Diners, Drive-Ins, and Death: A Comfort Food Mystery (5 page)

I admired her, and I hoped she knew that.

She broke away from Sal, kissed him on the cheek, and turned to Ty. “Let’s get out of here. I have a bunch of beauty queens to take care of.”

Ty sighed. “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

*   *   *

I was glad when the gate opened, then closed as we were outside the walls of Auburn. Thankfully, the medieval-looking prison with its guard towers, turrets, and razor wire were behind us.

The ride back was uneventful. Once again, ACB was mostly silent and just stared out the window. I could hear her sniff every now and then, and I handed her a pack of tissues from my purse.

“Thanks, girlfriend,” she said, plastering on a few coats of foundation.

“Need anything else, ladies?” Ty asked. “Coffee? A pit stop?”

“I just want to get back to Sandy Harbor,” ACB said. “Prison is too depressing.”

No kidding!

I wanted to get back and see how the Miss
Salmon Committee was taking care of things. They said they’d get the rooms ready for the rest of the contestants who were due to arrive shortly.

“We could always have lunch at the Silver Bullet,” I said. “The specials today are goulash and Spanish rice. Both come with a couple of sides and fresh Italian bread that Juanita makes from scratch.”

“I’ll have to take a rain check. There’s a couple of things I need to do for the case. One of them will be to search Nick’s house. And, Antoinette Chloe, I wish you’d told us sooner that Nick was missing.”

“I do, too. But I thought he was just . . . roving. I never thought that he was dead.” She sniffed. “I think I’ll go to Margie Grace’s with the girls,” ACB said. “Then I’ll stop and see Hal Manning. But thanks for the lunch invitation, Trixie.”

“Do you want me to go with you to Hal’s?” I asked.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Ty dropped us off at the Silver Bullet, where ACB had left her car. She hugged us all and drove away in her van.

“Save me some of that goulash, Trix.” Ty put his hand on my shoulder. “I need to stop in at the office and bring everyone up to speed.”

“Can you bring
me
up to speed?” I asked.

“As to what?”

“As to what you got out of Sal. You were in there with him for a long time before we all met him together.”

“You pretty much know what I know.”

“‘Pretty much’?”

“Trixie, stay out of it. I’ll do my job and you do yours.”

“But ACB is my friend. I want to find out what happened. Maybe then she’ll be able to put everything to rest and move on.”

But from the look he gave me, I knew that he wasn’t going to give up anything. So I waved good-bye as he got into his cop car. Then I went into my diner to see if everything was running smoothly.

And to see if Sarah Stolfus had made a delivery of fruit hand pies.
Cherry, please.

Everything was okay, but Sarah Stolfus hadn’t made her delivery yet. So I began the short walk to the Big House.

Hmm . . . after going to Auburn, a real big house, maybe I shouldn’t call my Victorian the Big House.

Along the way, my cell phone rang. It was Antoinette Chloe.
What on earth?

“Hello?”

“Trixie, I lied to Ty. I’m not going to the Miss Salmon practice now. I’m going back to Nick’s house. I forgot to pick up a couple of things when we were there last. Come with me, please?”

“Do you really need me?” I asked. “Just get your things and get out of there.”

“I can’t stand the thought of going into Nick’s house now that I know that he’s dead.”

There were so many things I needed to do, but nothing was more important than helping a friend—even if it meant going with her into her deceased boyfriend’s house yet again.

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were going through
the front door. ACB ran immediately to the master bedroom. At first glance, it appeared that nothing had been upset, but I knew that Ty and his gang of state police would descend on the place soon.

I followed her.

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out a . . . black leather thong. Her name was tooled on the back strip of leather.

“Where is that camera?” she asked, pulling out dozens of black T-shirts and tossing them on the floor. Finally, she found a small red camera and let out of whoop of excitement.

“A camera?”

She giggled. “I can’t even tell you what naughty pictures are on that camera, but I’m so glad that I found it!”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“In a minute. I want to look at my sidecar and Nick’s bike one more time,” she said. “I’ll take a couple of pictures. You know, for memories.”

“Let’s hurry.”

We went into the garage, and ACB took tons of pictures. Then she froze like a statue and slapped her head.

I was glad that she wasn’t wearing a hat, or it would have flown to the next county.

