A Second Helping of Murder (17 page)

“Rick Tingsley?”

“Yeah. He hung around her like a love-struck puppy.”

“Did she like him?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Yeah. I think she did.”

“Who else?”

“All the males in Sandy Harbor High School. They all loved her. She was a friend to all,” he said. “But someone obviously didn't like her—probably a woman.”

That was an offhand remark and just what Billy Swenti had said. Interesting.

“Like who?”

“Laura VanPlank, the snob. She was the direct opposite of Claire. I felt bad for Ricky. She sank her claws into him and never let go.”

“What about Antoinette Chloe?”

“She was the exception. She was Claire's only gal pal.”

“Oh, wait. Wasn't Antoinette Chloe with Sal Brownelli back then? Wasn't she worried that Sal would be attracted to Claire?”

“Nope. Sal only had eyes for Antoinette Chloe and vice versa.”

Good for ACB. She was secure in her muumuus.

“Were you questioned by the cops back then, Buddy?”

“We all were, but mostly we had to prove that we never left the bonfire all night.”

But someone else could have arrived at the bonfire who was not part of the senior class and killed Claire!

I reminded myself that Claire was just considered a missing person back then. That's probably what the one Sandy Harbor deputy was going on twenty-five years ago, but now everything had changed.

“Thanks for the information, Buddy. Sorry if I upset you.”

“It's old news, but it seems like just yesterday. It was like the end of innocence for the class of
eighty-nine, know what I mean? Growing up here was idyllic, easy, for the most part. Some of the kids' folks were farmers, and they had to work hard, but we also played hard. Fishing, boating, swimming, tubing—we did it all, but I can't think of one of us who would kill someone.”

Buddy looked close to tears, and I hoped that the allegations against him were false. But that was up to Ty and the New York City Police Department to figure out.

“Buddy, I don't want you or any of your friends to pay for the Dance Fest. It's on me.”

“That's very generous of you, but I won't hear it. I know you are losing business because of Mr. Burrows's murder, and I want to support businesses in Sandy Harbor.”

“You're sweet, Buddy.” I took a deep breath, convinced that Buddy wasn't a suspect, or had I already ruled him out?

Still, Buddy didn't give me any information that I didn't already know; he just seconded my conclusions.

But he did get me thinking that someone else could have been at that bonfire. A nonsenior person. An uninvited person with killing on his, or her, mind.

I saw Grant walking with Carla again. They looked up and waved to me, then stared at Cottage Eight. They were very interested in that cottage. Even when Grant sat on a chair by the water, Carla still seemed morbidly interested in the cottage.

Ray jogged toward me wearing his new golf shirt and carrying a handful of white paper.

Oh! That reminded me that I forgot to pass out everyone's “uniform.” I picked up the box that I'd left on a chair and gave it all to Juanita to do. I needed to see what Ray found out.

Cars were coming down the main road that led to the diner, and Vern McCoy was blowing his whistle and parking them in the parking lot and a nearby field as fast as he could. As I waited for Ray, even more cars came, making a solid line down the road and onto the highway.

It was going to be a great turnout.

Ray handed me the stack of papers from my printer.

“Anything exciting, Ray?”

“Nah. I didn't think so, but you might. I think that one
B
nickname turned up.”

I looked at the top printout. “Bond is Grant VanPlank's middle name,” Ray said.

“His middle name is Bond! Really? That's interesting.”

I didn't see Claire or anyone calling him by his 007 middle name. But maybe he'd been much more dashing and debonair back then and charmed her.

“And also, I don't know if it's a big deal, but some reporter from Central High School's newspaper, called the
Bobcat Bulletin
, said that—” Ray took the stack of papers from me and leafed through
them. “Uh . . . said that Rick Tingsley should be called Boomer for the way he knocked over ‘Central High's Bobcats like bowling pins.'”

“Boomer, huh?” That definitely could be a big deal. It was good to have a hacker on your side.

“Was that an expression way back then?” Ray asked.

“How do I know, Ray? I was ten at the time.”

“I wasn't even born yet!”

