The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle

by Joanna (Chocolate series 04) Carl

  Yes, there was an e-mail address. I fired off a query. Maybe that would get results.

  What else could I do?

  Getting some dinner seemed the best plan. I hid the notes I’d written on my fruitless search for Aubrey Andrews Armstrong, turned off the computer, got my jacket, and double-checked the lock on the street door. As I did, I peeked out and eyeballed the windows of the second-floor apartments across the street. Joe had recently signed a lease for one of them, and he’d spent nearly every evening over there painting. My conscience smote me; he was doing all this work because he wanted me to marry him and move in. And old dumb Lee couldn’t make up her mind.

  But that night, his windows were dark. I turned on the shop’s security light, then went out the back door. I zipped the jacket up; nights were already in the low forties in southwest Michigan. Pretty soon, I thought as I climbed into my old minivan, I’d get my annual yen for pumpkin bread.

  Pumpkins. The thought of the orange veggie reminded me of Maia’s uncle, Silas Snow, who had a fruit stand full of pumpkins. During the argument I had witnessed, Silas had referred to a business card, apparently left at his fruit stand by Aubrey. He’d said something about “sticking a business card under an apple.”

  That business card should have specific information about Aubrey. If I could get hold of it . . .

  I turned the thought over idly, then checked my watch. Seven thirty. Aubrey had planned to pick up Aunt Nettie at seven, so the two of them, plus Vernon and Maia, should be at the Warner River Lodge by now. If I went out to Silas’s, which I assumed was near the Ensminger place, there should be no danger of running into them. I turned the minivan toward Orchard Street.

  Orchard Street was the quickest way to access the interstate highway and the Haven exit, where Silas’s farm and his fruit stand were located. As I recalled the layout of the Snow property, the fruit stand was near the road, and a traditional white Midwestern farmhouse sat a hundred yards behind it. That simply had to be where Silas lived. Silas would still be up. And if I could convince him I wasn’t a treasure hunter who was going to dig up his orchard, maybe he’d show me that card.

  When I pulled into the fruit stand’s parking area, my headlights swept over a sea of pumpkins. Who buys all those pumpkins? During each of the two autumns I’d spent in Warner Pier, these mass invasions of pumpkins had occurred. There were tiny little pumpkins in baskets on the counters, wheelbarrows full of medium-sized pumpkins, and hay wagons loaded with giant pumpkins that needed a forklift to move them into the trucks and vans of buyers. There were rows of pumpkins marked “pie pumpkins.” There were washtubs full of pumpkins marked “ornamental pumpkins.” There were pumpkins with faces painted on them, pumpkins in arrangements with fancy gourds, pumpkins centering decorations featuring weird squash.

  I can understand cooking pumpkins for a few pies and maybe some pumpkin bread. I can see making Halloween and Thanksgiving table decorations out of them. I can grasp using the larger ones to make the front porch look seasonal, with country-flavored arrangements of pumpkins and cornstalks and cutesy scarecrows. I can visualize gigantic jack-o’-lanterns made out of the largest pumpkins. But if every citizen of western Michigan did all those things, there would still be pumpkins left over in the fruit stands.

  My headlights showed that Silas Snow’s fruit stand was typical. It had a simple shed, open at the front and sides, with three long tables where produce could be displayed. There were baskets of apples along the back wall, and a table loaded with winter squash in the middle. But a majority of the space was given over to pumpkins. Scads of pumpkins. Oceans of pumpkins. Pumpkins galore.

  There were so many pumpkins I couldn’t find the drive that led back to the house. I could see a light on the porch and one inside the house. But I couldn’t figure out how to drive back there. I honked the van’s horn, thinking it might bring Silas out onto the porch, but there was no reaction.

  “I’ll just have to walk,” I said aloud. I dug my big square flashlight out of the bin under the passenger’s seat, got out, and started picking my way through the pumpkins. It was quiet, since Haven Road doesn’t lead to anything but a bunch of summer cottages, and nearly all of those would be empty in mid-October. The interstate was only a few hundred yards away, true, but the trees still had enough leaves to hide the lights of the cars and trucks passing. The traffic sounds were loud, but the silence at Silas Snow’s farm soaked them up like a blotter. I told myself that it wasn’t really spooky, despite the way my imagination magnified every sound.

