I followed the path Timothy and Joe had taken that morning—it was pretty well trampled down by their traipsing back and forth—and went over to the big storage building. The Barn key fit the side door, the one Joe and Timothy had entered by. I closed the door behind me and used my flashlight to find the light switch. There before me were all those shrouded mounds I’d seen on the video.
I didn’t fool around looking at wooden boats. I began nearest the door and moved from mound to mound, yanking up the canvas covers.
The first thing I found was that purple snowmobile. I pulled its cover all the way back and looked it over as well as I could. Of course, snowmobiles all look pretty much alike to me. Unless I found newsprint from the Grand Rapids Press on the windscreen, I wouldn’t be able to tell if this was the one that chased me. But it sure did look like it.
I found the model and serial numbers and committed them to memory, one advantage of being a number person. I shuddered and pulled the canvas back over it.
Then I looked under the other covers. I found the newer boat, the one Joe had sneered at as fiberglass; the old wooden Chris-Craft; a big riding mower; a garden tractor; and a small camping trailer. And at the end of the row, exactly opposite a closed overhead door, was an empty space.
It was obviously the place where a car could have sat.
But there was no car there.
I stared at that empty space. I’d convinced myself that Timothy still owned his MGB. Greg Glossop had seen it just a year earlier.
But it wasn’t there. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I stood there blinking.
Then I spoke sternly to myself. “Cry later, Lee,” I said aloud. “Right now you’re trespassing. Get out of here. Then you can bawl all you want.”
I walked clear back to the end of the barn, making sure there were no more rooms to it. But it was just a big, empty shell. There was a loft over half of it, true, but I didn’t think Timothy Hart was strong enough to toss a sports car up there. Just to be sure, or maybe just out of curiosity, I ran up the little stairway and shone the beam of my flashlight around.
Old furniture and boxes. I could see why Gail had been so eager to handle any estate sale the Hart-VanHorn clan planned. There was enough old stuff out there to stock a dozen shops the size of Gail’s.
But there was no MGB. I had broken and entered for nothing.
Now to get out. I hurried back to the door and peeked out, almost afraid I’d be facing some law officer summoned by a neighbor. But there was no one in sight. I stepped outside and pulled the key out of my pocket.
And a second key dropped into the snow.
I scrabbled around until I found it. It was the key marked Garage. I locked the barn door, then stared at the second key.
“Garage.” Hmmm. On the videotape Timothy had said that his sister had a garage in her house. As a matter of fact, the other house, the brick one, probably had a garage, too. Of course, it was unlikely that Timothy’s car would be parked in either of his sister’s garages.
But as long as I had the key, I thought I’d better look.
I trotted down the drive, toward the stone house with the little bridge leading to the porch. The drive, of course, was well cleared down that way, too, and it led around the end of the house and curved down a slope. As soon as I went around the curve, I saw a three-car garage.
The garage was under the house, in the basement, and it had two overhead doors, a double and a single. The Garage key didn’t fit either of them. Perhaps the key fit a garage in the brick house instead.
I stood in the driveway and stared at the key stupidly. Then I noticed a sidewalk that led to the back of the house. It was covered with snow, but its outline was clear. I followed it, doing the foot-twisting trick I hoped would keep my boot tracks from being identified. And there, under a deck overlooking the lake, was another door, an ordinary door, not an overhead door. And the Garage key from Timothy’s kitchen fit.
I went inside and groped for a switch. There was none near the door, and I had to use my flashlight to find a way to turn the overhead light on. And when it came on, I saw another of those canvas-shrouded mounds the VanHorns were so fond of.
This one was long, but not too tall. I was afraid to lift the canvas. It seemed to be my last chance to clear Jeff.
I forced myself to grab the canvas sheet and throw it back.
And there, dirty and mud spattered, was a black sports car.
My heart nearly stopped.
I yanked the cover completely off. I walked down the side of the car, leaned over, and examined the left taillight.
