“Oh, no! You can’t call him. He mustn’t find out I’m here.”
I sighed. “Come on,” I said.
Joe handed Tess her backpack. He grinned at me, I guess because I was the one stuck with Tess and he wasn’t. “I’ll call Webb Bartlett,” he said. “His office ought to be open by nine.”
“Who’s Webb Bartlett?” Tess was still pouting.
I started shoving her toward my van, parked around the corner. “Webb Bartlett is the lawyer Joe is going to call and ask to represent Jeff. That’s why I have to get hold of Jeff’s dad.”
“But I can’t let anybody know where I am.”
“Jeff needs a lawyer,” I said. “His dad is going to have to pay the bill.”
“But surely there’s some way . . .”
“Look, Tess! Jeff may be accused of a very serious crime. I may feel sure he didn’t commit it, and you may feel sure he didn’t commit it. But that doesn’t count. If he doesn’t have the right legal representation, he may go to prison for years!”
“But I can’t let anybody know where I am!”
At that I lost what temper I had left. “Oh, yes, you can! You can quit running away like a little kid. You can tell me why you and Jeff left college and came up here. You can tell me—and Chief Jones—why you were hiding out in that motel, why Jeff wouldn’t tell us you were with him. Why you abandoned your car in the parking lot of a grocery store.”
“No! No, I can’t!”
“Okay! Don’t tell us. Stand around saving your cute little butt and let Jeff be convicted of murder!”
“Murder?” Tess gave a sob, and when she spoke her voice was just a whisper. “Murder is what we were trying to avoid.”
I stared at her, and she stared back, and suddenly I was cold clear through. And only part of it was because it was dawn on a winter day in Michigan.
What had Tess meant? Murder was what she and Jeff had been trying to avoid? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I asked her. All she did was cry.
Tess had scared me into regaining control of my temper, I was able to talk more calmly. “Let’s go out to Aunt Nettie’s. Maybe she can inject a little common sense into the situation.”
We walked around the corner and got into the van, and I started the motor. “I’m exhausted,” I said. “Whatever you and Jeff and the Warner Pier burglar are up to, it’s sure kept me from sleeping the last couple of nights.”
I started to pull out from the curb, but lights flashed in my rearview mirror, and I stopped to let a car pass. It didn’t pass. It stopped, blocking me. Its door opened, and the driver jumped out. “Lee!” he yelled. “Lee!” He ran around the front of the car—it was a big Lincoln—and I saw the shock of beautiful hair. It was Hart VanHorn.
I rolled my window down. “Hart?”
“I hoped that was you. I saw the Dallas Cowboys sticker on the van yesterday.”
“It’s me. My dad put the sticker on, so I wouldn’t forget my origins. What can I do for you?”
“A reporter I know called to find out if I’d heard anything about a murder here in Warner Pier.”
“Oh, it’s a regular mess,” I said. “And it looks like my stepson is in the middle of it—I don’t mean he did it! But he found the body, and the police are holding him.”
“That’s what Mike Herrera said.”
“Mike Herrera? How’d he get involved?”
“As the mayor of Warner Pier, he knows most things that go on around here. So I called him.”
I should have figured it out without asking. Hart VanHorn was important; a state legislator and a possible candidate for Congress. That meant he would have lots of contacts. He could probably find out anything about anybody in the entire state of Michigan with one phone call.
“Mike said the victim was Gail Hess,” Hart said. “That’s why Mom and I came down to find out what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry to say I haven’t given poor Gail a thought,” I said. “I’ve been too worried about Jeff.”
“Does he need a lawyer? I could call—well, nobody in my old firm handles criminal matters, but I know people who do.”
“Joe Woodyard was here—his mom was the second person on the scene. Joe said he knew somebody. Webb Bartlett?”
“Webb’s a good choice.” A smile flickered over Hart’s face. “Joe and Webb were a year behind me in law school. Joe knows a lot more about defense attorneys than I do.”
Neither of us needed to go into the reasons Joe knew a lot about defense attorneys. But Hart had brought up another point.