  I had to keep the beam of the flash right where I was stepping, of course, since I didn’t want to break either a pumpkin or my leg. This meant I was keeping my head down and concentrating on the ground right in front of my feet, but periodically I did a sweep of the pumpkin patch, planning a route.

  I wasn’t making very fast progress, but I eventually got around behind the fruit stand, with the building between me and the road. It was at that point that my flashlight swept over a huge heap of pumpkins. Some of them were smashed.

  “Oh!” I guess I said it aloud. “The trespassers have been back!”

  After seeing those broken pumpkins, I couldn’t deny the spookiness of the situation. If Silas Snow was lying in wait for the treasure hunters who’d been trespassing on his property, I was in danger of getting hit by that shotgun blast he’d promised them. Or I might run into the trespassers themselves, and that wasn’t a happy idea.

  The Snow farm was not a good place to be in the dark, when neither Silas nor I could see what was going on. I decided I’d better wait until the next day to ask Mr. Snow for Aubrey Andrews Armstrong’s business card. I began to turn around, ready to pick my way back through that sea of pumpkins and head for home.

  But my flashlight’s beam danced over something that wasn’t round and that wasn’t orange. It definitely wasn’t a pumpkin. I moved the beam back to get a better look.

  It was blue and oblong and it was sticking out of the heap of pumpkins. And there was something brown on the end of it. I had to concentrate for a long moment before my eyes made the object take a recognizable form.

  It was the leg of a pair of blue jeans, and a brown workboot was sticking out the end of it.

  “Scarecrow,” I said, my voice a whisper. “It’s got to be one of those scarecrows.”

  But what if it wasn’t a scarecrow? I couldn’t leave without making sure.

  I tiptoed through more pumpkins, pushing some aside. Then I knelt beside the leg. I had to touch it. Thank God I was wearing gloves, I thought. Then I realized that was the dumbest thought I’d had in a long time. All I could touch was a boot.

  I forced myself to reach out, and I nudged the boot. It moved, just a little. But it didn’t move like a scarecrow’s foot. It moved like a human foot attached to a very weak ankle.

  I didn’t scream, though I’m not sure why I didn’t. I played the beam of the flashlight around, and now I saw something else sticking out of the heap of pumpkins.

  It was a hand. A gnarled, dirty hand—the hand of a farmer who’d been working hard all his life.

  Someone was buried under that heap of pumpkins.

  Could that person be alive? I pulled my glove off, reached over, and touched the hand. It didn’t respond to my touch, and it was cold.

  I don’t know if I smashed any pumpkins or not, but I ran all the way back to the van.

  Chapter 5

  Once in the van, I locked the doors then looked around inside to make sure nobody had climbed in while I was wading in pumpkins. The backward order of those actions indicated how rattled I was.

  Luckily, just across the interstate, maybe three city blocks away, there was a gas station and convenience store. I drove across the overpass, nearly sideswiping a red Volkswagen with a Warner Pier High School bumper sticker in the rear window. It had pulled out suddenly from somewhere. The clerk in the bulletproof booth called 9-1-1, and I waited there. The Haven Road exit is not in Warner Pier; the Warner County Sheriff�
�s Department would be in charge of the situation. But they have a cooperative agreement with Warner Pier, I guess, because Jerry Cherry, one of the three Warner Pier patrolmen, was the first officer on the scene.

  I followed Jerry back to the Snow farm and parked on the edge of the fruit stand’s gravel lot while law enforcement gathered. Sheriff’s cars, Michigan State Police cars, and more Warner Pier cars pulled up, and all sorts of uniforms got out.

  Jerry didn’t make me show him where the body was; he found the spot from my description. After about twenty minutes, Chief Hogan Jones came over to my van, leaned on my door, and told me the sheriff said I could go home.

  “We know where to find you, Lee,” he said. “It’s probably an accident anyway. We’ll have to shift all those pumpkins before we know anything. What were you doing out here?”

  I couldn’t think of a good lie, so I told the truth. “I was trying to find out something about Aubrey Andrews Armstrong and his company. There was nothing on the Internet. I thought maybe I was spelling his name wrong, and since Silas Snow had mentioned having a business card . . .”

