“At one?” Mike shook his head. “No. I saw nothing at that time.”
Mike’s voice had become singsong, molding his Texas-Michigan accent into something with a Spanish sound. I’d noticed this about Mike before; when he got excited or upset, he reverted to the Spanish of his youth.
But what would Mike have to be upset about?
I decided not to say anything, but just to look at him expectantly, silently.
And in the silence, I heard a noise outside the office.
It was just a little creak, a shuffling sound. The back of my neck prickled for a second. I wondered if the sound had been my imagination.
Mike began to stammer. “I, I, I . . .”
If he hadn’t reacted so guiltily, I might have convinced myself that the little noise I’d heard had merely been the old building creaking. But his confusion convinced me that someone was outside the office.
Suddenly I was crazy to see who was there.
I stood up. “Well, Mike, if you didn’t see anything, I might as well get out of your hair.” I whirled around and in three long strides I was at the office door.
“Lee!” Mike’s voice was anguished.
I didn’t say a word. The door was already ajar, and I simply snatched it wide open. The light from the office fell out onto the landing and splashed up the stairs.
And, there, partway up to the third floor, stood Mercy Woodyard. Mike’s mom had changed from her business suit to a beautiful golden velvet robe and embroidered slippers.
She and I stared at each other. Then Mercy smiled and shrugged. “Hello, Lee,” she said.
“Hello, Mercy,” I said. I was embarrassed. After all, we’d all known that Mercy Woodyard and Mike Herrera had the occasional dinner date. If their relationship had progressed to a more intimate level, it was none of my business.
I wondered if Joe knew.
“I’d come down,” Mercy said, “but there are no shades on the office windows, and Mike and I still make some effort to be discreet. Maybe you and Mike better come upstairs.”
Now I began to stammer. “No, no! I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting anything more exciting than a drink before dinner,” Mercy said. “Anyway, Mike is going to have to go to Hogan Jones with what he saw. No later than tomorrow.”
I looked at Mike. He shrugged and motioned toward the stairway. We both followed Mercy up a floor.
Mike’s apartment was not fancy—it featured massmarket furniture in styles and colors from around twenty years earlier—but it wasn’t bad, particularly considering it belonged to a man who was largely immersed in his business affairs.
Mike waved me to a chair, gave a deep sigh and spoke. “It was around twelve forty-five,” he said. “And it wasn’t out on Peach Street or on Fifth Avenue. It was in the alley between Peach and Pear.”
You can’t see the alley between Peach and Pear from Mike’s office or apartment. I started to point that out, but I thought about it again and snapped my jaw shut. The alley between Peach and Pear Streets runs behind Mercy Woodyard’s office.
“It was a car,” Mike said. “A small car. It was driving out the other end of the alley, onto Third Avenue.”
“What kind of car? Could you see the license plate?”
“No, no, no!” Mike sounded exasperated. “I didn’t get a good look at it. But . . .” He sighed. “But the left taillight was out.”
That was about all I got out of Mike. He refused to guess at the make of the car. “Small. Yes, it could have been some kind of a sports car.” And there had not been enough light for the color to be seen.
“It was dark,” he said. “Maybe there was something wrong with it. The motor sounded funny.”
Mike couldn’t explain just what “funny” meant. The engine hadn’t been missing or running roughly. He didn’t think there had been anything wrong with the muffler.
“It just sounded different,” he said.
But at least Mike had seen enough to link the mysterious car Jeff and I had seen the night of the burglary to the second crime. I’d already assumed that might be the case, but I was relieved to have some evidence.
Anyway, Mike promised to call Chief Jones the next morning. He walked me down the stairs and over to my van. As I opened the door, he spoke.
“Mercy didn’t see the car,” he said. “I’d like to keep her out of this.”
“I won’t mention seeing her,” I said. “To anybody.” I let him read the name Joe into that comment.
Mike nodded. “I love Warner Pier,” he said. “But it sure can be . . . small.” Mike was already back inside by the time I reached the corner.
