I guess Maggie and I might have hashed the matter over further, but the bell rang. Immediately students began to throng the halls and a group of them thronged into Maggie’s classroom. Maggie tossed her tissue in the trash and took a deep breath. I made tracks.
As I paused outside the door, waiting for the crowd to clear, I heard Maggie inside. “Okay, people. Open your speech textbooks to page thirty-two. We’ll start with the structure of the larynx.” Her voice was clear, resonate, and confident. All traces of the fearful, tearful Maggie had disappeared. I thought of Ken describing her as “such a good actress.” He was right.
I left the school and drove toward the shop. I had my assignment. Calling Vernon on the day after his wife’s uncle had been murdered might be tricky. If Silas had never married, as Aunt Nettie had said, Mae—I mean, Maia—might be the closest relative. Vernon might be closeted with the police or simply be incommunicado. But I vowed that I’d track him down.
As soon as I got to the office, I called the number listed in the Warner County phone book for Vernon Ensminger. A woman answered, using a hushed voice. When I asked for Vernon, she said he was at the funeral home. When I asked for Maia, the voice said she was resting.
I almost cheered. If Vernon was at the funeral home, and Maia was resting, I might have a chance to catch Vernon away from Maia. Since he followed her around like a puppy dog, this might be a onetime opportunity. I called the Warner Pier Funeral Home and asked if Vernon were still there. He was. I decided driving would be too slow. I ran the three blocks to the funeral home. Then I had to wait, since the receptionist said Vernon was conferring with the funeral director. I sat in one of the visitation rooms. Luckily, no one was in there to be visited. This gave me a few minutes to plan the angle I wanted to use to approach Vernon.
When I heard Vernon’s voice rumble in the hallway, I emerged and waited discreetly until he and the funeral director had shaken hands and Vernon seemed to be moving in the direction of the front door. Then I spoke. “Vernon.”
Vernon turned toward me. It seemed to take a moment for him to absorb just who I was. Then he gave a little gasp and came toward me.
I held a hand out in his direction. “I’m so sorry about Mae’s uncle.”
Vernon’s giant hand enfolded both of mine. “Lee.” His voice almost broke. “I’m so sorry you had to be the one who found Silas. I wouldn’t have had that happen for the world.”
“I didn’t really see him, Vernon. I just saw enough to know I ought to call the police. Can I talk to you a moment?”
The funeral director unobtrusively waved us into the room he and Vernon had just left. It was more like a parlor than an office, but there was a writing table. Vernon and I took two easy chairs, and he waited for me to begin.
“Vernon, first, I hope you’ll consider this conversation confidential.”
“Sure, Lee. What’s wrong?”
“Last night, after you and Mae went out to dinner with Aunt Nettie and Aubrey Andrews Armstrong, I decided to search the Internet and find out what I could about the movies Aubrey has made.” I leaned forward. “Vernon, I found all sorts of movie sites, but the name Aubrey Andrews Armstrong was not listed on any of them.”
Vernon dropped his head and stared at his feet.
I went on. “So I wondered if you knew any more about him.”
“Such as what?”
“An address for his company, to begin with. For example, has he given you or Maia—Mae—a business card?”
Vernon shook his head.
“Did he write her a letter—something with a letterhead?”
“No. He phoned last week, then showed up over the weekend. She hasn’t got anything in writing.”
I sat back. “I’m worried about Aunt Nettie, of course. If he’s not on the up-and-up, he could hurt her feelings, humiliate her. But I don’t want to say anything to her if I’m wrong.”
Vernon didn’t say a word. He just dropped his head even lower. Apparently I wasn’t going to get any verbal response.
“Vernon, if you have any more information about this guy—well, I could use it to search the Internet some more. Or to check with the Michigan Film Office. The director should know about any film company considering shooting in Michigan.”