The nickname apparently never caught on, because none of his classmates ever called him that.

This was so overwhelming, and I felt so useless. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to get rid of Headache Number Twenty before it camped in my temples.

I should have read up on Grant VanPlank on the Internet more. I'm sure I would have found out that his middle name had started with a
B
a long time ago. Instead I took the low road and read all the gossip about his various affairs.

My only excuse was that I had a lot on my mind, or what was left of it.

I wondered if Ty knew about Grant's middle name. He probably did.

But I'd bet that he didn't know that Rick Tingsley was Boomer with a
B
.

People filed in as I leafed through the papers. When I looked up again, the tent was packed and I heard my name announced by Frankie. The Polka Dots were doing a drumroll.

I tucked the papers into my back pocket and hurried to the dance floor. I'd forgotten to ask Clyde or Max to dance the first dance with me.

As I stood there with the drum still rolling, I felt as if every pair of eyes were on me, which they were.

It was a beautiful night. The sun had set in an orange-purple glow, and now the inky sky was littered with bright stars. The air was warm and the smell of the lake was in the air.

The sides of the tent had been rolled up so everyone could enjoy the beautiful evening. If it turned too cold or started to rain, they could be rolled down. The tent glowed from the little white lights that were strung up and the bigger white lights over the buffet tables.

I was proud of the fabulous job that my staff had done. Even Antoinette Chloe, who was not part of my real staff, had worked hard and had shown a definite talent for short-order cooking.

As everyone continued their applause, I stalled for time to lower my heart rate. Then I thanked everyone for coming.

“Everyone has welcomed me to Sandy Harbor and has supported the Silver Bullet Diner. There have been some awful things that have happened recently, but soon the sheriff's department will get to the bottom of what occurred, and Sandy Harbor will be all right again. I'd like to thank everyone for coming to the first Dance Fest in twenty-five years. And I'd like you all to know that there will
be a Dance Fest every Saturday until Labor Day. Thanks, everyone! Now dance, have a fabulous time, and don't drink and drive. Select a designated driver or let me know, and I'll find someone to drive you home!”

Frankie announced that I'd kick off the party with a polka, just as Porky and Stella Matkowski used to do.

I felt a little sad that neither of them was here to enjoy this. I missed them both dearly.

As tears pooled in my eyes, I tried to inch my way off the dance floor until strong arms stopped me and whirled me around.

Ty!

He turned and turned me in perfect time to the beat. If this was a Texas two-step, I was boot scootin'.

“Ty, how did you learn how to polka?”

“My mother was Polish. Karpinski. I grew up being everyone's partner at weddings when a polka was played.”

“No way that you're half Polish!”

“Way.”

“Karpinski?”

“Karpinski. Sophie Karpinski.”

I knew now why I'd liked him right from the start. I tabled this exquisite piece of information for later.

The printouts from Ray were stabbing me in the back, and the fact that Grant Bond VanPlank was a definite suspect was making me breathless and
flushed. Thank goodness there was a breeze tonight.

I waved my arms for everyone to join us, and the dance floor was soon packed. “Ty, I have to sit. I'm pooped.”

“Okay.” He put his hand at the small of my back as he often did and led me to a chair just off the dance floor. Suddenly my feet didn't hurt, my breath wasn't ragged, and I could have walked around the whole grounds with his hand on my back.

“Thanks for bailing me out of that, Ty.”

“My pleasure.”

Oh, wow. Did he have to say that so sexy with his low, sweet Texas accent?

I sat in the chair and pulled the printouts out of my pocket.

“What's all that?”

“Something that Ray did for me. Ty, I think Rick Tingsley called himself Boomer or maybe Claire called him that first. Yes! Claire went to Central High in Rochester. The Bobcats! The Sandy Harbor Trout played the Bobcats, so she would have read about Boomer and the bowling pins in the
Bobcat Bulletin
. Oh, and Bond is Grant VanPlank's middle name. And Carla knew that Burrows was really Phil Jacobon.”

I looked at the clear, crisp typing on the page. I could even see it in the dim light of the lanterns and torches around the dance floor.