“Did you say a reporter called you?”
“That’s right. A political reporter from the Chicago Tribune.”
“Chicago! Oh, no!”
“He’s a nice guy. We’ve dealt with each other before. Why does that upset you?”
“Because Chicago is a long way from the Warner Pier Gazette. That means the reporter got a tip. And that means somebody from Warner Pier called him. Or called somebody.”
“So?”
“So, somebody around here is still in contact with the reporters—maybe the tabloid reporters—who had such a great time in Warner Pier when Clementine Ripley was killed.”
“Not good.”
“No.” I dropped my voice. “Listen, Hart, let’s forget that pizza for now.”
“But I’m not afraid for the press to know I have a date with an attractive—”
“That’s very chivalrous, but this is not the time.”
Hart looked as if he were going to argue, but before he said anything someone else spoke. “Hart? Were you able to find out anything?”
Hart moved, and for the first time I realized that his mother was in the car behind him.
“Oh! Mrs. VanHorn,” I said. “It’s a real mess.”
She raised her well-bred eyebrows. “Is it true that Gail Hess has been killed?”
“I’m afraid so.” As Olivia and I peered at each other through our car windows, Hart stood in the street between us and Tess huddled in the seat beside mine. I sketched what I knew about the situation, worked in a casual introduction of Tess, identifying her as a friend of Jeff’s, and described the discovery of Gail’s body.
Olivia frowned. “This is very shocking.”
“It’s certainly shocking for Warner Pier,” I said. “Frankly, once the tourists go home, we have almost no crime. But after the wild events of last summer”—Olivia nodded to indicate that she remembered the murder of Clementine Ripley—“this could turn into another invasion of the tabloid press.”
“Yes, Mother.” Hart’s voice sounded mocking. “It could mean a big scandal.”
Olivia shot him what—in a less-refined woman—could have been a dirty look. “I didn’t know Gail very well,” she said. “Had she mentioned any personal situation that might be linked to this? Any quarrels? Any threats? Family problems?”
“Family problems are the most frequent cause of murder,” Hart said. “That and psychological problems.” He almost sounded amused.
Was I imagining the mockery in his voice? I glanced at him, but his face was bland. “Gail hadn’t said anything to me,” I said. “I had only seen her a few times recently, when she came over to see the display of molds and when she came to pick them up. Then, of course, she came back when she discovered that one of them was missing.”
Hart spoke then. “One was missing?”
“Yes. We hadn’t realized it at first.”
“She called and told me about it,” Olivia said. Her voice sounded a little short.
“She and Aunt Nettie searched everywhere,” I said. “It was the trained bear in the harness. All we could conclude was that the burglar took it. But we don’t know why—it was up on a top shelf. That was the last time I saw Gail. Maybe she did have some personal problem. She seemed to see some big significance in that particular mold being missing. And she seemed fascinated by the sports car Jeff and I saw. Her reaction was really strange. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Strange?”
Hart said. “Strange in what way?”
I opened my mouth to describe Gail’s triumphant behavior, but Olivia spoke. “Lee and Jeff’s friend must be freezing, Hart. We should get home.”
I realized that Olivia was right about the temperature. Tess’s teeth were chattering. Hart said good-bye; he and his mother drove on, and I pulled out behind them, following them across the Warner River bridge and down Lake Shore Drive, since their house was maybe a quarter of a mile beyond Aunt Nettie’s. The taillights of the Lincoln kept going as I turned into the drive.
I escorted Tess inside and introduced her to Aunt Nettie. Aunt Nettie had moved Jeff’s things out of the extra room and changed the bed for Tess. She’d tossed Jeff’s sheets and towels into the washing machine; it was quite homey to come into the old house and find it smelling of laundry soap, bacon, and coffee. Aunt Nettie was going to have Tess eating out of her hand by lunchtime.
After breakfast I did the dishes, Aunt Nettie went back to bed, and Tess took a shower. By then it was after ten o’clock, which meant it would be after nine a.m. in Dallas. Rich’s office would be open. I couldn’t put off that phone call any longer. This time I had to explain the entire situation to someone who knew how to get hold of Rich—in Mexico, or wherever he was. Even if it was Miss Brit.
