The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery

by JoAnna Carl

  I heard noises inside the barn—thumps and bumps. Then I heard a low, ominous chuckle. “Tried to get out the window, huh?” It was Howard Glick’s voice. “A lot of good it did you.” I heard a thud and a deep groan. It was easy to picture Howard kicking Pete.

  The bastard.

  Harold gave another chuckle. “You haven’t got too much more time, you dirty cop. I’ll be back with the gasoline in a few minutes, and that’s when the barn’s going to burn down.”

  I heard more movement inside the barn, and a trickle of sweat began to run down my forehead. Then another ran down my back. A third down my side. Trickles became tickles. I longed to rub the sweat away, to scratch. But I stayed still.

  Then the thumps and bumps were farther away. A creak sounded. It was the same noise I’d heard earlier, and I figured out that it came from a door on the other side of the barn. Was Harold leaving the barn? I heard Alice begin to bark, and I deduced that he had left and had walked up to his house.

  Staying on all fours, I crawled to the corner of the barn. I could see the house. And I saw Harold. I dropped to my stomach. He was putting two gas cans in the truck of his gray Chevy. He slammed the trunk lid and opened the driver’s-side door. Alice jumped inside, and Harold got in with her. He started the motor and drove away.

  As soon as he disappeared, I was on my feet. I circled the barn. It had only one opening large enough for Pete’s giant frame to pass through. That was the door. It was locked with a padlock.

  I could handle a padlock.

  But it wouldn’t take Harold more than twenty minutes to get to the nearest gas station, fill his gas cans, and get back.

  I ran through the woods, back to Lake Shore Drive and my van. I jumped in, started it up, and drove around to Harold’s drive as fast as I dared. I backed into the drive and up to the barn door. Then I popped the rear hatch, yanked open the compartment that held the spare, and took out the jack handle. In three minutes I had pried that padlock off the door, hasp and all.

  When the door creaked open, I saw that the only thing I could see in the barn was a U-Haul truck.

  “Pete!” I went past the truck to the broken window. Pete was lying under it.

  “Lee! I thought you went for help!”

  “I’m not leaving without you. Glick may come back before the cops can get here.” I knelt beside Pete. His right leg was swollen until it filled the entire leg of the camouflage-patterned pants he wore. His bare foot stuck out the bottom, the size of a ham. His condition made me feel sick.

  But we didn’t have time for pity. I tried to make my voice firm. “Can you stand up at all?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try.” I made it an order. Pete hauled himself up by grabbing the frame of the window, and I helped by boosting him. Then, using me as a crutch, he hopped toward the door. Getting him that twenty feet wasn’t easy for me, but it must have been agony for him. He ground his teeth with every step, but he kept going.

  When we got to my van, I slapped the spare’s compartment down, and Pete slid himself into the rear deck. For once I cursed the training I’d had from my mechanic father, training that meant I never leave junk in my car. There wasn’t a blanket, a raincoat, or even a sweater in there to help Pete be even slightly comfortable. I ran around to the driver’s side and reached in for a bottle of water. I’d drunk part of it, but when I tossed it to Pete he snatched at it like . . . well, like a guy who hadn’t had a drink in twenty-four hours.

  I reached up to close the van’s hatch, but Pete spoke before I could.

  “Blue pillowcase,” he said. “U-Haul. If you can, get it.”

  I slammed the hatch, then ran back to the U-Haul. Sure enough, in the front seat there was a blue-and-white striped pillowcase. I grabbed it up.

  And I couldn’t resist taking a peek.

  Inside I saw colors and shapes that I’d never seen before. Chains, serpents, bugs, flowers. Squares, diamonds, circles. Reds, blues, greens, golds.

  I was holding the Diamonte collection.

  I don’t know if the knowledge scared me, or if it simply distracted me. Anyway, as I came out of the barn I caught my foot in those darn blackberries. Down I went.

  For a moment I didn’t know if I was hurt or not. And by the time I realized I wasn’t, something wet was rubbing my face.

  “Darn you, Alice!” I said. “Stop it!”

  The silly little blond mutt was delighted to see me.

