A Second Helping of Murder (11 page)

“You knew Claire just a little?” I prodded.

“Why, yes. She was just a summer visitor, so why would I know her well?”

“Did Laura know her?” I asked.

“Just a little.”

She wasn't helping much at all. “But you were living here when Claire disappeared, right?”

“Yes. There was quite the search for her, and personally, I thought she ran off with someone. I thought she was that type—a little loose.”

No way!

“But I thought you said you didn't know Claire very well.”

She put down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth. “She had a . . . reputation.”

“Oh?” I was adamant that if Claire had the reputation of being loose, the gossipers should be put in a room and forced to watch the channel guide for a month straight.

“If we are going to continue to talk about Claire Jacobson during this luncheon, I'll be leaving,” Mrs. VanPlank said.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. VanPlank, but I'm very interested in this matter. It's a personal thing, but I'll change the subject.” I gathered my thoughts and proceeded with my lame questioning. “Since you've shared so much with me, can I just ask you a personal question?”

“I don't suppose I can stop you. You're very nosy.”

Ouch. But fair.

I took a deep breath. “My husband cheated on
me, and I left him quicker than the time it takes to poach an egg. Can I just ask you how could you stay with Grant when his unfaithfulness was so public?”

She closed her eyes as if it pained her to discuss it. Of course it would pain her. What kind of hostess was I?

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. VanPlank. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just wondering how you handled Grant's cheating. I handled it very poorly when I found out that my husband was cheating on me. I called his mother and tattled. Then I donated all his clothes, his motorcycle, and his boat to the Salvation Army, so when he came home, he had nothing to wear but the clothes on his back. Our only car was registered to me.”

She didn't laugh, but her eyes twinkled.

“I did give him the receipt for his income tax,” I said.

Mrs. VanPlank took a sip of her water. “I will share my reason with you, since I've been interviewed about it by several media sources.” She sighed. “My reason was, and still is, that I simply felt that I should continue to support him. I think that his reputation can still be salvaged and he can get back into politics. Others have done it. Besides, I've worked hard for him. I deserve a reward. I couldn't let his dalliance with a young hussy ruin my life.”

“I see.”

I didn't see at all, but her statement confirmed
my opinion that she believed that a woman shouldn't hold office herself but could shine in the limelight through her husband.

Just what Laura Tingsley seemed to believe! Nothing like brainwashing.

I dropped my spoon into my pea soup and it splattered on the table.

Oh my! Could Grant VanPlank be the older man who'd fathered Claire's baby?

“Excuse me,” I said. “I'm so clumsy. My hand seems to be weak from all the work I did on Cottage Eight.” That was true. My wrist
was
killing me.

She nodded and took a drink of water.

“Mrs. VanPlank, I can't believe that I'm asking you this, but if you don't want to answer, I completely understand. Here goes: I knew who my ex-husband was fooling around with. Did you know who your husband was . . . uh . . . with?”

She hesitated and stared me down like a gunslinger at high noon. Then surprisingly, she answered, “No. I didn't want to know. All I know was that she must have been very . . . young. He said that she made him feel like a teenager again.”

Claire! Oh no!

Grant VanPlank would have been old enough to be her father. Could he have written that sappy love letter to her?

She looked out the window, and I realized that this had to be a painful conversation for her. I didn't want that, but I continued to be surprised as to what she'd shared with me.

Time to change the subject.

“Mrs. VanPlank, I hope you, Grant, Laura, and the mayor will come to the Dance Fest. It should be a fun time. Just like the old days when Uncle Porky and Aunt Stella ran the Silver Bullet.”

“I'll be attending. I'm hoping that some of my old friends will be there, and, of course, I'll be campaigning for the mayor's election as senator.”

“Of course.”

That was just what I needed at the Dance Fest, a side campaign for Rick Tingsley.

I wanted to ask her whether or not her husband had a nickname, but I couldn't figure how to broach that subject. Oh, I just got an idea!

“Carla. May I call you Carla?” I didn't wait for her to answer. “Carla, I wanted to ask you if you know my aunt Beatrix. I'm hoping that I can get her and my aunt Stella to fly up for the Dance Fest. It'll be so good to see them. You know I was named after my aunt Beatrix. It's funny, she hates to be called Trixie and I hate to be called Beatrix. Did you ever have a nickname?”

