The Warner Pier hospital closed several years ago, so the village relies on a team of volunteer EMTs, and someone called them pronto. While we waited, Jason, who turned out to be Herrera Catering’s official first aider, did what he could. Of course, there was nothing anyone could do for Clementine Ripley. All of us who had seen her fall knew that. I felt sure she had been dead before she fell over the balcony rail. She certainly hadn’t moved after she hit the floor.
The speculation in the kitchen was that she’d had a stroke. “My grandmother dropped over just the same way,” Lindy said. “Got up to answer the phone and died before she could get into the living room.” Everybody nodded wisely and muttered about Clementine Ripley’s heart.
But the chef who’d been preparing the nest for the steamboat round laughed harshly and spoke under his breath. “What heart?” he said.
The paramedics arrived within ten minutes, and Jason came into the kitchen with the rest of us. He was shaking his head, and his aftershave was almost overpowered by sweat. “God, Mike,” he said. “I was afraid to touch her much. The way she fell—her neck . . .”
“I do not think eet is of importance,” Mr. Herrera said. Excitement had brought out his accent. “Eet’s hokay.”
Jason shook harder. “If Greg just wasn’t on duty—”
“Everybody knows hee’san idiot,” Herrera said.
Lindy and I were leaning against the sink. She snorted. “Oh, no! Not Greg Gossip!”
I spoke in an undertone. “Greg who?”
“Gregory Glossop,” Lindy said. “You remember, Mr. Glossop at the Superette pharmacy? He’s a creep.”
“All I remember was that Aunt Nettie always insisted that her prescriptions be filled at Downtown Drugs.”
“That’s because Gregory Glossop is such a blabbermouth. I bought some prenatal caps in there the day I found out I was pregnant with little Tony, and the phone was ringing when I got home. My mom’s club had already set a date for the baby shower.”
“What’s Mr. Glossop doing as a paramedic?”
She shrugged. “He took the training and all. I think he just hates to miss anything.”
We stood silently, and in a minute I heard a loud voice coming from the cold room where Clementine Ripley was lying on the cold floor. It was a prissy, high-pitched tenor, and its owner had projection. The voice carried into every corner of the kitchen.
“Well! I’m willing to stake my reputation on it.” The tenor’s voice was filled with pleasure.
Lindy grimaced. “There he goes. Greg Gossip.”
A deeper voice a baritone, muttered, but I couldn’t catch the words.
The tenor squawked again. “You’re going to have to call in the state police!”
The baritone made soothing sounds, but the tenor didn’t calm down.
“Well! I believe that piece of candy killed her!”
A piece of candy killed her? One particular piece? That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. What could a single chocolate do? Send her into some kind of diabetic fit? Or was it one piece too many—a chocolate last straw, as it were—and it laid down the final piece of plaque on a key artery, giving Clementine Ripley a heart attack? How could the guy—whoever he was—say a piece of candy could kill anybody?
While I was thinking all that, the lower voice rumbled again. Then the tenor answered, even higher than ever.
“Chief, this is cyanide poisoning! I can smell the scent of almonds.”
Well, that did it. The tenor was claiming that one of my aunt’s delicious chocolates had contained poison. I wasn’t going to stand for it.
I walked to the kitchen door, pushed past Mike Herrera, crossed the dining room, and entered the room where Clementine Ripley had died.
“Of course, that chocolate smells like almonds,” I said loudly. “It’s an armadillo truffle!”
That stopped everybody in the room in their tracks. Two paramedics kneeling by Clementine Ripley swiveled their heads toward me, and two uniformed cops, both very young, swung around to see who this fool was. But I focused on the two men who were facing each other in the center of the room. They had to be the tenor and the baritone who had been arguing. They had also whipped their heads in my direction when I spoke up.
I walked closer to them before I said any more. “I mean, Amaretto. It’s an Amaretto truffle,” I said. “I work for TenHuis Chocolade. We furnished the chocolates for the party, and Nettie TenHuis sent an extra half dozen Amaretto truffles for Clementine Ripley personally.”
