A Second Helping of Murder (12 page)

“Such a juvenile delinquent.”

“Ah . . . the good old days—high school. But no one got murdered. No one got hurt. If anyone carried knives or guns to school, no one knew about it and no one used them. I don't want to preach, but I feel sorry for kids these days.”

“Me, too.” He put on his blinker to turn right. “In my high school days, there weren't any armed police officers or security guards in the school.”

“Maybe there should have been a couple for the Sandy Harbor class of 1989. But, Ty . . . I just can't get over the feeling that no kid in Sandy Harbor would have killed Claire.”

“You never know. I've seen some awful stuff as to what kids do to other kids.”

“Sad.”

“Yeah.”

Finally we were at the Meyersons' house. It was getting to be sunset, and Ed hurried inside and turned on a passel of lights even though we could still see.

The house, a creamy yellow, was mostly a ranch with interesting windows and a fancy roofline. It had a huge front porch and looked warm and inviting.

Just like the Big House.

Ed escorted us into a foyer where we dispensed with our Windbreakers and sweaters. Donna scooted away, muttering something about “getting the spread out.”

“I'll help Donna,” I said, hurrying after her.

The kitchen made me gasp. If I ever died and went to heaven, I'd want a kitchen like Donna Meyerson's. There was a big island, blue granite countertops, pale oak cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. Huge windows looked out over grasslands with long-legged horses in a white fenced-in area away from the house, and cows dotted the fields in the distance.

“I don't know horses, Donna, but those look extra fine to me. Like racehorses.”

“It's a hobby of Ed's. He's been known to ship them to a trainer and race them at Saratoga or Meadowlands or the like. I think they're mostly a money pit, but I have to admit that a couple of them have done well. And I like looking at them, especially when they have a little one. The babies are just darling.”

Donna had the oak table in the kitchen set already. She had a lace tablecloth and it was set for what looked like twelve people.

She stuck her head into the commercial fridge and started pulling out plastic-wrap-covered dishes.

“Let me help you,” I said.

“No. You're a guest.”

“I want to help.”

“Okay.”

Bowls full of salads and fancy plates with rolled ham, turkey, roast beef, and cheeses came out. I took them from her and put them on the island as she handed them to me.

“We'll put everything here and eat at the table. That's what I often do because everything won't fit on the table.”

“Are you expecting the army from Fort Drum to stop in?”

I shouldn't talk! I always cooked way too much food myself. I still hadn't mastered the art of toning it down.

Everything was out of the fridge, and Donna and I fussed with positioning everything on the island. She had a good eye.

“Ty Brisco is just fabulous, don't you think, Trixie?” Donna asked.

“Uh, yes. Just fabulous.” What did she want me to say?

“I owe him so much for all that he's done for Ray. You, too, Trixie.”

I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Enough said. Ray was the one who did it.”

“He's a good kid.”

“He is. And smart. I enjoy him a lot.”

“Good. Did he tell you that he's saving up his diner money for a new bike?”

I smiled. “Don't tell him, but his new bike is on me. I owe him for some computer work, and there's more that I'd like for him to do. I know
what I want, but I don't have the skill that he does. And I don't have time to learn it.”

She sniffed. “You're so good to Ray.”

I was afraid that there would be a flood of tears soon. “Donna, be happy. He just made a stupid kid mistake to be liked. I don't know about you, but I can understand it.”

But what I couldn't understand was murder. Again, I thought of Claire and her brother. I would be front row and center, eating popcorn and sipping soda, if the person or persons who killed them were in court, answering for their crime.

But my popcorn was going to be stale and my soda was going to lose its fizz, because I wasn't close to finding out who killed them.

“Donna, is that dill weed I see in the potato salad? Oh, it's in the mac salad, too.”

“Shh. I'm not supposed to tell.”

“Said who? Porky Matkowski?”

“Yes!”

I laughed. “It's the worst-kept secret in the world.”

She grinned, and it was the first time I saw her eyes light up all evening. “I've never told a soul.”

“You're a good friend of Porky's, Donna, but I think that the secret is out.”

“Not from me.”

We both laughed.

“I wish I knew you were putting out a spread.” I thought I'd use her words, but they sounded so foreign to me. “I would have brought something.”