I drove home. Aunt Nettie had made hot German potato salad and bratwurst—a sausage they really do right in Michigan—but none of us had much appetite. I left the dishes to her and Tess, perched at the end of the counter, and rehearsed how to tell Joe what Mike had told me without telling him his mother had been in Mike’s apartment looking cozy. I had a feeling my tongue was about to twist into a knot. When I dialed Joe’s number, I was almost relieved to get a busy signal.
I started phoning people who owned property in our block. If I couldn’t remember who owned a particular building, Aunt Nettie could. Periodically I tried Joe again, but it was ten o’clock and both Aunt Nettie and Tess had moved into the living room before I caught Joe.
Joe said he had found that only one of the apartments on the Orchard side of the street was occupied, and the guy who lived in it hadn’t been home. I described my conversation with Mike Herrera—omitting any mention of Mercy—with only one bobble. I stumbled over where Mike had seen the car, describing it as “the alley between Parch and Peer.” Joe didn’t laugh, but maybe that distracted him. Anyway, he didn’t ask what the heck Mike Herrera had been doing in that particular alley shortly before one a.m.
The unusual sound of the motor interested him. “I wish I knew more about sports cars,” he said.
“I could call my dad,” I said, “but he mostly works on pickup trucks. He rarely gets a sports car in his garage.”
“You don’t see the real old-time sports cars much anymore,” Joe said. “Not since the SUV became the macho car of choice. Actually . . .” He paused for a long moment. “Actually, that reminded me of something odd.”
“What’s that?”
“The most striking sports car I ever saw around Warner Pier . . . but that was fifteen years ago. I’m sure that car is long gone by now. But its motor sure did have a distinctive sound.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“It was a 1968 MGB. A real classic. It used to park outside The Dockster in the summertime. Back when I was in high school.”
I decided to cut off his reminiscences. “Well, like you say, that was a while back. If you haven’t seen the car recently, we need to think about current cars.”
“Yeah, that’s probably right. It’s funny though. That car belonged to Timothy Hart.”
Chapter 16
Joe and I were both silent for a moment.
“That’s an odd coincidence,” I said. “But Timothy told me he hadn’t driven in years.”
“I know he lost his license. But I wonder if he sold the car around here.”
“Even if he did—Joe, that’s too far-fetched.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Though Timothy Hart—well, he’s an odd duck. Tomorrow I’ll ask Mom if she’s insured any kind of a fancy sports car for anybody. Though she probably hasn’t. A car like that would probably belong to some summer person, and it would be insured somewhere else.”
Joe and I hung up, but I walked into the living room still wondering about Timothy Hart. Aunt Nettie was sewing a button on one of her white cook outfits, and I sat down beside her.
“Tell me about Timothy Hart,” I said.
Her eyes grew even rounder than usual. “Every family has some sort of problem,” she said.
“He described himself to me as an ‘embarrassing limb’ on the Hart family tree.”
“That about sums him up, I guess. He’s never been in any trouble that I know of. Not around here.”
“Does he have a profession?”
“I really don’t know, Lee. I’ve never taken any particular interest in the Harts.”
I laughed. “And one of them was a congressman. Warner Pier amazes me. There are so many rich and well-known people around here that they’re almost invisible. The CEO of this company, the president of that university, the candidate for vice president—they all hang out here, and nobody even notices them! Nobody’s even mentioned to me exactly where this Hart-VanHorn property is located.”
“Oh, it’s on our end of the shore road. That place with the big stone gates.”
“With the line of Japanese lantern-type lamps? The white frame house close to the road and the Craftsman-type house back toward the bluff?”
“There are a couple of newer houses, too,” Aunt Nettie said.
“Wow! I thought that was some sort of subdivision. Is it all one piece of property?”
“I believe so, but I’m not really sure. If you really want to know, you can pick me up a bottle of vitamins tomorrow.”
“Vitamins?”
“The generic senior vitamins in the drug department at the Superette.” Aunt Nettie nodded. “That’s the cheapest place to get them.”
