The Chocolate Raccoon Rigmarole

by JoAnna Carl

  But many people have problems with chocolate. It can cause heartburn or migraines or worsen arthritis. Some people are out-and-out allergic to it, just as they may be to any substance.

  I’m sorry about that.

  For everyone else, here’s the recipe.

  Gran’s Fudge

  4½ cups sugar

  1 large can (10–12 ounces) evaporated milk

  1 jar (7 ounces) marshmallow cream

  18 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  2 tablespoons margarine

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  Dash salt

  2 cups chopped pecans

  Mix sugar and milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until the mixture reaches soft-ball stage, about 10 minutes or longer. Remove from heat. Add marshmallow cream, chocolate chips, margarine, vanilla, salt, and pecans. Mix until smooth. Pour into a 9-inch-by-13-inch buttered dish. Let set 24 hours.

  Note: Everyone in my family uses an old-fashioned pressure cooker pan to make this. No, we don’t use pressure. We just use the pan because it’s heavy and suitable for extra-hot ingredients that shouldn’t be burned or scorched. I’m lucky enough to have fallen heir to the actual pressure cooker my grandmother used, and I prize it.

  Chapter 22

  Mike’s snarl had been directed at all of us, but his gaze had been aimed at Joe.

  We all stared in response. Aunt Nettie’s face screwed up as if she might cry. Dolly looked shocked and hurt. I’m sure my mouth was gaping open with surprise.

  Joe was the only person who didn’t change his expression. “Drag what up?” he asked. “Why did Watt try to hide the album?”

  Mike’s reply was a deep sigh. Then he sat down in an office chair beside Aunt Nettie’s desk, leaned back, and crossed his arms.

  “God knows why Watt does anything,” he said. “I know Watt is kind of an oddball. But people shouldn’t always be trying to push him around.”

  Joe remained absolutely calm. “How long have you known Watt?”

  Mike threw his head back and spoke defiantly. “Since he came to Warner Pier,” he said.

  “Then how do you know that people ‘always’ push him around?”

  Mike’s gaze fell, and he took a deep breath. “Okay! Watt and I were in the army together. That was fifteen years ago! And, yeah, he was odd then, too. Several of us got in the habit of kinda taking care of him.”

  He looked up, glaring at Joe. “But Watt never did anything, you know, wrong! One time some guys tried to get him involved in a robbery, but he just called me and told me about it. I took him to the MPs. Watt’s problem is that he never seemed to catch on to things.”

  Joe nodded. “Did he serve his full enlistment?”

  Mike shook his head. “He was released, ‘for the good of the service.’ It’s not a dishonorable discharge. He just didn’t fit in.”

  Joe didn’t reply, and in a moment, Mike gave a deep sigh. “I liked Watt,” he said. “He was always out in left field, of course, but sometimes he saw things a lot clearer than the rest of us. And he’s not stupid! Just in a different world.”

  “Why didn’t you want to tell people you knew Watt? Dolly says you didn’t tell her.”

  “It was Watt who didn’t want me to tell anybody. I guess he was embarrassed because he’d always been the oddball in every situation. So he stuck to himself. A real loner.”

  Joe frowned. “Then why did Watt hang on to this album?”

  “That? That’s mine! And it really is a prized possession of mine.” Mike took a deep breath. “I—well, I treasured the album. Watt made it for me after he and Bob pulled me out of that chopper—barely got me out before I was barbecued! I owe him a lot!”

  Mike was staring at the book. “Watt borrowed it last week. I don’t know why he wanted to see it, but I sure didn’t expect him to hide it in the trash.”

  Joe nodded. “Do you mind if I look at it?”

  For a moment I thought Mike was going to refuse. But he didn’t. “I don’t mind,” he said. “But I don’t see any reason that you should.”

  “It might shed some light on Watt. On his character and background.”

  Mike shrugged casually, but he pursed his lips firmly. “Sure, you and Hogan can look it over. As long as I get it back! And I promise to talk to Hogan about Watt. Once I get a more important chore taken care of.”