“Not necessary.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Is that my aunt Helen's lime, cottage cheese, and nut dessert?”

“Guilty,” Donna said.

“Sheesh.”

The coffee started perking, and the scent permeated the room. I just loved the smell of brewing coffee.

“Donna, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You knew Claire Jacobson, didn't you?”

“Absolutely. I worked for Porky and Stella as a room attendant through my four years of high school. I was a year behind her.”

“So you didn't go to the bonfire for the class of 1989?”

“No, thank goodness, but I helped them search for her. I liked Claire a lot.”

“I don't remember you. I was there every summer, too.”

“They used to call me Peaches.”

“Peaches? Oh yes! I remember a girl named Peaches. You?”

“I was quite a bit heavier back then. Even recently. I had a gastric bypass four years ago.”

“Oh! Tell me something about Claire that you remember, Donna.”

“I remember how she was always nice to everyone, no matter who.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh! Speaking of Judge Newell—”

“Were we speaking of him?” I asked.

“We are now. But speaking of Judge Newell, he had a major crush on her. They dated a couple of times.”

“Really?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And what happened?” I asked, unwrapping the meat tray, ready to pluck off one of the rolls of roast beef.

“Well, I guess it was pretty ugly. Claire asked him not to stalk her.”

“Stalk?”

“I guess he was a bit too overbearing.”

Ty never said anything about this. “Was Joe arrested?”

“No. Claire didn't want to do that to him because she knew he wanted to become a lawyer.”

“So, what happened?”

“Apparently, her boyfriend beat the snot out of Joe, and Joe packed up and headed off to Boston somewhere. We never saw him again until he surfaced here as a lawyer, but that was well after Claire's death.”

So Claire had both a stalker and a semiviolent boyfriend. Both would make good suspects.

“Donna, who was her boyfriend?”

She shrugged. “I don't have a clue, but the man was legendary after he beat up Joe. No one would even smile at Claire unless they were looking for
a beating. He got a nickname as the Phantom because no one ever saw him.”

“Did he beat up a lot of high schoolers?”

“I hear he did. And he beat up one old guy who was hanging around Claire.”

“Really? An old guy? How old?”

“I don't know the answer to that either, but rumor had it that he was Laura VanPlank's father.”

Before I could react, Donna was immediately penitent. “Oh, I shouldn't spread gossip like that. I know how it feels with Ray and all. The gossips accused him of everything from hacking into the IRS to change our taxes to siphoning off money from the Sandy Harbor Federal Credit Union so we can buy a motor home.”

“My lips are sealed. I won't say anything.”

After that tidbit of information, I pulled out a piece of roast beef and took a small bite. I was famished, but that warred with my investigative instincts. “Too bad that his nickname didn't start with a
B
.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. It's not important.”

Donna asked everyone to come and eat. More neighbors stopped in whom I hadn't met, but I liked them immediately. Ty seemed to know them.

Liz's cake was cut, and it wasn't bad for a lemon box cake.

It was a nice time, and I was glad we went.

One of the neighbors, Mrs. Gillman, turned to me. “Are you and Sheriff Brisco dating?”

Ty heard the question. I could tell by the sparkle of amusement in his turquoise eyes.

“Uh, no,” I said, although my heart skipped a beat at the thought. “Ty and I are like brother and sister.”

He raised an eyebrow at that statement.

My heart started pounding. I really should get myself checked out.

Mrs. Gillman smiled. “But the two of you seem so close, you really seem like lovers to me.”

Why did she think that? Because we were sitting on the couch together? Or maybe she was just baiting us.

Still, I almost choked on Donna's macaroni salad with the dill weed. The word
lovers
seemed to be such an intimate word to me. And the way that Mrs. Gillman said it, “lahv-ahs,” so breathy, slow, and low, I wanted to open a door on the center island and crawl in there. At least I'd be hidden, but closer to the food.

Ty, however, was totally amused. Maybe it was the way he held up his mug of coffee in the air like a toast to me. It was his way of saying, “Try and get out of this one.”

I'll show him.

“Mrs. Gillman, we can't be lahv-ahs,” I said in a loud whisper. “Deputy Brisco told me that he had a training accident at the shooting range, and he, well . . . he was shot in a very, very private place.”