Oh my! I gripped the arms of the chair to keep from falling to the floor.

Type, type, type!

Ribbons on old typewriters. Ink cartridges on the new computer printers, faxes, and copiers.

Ribbons on old typewriters.

Ribbons on old typewriters!

“Ty, I gotta go!”

I
kept to the shadows and snuck to Cottage Eight. My heart was pounding so loud I could be another drummer in Frankie's band.

I pushed the tape away from the door and opened it. It was so dark, I couldn't see a thing inside, and I didn't want to crash into any of the boards that we'd stacked up or step on a nail.

I flipped on the switch and unplugged all but one lamp so no one would notice the light leaking out of the cottage.

Why didn't I bring a flashlight? Why did I still not own a magnifying glass? It would have come in handy tonight.

I knew the answer to both of those questions. I was impatient.

I went to the typewriter, now on the kitchen table.

Then I manually rolled the left spool of ribbon to the right spool. There had to be information on here. Good information.

When I held the typewriter ribbon to the light, it would tell me what Phil was typing!

If it was like the ribbons of old, there would be three rows of type on it. When one row would finish, it'd kick over to the next row. The print on the one page of Phil's manuscript that I'd seen was dark, so maybe he'd used a new ribbon and it wouldn't be struck over a lot.

I couldn't wait to look at the spool, so I sat down at one of the kitchen chairs, unwound the right spool, and held the ribbon to the light.

It was rather slow reading, and the black ribbon looked like a mound of thick spaghetti on the floor, but I read:

I found Claire's diary under a loose floorboard under her bed. In it, she wrote “I hope that Boomer will still love me after I tell him that I'm pregnant. I'm really very excited to have his baby—our baby—but I doubt if my parents or his parents will be happy.

“And the woman who calls herself Boomer's girlfriend has something to think about. I've heard it through the grapevine that Laura VanPlank can't have children because of an accident. I don't want Laura hurt because of my feelings for Boomer, but I want him to be a father to our baby. We'll be a family, but first, he wants to get a job and get some money.”

Boomer was Rick Tingsley! I knew it. He was the “older man,” by a whole year!

There was more, but the loose floorboard had gotten to me. I had to find the diary. Maybe Phil had put it back, thinking that it was safer there until he could get it to the police or finish reading and writing about its contents.

It was so dark, I had to turn another light on in the smaller bedroom that had two sets of bunk beds. That's where Claire and probably Phil had slept when they were kids. I got down on all fours to look for a board that might be loose. My inky fingers felt all over every crevice and plank of open space. I pushed the right set of bunks out of the way and looked for anything unusual—other than dust elephants—that might be there.

Nothing.

I pushed that bunk bed back and went to the other. I got that out of the way and knelt back down.

Oh!

With what little fingernails I had, I picked at a board that was just a bit out of sync with the rest and managed to pull it up, along with the board next to it and the next.

Then I saw a little pink leather book with gold lettering that said D
IARY
. It had a little flap with a tiny lock. I picked up the diary and looked at it. There was a small indention in the gold-tipped pages. Gently, I pulled out a tiny rusted key.

My heart was pounding so hard I had to sit down. I shut the light off and went into the kitchen.

Stepping over the ribbon on the floor, I sat
down, ready to unlock the secrets from Claire's diary.

My hands were shaking. I couldn't do it. I had to boot up or something.

Finally I took the little key and unlocked it.

There it was, on the inside cover, written in curlicues and hearts and other girlish doodles:

Ms. Claire Tingsley

Mrs. Rick Tingsley

Mrs. Richard Tingsley

Mr. Richard and Mrs. Claire Tingsley

Boomer Tingsley and Claire Jacobson Tingsley and son or daughter

Oh my! Boomer was really Rick Tingsley.

Did that mean that Laura killed two people?

Something was still tweaking me about Laura. She was a woman who just about fell apart when her cook and waitress were late. Did she have the guts to pull off two murders?

I remembered how her high heels were killing her feet that day in her kitchen. She didn't even dare to take them off for fear that she'd suffer the disapproval of Carla.