Vernon spoke then, but he kept his head down, and his voice was just a mumble. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Neither of us moved, but we seemed to have said all there was to be said. Or I had. Vernon had hardly spoken at all. I stood up. “I don’t want to smear Aubrey, then find out he’s perfectly legitimate. But . . . I just don’t see how he can be, Vernon. He mentioned several movies he’d supposedly been associated with. I went to the Web sites for those movies, and he’s not listed anywhere. I tried the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences site. It lists hundreds of people who are in the film business. He’s not among them. Anyway, if you find out anything, please let me know.”
Vernon nodded again, and this time he stood up. “I’ll ask Mae about it,” he said. “But I won’t tell her why I want to know.”
He opened the door to the little conference room and stood back to let me go out. I thought he would follow me. But once I was out in the hallway, the door closed behind me. Vernon was staying in the conference room.
I turned around and stared at the door, surprised. And then I heard a sound from the other side of the door that was even more surprising.
Sobbing. Vernon was sobbing.
CHOCOLATE CHAT
AMERICA’S FIRST HEALTH FOOD?
As soon as the Spanish conquerors of the Mayas and Aztecs discovered chocolate, they began to rave about the healthfulness of the native American drink.
One widely-quoted conquistadore called the drink “the healthiest thing, and the greatest sustenance of anything you could drink in the world, because he who drinks a cup of this liquid, no matter how far he walks, can go a whole day without eating anything else.”
Except maybe more chocolate.
European doctors of the sixteenth century still subscribed to many theories derived from the ancient Greeks, including the notion (proposed by famed second-century physician Galen) that all diseases and their cures were either hot or cold and moist or dry. Cacao was deemed “cold and moist” and thus was considered useful in curing fevers.
Mixing chocolate with spices and herbs, doctors warned, changed its efficacy; some spices made it good for intestinal problems, others turned it into an aphrodisiac.
Maybe they’d heard that Montezuma used to drink chocolate before he visited his harem.
Chapter 7
I walked back to the office slowly. The mental picture of Vernon Ensminger breaking into tears was hard to believe.
But why didn’t I believe it? I was being stupid, I told myself. Vernon appeared stolid outwardly, but he still had feelings like anyone else. He’d been through a lot recently—his wife’s complete personality change, the invasion of the movie producer, Maia’s public quarrel with her uncle, then that uncle’s murder. Even if he and Silas weren’t close . . . I thought about that one for half a block. Vernon and Silas farmed neighboring property. They must have cooperated, maybe shared equipment. For all I knew they’d been bosom buddies.
Anyway, I’d given Vernon a broad hint about Aubrey, and he’d promised to help me find out more about the guy. And I hadn’t had to bring Maggie into it. That was all I could do for the moment. Now I needed to concentrate on my own life, particularly my job.
My goal changed when I entered TenHuis Chocolade, however. My office had been taken over by Aubrey Andrews Armstrong. He was seated behind my desk having an interview with the local press in the person of Chuck O’Riley, editor of the Warner Pier Weekly Gazette. Monte was lying down at the foot of the desk.
Aunt Nettie was standing behind the counter in our little retail shop. “What are Aubrey and Chuck up to?” I asked her.
“Chuck wants to do a story about Aubrey’s visit to Warner Pier. They set it up yesterday.”
I could see Chuck leaning forward, apparently lapping up every word that dripped from Aubrey’s silver tongue. I remembered my own reaction the night before, when Aubrey had spun his tale for Aunt Nettie, Joe, and me. I’d found myself wanting to believe him. And I remembered how Aunt Nettie had laughed, obviously flattered by his attention.
Then I thought about what Maggie had said about him: “If I tell, he’ll tell.” That was pure and simple blackmail.
Darn the man! Why couldn’t he be legit? He was a charmer. I’d love to believe in him. But after my elementary investigations of him had turned up a suspicious lack of information, and after Maggie had reported knowing him in Hollywood—in a role she didn’t want to become public or even private knowledge—I simply had to protect Aunt Nettie and Tracy and all the others who could be humiliated and hurt by him.
I steeled my resolution to resist Aubrey’s charm with a Frangelico truffle. (“Hazelnut liqueur interior with milk chocolate coating, sprinkled with nougat.”)
Chuck asked another question, grinning broadly. He was obviously happy with the story he was getting from Aubrey.