“Oh!” she said.

“Oh!” said Donna.

“Oy,” said Ed and Mr. Gillman in unison.

“T-Trixie, wh-what the hell . . . ?” sputtered Ty.

Ray and Liz laughed. They knew that I was joking, but they were the only ones.

“Oops! I forgot that I had to ride home with Ty!”

T
here's nothing like a yearbook to find out information about people when they were younger.

That was why I was inhaling nonfiction book dust at the Sandy Harbor Library. I scratched my nose as I leafed through the muddy brown hardcover yearbook of the class of 1989.

Go, Trout!

I ran my finger down the list of graduates looking for male
B
's. There were two Roberts/Bobbys, one William/Billy, and one Buddy, but that was about it. I wrote down their names to check them out. Or maybe Ty could check them out much quicker.

There was Robert Godfrey and Robert Lawless, Billy Swenti, and Buddy Wilder.

I'd never heard of any of them, but that didn't mean anything. I studied their pictures. All of the five were fairly good-looking, and I could see how Claire could fall for any of them.

“Trixie! So good to see you.”

That scratchy voice belonged to Mrs. Leddy, my former college professor, now retired, who was now president of the historical association. She was leafing through a magazine and sitting in a flowered Queen Anne chair that had a pattern almost identical to her dress. No wonder I didn't see her.

“Mrs. Leddy, I'm glad that I ran into you.”

“Before I forget, my dear Trixie, I wanted to let you know that I'm coming to the Dance Fest. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'm going to kick up my heels. And if my husband doesn't dance with me—he can be such a poop, you know—I'll just have to find someone else. Maybe I'll dance with that handsome cowboy sheriff, unless you've already spoken for him.”

My mouth suddenly went dry. What I wouldn't give for a tall glass of sweet tea with a ton of ice, but instead of tea, I wanted vodka. Instead of sugar, I wanted tonic. I'd keep the ice.

I could easily fall for Ty Brisco like a cut Christmas tree. He was the epitome of a hunk. He had that Texas drawl, which was my most favorite accent, tied with Aussie. He was smart, polite, and loved Blondie as much as I did.

But I hadn't spoken for him. Had I? Why was everyone so sure we were an item these days?

“Trixie?”

“Huh?”

“We were talking about Deputy Ty, and you drifted away.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Leddy.” I swallowed hard.
“I'm sure that Deputy Brisco would love to dance with you. He keeps telling me that he does a mean two-step.”

She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“Mrs. Leddy, you said that you taught at Sandy Harbor High School before you taught college.”

“That's right, my dear.”

“I'm hoping that you know what happened to some of the old graduates from the class of 1989.”

Mrs. Leddy tilted her head. “Does this have anything to do with Claire Jacobson?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to know?”

I handed her my list. “Do you know what happened to Robert Godfrey, Robert Lawless, Billy Swenti, or Buddy Wilder?”

May and June Burke, who were sisters and former teachers and who now volunteered at the library, came over to where I sat with Mrs. Leddy. They both had bluish hair done up in an elaborate style and sprayed with a can or two of hair spray. They were dressed in jersey shirtwaist dresses with tiny flowers. May's mostly violets, and June's was lilacs. They were probably in their mideighties. I should look so good at that age.

They were both very welcoming to me when I first moved to Sandy Harbor, and I'd always appreciated that.

“You girls are making way too much noise,” May said, taking a seat next to me.

“We're going to have to ask you to leave,” June
added, leaning an elbow on her sister's Queen Anne chair.

They both giggled, and I knew that they were only joking and really wanted to participate in the conversation. Why not? The more the merrier.

“Mrs. Leddy and I were talking about some of the graduates of the high school: Robert Godfrey, Robert Lawless, Billy Swenti, and Buddy Wilder.”

Mrs. Leddy studied the list I handed her. “Robert Godfrey got a scholarship to Harvard Med. He's a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles. I hear that he's Botoxed or operated on half of Hollywood, but not my Harrison Ford, I'm sure. Even though Harrison is with that skinny actress, I haven't given up on him.”

“Did he go to the bonfire that night?”

“Who? Harrison Ford?”