“I’ll have to sell everything,” she said. “Crap! I never thought of how I’d have to sell Nick’s things. His house, his bike, my sidecar. His convertible. Oh, I forgot about the big shed out back! And look at all these tools and tool cabinets! I’m getting overwhelmed. Who should get the money?
Sal can’t use it where he is. Oh, I guess I can donate the money.”

She was rambling and looked like she was ready to fall apart.

“What about your drive-in, Antoinette Chloe?”

“I don’t know. I lost my enthusiasm for that project. I’ll have to think about it, but for now, I can’t even think about the drive-in. Especially after we found Nick’s . . . body on the land I wanted to build it on.”

“Are you done here?” I asked, concerned that she was going to burst into tears at any moment. “Why don’t you take a break and go back to my house and lie down?”

“I can’t. I have to go to Joan’s office at the
Lure
. I have to put an obituary for Nick in the paper. And I really have to see Hal Manning.”

Hmm . . . maybe Joan had a scoop or two after pillow talk with Hal, although Hal had loose lips even without pillows being involved. A visit to both of them might prove helpful.

“Antoinette Chloe, how about if we work together and find out what happened to Nick?”

“Just what I was thinking. I owe it to Nick to find out who killed him.”

“We still have to take care of the pageant girls, shuttle them around, feed them, and put on the pageant. We both have to cook at our restaurants, too. In between, we’ll have to follow any leads about Nick. Oh, and you have to take care of funeral arrangements. His house and contents can wait for a while, don’t you think?”

What was I doing? I was adding to her anxiety, for heaven’s sake.

“Yes. All that can wait, but Hal Manning can’t. Let’s go, Trixie.”

So we went to Hal’s Happy Repose Funeral Home. His office was very modern, if we were still in the disco era. Shag rugs in various colors covered everything, even the walls. I’d been to calling hours here before, and the room was tasteful and nice, but I’d never been in his lime green shag office.

I wondered where he did his coroner duties.

“Sit down, ladies. Obviously, I know why you’re here.”

Reaching into a small fridge, he pulled out two bottles of water and set them down in front of us. I went for one.

“The world has lost a good man and a good cook,” Hal said.

“Chef,” ACB corrected.

“Chef,” Hal repeated. “It was a shame that he had to die that way.”

ACB dabbed at her nose with a yellow bandanna. “What way, Hal?”

Hal hesitated just a second, but I pushed.

“I think that Antoinette Chloe has a right to know, Hal. They were very close.”

“He died from a knife cut to his jugular vein. He bled out on the dirt not far from where Ed dug him out.”

Eew.
Picturing that, I took a couple chugs of water. It sloshed around my empty stomach.

“A big knife?” I asked. “Like a big bread knife or a meat cleaver?”

“Nope. He had a small but perfectly placed cut. It had to be a thin, very sharp knife.”

I grabbed ACB’s hand and squeezed it. She was turning white under all the makeup that she slathered on during our ride back from Auburn.

Twisting open the cap of the other bottle of water, I handed it to her. “Take a couple of deep breaths. And drink some water.”

Hal Manning definitely had loose lips today, but nothing else he mumbled about had much to do with Nick.

ACB made the other arrangements and wrote out a check for Hal. Then we told him that we were on our way to see Joan.

“Tell her that I’m in the mood for spaghetti and meatballs,” he said.

ACB shook his hand. “Go to my restaurant. Tell Debby that it’s on me. Oh, Joan’s going to be late getting home because she’s going to be working with me on Nick’s obit. I want it to be perfect.”

We drove over to the
Lure
office. Sisters May Sandler and June Burke, retired schoolteachers, were in the reception area. One was typing on a huge computer, and one was on the phone. They worked at both the library and at the
Lure
part-time and were two of my first friends when I arrived in Sandy Harbor.

When they saw us, they waved. We waved back.

“What do you need?” May shouted.

ACB pulled a green bandanna from her cleavage closet. “I would like to write an obituary for Domenick Brownelli, and was hoping that Joan could help me.”

“I’ll call her and see if she’s available.”

But Joan opened the door to her office and walked toward us. Thin walls, I guess.

She hugged us both and escorted us to her office. It was filled with autographed pictures and framed front pages of some of the
Lure
’s
hottest stories.

Nick’s obituary was painful for Antoinette Chloe, but she pushed on.

