The Chocolate Bear Burglary

by Carl, Joanna (Chocolate series 02)

  Maybe I wasn’t sure what I wanted out of a new man in my life anyway. So I had only myself to blame over the crazy relationship Joe and I had fallen into, I told myself. I half resolved to end it. Or maybe I already had. After the things I’d said, maybe I’d never get another of those eleven o’clock calls from Joe. Maybe we’d never hold each other again, never kiss like that again. Maybe I’d felt that melting sensation behind my navel for the last time.

  I didn’t like that idea either.

  When Chief Jones left, I still hadn’t decided what to tell him about Jeff. I put any decision off and simply called out a good-bye.

  Aunt Nettie said she was going to bed. “We’d all better sleep as long as we can,” she said. “I’ll call the shop and leave a message. Telling them we’ll be late.”

  I thought I couldn’t possibly sleep, but I forced myself to undress and lie down, and the next thing I knew, it was eleven a.m. I could hear Aunt Nettie in the shower downstairs, and Jeff was snoring gently across the hall. I groaned and got up. Aunt Nettie had left the house by the time I got out of the shower.

  I managed to get to work by one p.m., to find Aunt Nettie going crazy. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said. “I can’t get any work done for answering the phone and gossiping with the neighbors.”

  “I guess the news about our burglar got around.”

  “Naturally. The Warner Pier grapevine is up and running; we don’t need radio or television or newspapers in this town. But everybody wants a personal account.”

  “I’ll try to keep them away from you.”

  “I’ve simply got to make the bakjes for the crème de menthe bonbons today. Hazel’s working on them, but she needs to get busy on the Neiman Marcus bunnies.” Aunt Nettie froze and looked out the front window. “Oh, no! It’s Mike Herrera. I can’t be rude to him.”

  “Go on back to the shop and get up to your elbows in chocolate. I’ll deal with him.”

  I shooed her toward her bakjes. Bakjes, pronounced “bah-keys,” are the shells of bonbons, the part that holds the filling. First you cast the bakjes, then cool them, then fill them, then run the whole thing through an enrober, a special machine that gives the bonbons a shower-bath of chocolate. After that the tops are decorated, and you’ve finally got a goodie ready for the customers to drool over.

  Aunt Nettie had washed her hands and moved to a stainless-steel worktable by the time the door opened. I greeted the newcomer. “Mayor Mike! Did you come to check our damage?”

  Mike Herrera looked puzzled. “It’s just so strange,” he said. He closed the smashed front door behind him, then examined the plywood that blocked it temporarily. “We just don’t have burglaries in Warner Pier this time of year.”

  Mike Herrera is an attractive middle-aged man who owns several successful restaurants and a catering service. He was the first Hispanic to own a business in Warner Pier and the first to be elected to public office. He’s the father of Joe’s friend Tony and the father-in-law of my friend Lindy Herrera; in a town of twenty-five hundred, people tend to be related.

  But I’m careful not to bring him up around Tony because Lindy told me her husband isn’t real happy with his father since he changed his name from Miguel to Mike. Tony’s reaction to the name change was to grow a thin Latin mustache and start teaching their children Spanish. The Herreras are typical of the American experience, I guess. One generation tries to assimilate; the next clings to its roots.

  Mike kept looking at the damage.

  “Handy Hans called the glass installers,” I said, “but they can’t get here until tomorrow.”

  We heard a crack like a pistol shot, and Mike craned his head to look into the shop. “What was that?”

  “Aunt Nettie’s making bakjes. She whams them on the worktable to get the edges right.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “As long as we don’t stop her work.”

  It was hard to refuse Mike. He knew that Aunt Nettie could make chocolates with her eyes closed. Mike followed me into the shop and greeted Aunt Nettie, commiserating with her over the break-in. Aunt Nettie kept pouring melted dark chocolate into a mold about the size of an ice-cube tray—an ice-cube tray with forty little compartments.

  “I just wondered if anybody suspicious came in yesterday,” Mike said.

