The Chocolate Raccoon Rigmarole

by JoAnna Carl

  I started my van and backed it out. I wrote the time down, took a deep breath, and started.

  I only hoped that I didn’t kill anybody with my little experiment. It was going to mean driving fast on a crowded route.

  Gunning my van out of the alley, I barely slowed at the street, then flew straight across it and entered the alley in the next block. I kept going, traveling as fast as I could until I reached the next street. Again, I barely paused, took a quick look—left, then right—and made sure that street was clear. Then I sped into that alley.

  At the next street, I threw on the brakes and waited for traffic to clear. There were only three cars coming, and since I was turning right, I didn’t have to check the northbound lane. I swung a sharp right and headed north. Four more blocks—with only one brief pause—and I was chugging across River Street. A quarter of a mile straight down Dock Street, then a final turn into the boat shop’s drive, and I skidded to a stop beside Joe’s big metal building.

  I had hurried through nearly every intersection without paying real attention to traffic. My heart was pounding.

  I checked my watch. I had made the trip in four minutes and forty-five seconds.

  Now for one final push. I turned off the car, yanked the keys out of the ignition, and jumped out of the van. Luckily, I had the key ring with my keys to the shop in my purse. I pulled them out, ran for the side door, unlocked it, turned the handle, and yanked the door open.

  And I could hear the sound of a car’s motor.

  How could that be? The building should be empty.

  But behind a door in the back wall, the one that hid the storage area, a motor was running.

  Something was wrong.

  I pulled my cell phone out and called 9-1-1. The rest of the trip I’d be connected to the dispatcher.

  I tried to tell the dispatcher I’d found the man every officer had been looking for, but I’m afraid my words weren’t coherent. I muttered as I ran across the shop and threw open the door to the storage room.

  A bright red pickup, a great big sucker, was parked inside. It was rocking back and forth gently, and I could smell exhaust fumes.

  There’s No Chocolate in Potato Soup!

  (The Chocolate Bunny Brouhaha)

  In several of the Chocoholic books, the characters eat potato soup. No, I haven’t found a chocolate version.

  But potato soup is close to the ultimate comfort food for my real-life family. And I’ve never eaten any as good as my mom’s. The recipe is totally flexible.

  Family Favorite Potato Soup

  Potatoes, 2 medium-sized for each serving

  Onions

  Carrots

  Celery (optional)

  Chicken broth

  Butter

  Salt and pepper

  Milk—evaporated, regular, or skim—cook’s choice

  Garnishes

  Sharp cheese, grated

  Green onions, chopped

  Ham or dried beef, chopped

  The “2 medium potatoes” is a guide, not a rule. Add other vegetables in the amounts that look good to the cook. Peel and chop the vegetables into pieces of similar size. Put raw chunks in heavy kettle and add chicken broth, not quite covering. Bring to a boil and simmer, uncovered, until vegetables are quite soft. Do not drain.

  Remove kettle from heat and mash vegetables with potato masher. I prefer the vegetables slightly lumpy. Add lump of butter, then salt and pepper to taste. Stir in milk, making the soup a bit thin, because it thickens as it sits. If this happens, add more milk or broth. Reheat over low temperature; do not allow to boil.

  Each person can add garnishes to taste. Serve with soda crackers or whatever appeals.

  Chapter 26

  My first thought was that the van had turned bright red.

  I’d traced the route of the white van, but I’d discovered Mike’s flashy, bright red, enormous pickup—gaudy bed cover, gigantic tires, fancy steps, and everything else.

  I didn’t stop to figure how it got to the boat shop. At the moment all I could think about was getting the pickup’s engine turned off.

  I couldn’t see inside the vehicle at all, front seat or rear. The sides and the back door were made of solid metal. The windows to the driver’s cab had dark tinting. The whole population of Warner Pier could have walked by the truck and not noticed that there was a man inside it. I frantically banged on the side of the pickup and called out for Mike.

  For a panicked moment I could not remember where the garage door opener for the room was located.

