14 The Chocolate Clown Corpse

by JoAnna Carl

  But I had to think about it. So I did. I looked over my notes on the opening and tried to figure out what my responsibilities were. And when I really analyzed it, I didn’t have too much to do. My biggest responsibility was to show up by four o’clock with chocolates for the “Top Banana” warming room and opening reception at Warner Point High School. I didn’t have to be dressed in my clown outfit until five o’clock, when the reception would begin.

  Stop panicking, I told myself.

  I quickly made out an order sheet for four party trays, to be loaded with molded chocolate clowns and a variety of truffles. Luckily, the chocolates could come from our regular stock; we didn’t have to mold or decorate anything special. Thanks to Dolly and the ladies in the back, I could be confident that at three forty-five the trays, securely covered with plastic wrap and in big flat boxes, would be ready for me to take to the party.

  These would be added to other donations from merchants—both “in kind,” like my chocolates, and financial. Moe Davidson had usually been first in line to support this sort of project. This made me think of the tale Emma had told us the night before, including the bit about Moe giving away the money he had inherited from his first wife and how mad that made Chuck. I could certainly understand Chuck’s feelings, especially if Moe did this just for personal publicity, not out of genuine kindness or concern for his community.

  As I took my order blanks back to the workroom, I met Nadine Vanderhill, one of the geniuses who make our bonbons and truffles. If I refer to them as “the hairnet ladies,” no disrespect is intended. We’d be out of business in an hour without their abilities and hard work.

  Nadine has two additional impressive skills. First, she’s lived in Warner Pier all her life, and she knows everything about everybody. But her second skill is truly singular. She doesn’t tell everything she knows, unless someone with a good reason asks. I’d already used Nadine to try to tell my side of the hospital chase episode. Now I decided to pump Nadine for information.

  “Hey, Nadine,” I said. “What do you know about the Davidson family?”

  “You mean Moe and his group?”

  “Yeah. I guess he grew up here.”

  “Oh yeah. Moe and I went to school together. But his first wife, Verita, she was a summer person. I think she was from Chicago. They got married right out of high school. I don’t think her family was very happy about it.”

  I laughed. “Do these ‘mixed’ marriages ever work?”

  Nadine laughed, too. “You mean, how our mothers tell us not to date the summer guys? Well, it’s not quite the same the other way around. The local guys can get away with dating and marrying summer girls. But they usually move away from Warner Pier.”

  “But Moe and Verita stayed.”

  “Yeah. He worked here and there. Sales work. Never was a big success at anything. He was too interested in that clown stuff to concentrate on a job, and I guess he wasn’t a good enough clown to make a living at it. Verita worked in Holland, some office job. She raised the kids, and Chuck and Lorraine left Warner Pier as soon as they could. Then Verita died. She had cancer. Her mother had the same thing.”

  “Was her family wealthy?”

  “Not so much. I mean, they weren’t one of these ultrarich summer families. Comfortable, I guess you’d say. I think her father was an insurance salesman. Something like that. She inherited that house where Moe and Emma lived. I guess she left some money, too.”

  “I guess Moe got it.”

  “Whatever there was to get. Both the kids went to Western Michigan. I don’t think Lorraine ever finished.” Nadine shrugged and turned to her work. She could rattle off the life stories of all the Davidsons, even though she wasn’t very interested in them.

  This echoed the way I’d never been very interested in Moe when he was alive. Joe had mentioned that he had occasionally wondered where Moe got the funds he donated to support all his community projects, but neither of us really cared. Apparently Moe’s money had come from his first wife. And the previous evening Emma said Moe had tried hard to get hold of her money as well.

  The whole thing had an unsavory aroma. And I felt unsavory for poking around in their affairs.

  This didn’t stop me from taking time to look Chuck up on the Internet as soon as I got back to my desk. He showed up as selling office supplies at a company based in Grand Rapids.

  I tried Lorraine as well. Nothing.

