Macaroni and Freeze (8 page)

“W
ell, if it isn't Trixie Matkowski sneaking out her back door.”

My heart did a cartwheel and then pounded so loud they could probably hear it over the border in Canada.

“Well, if it isn't Ty Brisco, keeping an eye on the perimeter.”

“You're supposed to be resting.”

“And you're supposed to be investigating Priscilla's murder.”

“Who says I'm not?”

I bit back a smile. I could banter with him all day. He was quick, but I was quicker.

“Are you investigating me, Deputy Brisco?”

He pushed back his cowboy hat with a thumb. Yeah, okay, I loved it when he did that.

“I'm investigating everyone on my hit parade of suspects.”

“What number am I on your hit parade?”

“That's confidential information.”

“You always say that.”

“It's always true.”

“I have to clear my name, you know. That means I'm going to have to investigate on my own, Ty.”

“The heck you are!”

“I have to.”

“Haven't we had this conversation in the past? Actually, haven't we had several?”

“And in spite of your multiple warnings that you were going to arrest me for my own good, I did what I wanted.”

“And almost got yourself killed a couple of times. Or did you forget about that?”

“You sound like you care!”

“Of course I do, Trixie. Who's going to cook me dinner at the Silver Bullet if you're gone?”

“Go home and microwave yourself a TV dinner.”

He laughed, and therefore, crumbled first.

“If only we could work together and find out who killed Priscilla, Ty.”

“If you worked as a deputy or a cop for a dozen years, then maybe we could work together. Or if you got a degree in criminal investigation and were employed by the state police.”

“I almost had a two-year degree from Onondaga Community College in liberal arts. Isn't that close enough?”

“Let me think.” He snapped his fingers. “No!”

“As much as I'm enjoying this conversation with you, I'm getting cold. Would you like to continue this at the Silver Bullet? I want to see how things are running, and
I'm dying for a meatball sandwich with melted mozzarella on it.”

“With a side of fries?”

“Onion rings.”

“I'm in! Let's go.”

I felt a slight brush on the back of my purple parka, and I guessed that Ty might have put his hand on the small of my back. It was hard to tell due to the puffiness. I couldn't help but wish that it was the middle of summer and that I was wearing a blouse or a T-shirt. That way I could actually feel his touch.

No. No way. I must be still recovering from my recent meltdown to think of something so sixth grade. Or else I needed nourishment.

We walked to my diner. It was seven o'clock in the evening and completely dark with the exception of the lights around the packed parking lot and the brilliantly lit neon signs of the Silver Bullet. In the distance, I could see customers through the windows. They were moving and talking . . . probably about Priscilla's murder and putting together their own list of suspects.

I didn't tell Ty, but I was anxious to hear the chitchat. Sometimes there was a kernel of wisdom that might be of help. And I was curious to hear what the reporters were saying, not to mention all of the people who were confined to Sandy Harbor until they were ruled out as suspects.

Oops. I should have told Antoinette Chloe that I was sneaking off to my diner for dinner.

But I needn't have bothered. When I pushed through the front doors of the diner, I spotted ACB sitting at the counter.

“To think I trusted ACB to keep an eye on you,” Ty said.

“ACB has ADD.”

“Clever, Trixie.”

“I know.”

When Antoinette Chloe saw me, she stood up and turned to the patrons. “We owe Trixie a round of applause for the successful library fund-raiser. All the figures aren't in yet, but we raised in the neighborhood of sixty-five thousand dollars! Isn't that incredible? It's our most successful fund-raiser in the history of Sandy Harbor!”

ACB started clapping, and Ty enthusiastically joined in. Soon the whole diner was applauding—probably not for me, but for the sixty-five grand.

But I knew what my friend was doing. She was trying to tamp down the bad gossip that had been going around about me.

I received several handshakes, lots of good wishes, and pats on the back.

I felt so welcome, so warm and fuzzy, that I almost forgot I was a suspect due to my verbal diarrhea and other circumstantial events.