Finally, she had a finished product:

Domenick “Nick” Floyd Brownelli, age 55, of Sandy Harbor, New York, rode his Harley into the sunset on Tuesday, September 1, 2014.

Nick is survived by his brother, Salvatore “Sal” V. Brownelli, formerly of Sandy Harbor, now of Auburn, New York, and Nick’s girlfriend, Antoinette Chloe Brown, the current owner-operator of Brown’s Four Corners restaurant in Sandy Harbor, New York, and who will definitely miss her beloved Nick.

Nick was predeceased by his parents, Mary Columbo Brownelli and Domenick Salvatore Brownelli, formerly of Quechee, Vermont.

Nick was a master chef. He co-owned Chef Nick’s, a five-star restaurant in Boston, Massachusetts, until he left to join his brother, Sal, as a chef at Brown’s Four Corners.

Nick enjoyed riding his Harley with the Roving Rubbers, a New England motorcycle club. He raised thousands of dollars riding in numerous charity events. Antoinette Chloe could be found riding along with him in his Harley’s sidecar.

Calling hours will be at Manning’s Happy Repose Funeral Home on Friday from 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. Burial will be at the Restful Souls Cemetery on Route 491 on Saturday at 9:00 a.m.

Nick will be missed by all whose lives he touched.

“I like it,” Antoinette Chloe declared. “Thank you, Joan, Trixie.”

I nudged ACB. “Tell me about Nick’s restaurant in Boston.”

“Oh yes. It was quite fabulous, from what I knew of it. Very classy, very posh, and it was a gold mine.”

“Why did he leave it, then?”

“He had a falling-out with his partner. I don’t know what it was about, but from what I heard, he walked out one day and threatened to burn it down. Then he smoked his Harley through the dining room and out the back door, never to return again.”

Joan leaned forward. “Sounds like one hell of an exit.”

“I know—I wish I had been there to watch it! But I know only what Nick told me.” ACB’s face glowed with excitement.

“Did he ever see his partner again?” I asked.

“Only once that I know of. I was with Nick when he ran into him . . . Chad, that is. Chad Dodson. I wasn’t divorced from Sal then, but he was still in jail, awaiting his trail, and Nick thought I should get away from everything, so I hopped into his sidecar. We rode in one of the fund-raisers,
and we were at a postevent barbecue when Chad rolled in. He was in a vintage ’fifty-six Thunderbird convertible. It was candy-apple red with a bright white interior. What a ride!”

“And then what?” Joan asked.

“Well, Nick didn’t know that Chad was the organizer of this particular event, or he probably wouldn’t have entered. During Chad’s speech, Nick’s blood began to boil. He said to me, ‘How dare he talk about bikes when he’s never even sat on one? Dodson is just too damn pompous to believe.’ And then, after they’d both had way too much to drink—Chad celebrating a successful event and Nick drowning his anger—they crossed paths. They were having some words, and then Chad pulled this switchblade-looking knife out of nowhere and slashed Nick on his arm. They rolled around on the ground, punching and kicking each other, and Nick broke Chad’s nose in the scuffle. In the end, Chad bled all over his fancy shirt and khakis, and Nick was livid that Chad ruined his Roving Rubbers tattoo by causing him to need stitches.”

“A switchblade-looking knife, huh?” I said to myself.

Joan punched keys on her computer. “Aren’t switchblades illegal in New York?”

“I don’t think Chad Dodson gave a hoot.”

“Chad Dodson? Of the Boston Dodsons? As in the banking family?” Joan’s hands flew across the keyboard.

“I guess so. He seemed pretty rich and WASPish.” ACB stood. Finally we were leaving.

“Sounds like Nick had an enemy,” I said.

“I thought it was just a guy thing. You know, macho posturing, but now that I think back, Chad did threaten to ruin Nick like Nick had ruined Chad. Then Chad said that he’d kill Nick.”

“Antoinette Chloe!” I hoped that she noticed the urgency in my voice. “This could be important!”

“Do you think so? It was about six months or so ago. I think that it was just something said in the heat of the moment. You know, after a few beers and all that. If Chad Dodson wanted to kill Nick, why didn’t he do it before now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that yet, but a knife was involved. A thin knife. Like a switchblade. Antoinette Chloe, I think we have Suspect Number One. Now, where can we find Chad Dodson?”