Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery (9 page)

“Amanitas,” Ty said as I opened my front door the next morning. He was right on time to pick me up for Mr. Cogswell’s service at the Happy Repose Funeral Home.

“Pardon?”

“Amanita mushrooms. They are a group of poisonous mushrooms. That’s what killed Mr. Cogswell, according to the state police lab. They are trying to identify the exact type.”

I shrugged. “Never heard of them.” I motioned for him to come in. He stood on the rug by the door, and I was grateful for his good winter manners. He wasn’t going to tramp through my house like the mayor had, tracking in snow and faux salt granules.

“I did an Internet check,” he said. “They appear wild in the woods around here in the summer and fall, so the killer had to have picked them back then and saved them. Apparently, one cap of an amanita can kill a man.”

I shook my head. “Wow.” Then I remembered. “There were a lot of mushrooms on his plate. He didn’t have a prayer.”

“True,” Ty said.

I remembered learning about wild mushrooms from my Girl Scout days. The lesson was to not ever touch, pick, or eat them. Duh.

“The killer had to have dried them, or maybe he, or she, precooked and froze them,” I pointed out.

“The lab told me that after they’re cooked, they look like regular mushrooms. Even if Mr. Cogswell knew about amanitas, he wouldn’t have been able to pick them out.”

I pulled my same red puffy coat out of the closet, and Ty took it from me and held it open for me to put on. I slipped my arms into the sleeves and smiled at the nice gesture. It was getting harder to keep up my semi-dislike of him.

“Where’s Blondie?” I asked.

“At the Humane Association. I dropped her off first thing this morning. They are going to clean her up and look for her owner.”

His blue eyes had lost some of their sparkle. He wanted to keep the dog.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

The Happy Repose was only eight miles away,
past downtown Sandy Harbor, down country roads dotted with houses and farms and a couple of mom-and-pop businesses.

Men in dark black suits, coats, and hats were waiting in the parking lot. They greeted us and slotted us into a parking space. Ty took my arm and led me to the front door of the funeral parlor. I was grateful for the assistance over the hard-packed snow and ice.

I wiped my feet on the throw rug thoroughly so I wouldn’t track anything into the room. Ty did the same.

There was no one in line to greet the lone woman who was standing on the side of the casket. She was tall and slender, with white-blond hair and gray eyes, a model-perfect snow queen. I assumed that she was Roberta Cummings, Mr. Cogswell’s girlfriend.

Several other people sat in the chairs in the large room.

I signed the guest book, walked over to Roberta, and held out my hand.

“Miss Cummings, I’m Trixie Matkowski. I’m the new owner of the—”

“I know who you are,” she said, looking at me with hate-filled eyes. “You are the one who poisoned my Marvin. What are you doing here?”

I dropped my hand as my whole body heated in embarrassment. “I’m paying my respects,” I said quietly.

“You’ve paid them. Now you can go.” Icicles dripped from each word.

I hadn’t expected this reaction from her. Maybe it never dawned on me that she’d blame Mr. Cogswell’s death on me.

Ty appeared at my side. “The investigation is still ongoing, Ms. Cummings. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“This whole town knows that the Silver Bullet didn’t pass Marvin’s inspection,” she said, her voice raised. It crossed my mind that she was playing to the audience of mourners. “Two weeks ago, it was in the
Sandy Harbor Lure
, for heaven’s sake. She had it in for him.”

She pointed her finger toward my boobs, and it took all my self-control not to squash her like a bug.

“And you are an editor at the
Lure
, are you not?” Ty asked.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with this!” she said, stepping closer to me. I feared for my hair, thinking that she was going to grab it and start yanking. I would put up a good fight as I needed to keep every strand of it.

Ty stepped between us. “Ms. Cummings, Trixie is here to pay her respects. If she had something to hide, do you think she’d come here?”

She rolled her eyes and shrugged. “As soon as Marvin is buried, I’m going to make it my mission to see that no one eats in your diner ever again, Miss Matkowski.”

She spit out my name as if each syllable burned her tongue.

I stepped back beyond her reach and said a
quick prayer in front of Mr. Cogswell’s closed casket. On the casket was a grainy photo of him that looked like his high school yearbook picture. I figured that it had to be at least thirty years since he had graduated from high school. He wasn’t bad-looking back then, but I wondered what he looked like now…er…before he’d died.

