Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery (7 page)

“No, you’re not, Trixie. That’s my job.”

I
’m sure as hell going to find out who poisoned Mr. Cogswell.

That was sure a bold statement coming from me. I didn’t know where to start, but when the word got out that my food was responsible for killing the health inspector, the Silver Bullet wouldn’t be worth scrap metal.

“Leave this to the professionals,” Deputy Brisco said. “I was a detective in Houston for the major crimes unit. I can handle this with some help from the state police lab. Stay out of it, Trixie.”

We were on a first-name basis again, I guess.

“Look, Ty, I don’t like being a murder suspect.”

Really, this wasn’t all about me. It was about “the vic,” as they say on TV. His poor family. “What about Mr. Cogswell’s girlfriend. Did she take it hard?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“No?”

“She was as cold as the ice on the lake.”

“Maybe she’ll have a meltdown later—when it sinks in,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” Ty said, pacing the kitchen. He paused, then turned to me. “Look, Trixie, I’ll try to
keep this as quiet as possible, but you know that Sandy Harbor—”

“Is a small town.”

“If you can think of anything that would help in the investigation, please let me know.” He was just about to push the double doors that led to the restaurant when he turned back to me. “And I’ll handle it.”

I didn’t respond. Why lie? I was still going to do some investigating on my own. Minor stuff. I’d stay out of his way.

He left the room and immediately returned. “Would you put on the steak special for me? Rare.”

“Aren’t you afraid that I’m going to poison you?”

“I don’t eat mushrooms,” he said. With a dazzling, white-toothed smile he was gone.

But not really gone. He took a seat at the counter right in the middle of the pass-through window. I had a perfect view of him, and he had a perfect view of me.

I picked out a nice T-bone for him, sank some of my hand-cut fries into the fryer, and pulled out a plate from the top of the stack. Because I was feeling extra generous, I decided to make garlic bread for him. I sliced a couple pieces of Italian bread, spread some axle grease on them, sprinkled on some freshly minced garlic, parsley, and some grated cheese, and slipped them into the pizza oven to toast.

It was getting quiet in the diner. The snowplow drivers had left, and Deputy Brisco was the only customer left. I wanted to grab a cup of coffee and sink into a booth, but I’d never get up if I did. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to Ty Brisco anymore.

I pushed a rack of dishes through the industrial dishwasher and turned it on. Nancy or Chelsea could have done that, but they were busy vying for the attention of the cowboy cop.

Good for them. I, however, had never learned the fine art of flirting with the opposite sex. I thought about my history with Deputy Doug and concluded that he’d needed me—needed me to help him pass high school, then four years of state university, then to help him get through the police academy.

Then he needed me to make babies. When that didn’t happen, he moved on.

As the steam of the dishwasher blasted my face and wilted my hair even more, I felt a pang in my heart.

I’d experienced it before. It was the pang of loss. Not the loss of Doug or the loss of my marriage, but the loss of never having had children.

I would have been a great mother. I love kids, love the cute things that they say, the cute things that they do. When they get older and turn out good, they are a joy to be around. Then they gift you with grandchildren to spoil.

I’d thought of adopting, but I must have known my marriage to Doug wasn’t going to last. I’d just known.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t conceive; I just hadn’t. But Doug sure was a straight shooter with his girlfriend, Wendy. Then again, at age twenty-one, she was quite a bit younger than I and obviously more fertile.

Ty held up his coffee mug, and Nancy just about flew over to refill it.

“You little ladies take such good care of me,” he drawled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said under my breath. I told myself that he was a novelty in the northern tundra; that was why everyone seemed to gravitate toward him.

I, however, was immune to his charms. I was a suspect, and I’d better figure out something soon—anything.

As I waited for his steak to cook, I played with garnishes. I made some pepper shavings by grating a pepper with a cheese grater, cut some carrot curls, added some cherry tomatoes, and arranged it all on a bed of kale.

Finally, his order was completed, and I rang the bell for one of the waitresses to pick it up. Apparently, Nancy won the toss.