  The chief shook his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m worried about Aunt Nettie.”

  “Then you’d better get home and be there when Armstrong brings her home.”

  He asked Jerry Cherry to follow me home. I assured him this wasn’t necessary, but I was glad when he insisted.

  As soon as I had gone into the house and had waved Jerry off, I discovered I was starving. Nerves, I guess. I had my head in the refrigerator checking the egg and English muffin situation when I heard another vehicle driving up. I wasn’t mentally ready for Aunt Nettie and Aubrey, so I was glad when a glance out the side window showed me Joe’s pickup. In fact, it was just plain good to see Joe, even though we had parted on bad terms.

  I met him at the back door. “Do we have to settle the plans for the rest of our lives tonight?”

  He smiled. He did have a wonderful smile. “Nope. Figuring out the rest of our lives is way too serious a subject for right now. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m okay. I guess the chief called you.”

  “He thought you might want some company.”

  “I could sure use a hug.”

  Joe obliged. “Have you eaten? I could take you out.”

  “No, thanks. I want to be here when Aunt Nettie gets home.”

  Joe frowned, but he didn’t say anything.

  “She asked me to be here, Joe. I was going to scramble myself some eggs. Do you want some?”

  He gestured at the eggs and muffins on the cabinet. “I’ve had dinner, but I might have an English muffin and some of Nettie’s peach jam.”

  “Preserves, you mean.”

  “Jam,” he said. “And maybe sprinkle some pee-cans on top.”

  Joe and I carry on a joking argument about the proper names of items that are labeled differently in Texas and in Michigan, such as “preserves” versus “jam” and “pecahns” versus “pee-cans.” He carries groceries home in a “bag,” and I use a “sack.” I’ll let him settle the “Michigander” versus “Michiganian” controversy.

  Joe split and buttered the muffins, then set the table with one place at the head and one on the side. I put on a large pot of coffee so Aunt Nettie could offer Aubrey some if she wanted to, then I scrambled eggs. Two of us moving around made Aunt Nettie’s 1910 kitchen even narrower than it really is, but it was comforting to be doing homey things like scrambling eggs and toasting muffins and bumping rearends.

  We didn’t talk any more until we were sitting at the table in the dining room, and we kept the conversation light while we ate. I’d just finished rinsing the dishes when I heard an engine. Headlights flashed by the windows, and an SUV parked in the driveway. Our outdoor lights were on, so I saw Aubrey get out and go around to open the door for Aunt Nettie. Then he popped the rear end of the SUV and brought out Monte on his leash. The pup scrambled around in the bushes, undoubtedly giving them a good sprinkling, while Aunt Nettie and Aubrey stood talking. I couldn’t make out words, but both of them sounded cheerful. Apparently the evening had gone well. I surprised myself by feeling pleased.

  Joe and I retired to the living room, since the dining room overlooks the back door, and the back door is the one everyone usually uses. We didn’t know if Aunt Nettie would want to say good-bye to Aubrey there.

  But Aubrey came in with her. I heard their voices in the kitchen, then Aunt Nettie called out. “Hello! Do I smell coffee?”

  “It may not be as good as the Warner River Lodge’s,” I said, “but it’s there.”

  Monte frisked into the living room, pulling Aubrey along. Aubrey took the pup off his leash, and once again Monte bounced against my knees, then went to Joe. Joe greeted him, and Monte turned over, obviously ready to have his stomach scratched. He playfully kicked Joe with all four feet as Joe obeyed.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner?” Joe asked the pup. “Or did you go along?”

  “He went, but stayed in the SUV,” Aubrey said.

  “I don’t like to leave him in the kennel too long, though he’s patient. But Nettie invited him in.”

  “There’s nothing here a dog can hurt,” Aunt Nettie said. I saw that she had put on a dressy blue pants suit. I don’t think I’ve seen Aunt Nettie in a dress since Uncle Phil’s funeral.

  “I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” she said. “Aubrey? Will you have one?”

  “Yes, please.” Aubrey beamed at her, then turned back to Joe and me as she went to the kitchen. “The restaurant is delightful. Wonderful food! The Lodge might be a great place to house part of our cast—if we’re able to shoot here. Did you two have a pleasant evening?”