I'd do anything to get on TV.

What had I been thinking when I said that? Clearly I hadn't been.

Ty and I took a seat at the counter. Through the pass-through window, I could see Cindy Sherlock doing the Silver Bullet Shuffle preparing orders. She waved to me and grinned.

Cindy was in her early twenties and worked hard both here and at home, taking care of her brothers and sisters when her mother was working at the box factory in Oswego.

I was relieved that Linda was going to take the graveyard shift for me. The break was welcome, and it would give me time to hang out and listen to the gossip. Maybe do a little sleuthing.

The media presence had doubled since I was last here, and they were holding court in the area off the main part of the diner, where we'd had Priscilla's breakfast.

And I was seated at the perfect spot to listen in and observe.

“I did some investigating, and it seems that Ms. Finch-Smythe was actually from Sandy Harbor. Her whole TV persona is pure fiction,” said a stocky man with a gray beard. “All that crapola about the English moors and frolicking through the heather is a figment of her publicist's imagination. I have her real name here somewhere. Oh yeah. Get this! It's Mabel Cronk.”

“I'm looking into her stepson, Pete McCall,” said an older man in a leather vest with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. “I haven't found anything exciting about him, but Priscilla's assistant, Jill Marley, told me that he came back into her life only about a year ago.
I'm looking into his financials. There must be a reason for his sudden love of Priscilla.”

Now, that was interesting!

I waited for them to talk about Priscilla's assistant, Jill, but the conversation shifted to who might play in the Super Bowl and the baseball strike that occurred years ago.

Jill . . . I wondered how she was doing. Priscilla's death must have been a real blow to her. She seemed very fond of her, even though I couldn't imagine how.

“Ty, do you know how Jill Marley is doing? She seemed to be the closest to Priscilla.”

“I talked to her on a couple of occasions today. She's doing okay. Kind of shell-shocked, and she's pretty much been holed up in Priscilla's motor home, hiding from the press.”

“She's probably been handling a lot of loose ends and making arrangements for Priscilla's funeral. Has Hal Manning released Priscilla's body yet?”

“Not yet,” Ty said, taking a sip of the coffee Nancy poured for him as she breezed by.

When Nancy returned, she placed a glass of ice tea in front of me. She must've read my mind. I was craving exactly that.

“Trixie, would you like something to eat?”

“I'm dying for a hot meatball sub with melted mozzarella and a side of onion rings,” I said.

“You got it, Trixie.” She turned to Ty and smiled brilliantly.

“How about you, Tex?”

Ty chuckled. “I'd like a bowl of the split pea soup first. Then I'll have the same as Trixie.”

“You got it, cowboy.” Nancy sashayed to the kitchen. It was an over-the-top exaggeration, and she got some wolf whistles and chuckles from the reporters.

She turned back, laughing, and curtsied.

Ty and I laughed. When my staff had fun, so did the customers.

Just then the front door opened, and all eyes locked on Jill Marley as she came in. It was just one of those things—when the door opened, everyone automatically looked up to see who it was. But this time the media mobbed her. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked like she was ready to bolt or cry or both.

“I shouldn't have come here,” she said in a wobbly voice.

Ty stood and made his way over to Jill. “Let Miss Marley into the diner, ladies and gentlemen.”

I got up, put my arm around Jill, and led her to a booth away from where the media was holding court. I motioned her toward the window seat, and I slid in next to her. Ty sat across from us.

“I—I just wanted to get something to eat, Trixie,” Jill said, her eyes misty. “There's really no food left in the motor home, and I didn't want to drive to the grocery store because I thought that Deputy Brisco—” She looked at him and blinked. Tears trailed a path down her cheeks, and she dabbed at them with a couple of
napkins from the dispenser. “Well, I thought that you might think I was leaving town. I don't know how long I have to stay here, but I really need to get back to California to take care of things for Priscilla.”

“Miss Marley, I'll let you go just as soon as I possibly can,” Ty said warmly.

