“It must be the dickens to get those dark and light designs on there!”
“The designs are part of the mold,” Aunt Nettie said kindly. “We do that first. Then, after the design is set, we pour the milk chocolate in. It’s not that hard.” She smiled a little smugly. The truth is that it is hard. But Aunt Nettie has developed her own secret technique—which I won’t describe—for making the designs quickly. Or a skilled person can make them quickly. I can’t.
“I’d like to buy one for my daughter.”
Aunt Nettie presented Webb with a teddy bear that had already been assembled and given its special Teddy Bear Getaway wrapping. He held it like a treasure. I could see that we’d gained a customer.
I asked her about the apartments. She agreed with me that nearly all the downtown apartments were empty in the winter.
“Most of them are rented to summer workers,” she said. “Just a few are occupied. Gail’s, of course.”
Webb looked surprised, and I’m sure I did, too. “Gail lived over her shop?” I said.
“Yes. She said she couldn’t pay a mortgage on the shop and another one on a house. You know how expensive it is to rent or buy a place to live in Warner Pier.”
I knew. With people building million-dollar homes in Warner Pier and leasing houses and condos for thousands and thousands of dollars each summer—well, I knew I was lucky to live with Aunt Nettie in a house that had been in the family for a hundred years. It was that or commute from someplace way back off the main road or from Holland or Grand Rapids.
But learning that Gail lived over her shop was real news.
“I’d been wondering how she happened to cross paths with the killer,” I said. “I thought maybe she’d been lying in wait for the burglar and had caught him breaking in over here again.”
“She wouldn’t have needed to set an ambush,” Aunt Nettie said. “She would have only had to look out her front window.”
I walked to our show window and looked over at Gail’s shop. “It’s covered with crime scene tape at the moment,” I said. “I guess her apartment is, too.”
Webb turned to Aunt Nettie. “Was Gail a native of Warner Pier?”
“No, but she’d lived here nearly twenty years.”
“Did she have any family?”
“She was single, and I never heard her mention having been married. She never talked about any family, but that doesn’t prove anything. I know who might know, though. Mercy Woodyard.”
“That’s Joe’s mom,” I said to Webb. “She has an insurance office here. She insures practically all the local businesses. I’ll call her and ask.”
Mercy Woodyard told me she had sold Gail a small life insurance policy. Her beneficiary was a sister, Nancy Warren. “She’s a teacher in Indianapolis,” Mercy said. “I gave Chief Jones her name, and he contacted her. She’s due in any moment. The chief doesn’t want her staying in Gail’s apartment, so I made her a reservation at the Inn on the Pier. It’s practically the only place open this time of year.”
I didn’t remind her that the Lake Michigan Inn was open, too. Mercy obviously meant that the Inn on the Pier was the only picturesque place open. And it definitely looks picturesque, though in February, when it could be called the Inn on the Ice, it also looks darn cold. It sits right on the edge of the river. In the summer boaters come up the Warner River and tie up at the inn’s dock, then check in as if they’d parked their Chevys outside the Holiday Inn.
“Thanks for the information, Mercy,” I said. “Jeff’s attorney wanted to know.”
“Webb Bartlett? Is he there? Joe wanted to see him.”
“I’ll have Webb give him a call.”
“Joe’s here. I’ll tell him to drop over.”
I had a slanting view of Joe’s mom’s office—across the street and three doors down—from my desk. Joe was already coming out the door. Something about the way he held his head told me he was mad.
“What’s Jeff done now?” I may have muttered the question. It was the first thought that popped into my head.
But when Joe got to the shop, he didn’t display his anger to Webb. No, he gave him the old college greeting—handshake and poke in the gut—and asked him about his session with Jeff.
I was still convinced he was mad, but he got the whole Jeff session thrashed out with Webb before he turned to me. When he spoke, he sounded accusing. “What’s this about somebody chasing you with a snowmobile?”
Webb’s eyes popped, and he gave a surprised, “Huh?” Aunt Nettie blinked and looked from Joe to me, frowning.
