The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery

by JoAnna Carl

  “And you wore men’s dance shoes?”

  “I wish! Usually we had to wear high heels, and they were picked for color, not comfort. But lots of the choreographers were men. And they had to teach this ungainly group to move around the stage with a reasonable amount of rhythm and grace, so they definitely did not plan a ballet number. No point work, no lifts, no high kicks. And no tap dancing, either. Therefore, the guys teaching us would wear jazz shoes.”

  Joe still looked puzzled, so I went on. “If you’ve seen male dancers perform, you’ve seen jazz shoes. And as I said, women dancers wear them for some numbers. The shoes look like oxfords, and they tie like oxfords. But they’re more flexible than oxfords. They’re soft.”

  “Ideal for burglars.”

  “Yes! They would be ideal. Remember how quietly that guy ran down the stairs and across the bare floor of the living room?” I rapped the table for emphasis. “Besides, I could see that bunion on his right foot, and a stiff oxford or even a pair of black leather tennis shoes probably would have hidden it. So I’m sure I’m right. He was wearing a pair of black jazz shoes!”

  I heard a mew. That was the only word for it. It sounded like a cat in distress, and it was coming from the living room.

  Before I could take the sound in, Gina came into the dining room. She was smiling oddly.

  I stared at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “What was that funny noise?”

  “It may have been me. I turned my ankle, but it’s nothing serious. Did I hear you talking about Capezios?”

  “I mentioned jazz shoes. I suppose they could be Capezios. I don’t know much about the brands. Why?”

  “Oh. No reason.” Gina walked on through the kitchen, apparently bound for the bathroom.

  I turned to Joe. “Should I call the detectives and add that bit of observation to the statement I made last night?”

  “Sure. You never know. Jazz shoes might fit the MO of some known burglar. And I’ve got to leave.”

  “I thought you and Darrell were going to work on the bathroom today.”

  “We were. But we’ve both gotten roped into the search for the home invaders.”

  “The Search for the Home Invaders. It sounds like a bad movie.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not going to be that entertaining. The state police want the shore searched for several miles north and south of Double Diamond. I’m going to get out the boat, and Darrell and I will follow the shore from the river south to Double Diamond’s beach, looking for anything interesting on the way. They’ve got other people asking around the docks, looking for boaters who were out last night.”

  “Then I guess they’re not sold on the thieves escaping by running up the beach, the way Harold thinks they got away.”

  “No, they’re checking out the boat angle, too. But our part of the search is a complete waste of time. Just routine.”

  “At least you won’t be working in the bathroom, so I won’t be in your way if I take another shower.”

  “Shower away. I hope Darrell and I can get back to the construction business this afternoon.”

  I got some bottled water out of the refrigerator for Joe and Darrell. I reminded Joe that this was my day off. Joe assured me that he had his cell phone and would call to tell me when they’d get home.

  By the time I’d eaten a piece of toast, Gina had gone back upstairs. Before I cleared the table, I picked up the phone to call the Warner Pier PD and ask them who—if anybody—needed to know about the dance shoes. For a moment the phone didn’t seem to be working right. Then I heard a click. I hung up and lifted the receiver again, and this time things seemed normal, so I punched in the right numbers.

  However, my call to the Warner Pier PD wasn’t very productive. The only person not out detecting like mad, apparently, was the dispatcher. She told me she’d pass the word along to someone.

  Anyway, I’d done my duty, so I rinsed and stacked the breakfast dishes and put the toaster away. Then I called up to Gina, telling her I was getting into the shower. Not that I thought she’d answer the phone or wash the dishes while I was occupied.

  Twenty minutes later I turned off the shower, then decided that—with only Gina and me in the house—I’d dry my hair and put on makeup in the bathroom. Because of the crowd of people using the partially disabled bathroom, I’d been doing my hair and makeup in the bedroom most of the time. But this time I thought—just as a special treat—I’d do that chore in the bathroom.