I was ready to scoot out the door when I saw Ty signal to me to take a seat. I whispered, “Are you nuts? I want to get out of here.”

He jerked his head toward a folding chair. “Sit.”

Taking a deep breath, I sat.

His hand hovered over mine. For a second, it looked like he was going to take my hand, but then he changed his mind and lowered it onto his thigh.

I didn’t know what to make of that. He was either feeling sorry for me or wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to bolt.

Why was I here, again? Oh yes, looking for some kind of clue with Ty—looking for something strange or out of the ordinary.

Roberta Cummings was strange, and the only thing out of the ordinary was me.

I sat perfectly still as she shot me scathing looks. Several more people appeared, including Mayor Tingsley, then left almost immediately. Soon, the only ones left in the room were Roberta, Ty, and I. And of course, Mr. Cogswell.

The funeral director/coroner, Hal Manning, came into the room and announced that we were going to say some prayers for the soul of Mr. Cogswell.
Ty and I turned to page fourteen of the blue prayer book as instructed.

I guess it was the least I could do.

So I prayed for the happy repose of the soul of the health inspector at the Happy Repose Funeral Home.

Finally, the service was over, but Ty made no move to exit. Then I realized that he was waiting for our names to be called for the procession to the cemetery.

Oh no!

“Mr. Ty Brisco and Miss Beatrix Matkowski,” announced Mr. Manning.

We were the only ones in the room now! He could have just waved us over. If that wasn’t strange enough, we were driving the only ordinary car in the funeral procession. There was the hearse, a limo carrying Roberta Cummings and the black-coated guys, and then us in Ty’s humongous black SUV.

An overwhelming wave of sadness for Mr. Cogswell washed over me. Here was a man whose life was unexpectedly cut short, and, besides his girlfriend, only a deputy sheriff and I were there at the cemetery. I was glad that I had attended the service after all.

After more prayers at the cemetery, where it seemed that Roberta was more interested in glaring at me than praying, we drove back into town.

“Did you pick up any clues, Ty?”

“Not really. I was just surprised that more
people didn’t attend. I mean, Marvin Cogswell inspected every food place in town; I would have thought that more people would have paid their respects.”

“Maybe he wasn’t liked,” I suggested.

He shrugged. “I heard in the wind that he ate his way around the county, and some of the restaurant owners didn’t like that—a free meal for every inspection.”

“And maybe if the establishment didn’t give him free food, they failed their inspection?” I made a mental note to check if the Silver Bullet cooks fed Marvin and to what end.

“Maybe they failed, maybe not. I’m going to check.”

“But Marvin’s mooching of meals is not reason enough to kill him,” I said.

“I wouldn’t think so.” At a red light, he turned toward me. “How about breakfast? I’m thinking that you might like to check out the competition. How about Brown’s Four Corners?”

“Great idea. I’m starving.”

Brown’s parking lot was snowy, slushy, and a major mess. My boots immediately started to leak. By the time we got inside, my feet were frozen stumps.

A blast of hot, greasy air hit me in the face as soon as I walked in. In the waiting area, there was a logjam of parkas and red plaid hunting jackets vying for seats.

As Ty hung up our coats, I shimmied my way
through the crowd toward what seemed to be a hostess stand. “Trixie Matkowski, a table for two, please.”

A hush fell over the crowd. It started like a slow ripple, then picked up momentum, like a wave at a sporting event. Many pairs of eyes locked on me, and I wondered if all my buttons were fastened and all my zippers were zipped.

“Um, Ty, is the silence for you or for me?” I asked. “I know that you’re a novelty around here, but it seems like I beat you out this time.”

“Yeah, I think it’s for you.”

“Shall I wave, give a small speech, what?” I asked.

He shifted from cowboy boot to cowboy boot, and I felt his hand at the small of my back. Why on earth did my cheeks heat up?

“Let’s just sit down,” Ty said.

Springing into action, he winked at the hostess, complimented her “purty” dress, and said “darlin’” a couple of times. We were seated in a snap.

Just like magic, the noise level returned to normal.

“This place sure is hopping,” I said as I slid into my seat.