  Then I realized that I was standing right beside it. I punched it, and the door went up. Blessed daylight flooded the workroom.

  A long rubber hose was coming out of the exhaust pipe. I took six steps and yanked it free.

  The hose was snaking along the side of the pickup and into the driver’s side window. The window was almost closed, pinching the hose, but the hose kept the window partly open. My heart lurched.

  I tried to open the driver’s side door, but it was locked. So I didn’t wait around to try the other doors of the pickup. I ran into the shop and found a heavy hammer on the main workbench. I used it to whack a hole in the window on the passenger’s side of the pickup. Three blows and the whole seat was covered with shattered glass. I reached inside the window—thank heaven I’m a tall woman, because the vehicle sat up high—and unlocked it. Then I ran back to the driver’s side, opened the door, and turned the ignition off.

  Finally I looked into the back, terrified that I’d see Mike’s dead body.

  Instead I saw him in the back of the pickup, peering at me from between the seats.

  “Mike!” I yelled.

  He was wrapped in a quilt of some sort, his face just visible. Duct tape was wrapped around the whole affair, and Mike’s body was held rigid with straps that reminded me of the bound feet of a Chinese princess.

  Mike looked like a big puffy ghost. The blanket—or whatever it was—had a blue background and was stitched back and forth like a quilt.

  The part nearest me seemed to be covering a head. A hole gave me a look at a face, and a pair of boots—scuffed, dirty boots—stuck out the other end.

  And the boots kicked.

  “Mike! It’s you!”

  I heard the sound of words.

  “Thank God it’s you, Lee!”

  “I’ll get you out!”

  I rushed into the main shop and stared at Joe’s tools until I found some tin snips hanging on a pegboard.

  “I’m coming!” I hollered as I snatched them down.

  I ran back to the truck and began cutting the duct tape off, starting at the top of Mike’s head. I had to be cautious to avoid trimming Mike’s beard, but within seconds his face was fully visible.

  “Thank God, Lee!” Mike said. “They got the jump on me. I didn’t know Bob had a pal!”

  “Who? Who did this?”

  “Bob! The shoe shop guy! His cousin. Bob! R. L. Lake! He was the guy in the album.”

  R. L. Lake. The cousin of Bill Vanderwerp. It had never occurred to me to wonder what the R and the L in his name stood for. Now Mike gasped two words out. “Robert. Lee. In the army we called him Bob.”

  Mike’s hands were free by then, and he rubbed the back of his head with them. “They gave me a bad headache! But it took two of ’em to wrap me up.”

  When I began to try to cut Mike free, I discovered that one of the strips of duct tape attached him to some hooks in the bottom of the truck bed.

  The cops seemed to take forever to get there, but was I glad to see them. Warner Pier Police arrived first, closely followed by the town’s volunteer EMTs. Hogan assumed command of the crime scene, naturally, and kept nearly everybody out. Word must have spread rapidly, and people who knew and cared about Mike pulled in, with Dolly and Joe i
n the lead. They parked out on Dock Street and lined up, wanting to see him. Dolly was one of the few Hogan allowed in.

  Why hadn’t Mike died of carbon monoxide poisoning? That’s what I kept asking—first myself, then the EMTs and cops. Why was he still alive?

  Carelessness, Hogan told me. The gap in the window let air into the pickup.

  “Maybe they were just in a hurry,” he said. “Or maybe they were overconfident. If they’d looked around in the shop, they’d have found that big box of rags Joe has. They could have stuffed them in the crack in that window. Closed up the crack. Then Mike wouldn’t have made it.

  “But as it was, the fumes had to fill that giant garage before . . .” Hogan quit talking.

  When he started again, he asked a question. “But who did this?”

  “Bob. R. L. Lake,” Mike said. “The doughnut guy.”

  Hogan frowned. “R. L.? ‘The doughnut guy’? Do I know him?”

  Jerry Cherry answered. “Sure, Hogan. R. L. Lake delivers doughnuts around Warner Pier for Hole-n-One Donuts.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “R. L. is Bill Vanderwerp’s cousin.”