“No.”

“What about Mr. VanPlank?”

“Never.”

Darn it. I was hoping that he'd be “B.”

But then who wrote that letter to Claire?

Grant VanPlank had a motive. It wouldn't look good in the media for him to have a seventeen-year-old pregnant mistress, would it? He killed her so the scandal wouldn't be hanging over his
head when he ran for president of the United States.

Was Phil Jacobson onto him? Was that why he had to go?

I looked forward to meeting Grant VanPlank at the Dance Fest. I had a couple of questions for him.

The rest of the lunch was mired in small talk. I couldn't wait to see Ty and tell him what I'd found out.

Did Grant VanPlank kill both Phil and Claire? Maybe, maybe not, but he was certainly number one on my leader board of suspects.

But I had more investigating to do.

“I'
d like that tour that you promised me, Trixie,” Carla said, but more like a command than a request.

I told her that the meal was on me, but the least Carla could have done was to leave a tip for Judy. She didn't even make an effort to reach for her purse. Maybe it was too much of a strain with all the diamonds that she was wearing.

We walked by the lake. I ran out of small talk, but she rattled on about campaign advertising, Republicans vs. Democrats, the current president, and her recipe for sauerbraten.

And don't even get her started on insurance companies!

Soon I realized that she was walking toward Cottage Eight. In her heels, she sank into the grass, a little less than the sand, but it was still a struggle for her to walk.

She surveyed the mess of wainscoting in the yard. “Remodeling, you say?”

“Yes. I'm going to either remodel it or tear it down.”

“Oh!” Her lips pinched tight until they lost their color. You'd think that the place held some importance to her.

“Carla, does Cottage Eight mean something to you? I mean, did you ever stay in it?”

“Never. But I do remember visiting Jean and Mel Jacobson on occasion. Jean and I were in the Daughters of the American Revolution together. We both had ancestors who participated in the Boston Tea Party.”

“That's pretty cool.”

“I wouldn't call it cool. I'd say it was historic, patriotic, and radical.”

“Oh, sure. All of that, but pretty cool, too.”

She sniffed. “How far can you trace your ancestors?”

“On my father's side, I can trace them all the way from Warsaw, Poland. On my mother's side, to Russia.”

“So they were immigrants.”

“Yes. Just like your ancestors.”

She didn't like that. I've never known such a snob.

“So you visited the Jacobsons?” I asked.

“Yes. They were very nice people.”

“I wonder whatever happened to their son. I can't remember his name,” I said.

“I'm sure I don't know.”

We were standing in front of Cottage Eight.

“I was hoping that we'd get a chance to go inside,” she said.

“As you can see, it's wrapped in police tape.”

“But surely we can go in. You're the owner.”

That was curious. “Why on earth do you want to go in there?”

“I—I thought it would help me remember Jean and Mel.”

Carla didn't strike me as the sentimental type.

“Sorry, Carla. I don't dare go in. Deputy Brisco has taped up the place for a reason.”

“But you two were just in there, taking down the walls. Are you looking for something? Something that has to do with the murder?”

“No. Not at all,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you wouldn't tear down paneling with crime scene tape around it. You'd wait to remodel until the tape was gone.”

She had me there. Time to shift gears.

“Well, I think that this is the end of the tour, Carla. Is there anything else you'd like to see?”

“Not particularly,” she snapped.

I wondered if the reason she came to lunch alone was to see Cottage Eight. Why the fascination?

I chalked it up to just plain curiosity. Something she could talk about during cocktail parties. Something out of the ordinary for an upper-middle-class matron.

Whatever it was, I didn't care about it now. I was ready to walk her to her car.

“Well, thanks for visiting, Carla. I'm sure you want to head back. Maybe the mayor needs you. Or Mr. VanPlank.” I slapped my forehead. What kind of detective was I? I could have asked him some questions, also. “I'm so sorry. I should have invited your husband, too. I didn't think of it.”

“No. That's not necessary.” She shook her head. “I like the time away from him. I think it's very important for a married couple to live their own lives.”

That was just what Deputy Doug had been doing while married to me—only he was living his own life way too much.

“Let me walk you to your car,” I volunteered. “Or do you want me to drive it closer? Those shoes aren't very good for walking outside.”

“I have casual shoes in my car. I should have worn them on our little walk.”

