Macaroni and Freeze (14 page)

“I'll give them a five-minute warning.”

“Good.”

And then she was off. But I believe that I got the information I wanted. I surmised that Miss Jill Marley was ticked over the fact that Peter McCall may—
or may not
—get the business that Jill had worked hard for.

Would that be reason to kill Priscilla?

No. That would be a reason for Jill to kill Peter McCall instead, wouldn't it?

Until I could narrow down my list of suspects, everyone was a suspect. That meant all the players in Priscilla's life. Peter; the church ladies who seemed more than incensed; the two very vocal and combative chefs who
thought that by giving Peter money to bribe Priscilla, their careers would skyrocket.

Who else?

I didn't know quite yet, but I at least was able to rule myself out!

Twenty minutes later we were headed back home. Ty talked nonstop about Cousin Ronnie's Pepperoni, which he'd finally found at the Gas and Grab. Apparently he'd been searching for it for forever. He said that he'd first had it as a kid when his father and grandfather rented one of the cottages here for a salmon-fishing expedition.

Fishermen's cheese, Cousin Ronnie's Pepperoni, crackers, and birch beer soda were part of their happy-hour ritual every day.

I kept nagging Ty to invite his parents to the point. I'd reserve their old cottage for them, and they could re-create their memories and make new ones. Although his grandfather had passed on, Ty's mother had never been here.

Besides, I would just love to meet both of Ty's parents.

Antoinette Chloe chatted about the fishing lure she'd found that would look perfect on the new fascinator she was going to make. She debated whether or not to take off the large glow-in-the-dark rubber worm which was on it.

She decided to keep the worm.

Jill was silent for the whole ride and just stared silently out the window.

I thought about our conversation. If she was expecting to inherit Priscilla's zillions and her business, she might be out of luck.

But maybe I was jumping ahead of myself and just assuming what Priscilla's wishes were. Maybe she had split everything equally between Peter and Jill. Maybe she'd left it all to charity.

On the way back, I typed
Orlando, Biltmore, Orlando and Fischer
into the Google search app on my phone, to see what kind of firm they were. But of course, I couldn't get an Internet connection. I swear, if Sandy Harbor didn't get good cell service soon, I was going to start my own company! Trixie Talks, Inc., or Sandy Harbor Speaks.

Well, it seemed like no estate lawyers were ready to act on Priscilla's will yet. I was certain Peter would've blabbed about it if he had received word about the will.

I decided to invite everyone on Ty's “don't leave town list” to the Big House for some food, wine, and talk. There was nothing like a cold night in front of fireplace of the Big House, chatting and sharing a gooey pizza and wings and enjoying a couple bottles of wine or ten.

I wondered how far Ty had gotten in his investigation. Maybe I should invite him to pizza, wings, and wine night, too. Maybe liquor would loosen his perfectly fine, delicious-looking lips.

Not that I'd noticed.

I had to get Ty aside and see what information I could get from him. Oh, and Joan Paris, too. She'd spill
information about Hal Manning's—the coroner's—findings. And then there were the church ladies and the two chefs. I might as well have a big pizza party and see what happened.

What a great idea!

Ty let us all out in the parking lot on the side of the motor home.

“I can help,” he said.

“Antoinette Chloe and I can manage. You help Jill. She has the most.”

He lifted up the tailgate, and Jill pointed out which grocery bags were hers. They both were loaded down, so ACB and I helped, too. I was dying to see the inside of the motor home anyway.

My parents have a motor home—way smaller than this one—and were, in fact, in Tucson right now in a trailer park, soaking up the sun, playing golf, and “shuffling,” which is code for shuffleboard.

Priscilla's motor home was magnificent. In a motor-home magazine, this would be the centerfold. It had marble countertops, recessed lighting, and a glass cabinet to display china. It even had a king-size bed in the back. A small desk had stacks of paperwork and books, mostly cookbooks, falling all over everything, even onto the floor.

It looked as though Priscilla and Jill had been behind on her work.

