The Chocolate Cupid Killings

by JoAnna Carl

  I drove toward the Sidewalk Café. I was looking forward to a visit with Lindy, even if I had to guard my tongue, because she always cheers me up. So it was disheartening when—as soon as we’d slid into a booth and ordered sandwiches—she opened the conversation by saying, “Lee, I’m almost at the end of my rope.”

  I tried to keep the party light. “You must feel like my Texas grandma used to. She’d say, ‘I’m ready to cut my suspenders and go straight up.’ ”

  The down-home witticism fell flat. Lindy blinked hard, and I realized she was trying not to cry. She spoke, and her voice sounded frantic. “I can’t cry here! Not in front of Herrera employees, not when Mike might walk in any moment!”

  “Lean over and pop your contacts out,” I said. “That’ll give you an excuse for watery eyes. Here’s a Kleenex. And when you get the contacts out, I’ll be ready to listen.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice croaked.

  “You’ve listened to my problems often enough.” I waited until she got the contacts out and mopped her eyes.

  When she spoke again, her voice was close to normal. “It’s Tony.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “All of a sudden he’s all upset because I make more money than he does.”

  “Lots of guys would think that was a good thing. But neither of you has changed jobs lately. Why is that bothering Tony now?”

  The waiter brought our drinks, and Lindy stared at her napkin until he had left. “He just figured it out.”

  “Tony didn’t know how much money you made?”

  “Lee, he doesn’t even know how much he makes himself! I’ve always handled the family finances.” Lindy fought back tears again. “You know that Tony always refused to work in one of Mike’s restaurants.”

  “Really? The first summer I worked here—when we were sixteen—I thought Tony was working at Herrera’s.”

  “Mike tried to get him to work there. He started him as a busboy. Tony was so rude to the customers that Mike had to fire him. Frankly, Tony has always thought waiting on people—even serving them good food that they pay a lot for—is menial.”

  “Tony’s like Joe. They’re happier working with their hands.”

  “Tony is. I’ve always wanted him to do something he liked doing. So the machine shop was fine with me.”

  “Did he mind you working at what he thinks is a menial job?” Lindy started as a waitress, and she’d also worked as a cook.

  Lindy laughed ruefully. “I’m only a woman, Lee. Tony has a strong streak of machismo, you know. A menial job was good enough for a woman.”

  “But you quit waiting tables five years ago. Now that you’re catering manager . . .” I got it. “Oh. You didn’t tell Tony that you’re making good money now that you’re in charge of one of Mike’s main business enterprises.”

  Lindy shook her head. “I guess I should have gone into the details more. I think Tony had the idea that Mike was paying me as a way to help out his grandchildren. When he realized that I have—well, major responsibilities, that I hire and fire, that I bid on major banquets and weddings and that the business is quite successful . . .”

  “I wouldn’t want to guess at the annual business Herrera Catering does, but you’re in charge of all of it.”

  “Yes. But Tony had never realized what my responsibilities and my salary were until this situation with Mercy and Mike came up. I mean, the obvious thing is that they’re planning to get married, and it made Tony think about his dad’s property.”

  “With three restaurants and the catering company . . . Does Mike own his own buildings?”

  “He owns this one and the building where Herrera’s is. He leases the other restaurant. But see, Tony had always seen Mike’s business as just small-town restaurants. This was the first time that he looked at what a successful businessman his dad is.”

  “And now he’s kicking himself for not sticking it out as a busboy.”

  Tears welled up in Lindy’s eyes again. “Oh, Lee, Tony would be terrible in the restaurant business!”

  “Yes, he would. He’d hate every minute of it, and you’d be his boss.”

  “I knew you’d see the problem!”

  Lindy dabbed at her eyes again, and I thought before I spoke. “Does Tony feel as if he should start taking an interest?”

  “Yes. He sees that he’s Mike’s main heir. Of course, that may change if Mike and Mercy get married.”

  “Mercy has a successful business of her own. Joe and I are certainly not interested in inheriting from Mike.”

  “I know—I mean, I thought you’d feel that way. But suddenly Tony feels as if he’s failed his dad by never taking any interest in the business. Now he thinks maybe he should try.”

  “And he’d rather be shot.”

  Lindy finally smiled. “Basically. Plus, he sees that I’ve been down there learning the ropes for ten years.”

  “You’d have to break him in.” I thought a moment, then went on. “Tony’s smart enough to learn anything he sets his mind on, of course, but I think he’d be making a mistake if he tried the restaurant business at this point.”

  “Yes, he doesn’t meet the public easily, and he isn’t interested in the business side.” Lindy’s voice rose. “He doesn’t even like to cook!”

  I thought about Lindy’s problem and stirred my iced tea. Us Texans, we like iced tea all year round, and Mike’s restaurants are the only places in Warner Pier where I can get it in the winter. And it’s good tea, too. That’s because Mike came to Michigan from Denton, Texas, more than forty years ago. He understands iced tea. I took a big drink from my glass before I went on.

  “Listen, Lindy, I can’t believe Mike hasn’t thought this through. He and Tony get along pretty well these days, don’t they?”

