A Second Helping of Murder (4 page)

I had a craving for my grandma Matyjasik's Easter babka.

I heard another clap of thunder, but this sounded different from the usual. It sounded more like a . . . sharp, quick blast . . . um . . . like a gunshot.

But that was ridiculous.

Clearly the murder mystery tour group was getting to my head.

The motion lights that hung from my wraparound porch flashed on. Through the curtain of rain, I could see some kind of movement by Cottage Eight. Was it someone running?

The first person I thought of was David Burrows.

Why would David Burrows be running in the foul weather?

He didn't want to leave his cottage, for heaven's sake—it couldn't be him.

I didn't know why, but I felt the need to check.

I ran a brush through my hair and slipped Uncle Porky's yellow raincoat over my nightshirt. I couldn't stand the thought of putting on my wet sneaks and went outside in my bare feet instead, sliding on the squishy, muddy grass.

In the distance, I thought I heard a car start up, but no lights flashed on in my parking lot. Strange.

The door to Cottage Eight was ajar, and the lights weren't on inside.

I pushed on the door. “Mr. Burrows? Mr. Burrows, are you okay?”

There was no answer, so I flicked on the switch at the side of the door.

Mr. Burrows lay on his back. Spreading onto his blue-striped pajamas, in the middle of his chest, was a circle of red blood.

His ice blue eyes were open, and they stared up at me, blank, lifeless.

I knew he was dead.

I screamed so loudly that I scared myself. Then I screamed again and again. I had to be heard over the thunder because I couldn't move. Whoever came to investigate would have to peel my cold, bare feet off the wooden floor and push me out the door.

While I waited, I tried not to look at Mr. Burrows, but I did register that the cottage was in shambles. Mr. Burrow's typewriter was on the floor, upside down. There were no signs of the scrapbook that I'd seen earlier, no sign of any paper or typewritten pages.

“Freeze! Get your hands in the air! Now!”

“I'm already frozen, Ty!”

It was Ty Brisco, of the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department, and in his hand was a big black gun.

“Trixie?”

“Thank goodness! Ty, get me out of here. I can't seem to move.”

He whistled, long and low. He lowered his gun to point at the floor but didn't make a move to put it away.

“Ty, for heaven's sake, put your gun away. I didn't kill Mr. Burrows!”

H
e finally holstered his gun and squatted down on the side of Mr. Burrows. He put two fingers behind the man's ear, probably to find a pulse.

Good luck.

“I was at the diner, and thought I heard a gunshot,” he said. “I went outside, wondering where to go first in the pouring rain, and then I heard you scream. I think you scared the bats away. I had to leave my hot roast beef sandwich with the candied apples and stuffing on the side. Delicious.”

How could the man blithely talk about food as he was crouching over a man's dead, bloody body?

“That's nice, Ty. Glad you liked today's special.” I shook my head. “Now, will you get me out of here?”

“Did you touch anything, Trixie?”

“I didn't even scratch my nose.”

“You're free to go, Trixie. I'll question you later at the diner.”

“I. Can't. Move.”

Mr. Burrows was still looking at me. There'd be no more deliveries to Cottage Eight. No more tiptoeing around him. No more detouring of bus people. No more of his crankiness.

I took a deep breath. “First, Claire Jacobson disappeared from Cottage Eight. Now Mr. Burrows dies in the same cottage. Everyone thinks that it's either jinxed or haunted. I should just level it.”

“Mr. Burrows didn't just die. He was murdered, Trixie.”

“Sorry. I stand corrected. And I'm still standing in the same spot, I'd like to add.”

Ty started to dial his cell phone. “Huh?”

“It's not important.” My legs and feet were numb.

Ty called the other two members of the sheriff's department to the scene. Then he punched in another set of numbers.

“Hal, it's Ty Brisco. We need you and your coroner skills over at Trixie's cottages. Number Eight. And hurry, please.”

More numbers were punched. I could guess by the conversation that he'd contacted the New York State Police Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

My property was going to be crawling with law enforcement types, and other than poor Mr. Burrows, the first thing I thought of was feeding and watering them!

I needed to call Cindy and ask her to put on
more coffee and set out more pies, cakes, and pastries in the pastry carousel out front.

“Ty, I have to get to the diner. It's my shift.”

“Sure. Go ahead. We'll talk later.” He switched the light on in the bathroom. “Nothing disturbed in here. Matter of fact, Burrows was quite neat.”

“Ty, give me a push.” I still couldn't take my eyes off Mr. Burrows's eyes. He was still staring at me as if he was trying to tell me something. What?

Something about his icy blue eyes seemed so familiar, but I couldn't think. Not now.

Ty did better than give me a push; he gathered me into a big hug. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“Don't worry. This won't hurt your business. It might increase it. People like to rubberneck, you know.”