All the while, I looked for the bubble mailer with the lawyer names on it. It had to be here somewhere.

And there it was, on the floor, under the desk.

My fingers were itching to take it and see what the contents said.

But I couldn't. Jill was right behind me.

I needed a plan. It was already formulating in my brain. And I'd execute it the night of the pizza party.

“What a beautiful motor home, Jill. I can see why you wanted to stay here,” I said.

“I love it!” Antoinette Chloe raved. “I could sell my house and Brown's Four Corners Restaurant, buy one of these bad boys, and travel.”

“Wouldn't you miss Sandy Harbor?” I asked.

“Not in the winter. It's not good for my flip-flops, as you've pointed out several times, Trixie,” she said. “Remember how I was going to open a drive-in?”

“Yes, I do. You wanted it open in the winter so people could drive their snowmobiles in and watch the movies outdoors.” I tried not to smile.

“Maybe I'll create a mobile-home park on my land instead and park my motor home here in the summer and drive somewhere warm in the winter. Sandy Harbor needs some extra places for people to stay, so a trailer park is definitely needed. I can have some of those cute cabins brought in, too.”

This was a better idea than her drive-in, but her boyfriend's body had been found on that land. I wondered if the memory was still too fresh for her to handle.

“I'll put a memory garden where we found Nick,” she said, as if reading my mind.

“You know, Antoinette Chloe, that sounds like a fabulous idea. Your heart hasn't been in the restaurant business lately.”

“I could sell my restaurant to Fingers, my chef. He's doing an excellent job. My business has tripled ever since he took over as the manager.”

“Then why wouldn't you keep your restaurant? You have all that money coming in, and you don't have to do a thing. You don't even have to be there,” Jill said, putting her groceries in a cabinet.

ACB shrugged. “But Fingers is the one who deserves the credit, not me.”

“I don't get it,” Jill said abruptly.

“It'd be like you taking the credit for something that Priscilla did,” I said.

“Thank you all for your help,” Jill said quietly. “I appreciate the ride to the grocery store. It was an . . . um . . . interesting trip.”

Guess that was our cue to get out.

Ty led the way down the stairs and helped us both down the last step.

I went back up the stairs and said to Jill, “I'm having a pizza party at my house later this week. It'll be nothing special, but I'd love it if you'd come. How about it?”

“Oh, I don't know. I have a lot of work to do.”

“C'mon, Jill.” I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You'll be glad to get out of this tin can by then. You can socialize, have a lot of laughs, and have great food and wine.”

She was ready to protest, but I insisted. “I'll expect you. If you aren't here, I'm just going to have to drag you out of the motor home.”

She smiled weakly. “Sounds like fun.”

“Great.”

We all went back to Ty's SUV. ACB and I got our groceries, and Ty helped us lug everything up the sidewalk.

Blondie greeted us like long-lost friends, jumping around us and whimpering. She'd missed us. Ty let her outside, and she rolled in the snow, then pranced like a gazelle.

“I'll come back in about an hour and take Blondie for a run,” Ty said.

“She'll love that. She's been cooped up inside too much lately.”

“Wish I could say the same. It seems like I haven't been in my apartment in days. This case has me hopping.”

“How so?” I asked, knowing that he wouldn't tell me a thing.

“How about another cup of coffee first?”

“Sure.” I put in a K-Cup.

ACB was still putting groceries away and half singing and half humming “Oklahoma,” a tune she was way too fond of.

Finally the coffeemaker stopped, and I slid a mug of black coffee in front of him.

“What's going on, Ty?”

“Hal Manning's report came through. Of course, you know that Priscilla was strangled with her scarf, but it appears that she hit her head on the fire hydrant first. Hal figures that she was pushed. She must have been groggy. And the scarf was knotted in the front, so the murderer was face-to-face with her.”

“That's cold-blooded.”

“I'll say.”

“Got any suspects who are in the lead?” I asked.