  “Once Mike gave up trying to force Tony into the restaurant business, things have been fine between them. To be honest, I think Mike would be horrified if Tony tried to come back.”

  She leaned across the table and spoke earnestly. “Do you think Joe could talk to Tony?”

  “I don’t know if that would help, but I’ll ask him.”

  Our sandwiches came, and we left it at that. For the rest of the lunch I caught up on Lindy’s parents and her kids and stayed away from discussing her job.

  We were still in the restaurant when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was the chocolate shop. I answered. “Yes.”

  “Lee, Lee!” It was Aunt Nettie, and she was excited. It scared me.

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Nettie?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Lee. Everything’s all right. Sarajane got a phone call from Pamela.”

  Chocolate Chat Chocolate Forms

  Chocolate for eating comes in three basic flavors: Dark, milk, and—maybe—white.

  Dark chocolate is sweetened chocolate liquor that contains no milk solids. These days dark chocolate packaging lists the percentage of cocoa in the product. This refers to the total amount of ingredients derived from cacao. Higher percentages, however, may not guarantee a higher-quality product.

  Milk chocolate was invented in the mid-nineteenth century when Henri Nestlé, who had discovered how to make powdered milk, got together with chocolatier Daniel Peter. They figured out how to replace the moisture in cocoa with cacao butter and add milk, so it could be molded. Result: the first milk chocolate bar.

  White chocolate, purists believe, isn’t chocolate at all, since it is made with cocoa butter only. In the United States it is called “white confectionery coating.”

  Chapter 9

  “Where are they?”

  “Pamela didn’t tell Sarajane that. But she says she and Myrl are safe.”

  My excitement cooled to a simmer. A phone call from Pamela was good, true. But I needed more details before I would be happy.

  “I’ll run by Sarajane’s and get a firsthand account,” I said.

  Of course, I had another purpose for talking to Sarajane, one I didn’t mention to Aunt Nettie. If Pamela was away safely,
it was time for me to tell Hogan and the State Police that she was the woman Derrick Valentine had been looking for. But I felt that I had to warn Sarajane before I did that.

  I said good-bye to Lindy, promising to talk to Joe about her problem with Tony. I paid my bill, jumped into the van, and pointed it toward Sarajane’s combined home and business, the Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast Inn.

  The one-hundred-twenty-five-year-old Queen Anne Victorian that houses the B&B is located on the outskirts of Warner Pier. As I pulled up I saw that a stuffed fabric snowman left over from a recent tourism promotion still decorated its broad porch. Not that the sprawling structure needed any extra trim. Every eave was already dripping with gingerbread. The sun had come out, and the afternoon had grown warm enough to encourage a few icicles, so the house glittered as if it were trimmed with rhinestone fringe.

  I went to the back door, since Sarajane uses that door for everything personal. She had apparently heard me drive up; the door opened as I came up the steps. Behind Sarajane I saw that a chest of drawers that stood in the back hall had been moved away from the wall. Several of the drawers were pulled out.

  “Are you moving furniture?” I said.

  “No. I was just looking for something I misplaced. Come in.”

  “I was so glad to hear that Pamela had called,” I said.

  “I was terribly relieved to hear from her,” Sarajane said. “Of course, I knew Myrl can handle anything. But when they didn’t arrive . . . it was scary.”

  “Aunt Nettie said Pamela didn’t tell you where they were.”

  “No, she just said they were well away from Warner Pier.”

  I realized that while Sarajane might be claiming she was relieved, she still looked worried.

  Sarajane always wears rather masculine clothes—jeans, tailored pants suits, slacks, and sweaters—but she has one of those extremely feminine faces, with dimples and round cheeks. Now her dimples were barely visible, and her eyebrows were sloping toward her ears, giving her a woebegone look.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Nothing! Nothing is wrong.” Sarajane motioned toward the chest of drawers. “I was just looking for something.”

  I wasn’t concerned about that. “Did you get the phone number Pamela called from?”

  Sarajane shook her head. “I don’t have caller ID. But Pamela said she was using Myrl’s cell phone, so the number wouldn’t have helped locate them. They could be calling from anywhere.”

  “Yes, if they started driving at four a.m. they’ve had ten hours to go elsewhere. They could be—way beyond Indianapolis by now. Or past Chicago and nearly into Missouri.”

  “They could be in Canada.” Sarajane’s voice was quiet.

  “Canada! I wouldn’t think Myrl would take Pamela out of the country. Even if she had a passport . . .”

  “She did.”

  “Pamela had a passport?” I was astonished. I knew that the underground railroad had to use faked driver’s licenses and other identification papers, though I didn’t think Pamela had any of those. If she had a Social Security number, even a false one, why did I have to pay her off the books?

  But the idea of a faked passport shocked me. Having a fake passport would be a serious offense. Surely Pamela hadn’t had one. “How do you know Pamela had a passport?”

  “I saw it once. I took clean sheets up to her room while she was at work. She’d left that duffel bag on the bed. I accidentally knocked it off, and the passport fell out of the side pocket.”

  “Was it in her real name? Or her—nom de guerre?”

  “I didn’t open it. I guess it could have been somebody else’s passport.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “It seems funny that Pamela called you. Instead of Myrl making the call.”