“Ty, I'm not that shallow,” I said into the shoulder of his damp New York Giants Windbreaker. “I'm not worried about my business. I'm worried about finding Mr. Burrows's killer. And Claire Jacobson's killer.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I go into cop mode and don't pay attention to the rest of the world.”

“And here's my statement: I thought I heard a gunshot. My outside sensor light went on, and I saw a movement from my upstairs bathroom window. It looked like someone running away. Then I heard a car start, but it didn't come from my
parking lot. Then I saw that the door to Cottage Eight was partially open. I walked in to investigate, turned the light on, and I've been standing in this exact same spot since. End of my statement.”

Ty rubbed my back, just a couple of circles, but it felt so good, so calming, and I needed that. At least for a moment it seemed that he'd stepped out of cop mode and realized I was feeling upset. I leaned in closer . . . but a flash of red and white lights had Ty stepping back and hustling out of the cottage to direct the investigation.

There I stood, just Mr. Burrows and me. Alone again.

“Mr. Burrows, you're the first real tenant of my Sandy Harbor Housekeeping Cottages, and I'm sorry this happened to you. I'll find out who shot you. I will. I promise.”

I was able to move now. I stepped out of the infamous Cottage Eight with one bare foot in front of the other and dodged my way through a sea of cops back to the Big House. Ty had obviously spoken up on my behalf as an innocent bystander.

I needed shoes and something to wear other than my nightshirt.

Yeah, it was going to be a long night, but I was going to work on my plan of action. I did my best thinking when I cooked and my absolute best planning when I baked.

Tonight—well, this morning—I was going to do both.

*   *   *

I should have known better than to try to bake. I must have given my statement one million times to one million cops.

Okay, three times. I gave it three times, and then I had to promise to go to the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department just as soon as my shift was over.

Ty was going to type it in the computer then.

Sheesh. From past experience, I knew how he typed—with two fingers and one thumb. It'd be like medieval torture. Maybe I could talk him into letting me type it.

Until then, I saw to it that the cops were never without strong, hot coffee and sweets.

They had to be wired. I certainly was.

In between orders, I couldn't stay away from the kitchen window that overlooked the Big House and the cottages. I had to wipe off the condensation to get a good view of what was happening.

The various sheriffs, troopers, and other people for evidence gathering and whatnot milled around the grounds and the diner, clustered in groups or huddled like a football team. They all wore a type of rain bonnet on their hats, and when they dipped their heads at huddle time, it must have seemed like Niagara Falls.

I couldn't help looking for Ty to see what he was doing. He always seemed to be the tallest and definitely the one with the most defined swagger. I knew from TV shows and spending too much time with Ty over coffee that it was standard procedure for the first officer to arrive at a crime scene
to be charged with protecting that crime scene, and Ty would take his charge very seriously.

Thank goodness, I didn't touch a thing. I was too busy acting like petrified wood.

I called Ty on his cell phone. In spite of the fact that my ex-husband was the least faithful man on the planet, he'd taught me that law enforcement had a really difficult job. I could see in the slump of his shoulders when he returned from a very horrible crime scene. I could see the pain etched on his face when he dealt with child abuse, and I could tell the weariness in his bones when he had to be outside in cold, rainy, or snowy weather. He was always grateful for a hot drink in cold weather and a cold drink in the blazing sun. So I tried to help the cops out with food-and-drink appreciation as much as possible.

“Ty, I know you're busy, but pass the word to everyone that the hot roast beef special is free to everyone as soon as they have time. If they want to order off the menu instead, it'll be half price.”

“Okay. I'll let them know.”

“Can I ask how it's going?”

“The BCI boys are taking pictures now. Just as soon as they are done, Hal Manning can . . . uh . . . do his thing. I gotta go, Trixie.”

“Sure. Okay,” I said, but he was gone.

I felt queasy when Ty said that Hal Manning was going to do “his thing.” Hal's “thing” would be to take the body away and do an autopsy.

Anyone with half a brain would know that Mr. Burrows died from a bullet to the chest at close range.

Oh! I wondered what Hal's findings had been when he autopsied Claire Jacobson.

Maybe I could get the results out of Ty—or maybe even Hal himself. His new girlfriend, who was the new editor of the
Lure
, the one who'd written the story on Claire, was rumored to have loosened Hal's lips in more than one way.

Just then, Bettylou, the waitress on duty with Nancy, walked in. “Someone in the diner wants to talk to you. Her name is Joan Paris, and she's the new editor of the
Lure
.”

I was just thinking of her!

“What does she want with me?”

“She said that she heard you were the one who discovered Mr. Burrows.” Bettylou shuddered.

The first thing I'd learned when I moved from Philly to little Sandy Harbor was that news travels faster than a speeding bullet in Sandy Harbor.