I cleaned up the area, fussing too much. When I looked up, Ty gave me a “thumbs-up” sign as he chewed on the steak that I’d made him. He sported a big grin as he cut off another piece of meat. I just loved cooking for people who appreciated it.

Now what?

I knew what I would do. I’d bake. I’d bake something to keep our customers satisfied until I
could get some goodies from Mrs. Stolfus. I thought of the snow outside and decided to make my mother’s snowball cookies. How appropriate, considering the snowstorm raging outside.

Mom had made them every year at Christmas until she “retired from cooking and baking” and hit the road in the motor home.

I knew the recipe by heart—butter, flour, egg, extract and morsels like chocolate, peanut butter, or minis—but I got out pen and paper and increased it ten times to have enough for the diner.

I don’t know how I managed to stay upright, rolling and baking thousands of little balls, until Juanita—thankfully—arrived in the morning. Cindy Sherlock arrived soon after. It turned out that Juanita knew Cindy and her family from church.

Small town.

I helped Cindy into a pristine white apron, then excused myself and, yawning, stumbled to the back door. I hadn’t noticed that the door had been unlocked all night, most likely since the EMTs carried Mr. Cogswell out, and that anyone could have walked in.

I tamped down my paranoia. Probably no one locked their doors in Sandy Harbor, New York.

Small town.

I asked Juanita to shake the snowballs in powdered sugar when they cooled, and I bundled up in preparation for the walk back to my house. Maybe I’d stop at my car, fetch a couple more
boxes, and bring them inside. I quickly dismissed that ambitious idea. I was pooped.

As I climbed the stairs to my house, all I could think of was the squeaky brass bed in the guest room. I wanted to snuggle under the down comforter and sleep for two days.

A horn beeped, shocking me out of my dream of blissful rest, and a man bounded out of a blue SUV. He came toward me climbing over the snowbank that surrounded the parking lot. He wore bright yellow boots that came up to his knees, and he was agile in spite of his heavy frame. He was carrying something.

As he got closer, I saw that he was carrying a bouquet of spring flowers.

He had a thick black moustache that looked like a snowbrush. It was wet with snowflakes in various stages of melting. Melting snow dripped down his chin, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his navy blue peacoat.

“I’m Rick Tingsley, the mayor of Sandy Harbor. I also own the restaurant in town, the Crossroads. I heard that you bought the Silver Bullet and the cottages from Stella—the whole point. On behalf of the town, I want to welcome you to Sandy Harbor.”

He gave me the flowers and extended his hand. He had on gloves that were cut off at the knuckles, so some of his fingers showed.

We shook. “I’m Trixie Matkowski. Stella’s my aunt. Porky was my uncle. I bought the diner and cottages from my aunt.”

“Yes, I know. I tried to buy the point from Stella. Hey! You’d better get those flowers in water,” he said. “And get them out of the cold.”

“Yes. Yes, I should. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Turning to go up the stairs that led to the front door, I heard him loudly clearing his throat. Pausing, I remembered my manners.

“Would you like to come in, Mr. Mayor? I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” In my mind, I was begging him to say no. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any sweets to go with it.” Maybe that would deter him from accepting.

“That would be nice. I’d love a cup.”

Darn it.

As I pulled the wad of metal keys from my pocket and searched for the right key to open the door, he stood right behind me. He was so close that I felt his cold breath on my right ear. Ick.

“The flowers are just beautiful,” I said, and meant it. “It must have been difficult to find spring flowers in little Sandy Harbor.”

“Nah. Chuck’s Gas and Grab had ’em.”

He didn’t step out of his boots once we were inside, and I was just about to tell him to do so, but he was already on his way into the kitchen, dripping snow and ice-melt granules in his wake.

I hadn’t moved from the living room. I just stood there, stunned at his boldness.

“I’ll make this short and sweet.” His hands were splayed on my counter, and he leaned like it was a podium and he was making a speech.

Slowly walking into the kitchen, I waited.

“I want to buy the point,” he announced. “The whole enchilada.”

“Pardon me?” I’d heard him, but I just wanted to see if he’d say enchilada again.

“I want to buy the point. The whole enchilada. The diner, the cottages, the bait shop, this house. All of it.”

Ha! He’d said it again, and he even broke it down for me.