It was broken.
“Yee-haw!”
I’m not a Texan for nothing. I jumped up and down. I crowed with delight. I howled like a coyote.
Jeff was going to get out of jail. Before Rich arrived!
“Yee-haw!”
I was still yelling and jumping when a motor clicked on and the double garage door began to go up.
CHOCOLATE CHAT
JUST A LITTLE BITE
Many short stories have used chocolate as a prop.
• The ultimate story focusing on chocolate may be “Of Course You Know that Chocolate Is a Vegetable,” by Barbara D’Amato. Published in 1998 in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, the story won the Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards for Best Short Story in 1999. It was anthologized in Crème de la Crime in 2000. And what is the exotic murder weapon used in the story? I’ll never tell!
• Agatha Christie wrote a story called “The Chocolate Box,” published in the United States in Hercule Poirot’s Early Cases in 1974. It’s typical Christie, expertly using sleight of hand to confuse the reader. In it Hercule Poirot describes a case of political and religious intrigue that he investigated as a young detective in Belgium. And the key clue turns out to be not the chocolates, but the box they are in.
• Lee McKinney also made her debut in a short story. A look at Lee when she was sixteen and first worked at TenHuis Chocolade was the background for “The Chocolate Kidnapping Clue,” published in 2001 in the anthology And the Dying Is Easy.
Chapter 20
I nearly wet my pants.
The dirty cheats! Less than an hour earlier, Hart had told me they were headed to Grand Rapids. They couldn’t possibly have driven all the way up there and back again already.
I left the dust sheet off the sports car and the garage light on, and I ran out the door I’d come in. I made a sharp right turn and ran along under the deck. There was a little snow there, but I didn’t worry about making tracks. I was making time.
My troubles began when I got to the end of the deck and came out at the other end of the house into hip-deep snow. Not only had the snow been piling up there since November, but the ground also rose steeply. I slipped and slid as if I were climbing the Matterhorn without a safety rope.
But I kept going, slogging through the snow, trying to get around the side of the house, out of sight.
Then I heard a voice. “Lee! Lee! What are you doing? It’s only me. Olivia!”
Just as she yelled my feet went out from under me. I landed on my fanny and slid halfway down the slope. I could hear Olivia laughing, though she didn’t sound terribly amused.
“Lee,” she said. “Come here. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I’d been caught. But I hadn’t been caught by Timothy. Timothy, who’d already killed. It was very likely that Olivia didn’t know that her brother had sneaked his car out to make clandestine trips into town to commit crimes. I’d realized that I’d have to confront her sometime. I’d planned to have Chief Jones there, but it now seemed I was going to do it alone.
I got to my feet and came back, feeling really stupid. Olivia VanHorn was her usual poised self, stunning in winter-white slacks, polished boots, and her casual mink.
“I owe you an apology,” I said. “I’m trespassing.”
“Now you’re not. Now you have my permission to be here. Were you looking for the MGB?”
I nodded. “Yes.
I’ve simply got to get Jeff out of jail. And that meant I had to find that car. The taillight is broken. It’s going to implicate your brother.”
Mrs. VanHorn’s eyes widened. She made a noise that could only be described as a ladylike grunt. Her mouth twitched. Then she led the way into the garage and went to the back of the sports car. “I had suspected Timothy had taken the car out,” she said. “I guess I lacked the courage to check the rear end, even after I heard the police were hunting a sports car with a broken taillight.”
She leaned over and looked at the taillight closely. Then she sighed. “We might as well call the police.”
“I can drive back to the station and talk to Chief Jones.”
Mrs. VanHorn shook her head. “No, I have to face it. You’re quite right about your stepson. We can’t let that innocent young man remain under suspicion any longer. Come into the house with me, and I’ll call Chief Jones.”