He shrugged. “They all had somewhat of a reason to kill her, but not good enough to commit murder.”

“You're probably going to have to let some of them leave town soon, huh?”

He took a big gulp of coffee. “I'm getting a lot of hassle from our illustrious mayor to let them go.”

“Does that include me, too? Can Antoinette Chloe and I part ways?”

He laughed. “You two are doing fine. Like two Tri-Gams in a pod.”

“I'm not an official Gamma Gamma Gamma member,” I pointed out. “I didn't attend Sandy Harbor High.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “I guess we're the two outsiders.”

“You know it. And lately I've been given a wide berth.”

“Trixie, that's your imagination. I don't think anyone seriously considers you a suspect.”

“Then why am I chained to ACB? And why did you tell me I can't leave my property?”

“Because I wanted you to leave the investigating to me, and I wanted to keep an eye on you. I know you, Trixie.”

“For heaven's sake!” I wasn't sure if I should be happy at this revelation or mad at the man. “Tell me, are you at least getting close to an arrest?”

“I just need one good break. We're still looking at Priscilla's phone contacts, but we haven't found anything exciting yet.” He drained his coffee and got up to leave. Ty rarely lingered over his coffee if he was working on a case. “Thanks, Trixie. I'll be back to pick up Blondie for a run later.”

I walked him out and waited as he put on his boots. I caught the scent of his aftershave—pine and musk.

Nice.

For some reason I always looked forward to seeing him. He'd be back in his winter jogging attire, but it was his summer outfits that made my heart palpitate—shorts and a tank top. On hot summer days, he didn't wear a shirt at all.

I lived for those days.

Watching him walk to his SUV was a treat, too. He had on a leather bomber jacket, and his tight butt was encased in perfectly faded jeans. Spectacular.

Not that I noticed.

Antoinette Chloe was sitting at the table when I got back to the kitchen.

“What's your next plan, Trixie?” she asked.

“I want to put a pizza party together. Here at the Big
House. If we get some of the suspects together, maybe we could get some clues,” I said. “This may be like fishing in the dark, but what the heck?”

“You already took care of Jill. I'll contact Peter and invite him and the church ladies. We might as well throw in the two chefs. If nothing else, maybe we can find out more about Peter's gambling from those two. Who else?”

“Let's see if Joan Paris is available, too, although Ty told me what I needed to know about Hal Manning's findings. I think that's good. Let's leave out Ty. Maybe then everyone will talk.”

“Leave everything to me. I'll take care of ordering the food, too. I love Cindy Sherlock's pizza and garlic wings.”

“Thanks, Antoinette Chloe. I think I'll talk a walk over to the diner and see how things are going.”

“Go ahead. I'll take care of getting a nice assortment of goodies ready for our lunch with the church ladies. I bought a lot of nice treats at the Gas and Grab.”

How could I forget about that so soon? Senility, thy name is Trixie.

I noticed the lights on in Priscilla's motor home and could see Jill's silhouette. It looked like she was on the phone and was shouting. Taking a little detour, I walked closer to hear what she was saying.

It was a clear, quiet afternoon, and her voice traveled. It helped that she was loud.

“I don't care. Just settle the reading of her will already. I can't have things in such a state of flux.”

Yes. I needed to execute my scathingly brilliant plan on the night of the pizza party.

And I'd need ACB's
help.

T
he next morning I found that the media had mostly disappeared from their headquarters at my diner. There was only Joan Paris, the editor of the
Sandy Harbor Lure,
sitting in a booth with Hal Manning, Sandy Harbor's full-time funeral director and part-time coroner.

They lived together and were a wealth of information, and they were just the two people I wanted to see.

Hal Manning loved to talk about his cases—unlike Ty Brisco—and I was glad that he loved to talk to me. All you had to do was toss him a topic, and he'd be off and running.

I waved to them both, and Joan motioned me over. “How are you doing, Trixie?”