Both men stared at me. The taller man seemed familiar, and in a moment I realized he was the man who had backed up his police car and let me out of Clementine Ripley’s driveway that afternoon. Standing up, he looked like Abraham Lincoln with a shave and a buzz cut. His features hinted that he’d been in several fights over the years, but he didn’t look tough or angry. In fact, he was peering over the top of a pair of half glasses, and the angle of his head gave an impish look to his soft brown eyes. He looked humorous, somehow, but dependable.
He spoke calmly, repeating the key word. “Amaretto?” I recognized the deep voice I had heard from the kitchen.
I nodded. “Yes. It’s an almond-flavored liqueur. Aunt Nettie uses it in that particular chocolate.”
The second man sputtered again. “Well! I don’t care what flavor the chocolates were,” he said. “I still think Ms. Ripley was killed by cyanide.”
This man was several inches shorter than I am. He was chubby and almost completely bald, and he had light-colored eyelashes and eyebrows. The combination managed to give the impression that he had more skin than the rest of us. His pouty little mouth was pursed into a disagreeable little circle.
“It’s not up to me to say how cyanide could have gotten into the candy,” he said. “That will be up to law enforcement authorities. But I’d be derelict in my duty if I smelled that almond aroma and said nothing.”
“We wouldn’t want you to be derelict in your duty,” the tall man said. He spoke deliberately. “And now, miss, I gather that you’re Mrs. TenHuis’s niece.”
“Yes. I’m Lee McKinney.”
“I’m Hogan Jones. I’m chief of police for Warner Pier. And I gather that you know something about the chocolates.”
“I delivered them.”
“Tell me about it.”
I told him. About how Aunt Nettie had taken the bonbons, truffles, molded chocolate, and fruits from the workroom storage and loaded them onto the silver trays that Clementine Ripley had sent. And how she had prepared a small box with samples.
“Did you see her put the chocolates in that box?”
“No. She did it while I was combing my hair. But I’m sure someone saw her. There’s nothing sneaky about Aunt Nettie. And she’s very proud of the quality of her chocolates.”
The tenor—he wore an EMT jacket—sniffed. “Well! She may be proud of her candies, but we all know she had a good reason not to like Clementine Ripley.”
I turned on him. “I’ve only been back in Warner Pier a week, and I’ve already heard all kinds of bad things about Clementine Ripley. She was supposedly crooked. She beat the city out of this land and hurt the community economically. Plus, every news magazine in the country has had some story about how she kept some guilty clinic—I mean, client!—out of prison. Who did like her?”
“I used to.”
The words came from behind me, near the French doors. I whirled toward the speaker.
It was Joe Woodyard. He was standing in one of the doorways that led out to the terrace.
I could have died on the spot. Not only had I been speaking ill of the dead, I’d been doing it at the top of my voice in front of the dead’s ex-husband. I expected Joe to tear into me about the way I’d been talking about Clementine Ripley.
But he didn’t pay any attention to me.
“Hi, Joe,” the police chief said. “This is bad business. How’d you find out about it?”
“Hugh called me.”
“Ah.” The
chief nodded.
Hugh? Wasn’t that the security guard? I didn’t ask the question. In fact, I stood as still as a rabbit with a coyote nosing around outside its hole. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak, I didn’t do anything that might call anyone’s attention to me.
Joe Woodyard walked around the three of us, zigzagged past the uniformed cops, and knelt beside Clementine Ripley’s body. I couldn’t see his face. He reached out and touched her hair gently. Then he stood up and turned toward the police chief. He looked pretty serious.
“I assume you’ll do an autopsy.”
Chief Jones nodded. “We’d have to, Joe. Unattended death. You have any objection?”
“It wouldn’t matter if I did. I’ve been out of the picture for two years, remember?”
“How come you’re here?”