  So, leaving the bathroom’s exhaust fan on to clear the mirror, I wrapped my body in a big towel and my hair in a smaller one, and then went into the bedroom. I’d just picked up the dryer when I heard Gina’s voice above my head.

  “Thank you very much,” she said briskly.

  I stopped in midreach, my curiosity bug on alert. After two weeks of seclusion, Gina was talking to someone. Who? Was there someone upstairs?

  I rejected that idea. Gina must be on the phone. That meant she was in the bedroom now occupied by Brenda and Tracy. It had been my room when I was living with Aunt Nettie, so the upstairs extension was there. In fact, she must have been on the phone when I picked it up earlier. That would explain the odd click and delayed dial tone.

  Brenda and Tracy were out, and there was certainly no reason that Gina couldn’t use the phone in their room if she wanted to, though I’d have expected her to come down and use the kitchen phone. But whom was she calling?

  I was dying to know.

  I didn’t have to tap the phone line to find out. I just kept standing in the middle of my bedroom, with one ear cocked toward the ceiling. I hadn’t turned on the fan in our bedroom, so if Gina said anything more, I’d be able to hear it.

  And she did speak. “Hello,” she said. “Do you have a Mr. Atkins registered?”

  Registered, she’d said. Gina had called a hotel or motel.

  I stood silently for thirty seconds or so. Then Gina spoke again. “No? How about an Andy Woodyard?”

  Andy Woodyard! That was when I nearly dropped the hair dryer.

  What the heck was going on? Andy Woodyard was Joe’s dad’s name. First a strange man came to the door claiming to be Joe’s dad. Then Joe assured me there was no question that his father had actually been drowned thirty years earlier. And now Gina was calling motels trying to find her dead brother.

  And Gina’s ex—or soon-to-be ex—was named Atkins. He had the other name she’d asked for.

  But I had thought she was hiding out at our house because she didn’t want her husband to find her. So why was she calling motels trying to track him down?

  I decided to storm up the stairs and demand an explanation.

  Then I hesitated. The Andy Woodyard question had more to do with Joe than with me. Should I talk to Gina without talking to Joe first? Yes, I decided.

  I almost headed straight for the stairs. Then I realized that I was wearing nothing but two towels, and the big one was slipping off my body, and the small one was falling off my head. If I went to confront Gina, it might be better not to do it naked and with wet hair stringing down my back.

  I went back into the bathroom, dried myself off, and put on my clean underwear and my terry-cloth robe. Then I ran a comb through my wet hair and dried it enough to keep it from dripping. I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror, checking to be sure there was a resolute set to my jaw.

  I was going to ask Gina what was going on. She might not answer me, true, but what was the worst that could happen? She might get mad and leave. I could always hope.

  I jammed my feet into slippers and stalked toward the stairs, keeping up my resolution by reminding myself that this was my house—my honeymoon cottage—and too many things were happening in it that I didn’t understand.

  For example, Pete. Who was he? Knowing he was a former client of Joe’s did nothing to recommend him.

  And Darrell. Where did he fit in?

  Why did Joe and Pete stop talking whene
ver I came into a room? Why had they been holed up in Darrell’s camper for at least an hour Monday night, just talking?

  I might not be able to answer any of those questions, but at least I could ask Gina why she’d been calling motels looking for her dead brother and her ex-husband. And maybe finding out the answer to that would lead to answers to a few other questions, starting with what the heck she was doing in my house, anyway.

  “Gina!” I called out as I went up the stairs, and I was surprised when she didn’t answer.

  “Gina!” I called again at the top of the stairs. Still no answer.

  I went on down the hall. Gina’s door was closed, and when I reached it, I stopped. Did I really want to risk an argument with Joe’s aunt?

  I reminded myself that Gina was acting very oddly, that this was my house, and I had a right to know what she was up to. More than a right—a responsibility.

  I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door. “Gina?”

  Still no answer.

  I pushed the door open and looked into the room.