“I'm just plain pooped. The Miss Salmon Contest led to Christmas and then right to the mac and cheese cook-off. With my shift at work, I was just sleepwalking everywhere. I'm taking a mini break now, though, and Linda is cooking for me.”

“She's doing a great job. This food is delicious,” Hal said.

It looked divine and it was nicely presented on the plate. My waitresses were smiling and having a nice time while going about their duties, which made for a fun experience for my customers.

Everything was going just fine without me.

“Sit down. Join us.” Joan winked and shifted her eyes toward Hal. I smiled at Joan's code. Hal had news and was ready to share.

She moved over on the red vinyl seat, and I sat down. Bettylou came over with a glass of iced tea and placed it in front of me. From behind her back, she pulled out a dish. On the dish was a peach hand pie.

How did she know that was
exactly
what I wanted?

Bettylou grinned. “Sarah Stolfus made a big delivery. I saved this peach hand pie for you. All her baked goods are going fast, really fast.”

“Remind me to give you a raise, Bettylou.”

“Oh, I will!”

“So, Hal, how have you been? Busy?” I asked.

“Yeah. I've been getting calls left and right about Priscilla Finch-Smythe.”

“From?”

“Mostly the media. And several from Peter McCall and Jill Marley. They are both anxious to have Priscilla's body released for her calling hours and interment. I have a theory myself. I think they just want to hurry everything up so they can have the reading of her will.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he chuckled. “It's common
to hold off the reading of the will when foul play is suspected.”

“Hal, honey, tell Trixie what you told me about Peter and his debts,” Joan instructed.

“I was talking to my old pal Jimmy Bosworth, from the State University of New York at Albany's forensic science program. Jimmy's now a lieutenant with the New York State Police in their Bureau of Criminal Investigation. We talk frequently since Sandy Harbor sends all their lab work to NYSP headquarters in Albany. Anyway, Jimmy told me that Peter's in hot water with a big-time loan shark and bookie by the name of Stan LaVolney. They're keeping an eye on Stan so he doesn't do anything to Peter. Peter has promised Stan full payment once Priscilla's estate is settled.”

Of course, LaVolney was “Stan the Bookie”!

And now I had official verification of everything that Stan told me at breakfast.

Sometimes I had to lead Hal in the direction I needed. “I wonder what BCI verified about the Saint Dismas cookbook.”

Hal leaned back on the red vinyl cushion. “Jimmy said that Priscilla's version was definitely lifted from the Church of Saint Dismas.”

“Is there proof?”

“A used bookstore in Saratoga remembered Priscilla coming in and saying that she was buying the old cookbook to donate it to the Sandy Harbor Library. The bookstore even took a picture of Priscilla with the cookbook,
because she was a celebrity. It was the Saint Dismas one. Then Priscilla and Jill had a fight. Jill wanted to keep it, but Priscilla insisted that she had no use for it.”

“Well, that doesn't prove that Jill did anything wrong. Besides, after Priscilla died, Jill accused Priscilla of copying it.”

Hal's eyes lit up. He was waiting to deliver a punch line. “But a computer was confiscated by BCI. It showed extensively that Jill was the one who copied it, changed a few things, and sent it by e-mail to the publisher. There was nothing to indicate that Priscilla was in any way involved. Jill finally admitted to Jimmy and Ty that Priscilla hadn't been entirely involved in the last several cookbooks. Jill wrote them. And when I did Priscilla's autopsy, I discovered Priscilla was borderline middle-stage Alzheimer's.”

If I had false teeth, I would have dropped them. “Hal? What did you say? Priscilla had Alzheimer's?”

He nodded. “And she was taking a cocktail of meds.”

“I can't believe it.” An overwhelming sadness came over me. Poor Priscilla. No wonder Jill told me that Priscilla couldn't concentrate at times. Jill probably was helping Priscilla with her cookbooks, and later, as Priscilla got worse, maybe Jill got a little overwhelmed with everything she had to do to cover for Priscilla.