  Then I Googled P.M. Development. Nothing. Even their phone listing was missing. That probably meant it was a new company. And the Holland Chamber of Commerce hadn’t had much on them. Hmmm, again.

  I did Google Philip Montague as well. And to my astonishment, the first item listed turned out to be from the Warner Pier Weekly Gazette. I flipped it open.

  Philip Montague was quoted in a news release saying that Moe Davidson had made a five thousand dollar donation to a community organization.

  Triple hmmm.

  The organization, naturally, sounded quite worthwhile. It was called Klowns for Kids of Michigan, Inc. The members were raising money for schools, providing library books and field trips. Philip Montague was identified as secretary-treasurer, and Moe, it seemed, had been named a founding director.

  “Founding director?” Well, I’d been offered a similar title when I lived in Dallas. All the Junior League members had received a letter from a new group, the Texican Arts Association—or something like that. For five thousand dollars a pop we would be named founding queens or some such fancy title. None of us bit on that particular scam.

  I stared at the story. Chuck would have said Klowns for Kids was yet another activity for Moe to throw money at.

  That was likely to be the end of the information about Philip Montague, but I thought of one more possibility and tried a popular résumé listing service. When I was looking for new employees, I had found this could be a well of information.

  Bingo! Philip Montague was listed.

  But none of the information seemed to mean anything. Montague had gone to Michigan State for two years. He was originally from Grand Haven, north of us. He had graduated from a real estate course, and since then had worked in real estate sales, most recently with a firm in Kalamazoo. No mention of P.M. Development appeared.

  Chuck had a listing on the résumé service as well. I skipped over the obvious information, such as his high school. Yes, he had graduated from Western Michigan University twelve years earlier. Since then he had worked as a salesman for an office supply company. If he had ever been married, it didn’t appear on the résumé.

  Neither résumé listed any organizations that might have helped Chuck and Philip meet. Neither belonged to the Kiwanis Club, for example, or was a Boy Scout leader, or even listed membership in Klowns for Kids of Michigan. Which was odd, at least on Philip’s part, since he’d been sending out news releases on their behalf. Maybe he simply didn’t list service organizations on his résumé, though that would be surprising.

  Now I’d looked at all the readily available information on the witnesses to Moe’s death and on the person I believed had twice attacked Emma. And what did I know? Of the witnesses, each had a different story—way different. I dismissed Royal Hollis. He was just too unreliable; guilty or innocent, Joe would have to deal with his story face-to-face. As for Emma—well, I thought she believed the unlikely tale she was now telling, and I believed it, too. How about Belle? She admitted she’d been in Warner Pier, that she’d met Moe earlier. But she had first denied it. And how about Lorraine? Could she have been the woman who Elk—or somebody—had seen at the Davidson house the day Moe was killed? Was she in such an alcoholic haze she might not even know herself?

  Chuck was another matter. He might be trying to protect Emma, and maybe Lorraine, but he was doing it at the expense of Royal. Not nice. But how could he have anything to do with the attacks by Philip Montague? That seemed to be a separate matter.
Two crimes in the same family? Odd.

  Unless there was some connection between Chuck and Philip. If they had been working together . . .

  But my online research—not exactly comprehensive, true—had discovered nothing that hinted at that situation. Chuck and Philip Montague hadn’t gone to either high school or college together. They hadn’t belonged to the same organizations, or worked for the same company, or anything, though they were close in age. Both lived in western Michigan, but sixty miles apart. That even made it unlikely that they hung out in the same bars.

  If it got down to girls they dated or Chuck’s aunt marrying Philip’s second cousin once removed—well, there was no way I could figure that out. I’d leave it to the cops. Which was what I ought to be doing anyway.

  But I thought of one more source. I went to the state Department of Commerce site and looked up Klowns for Kids of Michigan. If that organization was set up in Michigan, it ought to be in the public listings.

  It wasn’t.