Poor Laura. Even if she was successful in getting into the White House via Rick—which was highly unlikely—Carla would want to redecorate and would kick the antiques to the curb.

Carla. I hated to think this, but my housekeeping cottages were way below her standards. She wanted to leave Laura's beautiful four-hundred-square-foot contemporary, which, rumor had it,
the VanPlanks had paid for, to sleep in my rustic cabins? Then again, I'd caught her staring into Cottage Eight. This cottage! Phil Jacobson's cottage at the time of his murder.

What was she looking for?

I looked at the diary in my hand. I think I knew.

Suddenly the vapors of a gallon of Chanel No. 5 surrounded me. There she was, Carla VanPlank, in black flats with a big, ugly gun pointed at me.

Oh, crap!

No one knew where I was.

“Don't move, Trixie. Don't move a muscle or I'll shoot you. Put the diary on the table.”

“How can I put the diary on the table and not move a muscle, Carla?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

“I would think that you'd be better at this by now. You killed Claire and Phil, didn't you?”

“I said shut up!”

She had crazy eyes. Crazy eyes and pink pearls.

“Carla, don't do anything stupid.” I shook my head. “Oh, wait. You already did.”

“I said shut up. Hand me the diary.”

“I wish you'd make up your mind.”

“Shut up!”

“Why? Tell me why. If you're going to kill me, I have a right to know,” I said, glad that I was still sitting or I'd faint dead on the floor before she had the chance to kill me.

“She got in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Of Laura marrying Rick Tingsley.”

“I don't get it,” I said, stalling for time. Besides, I wanted to hear her say it from her own candy apple red lips.

“She was pregnant. You know that by now. You've been snooping enough. Laura can't have any children because of her car accident. Of course, Rick would marry Claire since she was pregnant, and that would have ruined all my plans for my daughter.”

“So you waited until Claire left the campfire, followed her, and shot her.”

“Yes. It was noisy with the firecrackers that someone threw into the bonfire, so I shot her and dragged her body into the woods and hid it. The next day, I buried her in a cave that I knew was there.”

“You knew she was pregnant because you and Laura were in Dr. Francis's waiting room.”

“Claire had the stupid sonogram in her hand when she left Dr. Francis's examination room. She was so excited, she dropped it. I picked it up and saw that it was a sonogram picture.”

“And you knew the father was Rick?”

“Yes. I'd seen the way he looked at her. The same way my ‘husband' looks at other women.”

“And you wanted Laura to marry Rick and push him into politics just like you did with Grant?” She was blabby and maybe had had too much to drink, and I wanted to stall her. Maybe Ty, or someone, would see the lights on in the cottage.

“Yes. Rick is slow and dull compared to Grant, but he's more malleable.”

“And what about poor Phil Jacobson?” I asked. “You knew that it was Phil Jacobson who was murdered in Eight because you did it. Everyone else thought that the victim was a man named David Burrows. His real name hadn't been released yet.”

“Phillip was going to expose me.”

“How did you know that?”

“By a lucky coincidence we were both in the newspaper office at the same time. I was waiting for Joan Paris to lunch with her—I wanted her to do a special interview with the mayor about his run for senator. Phil was asking about archives relative to Claire's murder. He didn't see me, but I saw him. I knew immediately who he was. It was that cowlick on the back of his head. He had that as a boy. And his creepy eyes. Claire had those eyes.”

Their eyes have nothing on yours about now, lady.

Was anyone going to look for me? I was running out of questions. I could hear Frankie and the Polka Dots from here. No one would hear a gunshot.

“You don't really want to kill me, Carla.”

“Oh, I sure do. I really do. And your time's up.”

“I don't think so, Carla. Put the gun down.”

“What?

“In the bedroom is Deputy Ty Brisco with a tape
recorder. Everything you say will be held against you in a court of law. Oh, and you have the right to remain silent.” I put my index finger over my lips. “I really think you should remain silent.”

“I don't believe you that Ty Brisco is in the other room. He'd come out to rescue you, wouldn't he?”