A speeding bullet? Eew!

I finished off the order for two triple-decker club sandwiches and heaped a bunch of homemade potato chips that I'd just fried in the middle of the plate. I speared the sandwich wedges with fancy toothpicks, positioned them around the chips, and added a radish rose and a sliced dill pickle to the plate.

Very nice.

Wiping my hands, I walked out to meet Joan Paris. She was the only woman with a briefcase at the counter.

“Joan?” I asked.

“Yes.” She held out her hand to shake mine. “And you must be Trixie Matkowski.”

“Guilty.” Oh, bad word choice again. I blamed the lack of sleep.

Her smile didn't quite ring true, but I took a seat next to her. I didn't want to say anything until I cleared it with Ty. Actually I didn't want to be quoted in the
Lure
at all.

But then again, Joan might have some current information about Claire that maybe she'd slip in during the interview.

“Welcome to Sandy Harbor, Joan. I'm fairly new here, too. This is my first summer as the owner of the Silver Bullet and the cottages.”

“I haven't even been here long enough to publish my second issue and already two dead bodies have turned up. After working at the
New York Post
, I thought this job would be like a vacation. Instead Sandy Harbor is like Sandy Horror.”

I tried not to crack a smile, I really did, but I couldn't help myself. It felt wonderful to release some tension. We laughed together. Then I felt it was my duty to say that Sandy Harbor was actually a beautiful town with lovely people, and this was just an unfortunate coincidence.

“So, tell me what happened tonight,” she said. “Starting with how you discovered the body.”

“How about a cup of coffee, Joan? Or a soft drink? Maybe cocoa or tea?” I motioned to Bettylou.

“I'd love some tea,” she said.

Bettylou stood before us. “What can I get you ladies?” She poured me a cup of coffee without me even asking her, pulled out two creamers from the pocket of her apron, and moved the sugar dispenser closer to me. A good diner employee remembers how you like your coffee.

“I'd love a cup or a pot of black tea,” Joan said. “Even though it's pretty cozy in here, my feet are soaked and I'm chilled to the bone.”

“Coming right up,” Bettylou said. “How about a slice of banana cream pie? It's homemade by our Amish friend Mrs. Stolfus.”

“I'd love it,” Joan said.

I took a sip of coffee. It was like the mud at the bottom of the nearby swamp. The cops would love it. Ty would be thrilled since he took his coffee hot and thick. See what I mean about a good diner employee?

“So thick that a horseshoe could float on top,” Ty always said.

“Make it two slices of pie, Bettylou,” I said.

Joan and I sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then I decided to jump in with both feet. “Claire Jacobson was a friend of mine. I always wondered what happened to her. You did a great research article about her in the paper.”

“Thank you.”

“Did Hal finish his autopsy?” I asked.

She nodded. “Since the remains were so old, he worked with the state police to confirm his findings.”

“Are you going to put the findings in the paper?”

“I can't just yet.”

“You mean I have to wait longer still? I really want to know.” And I did. When God passed out patience, I was too impatient to wait in line. Maybe I could turn on the charm.

Bettylou took that moment to deliver our pie and Joan's pot of tea. Joan dug right in.

“I can't remember the last time I ate today,” she said.

Can't remember the last time she ate? Was she some kind of alien or did she have an eating disorder? I never, ever forgot a meal.

“For heaven's sake, let me make you something. I don't want you to pass out.”

“No. The pie will be fine, but thanks for worrying about me.” She leaned close to me. “Claire Jacobson was shot.”

Even though I was fishing for information from Joan, I wasn't prepared for that.

“Shot, huh?” I mumbled. “Just like Mr. Burrows.”

“Oh, Mr. Burrows was shot, too?”

Dammit. I had a big mouth, but she'd probably discover that herself, probably tonight, since she was dating Hal.

I nodded. “Yes. He was shot in the chest, but don't quote me, Joan. Let Hal or someone official tell you.”

“Of course.” She took a mouthful of banana cream pie. “This is delicious.”

“I know, but I can't take the credit for it.”

“I saw your ad in the
Lure
. You feature Amish-made baked goods. I like to support the Amish. I used to live by them in Lancaster. Some of my good friends are Amish.”

“One of my good friends who I met here, Sarah Stolfus, bakes for us. And I bake, too. And so does Juanita Holgado. And Cindy makes delicious cinnamon rolls. We do everything here, but we are also an outlet for Mrs. Stolfus's goods.”

“Nice.”

“And I try to use local produce and dairy products.”

Joan took out a pen and scribbled something on a steno pad. “I'm going to do a story about that.”

How did we get so far away from Claire Jacobson, and how do I turn the conversation back?

“Joan, I can't help wondering how Hal managed to discover that Claire was shot so long ago.”