  I stared at the computer screen and wondered if I was doing something wrong. After all, I didn’t use this part of the computer world often. Maybe nonprofit corporations had separate listings.

  So I went back to my home page and Googled it. There were businesses called Clowns for Kids—Clowns spelled with a C. But no “Klowns” with a K. Not in Michigan. Not unless they had somehow managed to avoid being listed on the Internet.

  Had the whole thing been a scam? Had Philip Montague invented this organization the way the Texas scammers had come up with the one that had sent begging letters to the Dallas Junior Leaguers? Had Montague, or someone else, come up with Klowns for Kids of Michigan so he could ask Moe to donate to it? Did Moe have enough money to make it worth Montague’s effort?

  I wondered how much Moe had given. On impulse I called Joe, thinking that it wasn’t likely that he would answer. To my surprise, he did.

  “Hi,” I said. “I guess you wouldn’t have answered if it’s inconvenient to talk.”

  “It’s been a hurry-up-and-wait kind of day, and right now we’re waiting.”

  “How’s Emma?”

  “She seems to like the attorney Mac suggested, and she’s apparently eased her conscience somewhat by telling her story.”

  “Did anybody believe her?”

  “They’re not confiding in me.”

  “I’ve got a question for Emma. I don’t suppose she’s around.”

  “She’s within walking distance. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “Yes, please.”

  In a minute or so Joe had Emma on his cell phone.

  “Emma,” I said, “I’m going to ask you a nosy question.”

  “You already know all my secrets, Lee.”

  “It’s about Moe’s donations. You’ve complained that he gave away money he couldn’t afford to donate.”

  “He certainly did.”

  “Did he give much to Klowns for Kids of Michigan?”

  “Lee, I was stunned when I saw how much he had donated to them. Of course, most of it was before we were married.”

  “I found a story in the Gazette saying he’d given one donation. Were there others?”

  “Oh yes! I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you mind giving me an estimate of how much?”

  “An estimate?”

  “Yes. Ten thousand? Fifteen?”

  “Oh no, Lee! Much more than that.”

  The figure she named curled my hair. “Oh! I see why Chuck was upset,” I said.

  Emma handed the phone back to Joe. I was still stunned. “Joe! I think I just stumbled across a motive for Moe’s murder!”

  “Another?” He lowered his voice. “Besides general obnoxiousness?”

  I quickly told Joe about Philip Montague’s connection to Klowns for Kids. And the amount of money Moe had given an apparently nonexistent organization.

  “If Moe figured it out, he would have raised hell,” I said. “In fact, I can’t see any reason he wouldn’t have immediately gone to the cops.”

  Joe whistled. “You can ask Emma.”

  “She said she was shocked when she learned how much he had given. But she didn’t say anything about his thinking he’d been scammed.” I thought a moment. “Did you say Clancy is over there?”

  “He was a few minutes ago.”

  “If you can find him, tell him about it.”

  Joe spoke in a very low voice. “He’s on the phone trying to get Holland to put out an arrest warrant for Montague.”

  “Great! I wasn’t sure he took me seriously.”

  “He did, Lee. And you be careful!”

  “As far as Montague goes, Joe, he has no reason to know that I figured out he tried to kill Emma.”

  “Maybe not. But you try to stay around people until they arrest him.”

  I promised that I’d be cautious, then hung up. Stay around people? I hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. The tourism committee had spent months trying to encourage people to gather and have fun at Clown Week. And to eat fun foods . . .

  “Yikes!” I jumped to my feet. “I’ve got to get those chocolates up to the high school!”

  It was three thirty. Time to move along. I ran to the workroom. As I had expected, the trays of chocolates were ready. “I’m sorry,” I said to Dolly. “I’m just no help at all today. First a little emergency came up, and now I’ve got to get ready for that Clown Week kickoff. Are you still planning to work the shop this evening?”

  “I’ll be here!” Dolly boomed.