“Since I’ve moved to Sandy Harbor, I’ve never seen it so busy. Not even close to this.”

A harried waitress plopped two menus on the table in front of us and kept on walking. I could hear the incessant ringing of a bell coming from the kitchen. Annoying.

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds,
and light hit the grimy windows. I could see a smoke cloud hovering over us in the dining room. Something had burned, or was still burning.

This wasn’t my idea of ambience, and the prices didn’t seem to be all that low. The food must be extraordinary to draw so many customers.

I looked around to see what everyone was eating, and I checked the plates that the servers were delivering. Nothing struck me as extraordinary in the least.

Ty peered at me over his menu. “I’ve had their buffalo hot wings before, and they’re pretty good.”

“I have a rule: no hot wings before breakfast.”

I noticed a woman in a floor-length muumuu covered with gardenias. She floated around the room, going from table to table and greeting patrons. Her purple turban, secured with a rhinestone image of the Eiffel Tower, slid forward when she nodded.

Lime green flip-flops peeked out beneath the hem of her flamboyant gown. I knew that because she was now standing at the side of our table.

“Well, hell-o, Deputy Brisco!” she said, offering Ty her hand. It seemed to me that she wanted him to kiss it, but he shook it instead.

“Howdy, Mrs. Brown,” he said. “You’re looking mighty purty today.”

Wasn’t he the Texas charmer?

She giggled. “Why thank you, Ty! And you’re looking as handsome as ever!”

She then turned to me. “I’m Antoinette Chloe Brown, the proprietress of Brown’s Four Corners
Restaurant,” she said breathlessly, à la Marilyn Monroe. “And you are?”

“Trixie Matkowski. I’m the new owner of the Silver Bullet Diner and cottages.”

“I thought you might be the new owner of the point.” She tapped her index finger on her chin, and raised her voice two octaves higher. “Didn’t Marvin Cogswell die after eating at your Silver Bullet Diner?”

There was that sudden drop in the noise level again.

My face flamed. “I—I…It didn’t happen like that.”

“Well, then how did it happen? I heard that it was your pork and scalloped potatoes that killed him.”

She was playing to the crowd. Roberta Cummings and Antoinette Chloe Brown should be on Broadway.

Darn it. What was I doing sitting here? I needed to spend the time investigating what really had happened.

I stood, noticing with great satisfaction that many rhinestones were missing from the Eiffel Tower.

“Excuse me, Ty,” I said, not moving my gaze from her eyes that were clumped with mascara and glittery blue eye shadow, “but I have lost my appetite.”

I grabbed my coat and dove back into the crowd of people still waiting to get a seat. I didn’t care if
Ty followed or not. I’d walk back home, leaky boots and all.

“Sheesh! Some people!” I heard Antoinette Chloe Brown say. “Some people are just jealous of others.”

Jealous? Hey, I have my own muumuu collection from my poetry-writing days. And I don’t do turbans.

Why would she think that I’d be jealous?

Of what?

I slid my way through their ice rink of a parking lot and walked onto the main highway. As I gave some unidentifiable roadkill a wide berth, I caught the edge of a major puddle, and more water seeped into my boots and soaked my stockings. My teeth started to chatter.

The next time I made a grand exit, I would be more prepared.

I heard a car drive up behind me and knew without looking that it was Ty Brisco’s SUV. He pulled up alongside of me, rolled the window down, and waved me in.

“C’mon, Trixie. Get in. The roads are slippery and awfully sloppy.”

No kidding!

I opened the door and climbed onto the front seat.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“How can you ask that, Ty? She was practically accusing me of killing poor Mr. Cogswell.” I snapped my fingers as I remembered. “Come to think of it, you did the same thing.”

He laughed. “It’s my job.”

“Well, it’s not Antoinette Chloe Brown’s job. And to broadcast it all over her restaurant—that was classless.”

“I agree.”

I simmered with resentment during the rest of the drive back home. When we turned down the road that led to my diner, I could see that there were only four cars in the parking lot of the Silver Bullet. Only four cars! From what I could remember, they belonged to my staff.

The parking lot was plowed to within an inch of its life. The walkways were clear and salted, unlike Brown’s.

My heart sank when I walked into the diner. It was clean and sparkling and smelled of cinnamon buns and coffee.