I nodded. “So, should I get your car?”

“I'm fine, dear.”

She was doing a fabulous job of aerating my grass, but it was taking forever to cross the lawn. It'd be faster if I carried her on my back.

Finally we made it to her car, a candy apple red Chevy Malibu.

“Thank you for coming, Carla. It's been a lovely afternoon.”

And interesting.
But please start the car up!

Finally, finally, finally the Chevy's motor started and Carla VanPlank moseyed through the parking
lot, up the road to the highway, and turned right onto Route 3.

It felt as if I'd lost ten pounds.

*   *   *

“Will Beatrix Matkowski please approach the bench.”

Ugh. Could I tell the judge of Sandy Harbor Justice Court that only my auntie goes by that name?

I walked on the marble floor shined within an inch of its life. My new flats, which were half sneaker and half-dressy, if that can possibly be, were squeaking like crows on a rampage.

Finally I was in front of the bench, which was a folding table set up in a huge hall often used for wedding receptions. It became the justice court on Wednesday nights.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Matkowski.”

“No problem, Your Honor.”

His Honor was Joe Newell, the owner of the Sandy Harbor Movie Theater and Arcade on the north side of downtown. Everyone was buzzing about the renovations he did to restore the theater to its original state, somewhere around the 1940s.

Joe frequented the Silver Bullet regularly, and I knew him. He was a great kidder, mercilessly funny, and he often butted heads with Mayor Tingsley.

Rick Tingsley couldn't keep up with the sharp brain of Joe Newell.

“Please take a seat. This is an informal hearing,” he said.

“Then please call me Trixie, Your Honor.”

“All right.”

I took a seat in the folding chair in front of the table. Also seated were Ty and Ray Meyerson. Ty winked at me. Ray lifted his hand in a slight wave. I nodded back. I didn't know Ray's parents, but I assumed the couple holding hands were them.

Ray's lawyer was there with a floppy black briefcase and a stack of manila folders. A striking red-haired woman that I assumed was the district attorney smiled at me. She had more folders than Ray's lawyer. Hers were stacked in a bright blue plastic milk crate.

If this wasn't a Wednesday night in a makeshift courtroom, I'd swear that we were all here for a bowling banquet.

“Miss Matkowski, I understand that you have employed the defendant, Ray Meyerson,” stated Joe the judge.

“I have, Your Honor.”

“And how is that working out?”

“Fabulously.” Was that even a word? And please don't ask me to spell it for the court stenographer.

Oh, she was also in the room. She was at least a hundred years old and wore two sweaters and a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

I thought it was hot in here.

“That's good. Can you tell the court what Mr. Meyerson has been doing for you?”

“Computer work. And also, Ray is the head busboy at my diner.”

Ray was the
only
busboy at my diner.

Both Ty and Ray grinned. Judge Joe stifled a smile.

Then the smile left his face. “Did you say computer work, Miss Matkowski?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Ray did some wonderful pamphlets for me for the Dance Fest. I hope you're coming, Your Honor.”

He nodded. “Of course I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it. But, Miss Matkowski, are you aware of the incident that Mr. Meyers is accused of committing?”

“Yes. Ray has shared the incident with me.”

“And you still let him use your computer?”

“Absolutely. I trust him implicitly.” And don't ask me to spell that. “Or else I wouldn't trust him with my computer.”

“Good.”

“You should see him, Joe.” Oops. “I mean, Your Honor. He is a typing whiz. Very artistic. He should be working for a computer place, not the Silver Bullet. However, he's the best busboy that I've ever employed. He's a real self-starter. He knows exactly what needs to be done, and then he does it. And I just love him.”

His mother sniffed and blew her nose.

“Well, that's good enough for me,” said Judge Joe. “Is there a motion from the district attorney's office?”

The redhead stood. “Yes, Your Honor. I'd like to make a motion that the defendant's conviction be vacated, that he be adjudicated a Youthful Offender, and that his record be sealed.”

“Mr. Udder?”

His name was really Udder? The poor man must have been teased unmercifully at school.

“The defense agrees, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Meyerson, will you and Mr. Udder please approach the bench.”

Ray, swimming in a three-piece suit that must have belonged to his father, stumbled getting to the appropriate area of the banquet table.

I looked at his feet. His shoes were so big he might as well be wearing the box that they came in. His father's shoes?