  “Dolly, I really appreciate your filling in like this. I’ll come back as soon as I can get away from the reception up at the high school.”

  “Glad to do it, Lee! Now scoot! You’ve got to get into that funny costume!”

  I loaded the boxes of chocolates into the back of my van and headed for the high school. It wasn’t easy to get there. Traffic was thick, almost like summer, when Warner Pier streets are bumper-to-bumper. Of course, I knew the back ways, but I didn’t want to get stuck. The main streets had been carefully cleared, except for the street that had added artificial snow for the sled run. But the alleys might be iffy.

  I made it, however, going around to the street at the back of the school. It took two trips to carry the chocolates inside. My pal Lindy was setting up the refreshment room.

  “Hi, Lee,” she said. “Have you seen the sled run?”

  “No, I came in the back. Are your kids out there?”

  “Tony thinks he’s the boss.” She laughed. “I mean T.J. I keep forgetting his new name.” Lindy looked proud. “He’s keeping everyone in line. He’s quite officious about it. You ought to take a look.”

  “That’s all I’ll take! I’m not getting on a sled!”

  “Do kids in Texas ever get a chance to sled?”

  “In our part of Texas—northwest of Dallas—we usually have snow every couple of years, but we’re more likely to have ice. You can kill yourself getting the paper from the front porch. But kids in my hometown used to slide down the back of the football bleachers.”

  “The bleachers!”

  “Sure. The bleachers were built against an embankment. You’d call it a dune.”

  Lindy and I are always kidding each other about our hometowns. Prairie Creek and Warner Pier are about the same size, but with major regional differences. Prairie Creek raises cattle; Warner Pier grows fruit.

  “The back of the embankment forms a very nice slope,” I said, “and kids slide down it on anything they can find. Some families do own sleds, but sledders also use garbage can lids, plastic bags, sheets of cardboard. Whatever works!”

  “Go take a look at real sledding before you leave.”

  Lindy walked out the front of the high school with me so we could see the sled run. She nudged me as T.J. positioned a sled at the starting line and ordered a slightly y
ounger kid to sit on it. He checked the clasp on the kid’s helmet, then counted importantly—“Three! Two! One! Go!”—and shoved the sled down the trail.

  The kid gave a loud whoop as the sled took off down the icy chute. The sled went really fast.

  “Oh golly!” I yelped the words out. “I’m sure glad I don’t have to go on that thing.”

  “Oh, it’s fun,” Lindy said. “You’re talking like a Texan!”

  “No, Texans are brave. I’m talking like a coward, and I don’t care who knows it. I learned my lesson at your sledding party two years ago.”

  We watched the sleds and the tubes for a few more minutes. There was a little lull, and T.J. took the opportunity to demonstrate snowboarding for us.

  As he trudged back up the slope, I drank it all in. The lights, the music, the colors—it was going to be great. We could see the ice rink at the bottom of the hill, strung with colored lights. Tony Senior was swooping around the ice. A few clowns had already shown up, and a couple of them were also skating.

  The weather was even cooperating: it was cold enough to keep the snow and ice frozen, but the air was still.

  “This is great,” I said. “But I’m not getting on one of those sleds! I’ll be back in half an hour with a big bow on my head.”

  I left to get into my clown costume. I couldn’t help wishing that I could add a bulletproof vest to the getup. I hoped that Philip Montague would be arrested quickly. Joe’s warnings about staying around people I knew had scared me more than I wanted to admit.

  Chapter 23

  I went home and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in case the tourists ate all the refreshments at the Clown Week opening. Eating it gave me a few minutes to further think about Moe’s death and the attacks on Emma.

  Point number one: Emma said she had angrily shoved Moe, knocking him down, and he had hit his head on the step. He was bleeding, but not unconscious. Royal Hollis, she said, had not hit Moe but had simply run away. Chuck had then urged her to leave, saying he would look after his dad, and she had driven off. It was hours later that she learned that Moe was dead.