  Our little welcome-home session for Dolly and Mike ended with that. Mike still looked mad, and Dolly still looked puzzled.

  Everyone but Aunt Nettie and I left. Dolly promised to be in for work the next morning. Mike promised to see Hogan. And Joe left without saying where he was going. He put the photo album back in the garbage bag and left with it, telling me he was taking my van, but he’d be back to pick me up at five.

  We had never gotten around to lunch, and it had been a long time since the goodies at Gold’s Jewelry open house. So I drank a Diet Coke, munched a handful of cheese crackers, and ate a double-fudge bonbon (“layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating”) to tide me over until my next meal, whenever it arrived.

  I would also have liked a nap, but I gave that idea up, just the way I gave up worrying about that photo album.

  I did manage to accomplish several things—I did the paperwork for a big order of Halloween candy for a Chicago department store—they expect their ghosts and goblins to arrive long before Labor Day—and discussed our information storage situation with Bunny. The afternoon dragged on. Finally it actually crawled past five o’clock, and I was still there waiting for Joe to pick me up. He had my van, and I was wondering if I’d have to ask Aunt Nettie to give me a ride home. She was packing up her belongings, getting ready to leave.

  At last, the phone rang, and the caller ID said, “Joe.” I clutched the receiver to my ear. “I’m hungry!” I said.

  “Yes, it’s been a long time since our champagne breakfast, hasn’t it? I’ve spent the whole afternoon looking for Hogan, and I still haven’t seen him.”

  “Could we simply go home?”

  “Actually I just found out where Hogan is. How about asking Aunt Nettie and Hogan out to the house for dinner? I’ll pick up some fried chicken from Herrera’s, plus a salad.”

  “I can make a salad. But what makes you think you can find Hogan now?”

  “I’m holding on his line while I talk to you on mine. Oops! There it goes.”

  My phone went silent and began to blink, telling me I was now the one on hold. And in a few minutes Joe was back. “Hogan says yes to dinner,” he said.

  “I’ll invite Aunt Nettie.”

  My placid and agreeable aunt said yes, and shortly afterward, she and I were in her Buick sedan headed for our house. We got there about ten minutes before Joe and Hogan arrived. Aunt Nettie and I indulged in a glass of wine, and the guys came in with a six-pack of Labatt’s. All of us were tired, but the prospect of a friendly talk seemed to spread happy feelings around the dining room.

  As soon as we’d each taken a piece of chicken, I spoke. “Can we talk business while we eat?”

  Everybody agreed.

  “Then I claim the first question,” I said. “Going back a couple of days, how the heck did Watt get away from Mike’s cottage so he could wander the streets?”

  We all looked intently at Hogan while he chewed and swallowed. “I have no idea,” he said. “It’s a complete mystery.”

  “Hogan!” Joe, Aunt Nettie, and I all howled his name. Then Aunt Nettie spoke. “You still don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t. Watt swears that the last thing he remembers is being at the cottage. It was about nine or ten a.m. He was drinking a cup of tea. Mike had just left to buy cereal.”

  Hogan looked at Joe, frowning. “Watt’s apparently sort of famous around Herrera’s for preferring hot tea to coffee. Anyway, he woke up on
Van’s roof with no idea how he got there. And his watch read four p.m. He climbed down one of the ladders from the roof and began to try to get someplace—either back to Mike’s or to his own house.”

  Joe frowned. “What do you think happened?”

  “If Watt really has no recollection of how he got there or how the day disappeared, then someone must have drugged him. It would be pretty easy to put him on top of the building, where Darcy and Katy thought they saw him. I have an idea, but I can’t prove it.”

  “And your idea is . . . ?”

  Hogan shrugged. “I think somebody managed to put a sleeping pill or some similar substance in his tea, probably after Mike left the cottage. Then, after Watt fell asleep, that somebody, or possibly two somebodies, carried him up there.”