“Clementine and I might not have been able to live together, but I didn’t wish her any harm.” Joe nodded toward me. “Like the lady says, Clementine was pretty short on friends. And she didn’t have any family. Except maybe Marion. And Hugh said Marion took off for Holland right before somebody called the EMTs.”
“We’re looking for Ms. McCoy now,” the chief said. “Joe, I’d appreciate it if you’d hang around awhile.”
Joe nodded. He pulled a spindly Windsor chair away from the wall, moved it toward Clementine Ripley’s body, and put it down several feet from her head. “I’ll be here,” he said. “I’ll stay until they take her away.”
He sat down in the chair, and though he didn’t snap out a salute, bark out orders, or even sit up straight—actually, he leaned over with his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and stared at the floor—it was clear that he was standing guard over his ex-wife.
The EMTs brought in a sheet and laid it over Ms. Ripley. Gregory Glossop helped them, but he didn’t say another word. The chief conferred quietly with his two uniformed officers. I made a quick retreat to the kitchen and slunk into my spot beside Lindy.
She leaned close and spoke in my ear. “What happened?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to describe either my stupidity or Joe Woodyard’s behavior.
Why had Joe married Clementine Ripley? She was a lot older than he was. She was also a lot richer, and he’d been asking her for money earlier that day. The conventional opinion around Warner Pier would probably be that he married her for money—just as most of Rich’s friends had thought I married him for his money—or to advance his career as an attorney. But somehow I thought Joe’s relationship with Clementine had been more than that.
Whatever Clementine Ripley had been, she was definitely not a fool. She must have known that “everyone,” whoever that is, would have thought she bought Joe as a boy toy, a plaything. I couldn’t imagine a woman with the ego Clementine Ripley must have had allowing her friends to laugh at her over her choice of a husband. Unless Joe had fooled her completely, and his behavior now was another act. I’d never know. It was, I reminded myself, none of my business.
The catering crew huddled in the kitchen until we got the word that we could pack up and leave. Mike Herrera came in, smiled, and told us we were all wonderful employees, and he appreciated our calmness. The food, he said, was to be donated to the homeless shelter in Holland. He didn’t explain who made that decision.
I didn’t quarrel with that—obviously, the party was off—but it made me wonder about Marion McCoy. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t out there giving orders. If she’d gone to Holland—which was an odd thing to do right before a party—hadn’t she taken a cell phone? Had anybody even told her that Ms. Ripley was dead?
And Duncan Ainsley? Where was he? If he was a house guest—he’d told me he was staying in “the guest cottage”—you’d think he show some concern over the death of his hostess.
All the Herrera Catering employees bustled around, putting the glasses, plates, and silverware back into their racks, wrapping rolls, refolding tablecloths, and stuffing napkins into sacks. I tried to help—I expected to be paid and wanted to earn my wages—but somebody had to explain everything about the routine to me.
When the new excitement began I was in the dining room concentrating on refolding tablecloths. The others on the crew were nudging each other and whispering before I caught the raised voices from the big room and realized something was going on.
“You’ve got to be wrong!” It sounded like a scream from a tortured animal. I had to listen to the second scream before I could identify the voice as coming from Marion McCoy.
“I only ran into Holland for a few minutes! Clementine can’t be dead!”
A low rumble answered her. It could have been either the police chief or Joe Woodyard. But whatever was said didn’t mollify Marion.
“No! No! It can’t be true!”
Then I heard Greg Glossop’s whiny tenor. “She may have been poisoned,” he said. He sounded self-important.
“Poisoned!” Marion was still out of control. “That’s impossible!”
Another voice tried to calm her. Was it Duncan Ainsley.
Then Marion again. “It must have been natural causes! No one would have wanted to hurt Clementine!”
That’s not the way I’d heard it, of course. I kept folding, resisting the temptation to look around. But I admit I was listening hard.
“Nobody would have wanted to hurt Clementine.” Marion said it more quietly. Then she gave a gasp. “Except—except you!”
Then I did look around. Marion was pointing at Joe Woodyard.