“That’s nice of you, Mayor Tingsley, but I haven’t even unpacked yet. I haven’t even had a chance to get my bearings.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll pay you two million, right now, if you sign this.” He pulled a packet of papers out of an inside pocket and spread them on the counter.

Wow. That was a lot of money, and I could go anywhere or do anything I wanted with that kind of dough, but this was home now, and I loved it here. Besides, Aunt Stella trusted me with what she and Uncle Porky built, and I had my own memories of growing up here. I couldn’t do it for any amount of money.

“No,” I said. “This is my home, my business. I’m here to stay.”

He yanked the papers from the table and shoved them into the pocket of his parka. “You’ll be sorry you didn’t accept my offer.” He checked his watch. “I’m running late. I’m going to skip your offer of coffee. I’ll be back. Rick Tingsley doesn’t give up.”

“Uh, Mayor Tingsley, what do you mean that I’ll be sorry?”

“I heard what happened here. Marv Cogswell, the health inspector, died in your kitchen. Do you think that you’ll have any business after word gets out that he was poisoned at your diner?”

“I’ll walk you out,” I said, heading for the door. I was half past cranky and couldn’t tolerate the less-than-honorable Mayor Tingsley anymore.

We said our good-byes, and he reiterated that he’d be back. I’d be ready.

I shut the door behind him and locked it. I was exhausted, but I wanted to mop up his mess from the living room and the kitchen. It looked like an army had marched through my house, not just one mayor.

Forget it. I just had to sleep.

I had a death grip on the banister as I trudged up the stairs to the second floor. Every bone in my body screamed in pain. If I had had any muscles, they’d have screamed, too.

I was almost to the top step when the doorbell rang.

I looked longingly at the door to my room, visible down the long hall.

The doorbell rang again, and I turned around. It was easier going down the stairs, but not by much.

I answered the door. The entire Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department stood on my porch. Ty Brisco stood between Vern and Lou with his hands in his pockets, looking refreshed and put together.

“Good morning,” I said to everyone, raking my hair out of my eyes. I wanted to tell them that I didn’t usually look like this, but I’d just spent fourteen hours cooking and the mayor had left me with a hideous headache.

I noticed Ty shifting from boot to boot. He met my gaze, stood a little straighter, and magically transformed into J. Edgar Hoover, minus the dress.

Ty held up a piece of legal-looking paper. “I have a court order to search your house.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Sorry, Trixie.”

“But—”

“Sorry.”

He had the sense to look sheepish. Good.

“Come on in. I have nothing to hide,” I said, holding the door as everyone filed in.

They all put white booties on their feet. Vern and Lou carried duffel bags, and they spread out over my house like killer bees.

I noticed Ty looking at me. I was still standing by the door, still swaying on my numb feet and perversely wishing that I’d had a chance to really clean the place. Who wishes she had cleaned up for men who think she’s a murderer?

This was so ridiculous. Why were they wasting time on me? They should be looking for the real killer.

Ty stood in front of me. “I am truly sorry, Trixie.”

“What should I do, Deputy Brisco? Make coffee? I wish I had some doughnuts or something to
serve. I should have brought some snowballs home from the diner.” I couldn’t help being sarcastic. I wanted them out of my house, and I wanted to get some sleep.

“This shouldn’t take long. Just sit down and relax and try not to worry.” He pointed to a reclining chair. If I sat there, I’d go to sleep immediately.

Oh, who cares?
I sat down in the chair, yanked on the footrest handle, and sank into blue plaid heaven. I reached for a knitted afghan that Aunt Stella had left and shook it out over myself. Yum.

The next thing that I heard was Ty’s low voice with the Texas twang, “Trixie, we’re leaving now.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, raising the afghan higher.

“I just want to tell you that we didn’t find anything unusual. No mushrooms.”

“That’s nice,” I said, cocooning deeper into the chair.

“Trixie, did you hear what I said, darlin’?”

“Mush…rooms.”

Why didn’t he just stop talking and let me sleep?

“Uh…well…okay,” he said. “Get some rest. I’m going now.”

“Mmm…arrest. You’re going to arrest.”