The Chocolate Cupid Killings

by JoAnna Carl

  “Lee, I can understand why you want an explanation.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I could come up with one.”

  “And?”

  “And it would be a lie.”

  “A lie!”

  “Yes. You and I have very few secrets from each other. But the matter under discussion tonight . . .”

  “Now you sound like a lawyer.”

  “I’m supposed to. The matter under discussion tonight was confidential to the nth degree. I cannot tell you what was going on.”

  “It was obviously important.”

  “No comment.”

  I unfolded my arms and slid them around him. I moved my body against his, batting my eyes in a parody of seductiveness. “There’s no way I can convince you that you should tell me?”

  “If you keep that up, you might. But then—as the cliché goes—I’d have to kill you. So I’d rather you didn’t unleash your powers on me. I like having you around.”

  “Okay. I guess I can accept that. But I’m not sure I like your leading your mom astray.”

  “When did I do that?”

  “When you told her the reason you couldn’t come over tonight was because Aunt Nettie and I found that dead guy.”

  “That was the reason.”

  “A reason. Not the reason.”

  “The body was a reason. The City Hall emergency was also a reason, true, but if I can’t explain it to you, I can’t explain it to my mom either. So it’s smarter not to bring it up.”

  He kissed me. I kissed him back.

  He whispered in my ear‚ “Please don’t rat me out, okay?”

  “Will you explain as soon as you can?”

  “Oh, yeah. Gladly.” He kissed me again.

  At that moment, the phone calls began.

  The first one was from Lindy. She called my cell phone. I heard it, far off in my purse in the other room, and barely got the phone out before it told her to leave a message.

  “Lee!” She sounded excited. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. Joe and I brought Aunt Nettie home. She was pretty shocked at finding a body at the back door of the shop.”

  “Hogan said it was some guy from out of town.”

  “That’s right, but when did you talk to Hogan?”

  “Mike called him.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess the mayor needs the police chief’s cell phone number.

  “Hogan made him sound like some garden-variety druggie, but it’s not fun for something like that to happen at your back door.”

  Garden-variety druggie? Hogan had said that? Hmmm. That wasn’t my impression. But before I could decide how to reply, Lindy went on. “Anyway, it’ll get Warner Pier’s mind off the return of the Prodigal guy.”

  “The prodigal guy? Who are you talking about?”

  “You know. That guy who’s CEO of Prodigal Corporation. The one who’s been all over the news, thanks to the big SEC probe.”

  “Marson Endicott?”

  “That’s the one. He’s apparently coming back.”

  “Back? Is he from Warner Pier?”

  “No. He’s a summer person. He owns that big house that looks like Monticello with three domes. The one everybody calls ‘the Dome Home.’ ”

  “I didn’t know that was his.”

  “Endicott built the house about five years ago, but he’s only been here one summer. It’s mostly been leased.”

  Lindy would have gone on, but Aunt Nettie’s regular phone rang.

  I seized the excuse to hang up. “Lindy, there’s another call. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I took the second call on the living room phone. It was the man who owns the wine shop next door to TenHuis Chocolade. “I was coming home by way of Peach Street, and something was going on in our alley. I wondered if Hogan could tell me what happened.”

  I knew it was the first of a dozen such calls. Luckily, Hogan and Aunt Nettie had caller ID, so I decided not to answer any more unless they came from Hogan.

  But the telephone had rung, so I deduced that Aunt Nettie had finished talking to Sarajane. Sure enough, she came out from the bedroom and smiled sweetly. “You two can go home now. Sarajane is coming over to stay with me for a while.”

  Joe made a few objections, but Aunt Nettie was determined. I understood that she and Sarajane wanted a heart-to-heart chat.

  As we left I was able to whisper to her‚ “Lay down the law to Sarajane. A murder investigation takes precedence over her underground railroad.”

  Aunt Nettie smiled sweetly again. She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.

  There was a plot to subvert the law—right in the home of the police chief. And the plotter was a law-abiding person like my aunt Nettie. What next?