“The Superette drug department?” I looked at Aunt Nettie narrowly. Was she scolding me? The druggist at the Superette pharmacy was notorious as the biggest gossip in Warner Pier. Aunt Nettie did not approve of him, and she generally avoided his department. A reference to pharmacist Greg Glossop—known around Warner Pier as Greg Gossip—might be her way of letting me know I’d moved from friendly interest in my neighbors over the line into nosiness.
But Aunt Nettie was smiling. “If you really need to know more about the VanHorns, you might as well take advantage of our natural resources,” she said. “Go straight to information central. Greg Glossop knows everything.”
So when I walked into the Superette pharmacy department the next morning, I did so with Aunt Nettie’s approval.
Greg Glossop bustled out from behind his high, glassed-off area, as I had thought he would. I knew he’d expect me to trade information, to give him the lowdown on Gail’s death. I’d figured out a few harmless tidbits to use as bait, and I turned them over in my mind as he approached, almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the gossip goodies he was about to reap.
Glossop’s comb-over failed to cover his scalp, and his lashes and brows were thin and colorless. This, added to his broad face and plump body, seemed to give him an abnormal amount of skin. As he greeted me, his round belly bounced with what could be excitement.
“Good morning, Lee. How are you coping with the current emergency?”
“Trying to hang in there, Mr. Glossop.” I decided to get my licks in early. “I’m entirely convinced of my stepson’s innocence, and I think Chief Jones is, too. I hope Jeff will be released today.”
Glossop danced on his toes. “But if the chief doesn’t think he did anything, why is he holding him at all?”
“Because Jeff found Gail’s body. He stopped to try to help her, and now he’s being held as a witness. It doesn’t always pay to be a good Samaritan.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Greg Glossop was the only person I knew who actually clicked his tongue that way. “Then these wild stories about your stepson breaking into the shop . . .”
“Absolutely untrue,” I said. “He could have taken a key from Aunt Nettie or me if he wanted to get into the shop. Besides, Jeff knew there was nothing valuable there.”
Glossop’s eyes sparkled. “What about the Hart-VanHorn chocolate molds—weren’t they supposed to be quite valuable?”
“They were taken back to Gail’s shop after the burglary. And Jeff knew that. As far as I know, they’re still over there. I hope they’re returned to the VanHorns soon. Mrs. VanHorn has been very gracious. I certainly don’t want to cause her more problems.”
There. I’d introduced the VanHorns into the conversation. “Apparently she’s had more than her share of problems in the past,” I said.
“Ah, yes. The tragic death of her husband.”
“Yes. And her brother seems to be a worry.”
“Timothy Hart? Oh, yes. He’s been in treatment several times.”
“Treatment?” It didn’t take much encouragement to keep Greg Glossop talking.
“Yes.” Glossop lowered his voice. “Alcoholism. But he always falls off the wagon as soon as he’s on his own. In recent years, I believe the family has simply given up.”
“He’s a pleasant person. Does he have a profession?”
“Luckily, he has a trust fund—or so I’m told. Actually, I’ve heard he graduated from college with high honors.” Glossop leaned forward and dropped his voice even lower. “Perhaps he is a belated casualty of Vietnam. He served there with Congressman VanHorn.”
“I didn’t know either of them had served in Vietnam.”
“The congressman had quite a record—not the Congressional Medal, but some very high honors. He and Timothy were in the same unit, or that’s the story.”
“So Timothy introduced his sister to her husband?”
“Oh, yes! Congressman VanHorn came from a working-class background. He went to law school on his military benefits. Of course, I gather he was always ambitious.”
I didn’t want to talk about Congressman VanHorn. I wanted to talk about his brother-in-law. “So the congressman had remained friends with Timothy?”
Glossop raised his eyebrows. “Drinking buddies.”
“Oh!” I tried to sound startled.