“Don’t be silly, Marion,” Joe answered her calmly. “I know you and I never got along, but Clem and I had settled our differences two years ago.”
“Oh, is that true? Then why were you arguing with her just a few hours ago?”
“We didn’t have an argument.”
“Didn’t you? You were here asking for money.”
Joe didn’t answer, and when I looked through the archway that separated the dining room from the living room, I saw that his face was like a thundercloud rolling in over the lake.
Marion McCoy evidently thought she was winning, and she pressed her advantage. “He was here, Chief Jones. And he did ask for money.” She looked around, her face furious and excited, and her eyes rested on me.
“I can prove it, too,” she said. “There was another witness. That woman from TenHuis Chocolade!”
She pointed at me, and everybody in the room turned in my direction. The chief, Joe, and Marion—all of them stared at me.
“Lee McKinney!” Marion McCoy said. “She can back me up. She heard every word Joe said!”
Chapter 5
I didn’t do the first thing that occurred to me—turn and run out the kitchen door. I stood still, looking at everybody looking at me.
I’m not a fast thinker. If I hadn’t become aware of this on my own over the years, I have plenty of friends and family who tell me about it. So I compensate. I don’t act in a hurry. Rich used to yell at me over it. “Why are you just sitting there? Say something!” But I’ve found out from sad experience that, when I pop off and do or say the first thing that comes into my head, it usually lands me in a worse mess than I was in to begin with. As the old saying goes, it’s better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to say something and remove all doubt.
So after Marion McCoy yelled at me, I just stood here, and Marion, Joe Woodyard, Chief Jones, Duncan Ainsley and two members of the Herrera Catering crew all stared at me.
Then Marion McCoy spoke again. “Well? You heard him, right? You heard Joe Woodyard demanding money from Clementine. If I heard him, you must have heard him, too. So tell the chief about it!”
After that I knew what I wanted to the opposite of whatever Marion McCoy wanted me to do. So I picked up the tablecloth I’d been told to put away, and I matched up the right and left corners and shook it out, ready to fold again. Then I turned toward Marion McCoy, and I said, “I’m sorry, but if there’s some sort of quarrel going on out here, it’s none of my affair. I will be happy to answer any questions Ch
ief Jones has for me, but for now I don’t think I’ll make any comment.”
Marion McCoy looked as if she were going to explode. Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh—just one Ha!—and Chief Jones looked over the top of his glasses and grinned.
Duncan Ainsley patted Marion’s shoulder awkwardly. His hands were shaking “Now, Marion,” he said. “The chief will be taking statements from all the witnesses. Why don’t you go back to your apartment? You prob’ly feel like the ragged end of a misspent life.”
I had to admire the guy. He could keep up the colorful Texan act even when he seemed shook up himself. He escorted Marion past me, into the hall that led to the office where I’d taken the cat. He was all attention as he walked with her, patting her arm, very much the friend who was helping her cope with the death of her employer.
There was just one odd thing. Right before he led Marion McCoy past me, as he reached a point when only I could see him, he nodded and winked at me.
What did that mean?
Of course, an investment counselor—even a famous one—is basically a salesman. That sort of gesture, designed to build rapport, was second nature to a man like Duncan Ainsley. There was no way he could have a personal interest in me.
Not long after that Mike Herrera told Lindy and me that we were finished, and the police chief didn’t seem to have any more interest in us, though he warned that we might have to make formal statements later. The phrase “after we know the cause of death” was left unsaid.
So Lindy and I left. I was surprised that there was no crowd outside the heavy security gate. I guess I’ve lived in a big city too long; I’d expected a lot of reporters to be gathered there, but the street was empty. I reminded myself that Warner Pier is a long way from major news agencies. As for the expected guests, Clementine Ripley had died two hours before the benefit was scheduled to begin, so apparently somebody—maybe Mike Herrera—had known whom to call to announce that the party was canceled. The security guard—Hugh?—would have turned away any guests who showed up.
The Chocolate Cat Caper Page 5