Good question.
What do I do now?
There was nothing that I could use as a weapon within reach. There was cutlery in the drawer by the kitchen sink.

“Uh, Carla? Could I have a last request?”

“No!” She cocked back the lever thing on the gun. The metallic sound bounced around the room.

This was it. It was the end of the line for Beatrix “Trixie” Matkowski. Aunt Stella would have to come back from Boca and sell the Silver Bullet and the twelve little cottages. Oh, and the Big House. That would have to go, too.

And I wanted my first Dance Fest to be a success.

I wondered if my staff would miss me. And my cute Dance Fest outfit was going to be a bloody mess. Well, maybe the blood would be hidden by all the sequins. That would be good.

I'd like to die with dignity, but I was just about to cry like a baby and pee my new jeans, not necessarily in that order.

“Look, Carla. Every person about to die in every movie and TV show and on death row gets a last
request. Now, come on, all I want is a glass of water. I'm really dry, and I love the Sandy Harbor water—I really do.”

“Dammit, get a glass of water and shut the hell up.”

“Gee, thanks, Carla. But first, I have to find a glass that I like.”

“I don't care if you drink out of the faucet. Just hurry up.”

I pulled open cabinets and drawers, talking and moving and trying to distract her. I yanked out a cast-iron frying pan—my favorite cookware—and threw it like a Frisbee in her direction.

Yes! I stunned her enough that she fell on the floor. The gun went off, and the blast sent shock waves through my entire system.

I looked down, expecting to see something wet and red spreading on my new top. Nothing.

Happy that she'd missed, I dove on top of her skinny frame and designer pantsuit and heard a
whoosh
. I think I collapsed her diaphragm like a sponge. She went limp, and I yanked the gun out of her hand. It was still warm from the shot. I aimed it at her heart.

“Let me know if it was all worth it when you're sitting in prison. Do you think they'll classify you as a serial killer? You have two murders under your silver belt and one attempted murder for
moi.
That's quite a legacy, Carla.”

She let loose a streak of swearwords that no First Lady should ever say.

The door flew open. It was Ty pointing his own gun and looking like a cowboy from the Wild West. Only a good guy. He wore a white cowboy hat. He stood in the doorway for a second, analyzing the situation, then stepped next to me. He pried Carla's gun from my stiff fingers and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans but still aimed his at Carla.

I let my sore arms relax at my sides.

“Want to tell me what's going on, Trixie?”

“Carla killed Claire because she was pregnant by Rick Tingsley. Laura can't have kids. Rick was going to marry Claire and ruin Laura's chance at being the First Lady of the United States. If I was a shrink, I'd guess that Carla was living her life through her daughter because Grant VanPlank has terminal zipperitis and will never be elected by sensible voters.”

I took a breath. “And she killed Phil because she thought he was going to expose her. And she was going to kill me because I found Claire's diary and read the typewriter ribbon.” I pointed to the floor. “I didn't finish reading it, but you can.”

“That's quite the . . . the . . . summation.”

“Ty, I think you should handcuff Carla now because she's getting her designer outfit all dirty on the floor and because I'm going to faint soon, and I want to see her arrested and in handcuffs. The silver cuffs will match her outfit perfectly.”

Ty cuffed Carla on the floor, then helped her to stand. He read her the Miranda warning, which he knew from memory, and it was all very cool.

Carla started crying, and her makeup ran down her face.

Deputy Vern McCoy ran into the cottage, looked at Ty and Carla, and said, “I'll take her down to the lockup. What do you want me to book her for?”

Ty looked at me and grinned. “Tell him, Trixie.”

“Two counts of premeditated murder and one count of the attempted murder of a terrific chef.”

“Vern, Trixie and I will be right behind you. Trixie will have to give her statement, but there's one thing I have to do first.”

Vern clasped the chain that connected Carla's handcuffs and steered her toward the cottage door. Looking over his shoulder, he said to Ty, “Yeah, what's that?”

Ty smiled at me and wrapped his arm around my waist. He probably didn't want to have to pick me up from the floor when my adrenaline tanked and my knees gave out.

“I'm going to dance another polka with Trixie.”