Glossop nodded and winked. “Both of them were steady customers for the Superette’s liquor department.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Mrs. VanHorn has had problems.” Back to Timothy, I reminded myself. Drunk or sober, Congressman VanHorn had been dead fifteen years. “Where does Timothy live in the winter?”
“He lives here year-round.”
“At the Hart compound? But they’re talking about selling it!”
Glossop’s eyes sparkled. Apparently we’d reached the juicy bit. “Yes. I think there are three year-round houses and the summer cottage in the Hart-VanHorn compound, plus several garages, barns, and such. Timothy Hart has always lived in what they call the “little house.” Now Olivia VanHorn is apparently planning to sell her brother’s home to finance her son’s political career.”
“Perhaps Mr. Hart wants to leave. It must be lonely there in the winter.”
“Oh, Timothy has lots of friends. He entertains a lot.” In Glossop’s mouth the word “entertains” took on a sinister meaning, hinting at drunken revels. I decided to ignore his implication.
“It can’t be easy to live out there. It’s almost outside the city limits, and Mr. Hart told me he no longer drives.”
“Did he, now?”
“That’s what he said.”
“I know he says he doesn’t have a driver’s license.” Glossop chuckled.
Now we were down to what I really wanted to know. I decided it was time to be overtly nosy. “Does he drive? Even without a license?”
“I don’t know that he ever leaves the property,” Glossop said. “But there are fifteen or twenty acres down there, you know. Lots of drives and paths. I delivered a prescription to him last spring, and when I arrived he met me at the gate in that old sports car of his.”
It was all I could do not to grab his arm and blurt out a question: Did it have a broken taillight? But even if Timothy’s old car hadn’t had a broken taillight last spring—nearly a year earlier—it might have one now. Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was alert Greg Gossip to the importance of what he had told me. He would spread the word all over town within minutes, and Timothy Hart’s old sports car might disappear before Chief Jones could check on it.
So I did my best not to react to this news. Instead, I paid for Aunt Nettie’s vitamins, discouraged Glossop from telling me a
tidbit about someone I’d never heard of, told him the two pieces of news that I’d previously prepared, and left the Superette headed for the police station and ready to solve the murder of Gail Hess.
After all, we all knew Timothy Hart was an unstable character. He had given the molds to Gail for sale without telling his sister what he had done. Olivia had probably scolded him. He must have broken into TenHuis Chocolade to get them back, though I had no explanation of why he would have taken only one hard-to-reach mold unless Jeff had interrupted him from taking them all.
But Gail must have suspected Timothy. Perhaps he even tried to break into her shop and get the molds back. Timothy must have quarreled with her, lost his temper, picked up the baseball bat from the display in her shop, chased her down the street—and killed her. I felt sure I was right. I went straight to the police station.
I was rather let down when Chief Jones didn’t see the situation quite the way I did.
“Now, Lee,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair and stretching his long legs across the office. “Let’s not let our imaginations run away from the facts.”
“Has Mike Herrera been in here?”
“Yep. Mike was here early this morning. He told me about seeing some sort of sports car in the alley behind Gail’s shop.”
“And now we discover that Timothy VanHorn still has a sports car, or at least he still had it last spring. You’ve got to admit there’s a possibility that he’s involved.”
“I’d have to see the car first.”
“You’re the law! Go look at it.”
“I’d need permission from the property owners.”
“I’d hate to give Timothy that much warning.”
“It’s either that or a warrant. And I think it very unlikely that any judge would issue a warrant based on a story from Greg Glossop.”
I growled. Then I sat down and glared at the chief. Neither action seemed likely to change the situation. What could I do? An idea appeared in the back of my mind.
But before I could focus on it, the chief spoke. “I was going to tell you what I found out about Gail’s problems in Indiana.”
“What? Was she wanted?”
“Hardly. Apparently there was some discrepancy in the accounts of a big antique show she helped organize. But the Indiana antique dealers decided it would be too embarrassing to have a full investigation. Gail ‘found’ the missing money, and no charges were filed.”
The Chocolate Bear Burglary Page 16