  Aunt Nettie broke in. “But, Hogan, Watt hadn’t been in Warner Pier long. Who did he know who would help him get—well, anyplace? Especially up on the roof.”

  “That’s a good question, Nettie.”

  We discussed it for a few minutes. If Watt needed help leaving the hiding place Hogan and Mike had arranged for him, or if someone had kidnapped him, who could it have been? Or put another way, who might have contacted him and offered to take him someplace?

  Could it have been someone who worked at one of Mike Herrera’s restaurants? Lindy or T. J.? Someone else? No one seemed likely. Watt presumably had acquaintances, but none of us knew who they were, and Watt wouldn’t talk to Hogan about it.

  The conversation faltered. Joe and I had had such a crazy day that we began to falter, too. The food was gone, so Hogan and Aunt Nettie left. I tossed the paper plates into the trash and wiped down the kitchen counters.

  As I made a final circuit of the downstairs before turning in, I noticed that Joe had held on to the photo album. It was still wrapped in its white garbage bag and was on the corner of the coffee table.

  Sighing, I sat down, unwrapped it, and took it out. I idly began to turn the pages of the book.

  Mike’s album was a very ordinary photo album. Any captions were informal, mostly the nicknames I’d noticed earlier. No one was identified formally. Instead, each photo was marked with information like f-stops and exposure times.

  Certainly, Watt had unexpected talents.

  I closed the album and headed for bed. I’d think about it tomorrow.

  I went into the bedroom, gave Joe a kiss on the forehead—his only response was a gentle snore—then climbed into bed. My plan was to snuggle down under my quilt and drift off to sleep. It was a cool night with a pleasant breeze, and the windows were open.

  But Joe had gone to sleep and left my bedside lamp on, and the light didn’t seem to be bothering him. My notepad was on the side table. I decided that I could make some notes and write out some questions I’d like answered. There were more than a few.

  Chapter 23

  First question: What were the Cookie Monsters after? These prowlers had gone all over our small-business community, breaking into a dozen stores and taking nothing but crackers and cookies. Why on earth would they do something so pointless? They could shoplift similar snacks from any grocery store with a lot less trouble. So what were the burglars after? Were they planning a more serious crime? If so, what was it? What was here in Warner Pier that someone would want to steal?”

  Second question: If someone had drugged and kidnapped Watt and put him someplace he didn’t want to be, who had it been? And how had they managed it? Or was Watt wrong about being kidnapped?

  Third question: What did these people have against Watt? Why was he getting this treatment?

  Fourth question: What did these people have against Mike? Mike was also something of a stranger to Warner Pier. How had he managed to draw someone’s anger? Was it his job as night patrolman that did it?

  Fifth question: Besides Watt, Alex Gold was the only other person who had been molested in any way by the Cookie Monsters, when they locked him in a closet. Why? We had all assumed that he surprised them inside his store, and they reacted by imprisoning him to keep him from raising an alarm. But why would they do that? If the Cookie Monsters were just pranksters—kids prowling around, maybe—why didn’t they simply flee when he surprised them? Kids could easily outrun a man in his sixties. And attacking an older man who was not a strong physical specimen was a serious crime.

  Sixth question: Were the burglars skillful? Or were the burglars simply bumbling around? Then I answered my own question—yes, they were skillful. They could pick locks, for example.

  Seventh question: If the burglars did have skills, what were their limits and capabilities?

  Eighth question: What skills did each of the burglaries require? Could that information help to narrow down suspects?

  Ninth question: Who was Bob?

  I laughed at the last question, of course. Bob was merely someone who had hired Mike to do an odd job and was slow to pay.

  Mike was apparently the only person who knew who Bob was, and he must have promised to keep his argument with Bob quiet. Then, with his usual lack of impulse control, he had talked loudly in the Rest-Stop about the situation. Their argument could be about anything, or nothing, but it involved money. No one but Mike and Bob knew what Mike had been hired to do.

  Maybe the mysterious Bob wanted a special liquor cabinet in his boat. Or maybe he wanted a piggy bank shaped like his boat or a playhouse for a grandchild. Maybe the project was to be a surprise for his wife.