  Joe was waiting beside my van. “Do you want to get a pizza?”

  Suddenly I was starving. We went to the Dock Street Pizza Place, hid out at a back booth, drank beer, and ate a large pepperoni. Only a few people spoke to us.

  One, oddly enough, was Frank Waterloo. I found Frank’s contact unexpected, because we’re not close friends. Joe and I had met him a couple of years earlier when his brother-in-law had a public run-in with Joe, then was found murdered. The killer is today in prison, but it was an unpleasant episode in our lives and in the lives of Frank Waterloo and his wife. When we see one another these days, we all four tend to nod distantly and go our own ways. Now I looked up to see Frank standing beside our booth. He looked slightly balder and slightly wider in girth than the last time I’d seen him.

  “Hi, Joe,” he said. “I just wondered if Mike is planning to run for mayor again.”

  “I hope so,” Joe said. “I like his ten-year plan, and I’d like to see him oversee at least its beginning.”

  Frank smiled more widely. “I guess it would be to your advantage if he hangs in there.”

  Joe’s answer was noncommittal. “We work together well.”

  Frank gave a chuckle. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Then he walked toward the door.

  “What was all that about?” I said.

  “Possibly about me becoming the mayor’s stepson,” Joe said. “It also probably means Frank’s pal Wallace Egan is planning to run against Mike.”

  “For the second time?”

  “Third,” Joe said. “Forget it. Let’s get a to-go box for the leftovers and head home.”

  Joe and I live across the bridge over the Warner River. Our road, Lake Shore Drive, parallels the shore of Lake Michigan. Every town, village, and city on Lake Michigan has either a Lake Shore Drive or a Lakeshore Drive.

  We live in the old TenHuis house, a Midwestern farmhouse-style home originally built by my great-grandfather as a summer cottage. Our neighborhood is about two-thirds summer cottages and one-third yearround homes.

  Lake Shore Drive has houses on both sides. Most of the lots are larger than regular city lots, and the area is heavily wooded, so it has a rural feel. When the neighborhood’s population takes its winter drop, we might as well live way out in the country. So I noticed when a car pulled out of our driveway onto Lake Shore Drive.

  That driveway serves only our house. There is a cut-through to one neighboring house, true, but we don’t pay our snowplow man to keep the cut-through open. So if someone was pulling out of our drive in February, that someone had been to our house.

  I wasn’t in the mood for company, and I was glad we’d missed whoever it was. I passed the car—it was too dark to get a good look at it—and turned into the drive. Joe’s truck, with his VINTAGE BOATS logo on its door, was right behind me.

  We went around the house and parked side by side in the drive. But we hadn’t reached the back door—we always go in the back door—before lights flashed on the trees. I realized that a car was coming up the drive.

  Joe stopped. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “Not me. It’s probably someone who wants to know all about the body in the alley.”

  “Go on inside,” Joe said.
“I’ll head ’em off.”

  I unlocked the door and went in. I’d barely hung my coat on the rack near the back door when I heard voices approaching.

  Drat. Joe was bringing someone in.

  The storm door opened. “Lee, we have a visitor,” Joe said.

  I didn’t say anything, but I tried to put a welcoming look on my face.

  A tall, distinguished-looking man came in. He wore a beautiful flannel overcoat, not unlike the ones the guys in Hogan’s office had been wearing. He had a furry hat, and a scarf I was willing to bet was cashmere was tucked inside his collar.

  He pulled off his leather gloves and held out a large, broad hand.

  I guess I held my hand out, too, because he took it.

  “Sorry to come by so late,” he said. “I’m a voice from Joe’s past.”

  Chapter 4

  Joe’s smile looked welcoming. I was the only person who might have guessed that it was not his best, tiptop, A1, glad-to-see-you smile.

  “Lee, this is Marty Ludlum,” he said. “He was a member of Clementine’s firm when I was working there.”

  “Hello, Marty.”

  Marty grinned an impish grin, a grin a jury might find entrancing. “Sorry to drop by so late,” he said, “but when I saw you two pulling into the drive, I couldn’t resist.”

