on me,” he said.

  “Did you place my bet, Stan?” I asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then don’t do it. I don’t really want to bet. I wanted to meet you and ask you a few questions about Peter McCall.”

  He shrugged. “Go ahead. He’s scum in my book.”

  “He owes you half a mil. Who else does he owe?”

  “Too many to count. From what I know, he’s cut off from the biggies.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” I said, winking at Nancy, who poured ACB and me coffee.

  Stan declined. “No coffee for me, miss. I’m not putting any chemicals into my body.”

  “Are you ready to order?” Nancy asked.

  “I’ll have the eggs Benedict,” I said.

  “The lumberjack special for me,” ACB said. “With the eggs over light and rye toast.”

  “Oatmeal with granola and a banana,” Stan said.


  Nancy flipped over her pad. “Thank you very much. Coming right up.”

  “What else can you tell us about Peter?” ACB asked.

  “He keeps telling everyone that they’ll get their money back when his stepmother’s estate is settled. She’s Priscilla Finch-Smythe, you know.”

  “I know,” I said.

  ACB stirred her coffee. “Can you tell us anything else about Peter? Do you know him well?”

  “Well enough. Enough to say that he’s desperate. Very desperate. And a desperate man will do anything to get out of the bind he’s in. My pals want their dough, and Peter had better produce it, and soon.”

  “Or?” I asked, as Nancy arrived with our orders.

  He picked up a spoon. “That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

  Stan kept up a nice chatter throughout our breakfast, and it seemed as if we’d known him forever.

  “By the way, why are you so interested in Peter?” he asked as we were finishing up the last bites on our plates.

  “Just curious,” ACB said. “He’s staying in my guest room because he was told not to leave town.”

  “Ah, I did hear he was a suspect in Priscilla Finch-Smythe’s murder.”

  ACB nodded.

  He shook his head. “Poor woman.” Standing, he peeled off some bills from a folded wad of money.

  “Oh, no, Stan. It’s on me. I own the Silver Bullet.”

  He grinned. “I know.” He tossed the bills on the table anyway and left.

  I looked at ACB. “Whew! I’m glad that’s over.”

  “He’s an interesting man. I wonder if he’s single.”

  * * *

  Back at the Big House, ACB and I were greeted by Ty beeping the horn of his black monolith of a SUV. Time for grocery shopping, I guessed.

  Jill and I and ACB emerged from our dwellings. More snow had fallen—about two more inches—and Max and Clyde hadn’t yet worked their way down to Priscilla’s motor home or to the Big House.

  I hadn’t had a chance to make them the pies they liked yet, but I’d given them a winter raise, which they would see in their next paycheck.

  If Ty hadn’t glued me to ACB, I’d have made a break for it to do some retail-shopping therapy. Or maybe I’d find a quiet corner in one of the several bedrooms of the Big House, and sleep, read, or do one of the several things that I needed to catch up on.

  Maybe I could bow out of the grocery-shopping expedition and ask ACB to come clothes shopping with me. We could sneak out while Ty was busy working on the case.

  I kept thinking of what Peter said the night before, and I desperately wanted to ask Jill about Priscilla’s estate. Jill was Priscilla’s assistant, after all, and was on the front line of her business and personal activities, so I needed to talk to her again.

  But I didn’t know how much I could get out of her with Ty around. If Jill was hiding something or had good information, I was sure she wouldn’t talk with Wyatt Earp pushing a grocery cart next to hers.

  I was positive that Ty had already officially questioned her. Not that he’d tell me anything, of course, so I’d just have to glean interesting tidbits from Jill myself.

  If the grocery trip was a bust, I’d invite Jill over for a nice visit with ACB and me.

  Ty was in good spirits as we climbed in. ACB and I immediately took the backseat, careful not to spill our thermal coffee cups, which left the front seat for Jill.

  Ty was pouring on the cowboy charm this morning, and Jill just loved it.

  “Ladies, it’s a pleasure to be around such beauty on this fine morning.”

  “Why, thank you, Ty,” ACB said.

  “Yes. Thank you, Ty.” Jill’s fresh face glowed under her perfect makeup. She licked her fuchsia-stained lips. She was really a perfect ten.

  “Giddyap, Ty. You’re burning daylight,” I said.

  “Aww . . . Trixie. Always a ray of sunshine in the morning,” he chided.

  Did my crankiness show?

  I was usually sleeping in the morning due to cooking the graveyard shift. This morning I felt like a vampire. And the sun was giving me a headache.

  I took a gulp of coffee. Maybe I just needed more caffeine.

  Let Ty live with the always-cheerful, constantly chatting, flip-flop-snapping, perfume cloud of a person, Antoinette Chloe Brown.