  Why did Bob’s identity obsess me? Mike had just laughed the question off. But something about the way he ducked his head when Bob’s name came up . . . I wanted to know!

  I had written each question on a separate sheet of notepaper, and now I rearranged them, putting them in what I would call order of importance. Actually in an order that piqued my curiosity.

  The most important question was the first that occurred to me: What could anyone want to steal in a resort town whose shops specialize in casual clothing and relaxing goods such as books, lawn chairs, and secondhand furniture?

  Not a dang thing! Maybe antiques? Artwork? But small stores didn’t carry valuable items like that.

  And interestingly, no private homes had been hit by the Cookie Monsters.

  But there had been a big announcement earlier that day. Next week, we would have some famous, valuable jewels on display in Warner Pier!

  At the moment, Warner Pier shops had nothing to draw professional thieves. But for three days next week, we’d have reproductions of some of the world’s most exotic jewels.

  And the historical replicas would contain actual jewels—not fake ones. Brides-to-be could have diamond rings that were copies of the last Russian royal jewels, set with real diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. And, yes, we had families in Warner Pier who could afford to buy these gorgeous gems. We had grooms who could offer their brides three or four acres of land on the lakeshore. Such a gift could conceivably be valued at half a million or more. They could certainly offer their brides an impressive diamond or three.

  Gold’s Jewelry would stock or order them. The jewels would be burglar bait. The czarina’s jewels might draw thieves the way a tree full of nuts would draw squirrels.

  I got so excited that I got out of bed and walked all around the bedroom, kitchen, and living room. And as I walked, I muttered, “I have to talk to Hogan! I have to talk to Hogan!”

  Finally I got back into bed, trying to lie still and not disturb Joe.

  “Hogan must know!” I told myself. “Hogan must know!”

  At this point Joe turned over, scooted toward me, and spoke.

  “You’re so sexy when you mutter,” he said. “Then I know that you’ve made some great discovery.” He kissed my neck, right under my ear.

  I tried to tell him about it, but he kept kissing me, and I lost all track of my reasoning.

  I had it back by the time we were at the breakfast table,
however. Over coffee, I showed Joe my notes and outlined the things I would like to talk to Hogan about.

  “Not that Hogan hasn’t already thought about these things,” I said. “He’s a professional, after all.”

  Joe nodded. “Yes, he probably has. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to know that somebody else has figured it out as well.”

  He chuckled at the “Who’s Bob?” question and nodded at the query about the czarina’s jewels.

  “But the item that intrigues me,” he said, “is the question of what skills do the Cookie Monsters need? I’ve been fascinated by the way they seem to enter through locked doors.”

  Joe picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. “How about we ask Hogan to drop by and talk to us?”

  And Hogan agreed to come.

  This surprised me. Why should an experienced detective like Hogan agree to listen to the ideas of two amateurs? Of course, Joe had some experience as a defense attorney, but he’s not a detective. And when it comes to solving crimes—well, I may have figured out a few problems in our small town, but I don’t pretend to be an expert.

  But Hogan came to our house, drank our coffee, and patiently listened to my ideas and to the ideas Joe had added to mine.

  When we’d covered all our notes, Hogan nodded. “What you’re telling me,” he said, “is that you think the Cookie Monsters may have been practicing on the businesses around Warner Pier, waiting for an occasion such as the exhibition of jewels at Gold’s new store. And that the exhibition may enable the Monsters to become serious thieves and make a try at stealing the valuable collection.”

  “We could use the jewels as a trap!” I said.

  Then the three of us began to laugh. We couldn’t help it—we finally felt as if the Cookie Monsters could be caught!

  So, with laughter and doughnuts, we figured out a story. “I’ll tell everybody that I’ve decided these break-ins and the attack on Watt are obviously simply jokes,” said Hogan. “Maybe talk to some of the town’s known pranksters and let people think they were questioned about it.”