  Joe took his coat. I mouthed the word “Coffee?” behind the visitor’s back, and Joe picked up the cue. “You still a major coffee drinker, Marty?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to put you out.”

  We went through the usual routine. “It’s not late. Do you drink decaf?” “Anything.” “We have both.” “Regular, please.” Then Joe motioned the man toward the living room, and I reached for the coffeepot.

  Joe’s invitation intrigued me. He obviously wanted to be friendly to Marty Ludlum, but he didn’t seem entirely wholehearted about it. Joe didn’t have many good things to say about his time at “Clementine’s firm.” What was his relationship with this guy? Plus, it was nearly ten o’clock, a little late for a coffee klatch. If a former professional associate showed up in the driveway at that time of night, Joe could have arranged to meet him for lunch the next day. Why had Joe asked him in? The whole episode was mysterious.

  “Clementine” was Joe’s first wife, Clementine Ripley, who had been one of the most prominent defense attorneys in the United States. When Joe had met her, he was a young lawyer working for a nonprofit legal assistance agency in Detroit. He approached her for advice about a client he was convinced was innocent, and she agreed to take the case pro bono. The cynical side of me believes she was more attracted by the handsome young lawyer who revered her legal skills than she was by the innocent client. At any rate, before the case came to trial she and Joe had eloped to Las Vegas.

  Being fifteen years younger than Clementine meant he had walked into a situation that drew more jokes than good wishes from friends, business associates, and gossipmongers. In addition to the age difference, Clementine was famous, and Joe wasn’t. Their unlikely romance became fodder for the nation’s tabloids.

  I think Joe and Clementine did try to make their unconventional marriage work. Joe quit his Detroit job and moved to Chicago, Clementine’s center of operations. He took a job as a public defender there. That caused them problems. So he became an attorney in Clementine’s firm. That caused them a different set of problems. More and more frequently Joe discovered that he disagreed with Clementine’s ideas on legal ethics. He isn’t the type of man who hides his opinions. The marriage turned from joke to disaster.

  After five years Joe gave up—not only on his marriage to Clementine, but also on the practice of law. He moved back home to Warner Pier, bought a boat restoration business, and filed for divorce. It was four years before he put a finger back in the legal pie and took a part-time job as city attorney for his hometown, the job he was now planning to resign.

  Joe came out of the experience with a very cynical view of big defense lawyers, and Marty Ludlum was apparently a partner in such a firm. So I was back to my first question. Why had Joe invited him in for a cup of coffee?

  I could hear Joe and Marty’s conversation in the living room, and it all seemed to be along the line of “whatever happened to old so-and-so?” Then I heard Joe say, “I’ll see if Lee needs any help.” As he came into the kitchen, I was about to take down the carafe we used for coffee on weekends, when we had a little more leisurely breakfast.

  “Need any help?” he said loudly; then he whispered, “Don’t leave me alone with Marty.”

  “Reach down the carriage,” I said loudly. “I mean, the carafe! The stainless-steel one.” Then I whispered, “Why not?”

  Joe clanked the stainless-steel carafe as he pulled it off the top shelf—a shelf I can reach perfectly well. “I’ll tell you later.” He was still whispering.

  “You can take the coffee mugs out to the living room,” I said aloud. I whispered, “Don’t mention that Aunt Nettie and I found a body. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Joe nodded.

  “And tell Marty we don’t stock cream,” I said in a normal voice. “Just two percent.”

  “Sure,” Joe said; then he whispered, “And for God’s sake don’t ask Marty why he came!” He scooped up the three coffee mugs and three napkins I’d already put out on the counter and went back to the living room.

  Hmmm. The situation was more mysterious than I’d realized. And the conversation might get stilted, since I didn’t want to talk about finding Valentine’s body and Joe didn’t want to know why this man had turned up in Michigan’s leading summer resort in the wintertime. Heaven knows what Marty Ludlum didn’t want to talk about. We might have to fall back on politics and religion—the topics usually forbidden in polite society.