The receptionist with the British accent answered again, and once again she assured me that Rich was unavailable, and that his personal assistant was, too. I took a deep breath, then asked for Alicia Richardson.
“Tell her it’s Lee McKinney,” I said.
That put a little excitement into Miss Brit’s clipped tones. We might not have met, but after my repeated phone calls I was willing to bet she had found out I was Rich’s ex. If he was off on a trip with his first wife, having the second one turn up—even on the telephone—was sure to put the office on its ear.
Almost immediately I heard Alicia’s soft Texas voice. “Accounting.”
“Alicia, it’s Lee.”
“Lee? Lee McKinney?”
“Right!”
Alicia actually sounded glad to hear from me. She began a flurry of questions. “Where are you, Lee? We heard you’d moved to Michigan.”
“I’m fine, Alicia, and I did move to Michigan. And I want to know all about your family. But first, I’ve got an emergency up here, and I need to find Rich ASAP. Can you help me?”
Alicia’s voice became cautious. “Well, Lee, Rich is on a trip to Mexico. And he’s deliberately out of contact with the office and—”
“I know he’s with Dina, Alicia. I wish them luck.”
“Oh.” Alicia sounded relieved.
“But Jeff is up here, and he’s in bad trouble.”
The conversation went on about fifteen minutes. Alicia had worked for Rich for years—she was an old hand when Rich and I got married. She knew all the dirt on him, and she almost ran his business.
“The problem is,” Alicia said, “Rich promised Dina he wouldn’t be calling the office three times a day, the way he usually does when he leaves town.”
“Don’t I know!”
Alicia laughed. “And this time he’s actually sticking to it.”
“He must be serious.”
“I think he is, Lee. So he and Dina may be hard to find. But I’ll get on the phone and start trying.”
“Thanks, Alicia. In the meantime, we’re hiring Jeff a lawyer up here. And I’m assuring that lawyer that he’ll be paid.”
“Right. Rich is still solvent.” Alicia hesitated. “And you say Jeff hasn’t given you any explanation of why he came to Michigan?”
It was my time to hesitate. Should I tell her about Tess?
I thought of the possibility that Miss Brit was listening in. “Jeff hasn’t explained a thing,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t. Joe and I had found Tess without a hint from Jeff.
I asked a couple of questions about Alicia’s family, then hung up. When I turned around, Tess was standing in the doorway that led to the back hall and the bathroom.
“You didn’t tell her about me,” she said.
“There didn’t seem to be any need.”
“Thanks.” Her voice was calm, and if she blinked back tears, at least she wasn’t hysterical.
“Tess, the press is going to get hold of this,” I said. “Even if I don’t say anything, even if Chief Jones keeps quiet, word is likely to get out. Think about calling your parents later today.”
She nodded miserably and went upstairs.
I almost went up, too. But I’d had to pump myself up to call Rich’s office. Now that I could go to bed, I discovered I was too wide awake to want to. I decided to walk down to get the newspaper from the delivery box at the end of the drive.
I put on my jacket and went out onto the porch, and I entered a new world. When Tess and I had come home about eight-thirty, the sun had been coming up. The day hadn’t looked too promising, but it had been only partially overcast. Now it was snowing and the large flakes were being driven at an angle by the wind. The drive was rapidly being covered. It was mighty cold to a Texas girl.
I paused and looked the situation over, and I almost went back inside. Then I remembered that I was determined not to be a wimpy Texan who was afraid of a little snow, and I zipped up my bright red jacket, pulled my white knitted hat down over my ears, and started down the drive.
Earlier, one of the snowmobile jerks had been cruising around the neighborhood, but now things were silent—silent except for the occasional faint moan of the wind, and the scrunch of my boots as I walked through the fresh snow.