  The question summoned up a mental picture of Silas Snow’s boot sticking out from under that heap of pumpkins. I must have turned green, because Joe quit playing with the dog and reached for my hand. “Lee had a bad experience,” he said. “We’ll tell you about it after Nettie comes in.”

  Aubrey told Monte to stay, and the puppy lay down calmly. My nerves, however, began to jump wildly. I had just realized that I was going to have to explain the reason I’d gone out to Silas Snow’s fruit stand, and I was going to have to explain it right in front of Aubrey.

  Yikes! The truth might have done for Chief Jones, but it wasn’t going to work now. It would not be tactful to tell Aubrey I’d been spying on him. What was I going to say?

  Joe and Aubrey were chitchatting, and I was thinking madly. When Aunt Nettie brought in a tray with two cups of coffee and a dish of bonbons and truffles, I was ready. I don’t like to lie, but I sure can sidestep.

  “I’m on the Halloween Parade committee,” I said, “and we have to round up a lot of punchers. I mean, pumpkins! So after I finished up at the office, I went out to Silas Snow’s place. He’s got loads of pumpkins.” I turned to Aubrey. “The parade is a Chamber of Commerce function, and I’m on the body. I mean, the board! I’m on the chamber’s board.”

  I stumbled on, telling about finding the hand and the foot sticking out from under the pumpkins. “It must have been Silas.”

  Aubrey’s face screwed into a look of incredulous horror. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said. I didn’t describe the feel of his hand. “Of course, it might not be Mr. Snow. I couldn’t see his face.”

  Aunt Nettie was looking concerned. “My goodness, Aubrey. Silas Snow is Maia’s uncle.”

  Aubrey’s eyes popped. “Not the one who owns the farm where Love Leads the Way happened?”

  We all nodded.

  “My God!” Aubrey appeared genuinely shocked. “Maia and I were out there this morning.”

  “Silas was angry with Maia. They had a big argument at the Rinkydink,” I said.

  Aubrey nodded solemnly. “She told me he was eccentric, warned me he might refuse to let us use the property.”

  “I’m surprised he let you on the place at all,” Joe said.

  “I guess Maia didn’
t ask permission. We didn’t go to his house. We dropped by the fruit stand as we were leaving, but Maia said since his truck was gone, he must not be there. Maia drove us over there by some back road.”

  Joe nodded. “Maia probably knows every inch of the property, since it belonged to her grandparents. Besides, the place adjoins Ensminger’s Orchards, where she and Vernon live.”

  “Did Maia marry the boy next door?” I asked.

  Aunt Nettie shook her head. “No, both farms originally belonged to Mae’s grandfather. Mae’s mother died young, while her father was still alive, so Mae inherited that half of the family holdings. Luckily, Vernon was interested in farming it, so they just built a house and moved there.”

  “Does Silas have children?”

  “I’m sure he never married.”

  “No children to speak of,” Aubrey said. He chuckled. Joe and I smiled politely. Aunt Nettie looked puzzled, as if she didn’t get the joke. It occurred to me that she was putting on an act; Aunt Nettie may look like a sweet, innocent lady, but she knows what’s going on in the world, and I was sure she had caught Aubrey’s feeble joke. I wondered what she was up to.

  “Silas terrorized Warner Pier kids for fifty years,” Joe said. “Not that we didn’t deserve it.”

  “Why was that?” Aubrey asked.

  “Snow’s orchards were the equivalent of the local haunted house. The legend about the buried bank loot has been around since my mom was a girl—actually a lot longer. We always dared each other to go out there and dig for treasure. Then Silas would chase us off.”

  “He was threatening to get out his shotgun this afternoon,” I said.

  Aubrey’s eyes got big. “I guess we were lucky to get off the place in one piece.”

  “I doubt he would have shot at Maia,” Joe said.

  “He might have if he’d known that—” Aubrey stopped talking in the middle of his sentence and took a drink of his coffee. We all stared at him, but he didn’t seem to be planning to say any more.

  “Known what?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Aubrey answered in a way that made it obvious “nothing” meant “something.”