Priscilla had had Alzheimer's disease! Whoever killed her wouldn't even let her die in peace in her own time.

“The church ladies want the profits from the
cookbook donated to the church, and it appears that Jill is going to do that,” I said. “That's a good thing.”

“I heard that, as well,” Joan said.

“Hal, did the lieutenant say anything as to who had a strong motive to kill Priscilla?” I asked.

“Jill toiled in the salt mines for Priscilla. From what Jimmy told me, Jill
was
Priscilla Finch-Smythe, because at times Priscilla was too sick to work. She tried to save her energy for her TV show, since it was taped and they could do a lot of takes. On her good days, Priscilla insisted that they tape more than one show. Sometimes they did three.”

That was just what I'd concluded.

“Interesting,” I said. “Priscilla must have been exhausted most of the time.”

I wondered if she'd broken the news to Peter about a year ago. That might explain his sudden appearance back in her life. Maybe he figured if he could ingratiate himself with his ailing stepmother, he could gain control of her finances before she passed.

“Probably.” Hal leaned over and whispered, “I know you won't tell anyone that I told you all this, Trixie, particularly Ty. He likes to play his cards close to his vest.”

“My lips are sealed.” I raised my hand as if I were swearing to silence.

Joan gave me a big smile. “And I found out that one of the ladies from Saint Dismas used to live here.”

“No way!”

“Oh, yeah. I ran some checks on against the
Lure
's
database
,
” Joan said. “Dorothy ‘Dottie' Spitzer and her husband, Sidney, ran an ad every summer and fall in the
Lure
. They advertised U-pick berries, apples, pumpkins, and squash.”

“Well, I'll be . . .” This information hit me like a bolt out of the blue. “She must have known Priscilla back in the day.”

“It's very likely that she could have. They graduated in the same class—Dorothy was Reinhardt back then, Priscilla was Mabel Cronk back then, and your aunt Stella and uncle Porky were themselves. Oh, and Antoinette Chloe was in the same graduating class.”

“Antoinette Chloe never said anything about knowing Dottie!”

“Maybe she didn't recognize her. It's been years, after all,” Joan said. “And I can't cross-check Dorothy Reinhardt against the Sandy Harbor yearbook, so I really don't know if she's changed a lot. The yearbook isn't online, of course, as it's too old, and all the yearbooks were lost when the library's roof collapsed. I haven't gotten around to digging up a yearbook from the locals yet. Things have been kind of hectic with all the press bugging me for background information and old issues of the
Lure
.”

“I know just where to find a yearbook. Aunt Stella has a whole collection of them in her office, off the kitchen.”

I hadn't gotten around to making Aunt Stella and
Uncle Porky's office my own. There was too much history in it, and their history was my history.

This information was invaluable.

Then I had to pause. Maybe, just maybe, in her own way, by taking the Saint Dismas cookbook and putting Priscilla's name on it, Jill had really been trying to help Priscilla and keep her on track. From what I knew about the disease, stress could bring on forgetfulness—and having a stressful job in television could have made the situation worse. Personality changes might ensue also. I wondered briefly if that was why Priscilla had acted like such a diva while she was judging the contest.

Joan gave me a slight smile. “I can't print a lot of this just yet, but I will. Just as soon as an arrest is made, I'm ready to go. I'm going to get the scoop on everyone!”

I nodded. Joan worked hard, and if a scoop was to be made, Joan deserved to make it. But Joan did more than scoop. She always wrote sensitive, caring pieces.

“Is her body going to be released soon, Hal?”

“In a couple of days. Just as soon as I get the word from Jimmy and Ty.”

“Is there going to be a service?”

“Peter and Jill are supposed to be arranging something, but I think they're bickering about it. Last I knew, they were planning to have something at my place due to the fact that all of her old friends are here.”

“The Tri-Gams?”

“Yeah.”

I'd like to think that Priscilla knew this might have been her last trip to Sandy Harbor. Maybe she wanted to revisit her roots and be surrounded by her friends one more time.