  “She said Myrl had gone out to get them something to eat.” Sarajane’s eyebrows were still slanting at that worried angle.

  “Sarajane,” I said. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Bothering me?”

  “Yes, you don’t seem happy.”

  She smiled tightly. “Lee, I’ve just spent the morning worrying so hard that I can’t seem to stop. But everything is all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What could be wrong? Myrl got Pamela away safely. That was my main concern.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Now to the next problem. Derrick Valentine.”

  Sarajane sniffed. “I don’t consider him my problem.”

  “But he was killed, Sarajane. Beaten to death. We can’t just ignore it.”

  “I can.”

  “But we don’t know who killed him! It might be someone still roaming around town. Someone else might be in danger.”

  “I don’t think so, Lee. I think he was mugged. That Valentine fellow was just walking around looking for trouble.”

  “In Warner Pier? There’s rarely any of that kind of trouble here. Plus, why would he look for trouble in our alley?”

  “I don’t know! But I do know that Myrl does not want any attention from the police.”

  “But Valentine was looking for Pamela! And she was actually here. That’s a valuable clue.”

  “Pamela had nothing to do with Valentine’s death. She was here with me all evening.”

  “I don’t think she actually struck the blow that killed him, Sarajane. But she has some connection with him or he wouldn’t have been looking for her.”

  “I don’t see how that can be true. I don’t think she knew anything about Derrick Valentine.”

  “Ye gods, Sarajane! We’ve got to tell the detectives about this. If we don’t we might all be charged as accessories to Valentine’s murder.”

  “Accessories? That’s silly.”

  “Well, we could be accused of obstructing justice, then. It’s not . . .” Words almost failed me, but I plowed on. “It’s not lawful, Sarajane.”

  The response I got to that remark was nonverbal, but it said more than a thousand words could have. Sarajane simply looked at me. Her face showed almost no expression. She didn’t say a word, but she might as well have yelled her reply out. And that reply was, “So what?”

  I stared at her. She stared at me. I was the one who blinked.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “You think the law has failed these women. That people like you and Myrl are justified in doing just about anything to help them.”

  Sarajane nodded.

  “But the law will continue to fail all of us,” I said, “if citizens don’t respect it, if they don’t support law enforcement.”

  I got the stony stare again. But she did speak. “I’m sorry, Lee. I can’t do anything to endanger this system of protecting women. It’s too valuable. It’s needed in so many cases.”

  She reached over and touched my arm. “Lee, I’m sorry we had to ask for your help. But you’re not part of this. You have to follow your own conscience. If you feel compelled to talk to the police—even though it might wreck our system—then you must do it.”

  I felt so frustrated that I wanted to slam my fist into something. Maybe Sarajane’s nose. But I resisted. How could Sarajane always put me in the wrong? She knew I couldn’t tell the police about her underground railroad operation if she thought it would endanger abused women.

  Frustrated, I turned toward the door.

  “If I decide to talk to the police, I’ll let you know.” I gestured toward the chest of drawers she’d been ransacking. “Do you need help with this chest?”

  “No! No, I’ve simply misplaced something. I thought it might have fallen behind the chest, but it’s not there. I can move the chest back by myself.”

  I didn’t press her. I just went out the back door and climbed into the van. I was furious. But I didn’t want to go against Sarajane’s opinion.

  I had resisted bopping Sarajane on the nose, but I did slam my fist onto the steering wheel a few times as I drove along. And I spoke aloud to express my frustration.
r />   “Golly! Gee whiz! Dadgum!” I said. Or something like that.

  As I drew near the office I realized that I wasn’t just angry with Sarajane. Some memory was trying to jump out of my subconscious. It wasn’t anything about the argument Sarajane and I had had. It was something about that chest she’d been searching. I was clear back to the shop before I realized what it was.

  I recalled an earlier visit to the Peach Street B&B. I’d come in that same back door, and the top drawer in that chest had been slightly ajar. As I had walked by it, I had seen what was in the drawer.

  A pistol.

  I didn’t gasp or throw my hands up when I remembered the pistol. Actually, I felt relief at identifying my memory, and I shrugged the whole thing off.

  I shrugged it off because Sarajane had once told me that because of the lonely situation of the B&B she slept with a pistol in her bedside table. I interpreted this to mean that she didn’t usually store it in that chest in the kitchen. At the time I’d seen it, she’d been in a period of stress over a previous underground railroad passenger.

  So she wouldn’t have been looking for the pistol in the chest of drawers, I told myself. It was some other lost object. And whatever it was, it was none of my business. TenHuis Chocolade, on the other hand, was my business—job-wise. I headed for the office.

  Once there, however, I found I could hardly work. I opened my computer, then stared blankly at the screen, trying to deal with my feelings of frustration. I tried to accept the situation. Sarajane had me over the traditional barrel—I could not go to the police and tell them the woman Derrick Valentine had been looking for had been there all the time. And I recognized another part to the problem. I wasn’t terribly interested in telling the proper authorities Derrick Valentine had come to Warner Pier looking for Christina-Pamela. Not doing my legal duty didn’t disturb me a whole heck of a lot.