“And I'll drive you to the grocery store,” I volunteered. I felt really bad for the poor girl. “That's not a problem. Is it, Ty? I mean, even prisoners get a meal now and then.”

“And what are you doing here now? Playing tennis?” He tapped a finger on the table. “It's not a problem for you to get groceries. The Gas and Grab is in Sandy Harbor, not in South Dakota. And I need groceries, too. We can all go together.”

I waved my hand. “What absolute fun. Not!”

He grinned. “We'll all go anyway. Tomorrow morning. I'll pick you both up at about ten.”

I made a motion with my eyes for him to leave the booth so Jill and I could be alone. Maybe she'd open up to me. Finally he took the hint.

Even though I didn't have any formal training, according to Mr. Wyatt Earp over there, I did have a knack for making people talk, and I wanted to talk to Jill. Or rather, I wanted her to talk to me.

“Excuse me, ladies. I have a couple of things I need to take care of,” he said, finally leaving the table.

Ty took his seat back at the counter. I went over and
moved my meatball sub from the counter to Jill's booth, and along the way I whispered to Ty that I'd wanted Jill to be able to talk freely without him being there.

And he mumbled back, “Trixie Matkowski, you leave the investigating to me.”

I shrugged and gave him my best innocent smile. “Of course.”

So now it was Jill and me alone until Nancy came over to the table and took Jill's order: a salad with Thousand Island dressing, a Western omelet with rye toast, and a glass of ice tea.

I worked on my now-cold meatball sandwich. I was tempted to pop it in the microwave to bring it back to some kind of life, but then Nancy set a cup of hot spaghetti sauce in front of me.

Perfect.

“Jill, with the exception of nothing to eat, are you doing okay in the motor home?”

“I'm okay. I'm just getting tired of being alone in there and hiding from the media.”

“Would you feel more comfortable in my house?”

Say no. Please say no. I love being alone.

But then I remembered. Antoinette Chloe was there with me.

“No. I'm fine, really. It's just that wherever I look, I see things that remind me of Cilla.”

After reaching for her hand across the table, I patted it. “Of course you would.”

“I don't understand why Peter hasn't been arrested.” She glanced over at Ty. “I hear that his cell phone was found at the scene.”

“Really? That's odd. I didn't see a cell phone when I found Priscilla's body.”

“It had fallen in the snowbank somewhere. The cops found it after they cordoned off the area where you found her.”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath, remembering how I'd found poor Priscilla. “Did they find anything else?”

“The cell phone is all I know about. And I know that Peter was talking to Deputy Brisco for a long time, because I was in the waiting room of the sheriff's department, waiting to give my statement.”

“You and Peter don't quite get along, do you?” I asked, remembering how Jill always seemed exasperated whenever he was around.

Nancy delivered her salad, so we stopped talking for a moment.

“I don't particularly like how he came back into Cilla's life all of a sudden after not calling her or seeing her for years. Then suddenly there he was.”

“I wonder why,” I said.

She ate a forkful of salad. “My guess is that he probably ran out of money. Cilla was his cash cow. She always was.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Peter is a parasite.”

“I wonder what's going to happen to Priscilla's
empire now that she's passed. Does Peter get it all because he's related?”

She set her fork down and stared at me. More tears traveled down her cheeks and landed on her salad. She pushed it away as Nancy delivered her Western omelet and rye toast.

“I shouldn't have asked that, Jill. That was very rude of me. I was just thinking out loud. I'm sorry.”

I'm sure I looked apologetic. However, in my vast experience watching cop shows on TV and being married to a cop with loose lips—in more ways than one—I knew money was almost always a factor.

And this information had moved Peter to the head of the line in the list of suspects that I was mentally preparing. As soon as I could, I was going to find out if he had any more beefs with Priscilla.

There was no way I was going to stay out of this investigation. I had to clear my name.

“I'm really sorry that I asked you about Priscilla's money.” And then switching tacks, I asked, “What can you tell me about the ladies from the Church of the Covenant of Saint Dismas?”