And maybe I hadn't been fair to her. Maybe she acted like a cranky diva due to her illness.

I vowed yet again that I'd find out who'd pushed her into the fire hydrant and strangled her with her own scarf. And bring her some belated justice.

Hopefully, my plan to do some investigative work during the pizza party tomorrow would work. I shuddered, thinking about what might happen if I got caught.

But right now I wanted to hurry back to the Big House and check out Aunt Stella's old Sandy Harbor yearbooks.

Then, as luck would have it, ACB and I were going to entertain two church ladies, one of whom I was almost positive was the former Dorothy Reinhardt.

*   *   *

“Antoinette Chloe, do you recognize this young lady?” I pointed to a picture in the black-and-white yearbook, where each student photo was in alphabetical order.

“Dorothy Reinhardt. I haven't seen her in decades. She married . . . um . . .” She leafed through the pages. “He farmed out on Mile High Road. What was his name? Sidney . . . Sidney . . . uh . . . Spitzer! That's him.” She pointed to a fairly good-looking guy. “He was the
captain of the football team. All the girls had a crush on Sidney, and we were all astonished when he asked skinny little Dorothy with an overbite to marry him.”

“Was she a Tri-Gam?”

“No. Her mother wouldn't let her hang out with us. She said that we were a cult of the devil.”

I grinned. “What?”

“True.” ACB nodded. “If she only knew that three of our members became nuns. And that the worst thing we did was paint ‘Tri-Gam' on the water tower in red. But we were caught and had to paint silver over it.”

“Well, I think that Dottie, who we are entertaining any second now, is actually Dorothy Reinhardt Spitzer.”

“Naw. That can't be her. I would have recognized her when I was talking to her, wouldn't I? Although we didn't associate very much in high school—she didn't like me. She was fairly dull and quiet and I was . . . um . . . loud and colorful.”

“And, Antoinette Chloe, I'd bet you a hand pie that you were the one who painted the water tower.”

She put the palm of her right hand against her heart.
“Moi?”

“Yeah, you!”

The doorbell rang, and I put the yearbook away in a drawer. “Make sure you take a good look at her. And then maybe we can ask her some pertinent questions.”

“Absolutely.”

We both went to answer the door.

“Welcome to my home,” I said, opening the thick
oak door for Dottie and Marylou while trying to keep Blondie away from them at the same time. She wanted to lick them to death. “I think you remember me as the cochair of the mac and cheese cook-off, Trixie Matkowski.”

“Of course we remember you, Trixie. Thanks for inviting us,” said Marylou. “I believe that Megan and Milt are going to enjoy a break from us for a while.”

“I'm sure you both need a break, too,” I said diplomatically. “Welcome, Dottie.”

We all shook hands.

“Let me take your coats,” ACB said.

Dutifully, they pulled off the coats and handed them to ACB, who tossed them unceremoniously over the banister. Then they unlaced their winter boots, which looked a lot like L.L.Bean's rubber boots, and put them on my boot tray.

I knew immediately by their winter etiquette that they came from a four-season place.

“Where are you ladies from?” I asked.

“Downstate. Poughkeepsie.”

Bingo!

“Another tropical place at this time of year,” joked Antoinette Chloe. She was wearing a muumuu with little palm trees sprinkled between massive purple hibiscus flower heads.

When they were both dewinterized, I escorted them to the kitchen. “I hope you don't mind sitting around
the table. It's my favorite thing to do. And lunch is ready.”

I'd heated up the pea soup Antoinette Chloe had made and stirred in a hint of cream. I figured that it would be the perfect meal on a cold winter day like today.

“Can I fix everyone a bowl of split pea soup?” I'd poured the soup into a tureen that matched my Syracuse China pattern and brought it to the table.

“Absolutely.”

“Count me in.”

“Me too.”

As I ladled the soup into bowls, ACB pulled out the tray of tea sandwiches we'd made earlier with the luncheon meat we'd bought at the Gas and Grab.