  Hogan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lee, can you shut up about this?”

  I nodded, and Hogan headed out. I knew he was off to check records. It was a letdown of sorts when Jerry told me that though I’d have to make a statement, nobody at the police department had time to take it right then.

  “You and Joe go home,” he said. “Just don’t make any deductions, okay? And definitely do not talk to anybody!”

  We obeyed. We collected Aunt Nettie at the shop and took her home with us. When dinnertime came, I made potato soup. If my grandmother’s recipe wouldn’t soothe me, I don’t know what could.

  To further the evening, the state police took over the hunt for Bill and R. L., so Hogan was also able to get away and join us.

  And when the phone rang, it was Alex Gold. Joe answered, and Alex said he was calling to make sure I was all right.

  “She’s right here,” Joe said. “Cooking dinner. Are Garnet and Dick there? No? Come over and eat with us.”

  It didn’t take much to get him to agree. And it was truly comforting to be eating with friends and relatives after the excitement of that day.

  As we sat down at the table, I took a deep breath and sprinkled sharp cheddar into the soup. “I guess we shouldn’t talk about all this, but I know we’re all thinking about it. I just hope they catch those guys before they do any more harm.”

  Aunt Nettie sniffed. “I’m going to smack that Mike Westerly’s bottom! He should have told us all he knew about Bob or R. L. or whatever they called him. And all about whatever the trouble was he had in the army.”

  “Aw, Aunt Nettie,” Joe said. “He was just trying to be loyal to an old army buddy.”

  “Well, he sure learned something.”

  I laid down my soup spoon and stared into my bowl. “I hope he did, because I sure didn’t. I don’t understand anything that’s gone on. Oh, I understand that Bill and R. L. seem to be the bad guys, but I’m completely in the dark about what they did, why they did it, and how they wound up in this mess. Not to mention how the rest of us wound up in it with them!”

  Aunt Nettie smiled at Hogan. “Maybe Hogan can explain it. After he eats his dinner.”

  “You’ll have to eat fast, Hogan!” I gave him what I hoped was an imploring look. “What’s going on, anyway?”

  “I agree that it’s very confusing, Lee.” Hogan smiled. “I admit I have some inside information that helps me.”

  He sprinkled sharp cheese in his soup. “Maybe it will be better if we try it chronologically.”

  “Beginning when?”

  “How about two teenage cousins who kept getting in trouble around twenty years ago? Their mothers were sisters, but from what I hear, the sisters were very different. One spoiled her son, and the other didn’t. In fact, she was extremely tough. But both boys turned out selfish and both got in trouble.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I assume you’re talking about the Vanderwerp cousins.”

  Hogan nodded. “We don’t need to go into all their early escapades, but one of them wound up in the reformatory and the other—the one most people thought was luckiest—was allowed to join the army. Both actions were attempts to straighten them out, but neither worked. Which is a sort of tragedy, since both Bill and Bob were intelligent and both had outwardly pleasing personalities.”

  “But, Hogan,” I said, “they killed people.”

  “Yes, but maybe they wouldn’t have . . .” He shrugged and went on. “Anyway, they stayed friendly with each other, even though they didn’t continue to live in the same area. Bill, of course, kept in touch with his parents—who were likely to leave their property to him. R. L. was forced to leave the army because of his crimes, and his civilian career also includes a prison term for theft.”

  He paused, emphasizing his next words. “But the army is where Bob met Mike and Watt. And, yes, the three of them really did get involved with each other because two of them were from Michigan and the third had spent his childhood summers here in Warner Pier.

  “The link was cemented by the crash of the helicopter. Army records show that Mike—the pilot—got a medal for bringing the chopper back to base and landing it under fire. Bob and Watt—members of the ground crew—climbed aboard and pulled injured members of the crew off the chopper. These included Mike. Mike was seriously wounded and eventually left the army because of resulting disabilities.