  There were the old maple bed and dresser that had belonged to my great-grandparents. The casement windows were open, and the red-and-blue-plaid curtains were pushed back. The bed was neatly made, its navy blue spread unwrinkled. The romance novels I’d checked out from the Warner Pier Library were stacked on the bedside table.

  The only thing missing was Gina.

  Maybe she was in the girls’ room, still beside the phone.

  I turned to that room, which was across the hall from Gina’s, and looked in the open door. The room wasn’t as messy as I’d feared, since eighteen-year-olds have much more important things to worry about than neatness. The bed was made, or at least the spread had been pulled up. There were clothes on the chairs and on the foot of the bed, true, but none on the floor. Belts, bras, and necklaces dangled from the handle of the closet door. The telephone sat on the bedside table.

  There was no sign of Gina here either.

  I couldn’t believe it. I looked in the closet, feeling silly, then went back to Gina’s room and looked in that closet. I considered getting down on my knees and looking under the beds in both rooms.

  I was standing in the hall, feeling stupid, when I had another idea.

  “She must be downstairs,” I told myself. “She probably went down while I had the hair dryer on.”

  I ran down myself. “Gina!”

  Still no answer.

  Quickly I looked through the house. There aren’t that many rooms. Living room, dining room, kitchen, downstairs bedroom, back hall, bathroom. I looked in all of them. I even went downstairs to our Michigan basement—a cellar with concrete walls and a sand floor.

  Gina wasn’t anywhere.

  I was absolutely amazed.

  For a week Gina had kept to the house, refusing to leave or even to talk on the phone. She had done nothing but lie on her bed reading romance novels. She had barely appeared for meals and had hidden if anyone came to the door.

  And now she had not only made some phone calls; she had even left the house.

  Where the heck had she gone?

  Chapter 10

  I was so amazed by Gina’s disappearance that I almost called the cops. Then I imagined how stupid I’d sound.

  I wanted to have a serious talk with my houseguest, I’d tell them, but when I looked for her I discovered she’d gone out for a walk.

  Big whoop.

  That was the reason people came to Warner Pier, after all. They wanted to get out in the fresh air and go to the beach and look at the beautiful scenery. Just because Gina hadn’t done that for the first week of her visit didn’t mean she wouldn’t ever do it.

  So I didn’t call for help. I made my bed, then dressed in denim shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, telling myself that Gina would reappear momentarily. But when I came out of the bedroom, Gina hadn’t come back. So I went outside to look for her.

  I circled the house, calling her name every now and then. Not too loudly. I didn’t want to be hollering all over the neighborhood. Gina might still be hiding out, even though she’d gone outside. Maybe Gina had come down with an acute case of cabin fever. I knew I would have been climbing the walls if I’d been in one room as much as she had.

  The ground was still damp from the rain in the night. When I reached our driveway, I could see clear footprints in the sandy surface. I decided to see if they told me anything. I felt silly looking at the ground like some kind of frontier tracker, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  There were plenty of tracks to look at.

  The girls had stomped around in their tennis shoes as they got into Brenda’s car to go to work. Darrell’s steel-toed boots were easy to spot; they led to his camper. Okay, I admit it—I tried the door of the camper. I would have loved a peek inside, but it was locked.

  Then there were tracks of two sets of men’s tennis shoes, one slightly larger than the other. I assumed one was Joe and the other was Pete, especially after I noted that the slightly larger shoes stopped where Pete’s SUV had been parked, and the shorter shoes went off down the back drive toward the Baileys’ house, where Joe and I had both been parking, since our own drive was crammed full. Darrell’s boots followed along, occasionally stepping on top of Joe’s tennies, so I could tell he’d been walking behind.

  I’d noticed earlier that Harold Glick wore crepe-soled shoes, so his tracks were easy to spot. Of course, I couldn’t miss Alice’s pawprints, and she was always right beside him. Besides, I knew they’d walked up the drive and around to our back door earlier.

  It was in the drive that I found the first evidence of where Gina had gone—the prints of a high-heeled shoe.