“Ray Meyerson, I am vacating your conviction. I am adjudicating you a Youthful Offender, and after reading the report from the county probation department, I am sentencing you to a one-year conditional discharge with the conditions that you maintain employment at Miss Matkowski's Silver Bullet Diner for a year and that you remain out of all further trouble. If you get in trouble again, heaven help you. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Meyerson?”

“Only that I won't get in trouble anymore. My hacking days are over. And I'd like to thank Deputy Brisco for getting me the job. And I'd like to thank Trixie . . . um . . . Miss Matkowski. She's a blast to work for. It's not really like a job.”

“Good.” The judge pounded his gavel. “Court's dismissed.”

He motioned for me to come closer.

“Yeah, Joe?”

“What's the special today?”

“Chicken and biscuits with your choice of soup—split pea, French onion, or bean. A chef salad, rolls fresh from the oven, and your choice of dessert. You should see the pies that Sarah Stolfus brought over.”

A piece of coconut cream was waiting for me.

Mr. and Mrs. Meyerson came over and introduced themselves. Donna and Ed. Ed couldn't stop pumping my hand, and Donna wrapped her arms around me and clung to me like a piece of lint.

Finally Ty suggested that we all head down to the Silver Bullet and have something to eat.

“Trixie must get tired of always eating there. I made a little spread,” said Mrs. Meyerson. “Please come. I have a lot to eat. I always cook when I'm stressed. I thought my little Ray—” She dabbed at her nose. “Was going to jail.”

“Oh, Mom. It's okay,” Ray said, looking helpless, as did Ed.

“Don't cry, Donna. It's all over, and Ray made out fine,” I said.

“It's all due to you.”

“I don't think so, Donna. It's Ray who worked hard.”

Ray's girlfriend, Liz, was hugging the stuffing out of him. Liz looked like a nerd herself. She
wore a T-shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein and had on red polyester pants and black sneakers with lime green shoelaces. She could stand to lose twenty pounds—not that I'm pointing any fingers—and she had a nice smile. I could tell that she was head over heels in love with Ray.

After we were all shuffling out, I saw that Liz was carrying a white plastic container. It looked as though she had made a cake.

How sweet!

I was just about to make some excuse to get out of going to the Meyersons' for the “spread” when Ty whispered in my ear. Honestly, when he did that, it gave me the shivers.

Yum!

“Let's go,” he said. “It'd mean a lot to the Meyersons.”

I nodded. “Just for a short time.”

“You got it.”

Ty had taken me to court, so I really had no choice but to go.

As we drove to the Meyersons' house, I realized that by the twists and turns and the smell of cows, we were going deep into the Sandy Harbor countryside. The roller-coaster roads made amusement park coasters seem like anthills.

Ray rode this on his bike to and from work?

I was impressed, but I wondered if Ray would continue to work at the Silver Bullet after his sentence. Oh, wait. He was chained to me for a year!

That was a long time. If Ray wanted to move on, I'd talk to Joe Newell myself.

But I hoped he wouldn't. Boy, did I have spreadsheets and some other things that Ray could set up for me on the computer!

It was interesting being in Ty's cop car. He had a laptop on a swivel stand somehow screwed to the floor. There was his radio and a bunch of other cop buttons that I had no clue as to what they were for.

I stole a look at him. He had a strong jaw and the hint of a five o'clock shadow. It was seven thirty, so his shadow would catch up soon. He smelled of leather and pine trees and maybe a trace of vanilla.

“You did a great job in court,” he said.

“I didn't do anything. Ray is the one who's working hard. He has a good mind. I think he just did the hacking at school to be accepted by his peers. Kids do dumb things like that. I know, I always did dumb stuff.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like taking dares. Not dangerous things, but things like singing Barry Manilow songs on the street corner. Or tap-dancing at a school dance. Oh, and one of my biggest blunders was rolling a grapefruit like a bowling ball down the school hall during change of class and watching everyone trying to avoid it or actually kicking it around.”

He chuckled.

“I got detention for that one. Five days. Sister Mary Mary said that I could have really hurt someone if they tripped over the grapefruit or something. Mostly, the grapefruit just turned to mush. Oh, I had to clean up the remains, too, under the supervision of Mr. O'Neill, the janitor.”