It was cold, true, but it was also pure, somehow. As soon as I was twenty-five or thirty feet down the drive, the house disappeared, hidden by the blowing snow. There was quite a bit of undergrowth in the patch of trees between the house and Lake Shore Drive, so the hundred feet or so that I had to walk became like a hike into the deep forest. The bare limbs of the trees lifted up into an icy fog, and the swirling eddies of snow isolated me. I might as well have been alone in the big woods. I felt that I’d left all my problems back at the house or downtown at the police station. I could have simply walked on into the woods and left the world behind. I might have been the only person left on earth.
Lake Shore Drive, which even in the winter has some traffic, was empty. I crossed to the clump of mailboxes and newspaper delivery boxes, then pulled the rolled newspaper out of the delivery tube. I took the newspaper out of its plastic sack and stuffed the sack in my pocket. Then I simply stood there, enjoying the woods and the snow, the silence, the loneliness, and the loveliness, and wishing I didn’t have to return to real life.
A snowmobile’s motor started, close to me. Resentfully, I turned toward the sound. And from the drive of the Baileys’ summer cottage—a house I knew was empty that time of year—a purple snowmobile came barreling out onto the road.
It headed straight toward me.
Chapter 12
The next thing I knew, I was behind the row of mailboxes.
I will always half believe a guardian angel threw me there, because I have no recollection at all of jumping, sliding, or stepping aside. But suddenly I was behind the mailboxes, and the snowmobile—after almost running over my right snow boot—had gone by me and was disappearing into the blowing snow.
I was furious. I stepped into the road and shook my fist at the snowmobile’s driver, a shapeless blob in a furry jacket and a helmet like a black bowling ball. “Hey! Are you nuts?” I yelled loudly, though I knew the rider couldn’t hear me over the roar of the engine.
The snowmobile was just a faint outline in the gloom, but I could see it slowing down, and for a moment I thought—maybe a tad self-righteously—that the rider was coming back to apologize.
The snowmobile turned, chewing up the frozen slush alongside Lake Shore Drive with the tractor tread that pushed the thing. It swung back to face me—looking like a giant praying mantis with skis for front legs—then headed right at me again.
I jumped back behind the mailboxes. But
the snowmobile had figured that one out. This time it left the road and went behind the mailboxes, heading for my hiding spot.
The driver was trying to kill me.
That realization got my adrenaline in gear. I ducked, curled myself into an egg and scooted under the mailboxes, as close as I could get to the poles that held them up. The snowmobile came right for me. It knocked one mailbox askew, but it missed me by six inches as it went by.
I huddled under the mailboxes. I had to find a better shelter than a few fence posts. I was across the road from Aunt Nettie’s house, on the lake side of Lake Shore Drive. All the houses on that side were summer cottages. And in mid-February every one of them was probably locked up as tight as the bank the day after Jesse James left town. Not only were they locked, but they had heavy shutters on the windows.
I could run into the underbrush, but I wouldn’t be able to run fast, and I’d risk tripping and breaking my neck. There was no help on that side of the road.
No, I had to get across Lake Shore Drive to the inland side. Aunt Nettie’s house was my nearest haven.
The snowmobile had almost disappeared in the swirling snow, but I could see the purple lump turning around again. And if I could see purple, I knew that the rider could see red. I cursed the color of my vivid jacket, but I didn’t dare take time to snatch it off.
The snowmobile was coming back—and this time it might simply mow those mailboxes down. I dashed across the road, toward the house. The snowmobile came roaring right after me.
Merely running up the driveway, where I’d be an easy target, was not my plan. I made it across the road six inches ahead of the snowmobile, veered into the woods, pivoted, and jumped behind a large maple tree.
The snowmobile went up Aunt Nettie’s drive, then slowed and turned around, coming back. The rider was getting better at those quick turns. The machine lay in wait in the driveway, between me and the house.
For a moment I considered just staying there, clutching my maple, in a standoff situation. But there was no permanent safety in that. I had no way of knowing if the snowmobile rider had a gun, for example. The furry jacket and helmet might disguise some kind of monster; he could get off, catch me with his bare hands, and break my neck.
The Chocolate Bear Burglary Page 12