  I was terrified to see her, of course. If Alice was there, so was Harold.

  Chapter 21

  I got up, with Alice underfoot, and I tried to cover the few feet to the front of my van. It was like a wrestling match. Alice was frisking around so enthusiastically that I could barely walk.

  “Git! Alice, git! Scoot! Scram!”

  Alice didn’t get the picture. She wanted to be friends.

  I tried to step over her, but suddenly I heard a voice. Harold Glick’s voice.

  “Alice! Alice, you dumb mutt! Come!”

  Alice began to bark in reply. She grabbed my pants leg and worried it. She yipped. She yapped. She chased my toes. She jumped on me.

  I was trying to make progress toward the van, and I was trying to hold on to that pillowcase.

  “Alice!” Glick’s voice was louder. “What have you got?”

  I had almost reached the driver’s side when Glick came around the corner of his house. He was no more than forty feet away. He had a clear view of me. And he had a clear view of that blue striped pillowcase.

  He roared.

  The driver’s-side door was still standing open. I jumped inside. And so—damn it!—did Alice. I ignored her. I slammed the door, locked the doors, turned the key, and threw gravel getting under way. Harold jumped aside as I squeezed the van between his car and his house. I tore out onto Lake Shore Drive, headed toward town.

  Alice was leaping from the backseat to the front. But she didn’t block my view of Glick as he came out onto Lake Shore Drive after me. He was holding a pistol.

  “Pete! Get down!”

  The back window shattered, but Alice’s yapping kept me from hearing the sound of his shot.

  Harold Glick! Shooting at us! Hiding the loot from the Double Diamond holdup in his shed!

  Now it seemed so obvious. But I would never have guessed that dull, boring Harold was part of a burglary ring. Even his claim to have been the first burglary victim had been a ploy—a ploy to make him look innocent. And he’d lied to me about seeing Gina get into Art’s white van. And he’d lied about hearing people running up Lake Shore Drive the night of the robbery at the Garretts’ house. And he’d undoubtedly been the person who planted a piece of the stolen jewelry in Darrell’s camper.

  Not that I had time to think about Harold’s sins at that moment. No, I was headed for town with a badly injured man in the back of my van, with a museum-quality collection of Art Deco jewelry in the seat beside me, with the back window shattered by a gunshot, and with a darn dog leaping all around and barking like mad.

  Alice was making so much noise I could barely hear Pete yell. “Why’d you bring the damn dog?”

  “She came on her own. I’ll have to get into Warner Pier before I can stop. If I go to the house, Glick will follow us.”

  “Sure.” The word was a groan. “I’ve held on this long. I’ll make it a little longer.”

  It’s only ten minutes from our neighborhood to downtown Warner Pier, if you don’t hit a traffic jam.

  It may sound stupid to talk about a traffic jam in a town of 2,500. But in July Warner Pier becomes a town of 25,000 that still has streets built to accommodate the traffic of a town of 2,500. Those narrow streets are among the features that make us such a quaint little Victorian town; a feature that helps draw the 22,500 tourists who drop by every week in summer to keep our local businesses afloat.

  I believe each of those 22,500 tourists was driving in a separate car that day. I’ve never seen such traffic.

  As soon as we reached the bridge
over the Warner River, the bridge that links our semirural part of town with the main, historic section, I reached for my purse, ready to pull out my phone now that we should have service.

  But Alice—darn her!—had another idea. She snatched my purse away from me, and she pulled it through the gap between the two captain’s chairs in the front seat of the van.

  “Alice! Give me that!”

  Alice was having a great time. First she was loose in a van to jump around all she wanted, and now she had this wonderful playtoy made of leather with a fun strap to chew. She shook the purse all around and growled at it.

  When I hit the first stoplight—the one at the end of the bridge—I turned around to take it away from her.

  Alice didn’t like that. She let me get hold of one corner; then she bit her sharp little teeth into my wrist. When I let go, she grabbed the purse by the bottom and flipped it end over end.

  I watched in horror as my cell phone flew out and went under the backseat.

  “Oh, Pete! That dog has thrown my cell phone under the seat. Can you reach it?”