Chuck is the latest kid editor of the Warner Pier weekly. The newspaper always has a recent journalism graduate as an editor. A small paper, I suppose, draws newcomers or retirees to its staff. Anyway, Chuck was the only full-timer on the news staff. Three part-timers, all age sixty-plus, filled in the gaps, covering meetings and writing the occasional feature. One ad man and a publisher who also kept the books completed the workforce.
Chuck is five feet tall and five feet broad, a traditional Mr. Five-by-Five. He has dark hair and eyes that snap with interest at nearly everything. He also takes all the Gazette’s photos, and as I watched he produced his camera and gestured. I deduced that he wanted to take a picture to go with his story. Aubrey scooped up Monte and came out into the shop.
“Chuck wants to get a photo,” he said. “I suggested that we include Monte and one of the real chocolate pups. If that would be all right with you, Nettie.”
Aunt Nettie agreed, provided that the picture was posed so that the health department couldn’t tell she’d had a dog in the shop. Chuck posed Aubrey, Monte, and a twelve-inch chocolate dog for a closeup. After a series of “Just one more” requests, he put his camera away.
“This has been a great interview, Mr. Armstrong,” he said. “The Gazette’s readers are going to be fascinated with the plans you have to shoot Love Leads the Way here. Especially the part about the money.”
Aubrey shook a finger at Chuck playfully. “I never claimed it was part of Dennis Grundy’s treasure.”
Chuck laughed. “I understand about the antique money. Actually, I was referring to the opportunity for investment.”
“Please don’t make too much of that. My major backers are likely to be in California.”
Chuck turned to Aunt Nettie. “How about you, Mrs. TenHuis? Would you put money in Mr. Armstrong’s project?”
Aunt Nettie smiled. “I haven’t said no.”
Her words sent my stomach into a nosedive. Aunt Nettie is far from wealthy, but she does have Uncle Phil’s insurance money salted away. And she needs to keep it salted away in conservative investments to ensure a secure retirement for herself. An independent movie would be far too risky, even if the producer were honest.
Aunt Nettie patted me on the arm. “But I’d never do anything without consulting my financial advisor.”
Aubrey and Chuck stared at me. Nobody spoke. Were they waiting for me to write a check? The silence lengthened.
They all apparently expected me to say something. So I did. “I’m only TenHuis Chocolade’s business mangler—I mean, manager! I’m business manager for the company, not for Aunt Nettie. She handles her own finales. I mean, finances!”
I’d done it again. My twisted tongue had once again made me look and feel like a complete idiot. Aubrey tried to hide his snicker, but Chuck grinned broadly. Then he left.
I headed into my office, vowing to talk to Aunt Nettie about Aubrey as soon as he was out of the office. After all, if I was warning Maia about him, via Vernon, I owed as much to my own aunt. I sat at my desk, stared at my computer screen, and planned what I’d say and how I’d explain not telling her the night before.
But when Aunt Nettie popped her head into the office, Aubrey and Monte were still standing in the shop.
“Aubrey has invited me to go to lunch down at the Sidewalk Café,” she said. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
She was beaming again. My heart turned over. I dreaded having to tell her Aubrey was a crook. I decided I could put off telling her for an hour. I knew her money was invested in mutual funds and CDs. She couldn’t simply write Aubrey a check.
But the whole situation made me so jumpy that I almost fell out of my chair when the phone rang.
I was relieved to hear Joe’s voice. “Have you had lunch?”
“ No.”
“I’d like to consult you about something, and I’m willing to trade a roast beef sandwich for an opinion.”
“That’s probably more than my opinion’s worth. Actually, what I need is a sympathetic ear.”
“I’m willing to throw that in. How about meeting me at the apartment in twenty minutes?”
“Your new apartment? Well . . . okay.” I couldn’t think of any excuse to avoid meeting Joe at his new apartment. It was all of two hundred feet away from TenHuis Chocolade. And I wasn’t quite sure why I was reluctant to go.