  Aunt Nettie had apparently filed Jeff in a nonsuspicious category. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said. “The antique molds were the only thing valuable in the shop.” She turned her filled mold upside down over her work pan, and went tappity tappity tap on its edge with the flat side of her spatula while the excess chocolate drained out. She scraped the top of the mold, wielding her spatula like a conductor wields his baton. Then she flipped the mold over and slammed it onto the sheet of parchment paper that covered the worktable. Wham!

  Mike jumped about a foot. Apparently he hadn’t realized that making bonbons is that noisy. The bakje molds are polycarbonate, a tough resin, and they’re hard. Whacking them onto a stainless-steel table makes a sharp crack.

  “Who knew that the molds were here?” Mike said.

  “Everybody who works here knew.” Aunt Nettie flipped the mold upright again, then placed it behind her, on the conveyor belt that led to the cooling tunnel. “All the Hart and VanHorn family knew. How about the retail customers, Lee?”

  “We had only a few retail customers yesterday afternoon,” I said, “and none of them acted very interested in the molds. Except Timothy Hart.”

  Aunt Nettie had filled another mold with more dark chocolate. She flipped it and began the same routine.

  “Maybe it was just a coincidence,” Mike said. “Maybe the burglar was looking for money. Not for the molds.”

  Aunt Nettie frowned, sliding her spatula over the top of the mold. Then she flipped it, and before Mike could get set, she whammed it onto the table.

  Mike jumped again. “Why are you doing that, Nettie?” He’s a foodie, after all. Curious about cooking.

  “I’m sorry to be so noisy, Mike, but whacking it that way keeps the bonbon shell thin and gives it an even edge. Plus, it gets rid of air bubbles.” She moved the mold over to the cooling tunnel. A dozen other bakje molds were already making their five-minute trip through the tunnel’s sixty-five-degree air.

  Aunt Nettie took several bakje molds from the opposite end of the cooling tunnel. She moved to a second table, flipped the molds over and popped the little square chocolate shells out onto more parchment paper. She was already refilling one of those molds with dark chocolate, and while she worked—tappity tappity tap; swish-swish with spatula; flip mold—she talked. “You know, Mike, I don’t care what the burglar was after, but I want those molds out of here. Lee is going to call Gail and ask her to come and get them. And I’m not going to ask Olivia VanHorn’s permission to take them down.”

  Wham! She whacked the bakje mold onto the table, as if emphasizing her determination.

  That time Mike didn’t jump. “Mrs. VanHorn is just another Warner Pier absentee property owner. I don’t care what she thinks. But you’re still going to take part in the Teddy Bear Getaway, aren’t you?” Mike Herrera is not only Warner Pier’s political chief, he’s our biggest tourism promoter. He’d pushed hard to make sure all the merchants took part in the special winter tourism campaign.

  Aunt Nettie’s magic hands kept working. “My ladies have made and hand-decorated hundreds of teddy bears. We certainly hope to sell them.” She whacked another tray onto the parchment paper.

  “They’ll have to do double duty as decorations in the shop,” I said.

  I guess I sounded impatient, because Mike spoke soothingly. “Oh, chocolate teddy bears will be fine decorations! I’m sorry if I sound worried, but I am. It’s just so odd—why break in here? If there’s any place in town that’s not likely to leave cash in the register, it’s y’all.” Mike is another transplanted Texan, raised near Dallas, and his accent is an interesting mix of Southern and Hispanic.

  He looked at me. “And
I know, Lee, that you can swear that this stepson of yours didn’t break the glass. But he is driving a Texas car.”

  “That’s hardly incriminating,” I said.

  “I know, I know—it’s that I’m concerned about that car they found over at the Superette.”

  “What car?”

  “Greg Glossop . . .”

  I groaned. Greg Glossop operates the Superette’s pharmacy and he’s notorious as the biggest gossip in Warner Pier. Joe suspected Glossop was the pipeline to the tabloids.

  Mike Herrera made a calming gesture. “I know, I know, Greg’s not the most popular man in Warner Pier, but he doesn’t miss much. He noticed a car with a Texas tag in the parking lot this morning. It had apparently been there overnight. Some kind of a small Ford, several years old. The chief says the gas tank was empty.”