  The sooner I solved this mystery, the sooner my friend would hit the road and the sooner Jill Marley would remove that forty-foot rock-star motor home from my parking lot.

  Then maybe I could stop getting sideways glances from some of the villagers who thought I’d choked Priscilla with her own scarf.

  Ty turned onto Route 3. The Gas and Grab was straight ahead about six miles down the road.

  It was a small grocery store with a terrific deli counter in the back, run by Adam and Gail Bolton. They had a good variety of cold cuts and salads. In the front were the usual grocery items. Around the perimeter there were clothing, household supplies, feed and grain for every barnyard and domestic animal, knickknacks and souvenirs with the Sandy Harbor logo, and a post office.

  While I ordered from Sunshine Foods, a local wholesale place, for the diner, I loved to support small-business owners for my personal needs as much as possible.

  Ty, ACB, and I grabbed royal-blue plastic shopping baskets, whereas Jill pushed a grocery cart, loading it up with cans of veggies, soups, and fruit. She had a couple loaves of artisan breads and rolls, butter, cream cheese, and the like.

  “Jill, if you’re in the market for local cheese, this Salmon River Fishermen’s Cheese is delicious.” I showed her the label on a brick of cheese covered with jumping orange salmon. “It’s made right here.”

  “Okay. I’ll take it.”

  I tossed a brick into her cart. Then I headed straight to the back and had Gail hopping around getting my luncheon meat order ready. “Antoinette Chloe, do you like bologna?”

  “Love it. Especially fried with eggs in the morning.”

  Mmm. That reminded me of my childhood breakfasts at home. Mom would make some cuts in the slices of bologna to get it to lie flat as she was frying it.

  “Yes!” I said enthusiastically. “Let’s have fried bologna for breakfast tomorrow.”

  I ordered a lot more deli items and periodically asked ACB if she liked a certain item, since she was staying at the Big House.

  “Don’t forget that I invited Marylou and Dottie over this afternoon. I can’t remember if I invited them for lunch or just coffee and sweets.”

  “I think you told me lunch.” I’d certainly remember if she mentioned sweets, which were my downfall.

  Then I was groceried out.

  After taking a seat in the mini-café, I poured myself a large cup of pumpkin-spice coffee and waited with my loaded basket until everyone else was done with their shopping.

  There had not been a single opportunity so far to ask Jill any of the questions that had been bouncing around in my mind all night. So when she sat at the café with me, I was more than happy to make small talk with her.

  “Where are you from, Jill?”

  “Prairie, Wisconsin.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty far away from California and Priscilla’s TV show. How did you two meet?”

  “I was an intern at her station. Before that I worked for a small publishing company that specifically published cookbooks. So, you see, I was the natural choice to become Cilla’s assistant.” Jill tossed her full, rich chestnut hair with reddish streaks.

  Involuntarily, my hand went to my hair, which was enhanced every six to eight weeks to my natural blond by Clairol. No gray for me!

  “So you interned for her, and she hired you. That was so perfect. I remember you told me that you don’t cook, but did anyone test any of the recipes that went into Priscilla’s cookbooks?”

  She looked at th
e items in her cart and moved them around. “Some of them. Uh . . . most of them. Priscilla did.”

  “Did she test any of the recipes from her Comforting Comfort Food cookbook—the one the Church of the Covered Dish ladies accused Priscilla of stealing?”

  “Trixie, I don’t know why you are asking me these questions.”

  “Just killing time,” I said. “And making small talk.” Taking a sip of coffee, I slouched in the white plastic chair, trying to look casual. “But I’m sorry if my questions seem too nosy or have offended you. Really.”

  She nodded. “Yes, they do bother me.”

  “Sorry, Jill.” I put my hand over hers. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? It looks like Ty and Antoinette Chloe are buying out the place.”

  “I’d actually love something cold. How about that red stuff that’s dripping down that plastic tank?”

  “You got it!” I jumped up, poured her a tall red drink of unknown content, got her a straw, and placed it down in front of her. “It’s your liver!”

  She laughed, which cleared the air.

  “So, did you like working for Priscilla?” I figured that was a safe question.

  “For the most part. Sometimes she could be quite demanding.”

  “I could tell that about her.”

  She took a sip of the red stuff and seemed to like it.

  “And you were her personal assistant? Her confidante?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure that there were some things that I didn’t know about Cilla’s business, but yes, I pretty much was her personal assistant and confidante.”

  “Did you like her?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “Oh, no! Not at all. I just thought that she was a bit of a diva. You know, like she thought most of the world revolved around her.”

  “It does revolve around her. She’s very popular, you know.”

  “I don’t know if I’d ever want to work with her. You must be a saint, Jill.”

  “Not a saint.” She looked around. “When are those two going to be done? I have some things in my cart that are melting.”