  I loaded a tray with the rest of the coffee paraphernalia. By the time I’d put a few chocolates on a plate, the coffee was made. I poured it into the carafe and added that to the grouping.

  Marty Ludlum beamed when I put the tray down on the coffee table. “Chocolate! My weakness.” He turned to Joe. “I remember now. Somebody told me your wife is in the chocolate business.”

  “The bonbons have Baileys Irish Cream filling,” I said. “I confess they came home free because they were accidentally decorated to look as if they had crème de menthe filling. And the dark chocolate cupids didn’t come out of the mold right. The design on top is messy. So you’re getting TenHuis Chocolade seconds, but they ought to taste okay.”

  “They look good to me!” Marty Ludlum enthusiastically bit a bonbon. “Great! Worth a trip to rural Michigan in the dead of winter.”

  “Are you a summer person?”

  He blinked. “I don’t like really hot weather,” he said.

  I realized how dumb my question had sounded, and I made the mistake of trying to explain it. “ ‘Summer people’ is the term we Warner Pier locals use for people who own cottages or who lease places here every summer. I guess I was asking if this is your first trip to Warner Pier.”

  “It isn’t my first trip, but I’m not a regular visitor.”

  “Then I’m surprised you found us. This part of Warner Pier is rather obscure.”

  Marty Ludlum’s eyes focused on his coffee cup. “I used to stay with someone who rented a cottage on Lake Shore Drive.”

  Joe smiled. “Lee knows that Clementine used to lease a cottage about a quarter of a mile from here, Marty.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Before she built Warner Point she stayed in the Lally house. Joe told me she used to hold conferences on her cases there.”

  Ludlum relaxed a bit. I made hostess noises, being careful not to ask why he had come to Warner Pier, as Joe had requested. And I didn’t leave Joe alone with him.

  The conversation went back to whatever-happenedto questions. I was surprised that Joe was able to ask about so many people. In fact, every time Marty tried to change the direction of the conversation, Joe seemed to think of another person he wanted to know about. That was interesting. />
  We drank our coffee. I stayed planted at the end of the couch, listening and asking the occasional question. When Joe ran out of people to ask about, I quizzed Marty about his family. He was divorced, he said. No kids. He had an apartment in Chicago, right off the Loop.

  In exchange Marty asked me about TenHuis Chocolade. I explained that I did everything there except make chocolate. “I keep the books, order supplies, pay the taxes, process the orders—even make deliveries if there’s nobody else around to do it.”

  After thirty minutes I guess it became obvious to Marty that I wasn’t going to leave so that he and Joe could have a private chitchat. He leaned back in his chair and turned to Joe. “Maybe you’ve picked the best life, Joe. Nice wife, quiet town, comfortable house, no pressure to snag the big cases.” Was I imagining condescension in his voice?

  Joe shrugged. “I’m Warner Pier city attorney, you know. They only pay me for one day a week, but I assure you small towns are not without their own kind of pressure. When everybody knows everybody else, feelings can run pretty high. Plus, the boat shop is my major occupation, and boat owners can be pushy, too.”

  “Do you ever miss the firm?”

  “Do I miss the high-pressure life? I never really knew it, Marty. I was always an outsider. I just watched Clementine take tranquilizers; I never took any myself.” He took a drink of coffee. “I’ve had some offers from Michigan firms. But I’ve never been tempted to accept one of them.”

  “Never?”

  Joe grinned. “If the offers begin to sound good, I go varnish a hull and realize how much better off I am.”

  Marty looked at me. “This guy! One of the best crossexaminers I ever watched work. How about you, Lee? Wouldn’t you like a husband who was tops in his profession?”

  “I have one,” I said. “The boats Joe restores are works of art.”

  Marty smiled. “Yes, but—”

  I cut him off. “And if you’re talking about the financial rewards—well, I do Joe’s taxes, and he’s doing okay money-wise.” We’re doing okay as long as we follow our budget; I didn’t say that part out loud. “We’re making it fine.”