  I immediately thought of the car seen by Joe’s buddy who worked at the station out on the highway. It was likely the mayor had also heard the truck stop gossip and was thinking the same thing.

  “Jeff wasn’t doing anything illegal last night,” Aunt Nettie said. “I’m not going to let anybody gossip about him. He kept the burglar from taking anything.” She gave Mike a firm look, then whammed another mold onto the stainless-steel table for emphasis.

  Mike left, still frowning, and I called Gail Hess to ask her to come and get the molds. I got her answering machine.

  I left a message, then hung up, wondering where Gail was. I also wondered why she hadn’t been over first thing in the morning, or even in the middle of the night. Everybody else in Warner Pier knew about our break-in.

  Then I called Mercy Woodyard, Joe’s mother, because she handled our insurance. I got her answering machine, too, and left another message.

  And I called the two Dallas numbers for Jeff’s parents. More answering machines. Was there a human being left near any telephone in the universe?

  I got a packing box from the back room. I took all the antique molds down and heaped them on the counter. Then I wrapped each of them in tissue paper and packed them in the box. That made me feel better. If Gail didn’t show up to take them away, I’d take them home with me that night. Or put them in the bank. Or something.

  I actually got some work done in the next thirty minutes, despite a call from the obnoxious George Palmer, our banker, reminding me we had an appointment at four o’clock. I’d just assured him that I’d be there when the bell on the street door chimed. I hung up on George to go out to the counter to wait on a customer, a great-looking guy.

  He seemed familiar, but how did I know him?

  His face was young, but his beautiful head of dark hair was beginning to be shot with silver. It looked soft and silky. I found myself wanting to rub my cheek against the top of his head. He would have had to sit down for that, because he was at least my height. His eyes were a dark brown, with black lashes. Then I recognized him, and I knew we had never met.

  “I’m Hart VanHorn,” he said. “You must be Mrs. TenHuis’s niece.”

  He was Olivia VanHorn’s son. The state senator who was rumored to be running for the U.S. House. Of course he looked familiar. Not only did he have his mother’s eyes, but I’d also seen him on the evening news and in the Grand Rapids Press. Neither medium had shown how sexy he was, however.

  He smiled, giving me lots of eye contact. Aware that I was standing there gawking at him, I quickly extended my hand in shaking position. “I’m Lee McKinney.”

  “Oh. It’s not TenHuis?” He took my hand.

  “My mother was a TenHuis. My father is a Texan.”

  “I see. Uncle Tim said you had a charming Southern accent.”

  “I don’t know how charming it is, but I can legally y’all.” I realized I was still holding his hand. Yikes! I was about to drool on his snow boots. I dropped his hand and stepped back behind the counter. “I enjoyed meeting your uncle yesterday. He’s a charmer.”

  Hart VanHorn grinned. “Uncle Tim is one of my favorite people. He has his problems, but ordinary human meanness was simply left out of his character.”

  Also sobriety. Time to change the subject. “Did you come in to see the mules? I mean the molds.” Curses! My tongue was tangled up again. “I already packed them up.”

  “Oh? You’re not going to display them?”

  “After the break-in, I didn’t want to take the chance.”

  “Mother wouldn’t mind, but I understand how you must feel. I wanted to make sure that you and your aunt weren’t upset by the excitement last night.”

  “We were just grateful that the burglars didn’t take anything. Particularly the molds.”

  “Down at the post office I heard that your stepson scared the burglars off.”

  “My former stepson. Yes. He saw someone moving around in the shop as he drove by, so he stopped. Then he saw that the glass in the door was broken.”

  “I’d like to give him a reward.”

  “That’s not necessary, but it’s very nice of you.”

  “May I meet the young man?”

  “Not right now. We all slept late, and Jeff isn’t here yet. I’ll tell him you came in.”

  That seemed to bring the conversation to a halt, and I expected Hart VanHorn to smile his beautiful smile and say good-bye. But he lingered. “I also need some candy.”

  “That I can take care of!”

  I didn’t correct his terminology directly. In the chocolate business, the word “candy” means hard candy—lemon drops and jawbreakers. Our product is “chocolate.”