“He didn’t catch me,” I said. “I hit the guy with a newspaper and he fell over.”
“A newspaper!” Joe still sounded angry. “Why did you hit him with a newspaper?”
“I didn’t happen to be carrying a two-by-four,” I said. “What’s the matter?”
“The matter? You could have been killed!”
“I am well aware of that, Joe. I didn’t deliberately seek the experiment—the experience.”
“What were you doing out in a snowstorm, battling snowmobiles with a newspaper?”
“I was proving to the people of western Michigan that Texans aren’t wimps.”
“Well, that’s for damn sure! When people around here go hunting snowmobiles, they use rifles. But Texans go after them with newspapers! Did you roll it up like a stick? Or throw it over the guy like a blanket?”
Aunt Nettie began to laugh. Webb joined in. Then I laughed. And finally, Joe laughed, too.
“Joe,” I said. “I’ve been trying to take a walk, just a short one, every day, so that people around here would quit telling me that Texans are afraid of cold weather. I had walked down to the road to get the newspaper, and the snowmobile roared out of somebody’s driveway and chased me back to the house. It finally got so close I threw the newspaper I had in my hand at it, and that distracted the rider, and he veered off and fell over. I got to the house before he got the snowmobile upright again.”
Now Webb was frowning. “Did you call the police?”
“Yes. But, as Joe says, it was snowing when it happened. The snow covered most of the tracks before the police could get there. There are snowmobiles all over Warner Pier, and, as you’d expect, the rider was wearing a helmet with a reflective faceplate and a bulky jacket. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Do the police think this was linked to the killing of Gail Hess?” Webb said.
I sighed. “Maybe. The description of the rider’s jacket matches the description of the jacket on the guy Jeff says he saw last night, when Gail Hess was killed.”
Joe and Webb looked at each other. It wasn’t just a glance. This was a significant exchange.
“What’s the problem?” I said.
“I guess Webb and I were just thinking how that would strike a prosecutor,” Joe said.
“A prosecutor? It didn’t seem to concern the chief.”
“Yeah, but the chief knows you. That makes him more likely to believe you.”
“I hope so. But are you saying a prosecutor might not believe me?”
“Well, imagine you’re presenting the case to a jury,” Webb said. “Jeff says he saw this mysterious figure in the woolly jacket. Nobody else saw him.”
“Right, there’s nobody to back up his story,” Joe said.
Webb nodded. “Then somebody else sees this figure—is actually chased by him. Voilà! Another witness. But—”
I saw what was coming. “But the other witness is Jeff’s stepmother, and she’s committed to proving that Jeff is innocent. And any tracks in the snow or other evidence that proves she was chased by the snowmobile were covered up before anybody else saw them.”
Joe and Webb both looked glum.
“Well,” Aunt Nettie said. “I saw Lee when she ran into the house, and she’d better not have tracked up the kitchen floor like that just so she could tell the police a lie.”
That made us all smile again, and the atmosphere lightened.
“How di
d you hear about the chase?” I said.
“The chief came in asking Mom if she had any kind of list of snowmobiles insured in the area.”
“Apparently the chief is trying to check my story.” I turned to Webb. “My story is not going to change. So I guess we might as well move on. Is there anything I can do to help Jeff?”
“You could check these buildings along here,” he said. “It sounds unlikely, but there could be someone living upstairs. I’m sure the police will be checking, too, but there’s no reason our side can’t ask a few questions.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask all the business owners if anybody’s living upstairs.”
“It’s just about closing time,” Joe said. “We’d probably better wait until tomorrow.”
“I can try to catch some of them. I’ll call them after dinner if they’ve already left.”
Joe looked at the floor. “You’re busy tonight, aren’t you?”
I felt blank. Then I gasped. I’d completely forgotten my date with Hart VanHorn—the date I’d broken at dawn that morning. But Joe hadn’t forgotten. That was gratifying.