“Robert Godfrey.”

“No. Bobby's your basic loner.”

I pretty much ruled him out as a suspect since he didn't go to the bonfire, but I kept his name on the list.

She squinted at the next name. “May and June, do you remember Robert Lawless?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said May. “He was a terrible student. I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a criminal. He tried to live up to his last name, but I lost track of him.”

Mr. Lawless moved to second on my list of suspects, just under the man with the severe case of zipperitis: Mr. Grant VanPlank.

Mrs. Leddy continued. “Billy Swenti was at a wedding I attended. He was always such a good-natured boy with an easy smile and a handshake for everyone. He wasn't a bad student either. He lives out on Route 237 with his partner—isn't that an interesting term? His partner is Ronnie Owens. They both are organic farmers, and they adopted a passel of children with special needs, God bless them all. Billy is a disk jockey, too. That's what he was doing at the wedding. Oh, what horrible music he played—thump, thump, thump! And the tattoos he had, oh my! Even on his neck. And he had earrings in his ears and his nose and eyebrows. Can you imagine? I said, ‘Billy, you were always such a good-looking boy. Why did you do that to yourself?' But he just laughed, and he played ‘My Way' by Frank Sinatra for me.”

“I really liked him,” June said. “He was such a lonely boy, wasn't he, May? None of the other boys wanted to play with him.”

Then I remembered. “Oh, wait! I order vegetables from them. Is their farm called Various Veggies and Fruits?”

“Yep, that's them. Billy used to be such a handsome boy. He needs those tattoos and jewelry on his face like I need another boob,” June said.

I burst out laughing, and got a “shush” or six from the library patrons and one volunteer librarian.

Billy Swenti didn't seem like a good suspect, and the fact that he and his partner had adopted a
“passel of children” made me think that if Billy got Claire pregnant, he'd welcome his child.

But I kept him on the list anyway.

“What about Buddy Wilder?” I asked, wiping away tears of laughter.

“The last I knew he was a priest in Brooklyn and was working with drug addicts,” Mrs. Leddy said. “We took up a collection for his program in church.”

Buddy was a shaky suspect, but I kept him on the list, too.

I'd turn over my “B List” to Ty. Maybe he could run their raps and see what shook out.

Did I just think “raps”? Yikes! I sounded like Deputy Doug before he screwed up and was demoted to traffic.

Soon they were off on a tangent about recipes, their volunteer schedule at the library, and a tirade about how department stores don't sell slips anymore.

I wondered if I could corral them back for more information. Maybe they hadn't told me everything that they might know, but May saved me the trouble.

“How come you're asking us about those four boys?” she asked.

“I don't really want to say. I'm just checking out a letter that I found in one of the cottages,” I said. “Do you ladies have any more thoughts on any of them?”

“I hear that Bobby Lawless continues to get into
trouble,” June said. “And I heard that he was in San Quentin in California. Isn't that just awful? And he was the cutest boy with freckles and a big smile. He loved to hot-wire cars and drive them around. Remember when he stole Antoinette Chloe's car, sister?”

“I do. He wanted to be an auto mechanic, and we always thought that he just stole cars to fix them,” Mrs. Leddy answered instead. “And Antoinette Chloe said that when Bobby Lawless stole her car, he brought it back in better shape.”

They all nodded, laughing.

“I kept hoping that he'd steal my Olds,” May said. “It needed a tune-up!”

I wondered if Bobby Lawless had graduated from stealing cars to murder.

“Ladies, anything more about Billy Swenti?”

Mrs. Leddy raised a hand. “You should see them all come to church—wheelchairs, walkers, crutches—the whole congregation helps out Billy and his gang.”

I thought I would rule out Swenti. He was too good to be true, but maybe that was his cover.

I ruled him back in.

There were too many suspects. Aspirin. I needed aspirin.

They were all talking at once about Saint Billy Swenti.

I interrupted. “Buddy Wilder? Anything more about him?”

“He was wonderful when he was in school,”
June said, “but he always reminded me of Eddie Haskell, you know, that kid on
Leave It to Beaver
.”

“I agree, sister,” May said.

Mrs. Leddy clapped. “Yes! Eddie Haskell!”