  “He was still hospitalized when Bob—R. L.—was accused of theft again. Watt, with his innocent view of life, didn’t really catch on to what R. L. was up to when his fellow Michigander talked him into helping. But Watt was uneasy enough that he confided the whole plan to Mike. Mike immediately caught on and saw that Watt went to the authorities. R. L. was court-martialed and bounced from the army. Watt took a discharge ‘for the good of the service.’ Mike now says that R. L. promised to reform and showed evidence that he was doing so. But his subsequent activities don’t indicate that he really intended to do that.”

  I stared into my soup bowl. “Especially with Paige,” I said. “I feel sorry for her. I guess she was dating Bob, and he . . .”

  Hogan lifted his eyebrows. “We’re just guessing about what happened with Paige, Lee. But don’t feel too sorry for her. I’m afraid she was a full partner in the scheme.”

  I shook my head. “But, Hogan, what was the scheme? You’ve told us all about Bill and Bob, but we don’t know what they were up to.”

  Hogan laughed. “Alex, you know more about it.”

  Alex smiled, but his expression was more rueful than amused. “I guess I goofed,” he said. “I’d been told that if a merchant had some unusually valuable item in stock—such as replicas of some historic jewels—it was smart to alert law officers about keeping them safe. I had some routine business with Vinton anyway, so like a good little boy, I asked him who I should talk to about the valuable jewelry I was going to show.” Alex shook his head. “I sure learned a lesson!”

  I gasped. “Was Vinton involved?”

  “Not directly,” Alex said. “But Vinton didn’t know what he should do, so he picked up the phone and called somebody.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. “Oh, gee, Alex!”

  “Right! Oh, gee, Alex, indeed. Everybody in the sheriff’s office could hear him talking about the Russian jewels!”

  “Including Paige,” Hogan said. “I’m not sure just how it happened, but apparently this was exactly the type of opportunity that Bill and Bob had been keeping an eye out for. Paige probably told them about it the same day.”

  He frowned. “What came next is the part you can pity Paige for. As nearly as I can tell, Paige thought that a jewel robbery would be a lot of fun. Like a caper movie. But she wasn’t ready to kill anybody.”

  “Oh!” I gasped so
loud that everybody stopped talking and looked at me. “I just remembered something.”

  “Well, what was it?” Joe asked.

  “The night we all stayed at the hospital to see how badly hurt Watt was, about five in the morning Paige came in and joined me. Mike and Joe had gone to get coffee. Just after she came, they returned, and when she saw them, she almost screamed. Gave a big—a sort of a gasp.” I dropped my eyes. “I never saw her again. Bill and Bob must have killed her that morning.”

  Hogan nodded. “She wasn’t reliable. They used the complicated plan, the same one they later used on Mike, to kill her, faking her death as a suicide.”

  “They were the ‘lumpy’ figures?”

  “The lumpy business was those moving pads they used to tie her up. They used duct tape over those to wrap her without leaving marks. Today they used the same method on Mike.”

  “But where did the photo album fit in?” Joe asked.

  “That I can answer,” Hogan said. “Watt told us the whole story this morning. The album originated as a gift for Mike, something his former outfit wanted to send him as a souvenir. Watt took nearly all the photos. But they couldn’t get any photos of Mike, because he’d been evacuated to a stateside hospital.”

  “I’d learned that Watt was a talented photographer,” I said. “And I guess that R. L. knew it, too. But here in Michigan, years later—well, who cared?”

  “R. L. did,” Hogan said. “You see, after moving back to Michigan, Mike ended up in Warner Pier. He had kept in touch with Watt, but both had lost touch with R. L. and that guy had no idea Watt and Mike were both here. When R. L. moved to Warner Pier, he realized the three of them were sure to run into each other, so he contacted Mike and told him a good lie. He assured Mike—his former commanding officer—that he had reformed. His life of crime was over, he said. Mike didn’t want to be buddies with him, but he also didn’t want to discourage him from straightening out if his intentions were legit.”