  I could hear how desperate I sounded, but Pete only moaned.

  “Pete! Pete? Pete, are you all right?”

  His answer was impossible to understand.

  The cell phone was a lost cause, the traffic was a nightmare, and Alice was still dancing around in the backseat. Then she was looking out the side window, paws on the door, nose pressed to the glass. She paused for a second, perked her ears up, then started barking more madly than ever.

  I looked. And in the gray Chevy beside me, just pulling up even, was Harold Glick.

  He’d caught up with us.

  But prayers are answered. My lane suddenly began to move, and I moved with it. I gunned the motor and got into the passing lane—headed the wrong direction—to get around a slow-moving car. I drew ahead. Now, if I could just get to the police station. And if there was someone there to help me. The police department secretary wasn’t going to be a lot of help.

  I put my hand on the horn and held it there. I waved cars out of my way. I played chicken with tourists whose hair must have turned white on the spot. But Harold hadn’t caught up with me when I hit Peach Street. And there was Warner Pier City Hall, with the police department in the rear of the building.

  And there were three parking places beside it.

  That might sound good, but it wasn’t. Each of those places was marked OFFICIAL POLICE VEHICLES ONLY. If all three were empty, that meant no cops were in the station. Pete and I would be no better off there than we were already.

  I turned into the alley behind the police station. I might not be able to go to the station, but I had to get off the downtown streets, clogged with tourists’ vehicles.

  I tore down that alley, knocking one Dumpster galley-west. I barely paused at Fourth Avenue, sneaking across through a hole in traffic that shouldn’t have let a bicycle through. Now my horn wasn’t the only one blasting. I scooted up the alley toward my goal, the only parking place I could count on finding in all of Warner Pier: my own reserved place behind TenHuis Chocolade.

  I cut into it so quickly that I could feel my rear tires lose their traction and go skidding three feet left of where I wanted them to be.

  “Pete! I’ll get help!”

  I grabbed my keys, then reached for the pillowcase that held the jewels.

  And I heard a car roaring toward me.

  It was Glick! He was coming down the alley at me.

  I’ll never know how I got to the back door of TenHuis Chocolade. I had it open, then slammed and locked behind me before I even knew what I was doing. I was in the TenHuis break room, and Dolly Jolly was staring at me, amazed.

  I didn’t give her any explanation. I just jumped for the phone on the wall and hit 911. I let my explanation to the dispatcher explain things to Dolly. I could only hope Pete was all right; it would take too long to get him out of the van.

  Dolly caught on right away, jumping to her feet. “I’ll lock the front door,” she said, and she headed toward the front of the shop, through our big, clean commercial kitchen.

  Luckily, the break room phone had a long cord. I moved enough to watch her go toward the front.

  She was too late.

  Through the plate-glass window I saw Harold’s car stop in front of the shop. Harold didn’t give a darn about traffic; he just jumped out and ran for the door. He had it open before Dolly could get halfway through the kitchen. He rushed through the shop—Tracy stood at the counter staring—and he was headed for me.

  What could I do?

  I dropped the phone, moved five feet into the kitchen, and lifted the lid on the closest chocolate kettle, one that held 250 pounds of melted milk chocolate.

  And I upended the pillowcase that held the jewels. Every last beautiful, historic, valuable piece went inside and began to churn around with the paddles that kept the chocolate smooth and liquid.

  Then I defiantly faced Harold Glick and yelled at him, “You can’t get it!”

  Harold roared and raised his pistol. I ducked behind the vat. Then I heard him scream.

  I looked out to see him wrestling with Darrell.

  Darrell had come out of our front storeroom—the one where we had wanted him to build more shelves. He’d come up behind Harold, and he’d swung his arm around Harold’s neck.

  Caught completely by surprise, Harold was losing his footing, but he still had his pistol.

  As I watched, Brenda and Tracy darted in from the shop. Brenda rushed into the storeroom behind the two struggling figures. When she rushed out—not more than a second later—she held a hammer. Darrell’s hammer. “Hold him still, Darrell!”

  Brenda whacked his elbow with that hammer. Harold screamed, and he lost his hold on the pistol.