May smoothed her skirt and made sure that it was almost to her ankles. “He's a priest now. Who would ever have guessed that?”

“And I won the fifty-fifty raffle that we held to support his drug addicts. Of course, I donated the money back. It was the right thing to do,” said June.

“That was nice of you.” Mrs. Leddy patted her on the knee.

May checked her watch, then grunted as she got up from her chair. “Who's left, dear? I have to get back to work. I'm reading
The Ugly Duckling
for children's story time.”

I checked my list. “Got anything more about Robert Godfrey?”

“No. Just that he always was a brainiac and very shy,” June said. “And he had a bad case of shyness all four years of high school, poor boy. He threw himself into his books.”

The conversation broke up with the ladies planning to meet at the Dance Fest, what they were going to wear, and promises of partnering up to polka.

I said my good-byes and while sitting in my car, I made notes on each of the
B
's before I forgot.

A surgeon, a criminal, a priest, and a disk jockey
who was gay and who adopted handicapped children.

None of them really seemed like Claire's type, but what did I know? Maybe one of them was the boyfriend I'd heard about.

Maybe the
B
's were interviewed twenty-five years ago by law enforcement. I think Ty had told me that the whole class was interviewed, whether or not they attended the bonfire.

But really, back then, the Sandy Harbor Sheriff's Department thought it was a missing person's case, so how much did they really question everyone?

I was going to turn over this information to Ty and let him further investigate the B List.

But right now I was going to go to Brown's Family Restaurant and speak to Antoinette Chloe Brown.

I couldn't really call ACB a friend, as we didn't know each other very well, but she was a definite character. She always dressed in flowery muumuus, flip-flops and clunky rhinestone jewelry until she ran off with her husband's brother, Tony Brownelli. Then she turned biker chick with black leather, chains, and white hair with a black streak down the part.

As I pulled up to her restaurant, Antoinette Chloe was back in muumuu mode, her hair was a fluorescent orange, and she was sitting on the middle step of her restaurant's entrance.

I swung into a parking space and hurried out. “Antoinette Chloe, are you okay?”

She sniffed. “Tony took off on me. Said that he had to ride off into the sunset and be free. Said I was stifling him.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“With Sal doing life in Auburn and with Tony gone, I feel so lonely. Like no one wants me.”

Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, and I prayed that they'd evaporate and wouldn't trail down the orange tanner on her face or it was going to be striped.

I sat down next to her. “I found that it's best to keep busy. Throw yourself into your restaurant. Get that
CLOSED
sign down, for heaven's sake. First you're open, then closed. That's not good for business.”

“I know.”

She unfolded a tissue and blotted her caked mascara, black glitter eyeliner, and thick turquoise eye shadow. The tissue reflected a perfect copy.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“I'm going to close for a couple of weeks and get my restaurant all spiffed up—new paint, new wallpaper, new fixtures, new flooring, and a clean kitchen. I'll hire it all out. Support the local economy.”

“That'll be nice.” Brown's definitely needed some cleaning and updating. Antoinette Chloe had very flamboyant taste, and I'd love to bland down her cabbage rose wallpaper, but it was her place, and she could do what she wanted.

“Trixie, you said you'd help me. Did you mean it?”

“Sure. What can I do?”
Please, let me help you pick out wallpaper.

She tented her fingers. Each finger and thumb had at least three rings.

“Teach me to cook, Trixie. I mean, I know how to cook, but I can't get the hang of short-order cooking. I want to see how you can handle everything all at once. Let me work at the Silver Bullet for a couple of weeks.”

Her mascara left raccoon rings around her eyes.

“Uh . . . sure. Sure, Antoinette Chloe. You can learn from Juanita and Cindy during the day and me on graveyard. Whatever you'd like.”

Her makeup would melt right off her face over the fryer, and she might lose a few dozen rings in the process.

“I'd like to experience everything,” she said, adjusting her multicolored silk lei. “Although I'm the perfect hostess, I'd like to learn to cook. Let's face it, my husband won't be returning, not that I'd take him back, and I don't know about Tony. Brown's is my place now, but I think I'm going to rename it. I'm going to call it Antoinette Chloe's Piccolo Bistro and Ice-Cream Parlor.”