“That was called off,” I said. “This trouble over Jeff. Besides—well, I was afraid the tabloids were coming back.”
“The tabloids!” Joe looked wary.
I told Joe, Aunt Nettie, and Webb about the call Hart had received from a Chicago reporter. “So somebody tipped him off,” I said. “You were right, Joe. The tabloids are probably still with us.”
Almost on cue car lights hit the shop’s front window. For a panicky moment I felt as if the four of us were on display. I went to the window to pull the shade. When the car lights died, I saw Mercy Woodyard getting out of the passenger side. She circled around the car and waited for the driver, a short woman wearing a knitted cap and dark-colored jacket. They crossed the sidewalk toward the shop, and I opened the door for them.
“Hi, Lee,” Mercy said. “Sorry to come in right at closing time.”
“Aunt Nettie and I will be here for a while.”
Mercy and her companion came in. The second woman’s face was pinched; she looked like one of the dried-apple dolls Gail Hess had sometimes displayed.
Mercy seemed quite uncomfortable. “This is Nancy Warren, Lee. She’s Gail Hess’s sister. She arrived right after you called. She’s moving her car over to the Inn on the Pier, but she wanted to see the place where the tragedy occurred.”
I gasped and made gibbering sounds, but Aunt Nettie met the occasion. She took Nancy Warren’s hand. “We’re so sorry about Gail,” she said. “We want to help you in any way we can.”
Nancy Warren’s dried-apple face screwed up even tighter. “Thank you,” she said. “Everyone’s being so kind.”
Mercy gestured toward Joe. “This is my son,” she said. “After I found Gail I called him, so he was one of the first people on the scene of the . . . the death.”
Joe looked even more uncomfortable than his mother, but he managed to shake Nancy Warren’s hand and mumble something sympathetic.
Mrs. Warren looked miserable. “It was outside here?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “She was lying on the sidewalk.”
He walked outside with Mrs. Warren. I got my jacket, then went out as well. They were standing silently, looking at the spot where Gail’s body had been.
“Did you talk to Gail often?” I said.
Nancy Warren shook her head. “No. We’d almost lost touch. It’s my fault, I guess. Anyway, we didn’t talk more than a couple of times a year.”
“So you hadn’t talked to her recently?”
“A couple of months ago. At Christmas. She was all excited about the possibility of handling some big estate sale.” Then she gestured at the sidewalk. “I thought . . . Don’t the police draw a chalk outline?”
“That’s only on television,” Joe said. “In real life they usually take photographs.”
Mrs. Warren turned to me. “Mrs. Woodyard said your stepson was found standing over her.”
I tried not to sound too defensive. “Jeff says he had just driven by and saw her body on the sidewalk. He stopped to see if he could help her. The police are holding him, but we hope to get him released quickly.”
“This stepson . . . ?” She stopped talking.
“He’s actually an ex-stepson,” I said. “My exhusband’s son. Jeff has never been in trouble before. He’d only been in town two days.” I left out any reference to the earlobe eyelets.
“Then he didn’t know Gail?”
“They may have met briefly, when she came by about the Teddy Bear Getaway.”
“Teddy Bear Getaway?”
“Yes. Gail was chairing the Merchants’ Association midwinter promotion.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Warren’s voice rose to a wail. “Gail wasn’t handling money, was she?”
CHOCOLATE CHAT
THE SWEET AND LOW DOWN
It takes John Putnam Thatcher, the urbane banker created by Emma Lathen, to solve a case involving machinations on New York’s Cocoa Exchange.
In Sweet and Low, published in 1974, Thatcher—senior vice president and trust officer of The Sloan, third largest bank in the world—is named a trustee of the Leonard Dreyer Trust, a charitable foundation established by the world’s largest chocolate company. The Dreyer Trust is a major stockholder in the Dreyer Chocolate Company, manufacturer of the most famous chocolate bar in the world. Thatcher gets involved when one of Dreyer’s cocoa buyers is murdered on the eve of a meeting of the trust and the company’s chief cocoa futures trader is killed on an elevator in the Cocoa Exchange itself.