  “We have lots of chocolate,” I said, “and it’s all for sale. What do you need?”

  “Well, the board members from a Grand Rapids shelter for battered women helped push a bill I’m sponsoring in the legislature. They worked really hard, and I’d like to give them all something in recognition. It should be versions of the same gift—you know, not singling any one person out. So, my mother suggested a box of candy for each of the twelve board members.”

  “Of course. I think they’d all be delighted. We have four-ounce, eight-ounce, and one-pound boxes.”

  “Oh, I think at least a pound.”

  “That would make a very nice gift. The one-pound boxes are thirty dollars. If you want tins, it’s a dollar more.” I always work the prices in early in the conversation. Not everybody is pleased to pay thirty dollars for a pound of chocolates—even chocolates as delicious as TenHuis’s. A purchase of twelve boxes could run him three hundred sixty dollars, plus tax. That would make some people decide on a thank-you note instead.

  But Hart VanHorn didn’t turn a hair of that beautiful head. “Fine,” he said. “And the boxes are okay. But—well, could you put one of those chocolate teddy bears in each? They’re collecting teddy bears for the children who come to the shelter. And could you wrap each box a little differently? I mean, different-colored ribbon or something?”

  “I’m sure I can come up with something. And for an order that size I can give you a fifteen percent discount. When do you need them?”

  “Today, I’m afraid. I have to run up to Grand Rapids, and I wanted to take them along.” He smiled. “Their board meets tomorrow. Is that too soon?”

  “Oh, no. I have enough ready. Unless you want them individually packed?” I pulled ready-to-go boxes from a shelf against the wall and showed him the assortments inside. I demonstrated how I could substitute a molded teddy bear for four of the chocolates, and Hart VanHorn approved the plan. Then we discussed the decorations. I found ribbons in different colors—gold, silver, red, green, blue, plaid, peppermint stripe. And the boxes came in white, gold, and silver, so making each one different from the others wasn’t difficult.

  I gave Hart VanHorn a dozen gift cards, and he stood at the counter writing them out while I fixed up the boxes of chocolate. He didn’t refer to a list, which I found awe-inspiring. I couldn’t remember the names of my twelve closest relatives without looking them up. He kept writing, but it seemed that whenever I looked at him, he was looking at me. I began to feel
as if I should say something.

  Finally I thought of a question. “How is your congressional campaign going?”

  “It may not go at all.”

  “Oh? The newspaper says you’re the front-runner.”

  “I suppose I have a good chance, since the incumbent isn’t running and my mother’s pulling in all her chits. But I’m not sure that’s how I want to spend the rest of my life.” He smiled. “That’s one reason we’re down here without any staff. I’m trying to make up my mind.”

  His mother had already made hers up, judging from her comments the day before. I didn’t bring that up, just smiled and kept working. And Hart kept writing. And staring at me.

  As I worked I reminded myself that Hart VanHorn was a politician, so eye contact would be his standard operating procedure. Though I did remember that the Grand Rapids Press had identified him as one of Michigan’s most eligible bachelors.

  I was impressed with him. His selection of gifts was tactful—equal, but easy to tell apart. And he didn’t seem embarrassed to credit his mother with the inspiration for the twelve boxes of chocolates. That was interesting, too, though I wasn’t sure of its significance. Was he a mama’s boy? Or simply secure enough to admit her influence? Was she making the decisions on his campaign? Or was he? How long were her apron strings?

  I tied up the final box and took out a large white shopping bag with “TenHuis Chocolade” printed near the bottom in the classy sans-serif type Aunt Nettie uses in her logo.

  “Anything else?” I said. “Are there any children on your shopping list?”

  Hart VanHorn grinned broadly. “Do I want fries with that?”

  I laughed. “Retail sales are not my specialty. But I’m trying to learn all the tricks. How about a box for your mother?”

  “Your aunt gave Mother a box yesterday.”

  “Then how about a free sample for yourself?”

  “Sure!” Very few people refuse a sample of TenHuis chocolate. Hart VanHorn picked a double fudge bonbon (“Layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating”) and ate it with eyerolling relish. Then he sighed and leaned his elbows on the counter next to the cash register.