  Darrell threw Harold down onto the floor, and he, Tracy, Brenda, and Dolly all fell on him, one on each limb.

  Alice ran up and licked his face.

  Chapter 22

  The next hour was a mishmash of ambulances, police cars, friends, relations, and one little blond mutt who tried to help as Dolly and I emptied 250 pounds of melted milk chocolate from its kettle and cleaned the Diamonte collection with hot, soapy water.

  Things were so wild I don’t think I really understood just what had happened until I saw pictures of Gina and Mercy on the eleven-o’clock news a day and a half later.

  “These two brave women—sisters-in-law—hired a private detective at their own expense and worked with Michigan State Police to break a major burglary ring that had specialized in valuable antiques,” the newsanchor said. “A Warner Pier man police think is the leader of the ring was arrested Friday afternoon. Authorities believe he killed one of his fellow burglars and also seriously injured a Detroit private detective, Peter Falconer.”

  Joe and I were watching the news in our own living room. Alone.

  “So,” I said, “Pete is a private eye.”

  “Right.”

  “But you told me you’d once represented him. Back when you were a defense attorney.”

  “That was true, but it wasn’t a criminal case. It was the only divorce I ever did. Apparently I didn’t do a very good job. Pete came out of the experience with a profound distrust of women.”

  “I noticed that. How did you meet Pete?”

  “He did investigations for the agency I worked for in Detroit. He’s a former cop.”

  The television newsman was talking again.

  “A truck loaded with valuable antiques was discovered in a barn on property leased by Harold Glick, who a state police spokesman said is actually George Haney, a convicted fence. Also being held are two men authorities believe were members of the ring, John Tallboy and Kurt Small.”

  “Tallboy and Small!” I said. “Surely those aren’t the names of Lofty and Shorty!”

  Joe laughed. “Yes, they are. However, Tallboy is the short guy, and Small is the tall one.”

  We laughed. The reporter listed Art as the dead man, and reported
that Falconer was being treated for an injured leg at Holland Hospital. Then the report on the burglary ring bust was over, and I clicked the remote to turn the television off.

  In less than forty-eight hours our lives had turned over, and possibly the most revolutionary change was that all our houseguests had left.

  Gina had collected her car from the Holland garage where it had been stored and rushed home, ready to calm any fears Grandma Ida had developed over the news reports.

  Darrell had heard of a permanent job as a carpenter in Detroit and had left to try to land it. I’d also learned from Joe that Darrell was waiting for a major financial settlement for unlawful imprisonment. He wanted to be easy to find when his money came through.

  Tracy’s parents heard of our excitement and rushed back to Warner Pier to check on their only daughter. She’d moved home, and Brenda had gone to stay with her for a couple of days.

  Pete was in the hospital, facing surgery the next morning. Joe had been by to see him that afternoon.

  Alice had been given a new home by a Warner Pier animal lover.

  So Joe and I were alone in the TenHuis cottage. It seemed strange.

  “Joe,” I said, “people keep talking as if a burglary ring just happened to be established right in our neighborhood and that that ring just happened to include your aunt’s husband. Coincidences happen, but that’s not logical.”

  “No, Underwood believes it began with Gina—or maybe with Grandma Ida.”

  “What could Grandma Ida have to do with a burglary ring?”

  “You know how excited she was when she learned that Aunt Nettie’s house was across the road from Double Diamond? She told everyone about it—including her son-in-law, Art Atkins. Underwood thinks that was the germ of the plot to steal the Diamonte collection.”

  “I thought it was when Art married Gina.”

  “That was the other germ. But you’re right. It was no coincidence. That’s what Gina had figured out. And that’s why she was in enough danger that she ran—twice.”

  “Let’s look at it chronologically.”

  “Maybe that’s the best way. First Gina met Art. They fell for each other—or she fell for him—and Gina’s the type who wants things legal. But Art had already had a long and successful career as a burglar—I call it successful because he had no convictions. And one reason he’d been successful was that he had always worked alone. But even a lone burglar has to have a fence. So he had hooked up with George Haney.”