I hung up, still feeling hesitant. Then it occurred to me that if Aunt Nettie was out to lunch I was supposed to be in the office. Of course, Hazel, her second-incommand, usually handled the lunch duty. I decided to check and make sure Hazel would be there.
I walked back to the workroom and discovered it was largely empty. Four people were at a table in the rear, wrapping Santas. Closer to the front Dolly Jolly was using a parchment cone to put dark swishes on the top of maple truffles.
“Hi, Dolly. Is Hazel here?”
“She’s eating lunch in the break room!” Dolly spoke in her usual roar. “Do you need her?”
“No, I just wanted to make sure she was on the premises before I went to lunch. I see they’ve got you decorating. I could never learn to do that.”
“It’s just a matter of practice! I learned on my first job! In an ice cream shop!”
“What did you do? Add the curls to the tops of cones?”
“Ice cream cakes! They were our specialty!” She flourished the cone of dark icing and another graceful curve appeared on top of another milk chocolate–covered truffle. “I can write ‘Happy Birthday’ in any kind of script!”
I laughed and turned to go, but Dolly cleared her throat, a noise something like a bull elephant’s trumpet. Then she did something really odd. Odd for Dolly, that it. She whispered.
“That Maia Michaelson—what do you think of her?”
“She’s not my best friend,” I said cautiously. “What do you think of her?”
“She was only interested in that movie guy. I’d like to talk to her, but it wasn’t a good time.” She was still whispering. “I was interested in how she writes.”
“Oh, yes! You’re an author, too.”
Dolly got redder than usual and forgot to whisper. “Just nonfiction! All about food! I could never write fiction!”
I leaned a little closer. “Your manuscript was a lot more fun to read than Maia’s novel!”
Dolly spoke again, and this time she remembered to drop her voice. “I thought the book was a dud, too. But the family background . . .” She frowned. “The Snows . . . are they . . . well, respectable?”
“You’ll have to ask Aunt Nettie. There aren’t many of them. As far as I know, Maia’s the only quirky one. And I think the book has just gone to her head. She’ll probably come down to earth sometime soon. Of course, Silas was a bit crotchety.”
I told Hazel I was leaving, then I left. I di
dn’t understand Dolly’s interest in Maia’s novel, but I wasn’t worried about it. I was more concerned about why I was so reluctant to meet Joe for lunch in his new apartment.
Joe was lucky to have that apartment. Warner Pier’s quaintness has made the town so darn popular that it’s almost impossible for anybody but a millionaire to buy or rent a place to live. That was one reason Joe had spent the past three years living in a room at his boat shop. I think he’d been perfectly comfortable there with his hot plate, microwave, TV set, and rollaway bed until I’d come on the scene. I didn’t object to his Spartan living arrangements, but he was so self-conscious about them that he refused to invite me over for more than a pizza. Since I lived with Aunt Nettie in an old house that offered little privacy, Joe and I had been hard put to find someplace to be alone together. And we liked to be alone together sometimes, now that we were engaged. Or on the verge of being engaged. Or going steady. Or whatever our relationship was.
I was almost thirty, and Joe was past it. We’d both been through unhappy marriages and had come out the other end, and Joe was eager for us to set a wedding date. So far I’d been dragging my feet, though I wasn’t sure just why. I suspected that Joe thought getting a decent place to live would be an inducement for me to make that final decision and commit marriage.
But he hadn’t been able to find anything in his price range until Warner Pier’s summer rush was over. He couldn’t afford to buy a house, and between Memorial Day and Labor Day every apartment in town is occupied either by tourists, by summer people, or by temporary help—the teachers, college students, and others who staff Warner Pier’s restaurants, bed and breakfast inns, motels, and marinas during the tourist season. It had been September fifteenth before Joe signed a lease on a second-floor apartment overlooking Warner Pier’s quaint Victorian main drag, Peach Street.
The apartment had two bedrooms, a nice kitchen, and a large living room. The drawback was that it had been thoroughly trashed by four college students who had rented it all summer. Joe got a month’s rent free by offering to clean and repaint himself. So for the past three weeks he had spent all his free evenings working over there, and I’d helped him on a lot of them.
The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle Page 7