  I followed the tracks for ten or twelve feet. Gina had been going down the back drive, toward the Baileys’ house. Once or twice she’d stepped on top of Joe’s tracks.

  Then her tracks changed dramatically. Abruptly, instead of high-heeled shoes tripping along, there were the prints of bare feet. Then those disappeared.

  I stopped and stared. I could understand Gina kicking her shoes off; they were probably getting sand in them. But the barefoot tracks stopped right in the middle of the drive. They simply evaporated. Had Gina been yanked up by a balloon? Picked up by a helicopter? Snagged by a noose and thrown into the top of a tree?

  I even looked up suspiciously. Right at that spot, tall maples hung over the road. I suppose Gina could have been pulled straight up by some sort of apparatus, but I saw no sign of it. I shook myself. I was getting silly. So I looked at the ground again. I saw some pits in the surface of the drive. I knelt and looked at them closely.

  Then I saw that the impressions of toes edged the pits. The “pits” I’d seen had been the balls of Gina’s feet. She’d been walking along on tiptoe.

  “Tiptoeing? Gina was tiptoeing?” I was so amazed that I think I spoke aloud.

  However she was traveling, Gina had still been headed toward the Baileys’ house. Feeling like some sort of big game hunter, I kept following her tracks. I followed them until the tiptoe prints reached the Baileys’ carport.

  And that was the end. The Baileys’ carport had a concrete floor. I found a few dustings of sand, but if Gina had tiptoed into the carport, all evidence of her had disappeared.

  “Gina?” I said her name aloud, but there was no response.

  The Baileys’ house—a nondescript 1950s structure—was empty for the moment, since Charlie and Mary Bailey were in California. Which was why Joe and I were able to use their drive for extra parking.

  But Gina seemed to have tiptoed into their carport and disappeared from our dimension. And she’d done it in less than the ten or fifteen minutes I took to dry my hair, put on a robe, and go up to her room.

  I looked around the carport. There was simply no place for Gina to hide. No closets, no toolshed, no big bushes. The biggest thing in the carport was a bushel basket I knew held gardening paraphernalia—ragged gloves, a rusty trowel, some worn flip
-flops, an old piece of foam Charlie knelt on when he weeded the flower beds, and other stuff. I ignored that and walked around the house. Gina wasn’t behind it. I tried the doors. They were all locked.

  Joe and I had a key, since we were the neighbors designated to keep an eye on the place. Should I get it and look inside?

  But if Gina were hiding inside—and I had no idea how she could have gotten in without leaving some sign, such as a broken window or a jimmied lock—she must have seen me wandering around in the yard. She surely would have come to the door and waved at me.

  I walked south on the drive that led from the Baileys’ house to Eighty-eighth Street. That street ran east-to-west. It was surfaced with gravel, and it intersected with Lake Shore Drive about an eighth of a mile south of our drive. Lake Shore Drive, Eighty-eighth Street, the Baileys’ drive, and our drive formed a rough square.

  There were no more of Gina’s footprints—bare, high-heeled, tiptoe, or otherwise—on that end of the drive. The only neighbors who seemed to have walked along there were Harold and Alice. For a moment I considered going by Harold’s house and asking him if he’d seen Gina. But Gina had always fled upstairs if Harold came by; I didn’t like the idea of letting him know anything about her.

  I reached Eighty-eighth Street, still searching for tracks like a frontier hunter. Of course, Eighty-eighth was a public street and led to several houses and a small subdivision east of us, so there was more traffic on it. Besides, the gravel surface wouldn’t show the tracks of anything lighter than a loaded dump truck. I walked on to Lake Shore Drive, which is paved with asphalt. I saw no sign of Gina. I checked for tracks in the damp earth along the edge of the blacktop—staying clear of the occasional passing car—until I reached our drive. The only tracks I saw were a few wide, flat ones, the kind instantly recognizable as made by beach sandals. I didn’t think Brenda even owned a pair of those; plus these particular ones must have belonged to a tall man with big feet. I wrote them off as belonging to some beachgoer.