The book is typical Lathen, giving an inside look at a particular corner of the financial world, in this case the commodities market. It’s a painless way to get a whiff of economics. For many mystery fans, John Putnam Thatcher—whose deductions rival Hercule Poirot’s and whose witty observations are often hilarious comments on America and American business—is one of the finest detectives.
Chapter 14
That was a strange reaction. I’m sure I gaped before I replied. “Gail had a lot to say about how the promotional budget was spent. But there’s a board that approves everything.”
Nancy Warren seemed to be struggling to contain herself. “I’m sure it’s all right,” she said. She bent over, once again examining the sidewalk she’d already looked over carefully.
I thought about Jeff sitting in the Warner Pier lockup and I decided she needed to explain. Did Gail have some secret in her past? Something to do with money? Would knowing whatever it was help Jeff?
“Why did you ask that?” I said. “About handling money?”
“Oh, no reason.”
“That’s hard to believe, Mrs. Warren. Had Gail had trouble over finances before?”
“No. Well, it seems she was always complaining about not making enough money.... I mean, if she was worried about her own finances, I’m just surprised that she took on other people’s money.” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “You know, the shoemaker’s children run barefoot.”
“Is there some reason that Gail should not have been handling money?”
“Oh, no! No. Gail had a business degree. She had operated her own business since she was thirty. I’m sure it would be perfectly all right.” She produced a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eye. “And now, I guess I’d better get over to the bed-and-breakfast.”
Joe and I gave her directions, and since it’s impossible to get lost in Warner Pier, we waved her off satisfied that she would get there.
As her car disappeared down the street, Joe gave a sort of grunt. “What did you think of that?”
“She makes me wonder why Gail left Indiana.”
“Right. Maybe Chief Jones knows somebody in Indianapolis.”
“And maybe Aunt Nettie or your mom could suggest that the Merchants’ Association audit the festival accounts.”
Joe and I went inside and reported our conversation with Nancy Warren to Webb, Aunt Nettie, and Mercy. Webb was noncommi
ttal. Mercy lifted her eyebrows and admitted that Gail’s insurance had nearly been cancelled a year earlier because of a late payment. Aunt Nettie clucked and assured all of us that Gail’s reputation had been fine. Then she went to the phone to call the vice president of the chamber of commerce to suggest that the accounts be checked. Joe promised to call Chief Jones and ask him to check the Indiana situation.
Mercy Woodyard left, saying she’d walked out without closing up her office. Webb shook hands, asked me to thank Aunt Nettie for his chocolate teddy bear and left. Aunt Nettie was still on the phone in the office.
Joe and I were alone in the shop. There was a moment of stiff silence. Then we spoke at the same time.
I said, “I loved the chocolates.” He said, “I can help you find out about the downtown apartments.”
We both looked at the floor. I felt awkward, and Joe looked as if he felt awkward. Then we did our unison speech act again.
He said, “It was kind of a dumb thing to get you.” I said, “I can call everybody.”
We both laughed. Joe opened his mouth, but I held up my hand like a traffic signal. Then I put my elbows on the counter and leaned over. “I’ll go first,” I said. “It was very nice to have a box of chocolates all my own. How did you know my two favorite flavors?”
“Then they were right? I try to listen, but sometimes I forget and talk.” Joe took my hand and held it gently. “Now, how about letting me help you call the downtown property owners?”
“It’ll only be this block. I can do it.”
“I’ll be glad to help. You take the river side, and I’ll take the Orchard side.”
In Texas everything is north, south, east, and west, but that doesn’t work in Warner Pier. Because it’s laid out parallel to the Warner River, which runs southwest into Lake Michigan, you would have to say “It’s a block northeast,” or “I live on the west corner.” So Warner Pier’s directions are divided into lake, highway, river, and Orchard, as in Orchard Street. It sounds silly, but it works.
The Chocolate Bear Burglary Page 14