I was amazed at how calmly she was taking the whole thing. I followed as Mrs. VanHorn went to a door in the center of the back wall, then led me up a stairway that ended in a beautifully decorated kitchen. “Take your coat off,” she said. “There’s a coat rack behind the door. Just let me put my boots away, and then I’ll telephone the police.”
She walked on through a foyer and down a carpeted hall. I was a little surprised that she didn’t take her own boots off before she stepped onto the carpet. Then I realized that Olivia hadn’t been running through the snow the way I had. Her boots were dry.
I found a small rug near the back door, and I stood on it, stamping the snow off my feet, trying to keep from spotting the tile. I unzipped my jacket, but I didn’t take it off, though I saw a navy blue Polartec parka hanging on the rack Olivia had mentioned. I wondered if Timothy had worn it when he chased me with the snowmobile.
I was still standing there, feeling ill at ease, when Olivia VanHorn came back down the hall. I was surprised to see that she hadn’t taken off her boots, or her coat either.
I was even more surprised when she pulled a pistol from behind her back.
I gave a yelp. “What’s going on?”
Olivia sighed. “You’re a burglar, Lee, and I’m going to shoot you.”
“Shoot me!”
“Yes. Young woman, you are simply too nosy. I must protect my family.”
“But Timothy—he’ll get off with diminished responsibility. I can’t believe you would kill to protect him!”
“Timothy? Don’t be silly. Timothy wouldn’t kill anyone. He passes out by nine o’clock every evening. He couldn’t possibly get out in the night, meet people, do the things I had to do to protect my son.”
“Your son!”
“Certainly. You can understand that—after all the trouble you’ve taken to protect a boy who’s merely your stepson.”
“Hart? You’re trying to protect Hart?”
“It’s imperative, I’m afraid. I really have no choice. If this story comes out, it will ruin his political career. Please step a little further into the kitchen.”
I ignored her request. “Did Hart kill Gail Hess?”
“That wretched blackmailer? Of course not!”
“Then how will killing me protect Hart?”
“We won’t go into that. Please, step a little further into the kitchen.”
I didn’t budge. “Why?”
“So it will be clear that you were an intruder, that I surprised a burglar who was actually in the house. Then it will be legal to shoot you.”
I backed up a step.
“No, no!” Mrs. VanHorn spoke as if I were a backward child. “Don’t move away. Come forward.”
I stared at her. This situation was unbelievable. This ladylike, gracious woman was going to kill me. And she had invited me into her home so that it would look legal. It was like the advice of a cynic—if you shoot a burglar on the porch, drag him inside the house to make it look legal.
The whole thing was so absurd I was tempted to laugh. But the pistol in Olivia VanHorn’s hand and the calm resolve on her face kept the situation from being funny.
I put my hand behind me and touched the doorknob. To get out I’d have to open the door and run all the way down the narrow stairway. Mrs. VanHorn would have plenty of time to shoot me as I ran.
Or I could rush forward and try to slam into her. She’d have plenty of time to shoot me that way, too.
But either fate would be better than standing there and letting her kill me, then pass my death off as the shooting of a burglar.
Now Mrs. VanHorn’s eyes narrowed. “I’m tired of waiting,” she said. “Move forward!”
My fingers gripped the doorknob. Getting shot in the back would be the best way, I decided. That way she wouldn’t have such an easy time passing my death off as the murder of an intruder.
I shrank back against the door.
“Very well,” she said. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
She raised the pistol. I turned the door handle.
And the doorbell rang.
Mrs. VanHorn and I both froze, and in the awful silence I heard Timothy Hart’s voice coming from outside. “Olivia? Olivia! Someone’s broken into my house! There are tracks all over the kitchen floor and the front door’s unlocked! I called the police!”
Olivia’s head whipped toward his voice.
I whirled, yanked the door open, and plunged down the steps to the garage.
Thumpety thumpety! My boots hit every other step. Then a louder thump drowned them out. A shot! I didn’t think it had hit me. I fell down the last three steps, but I caught myself with the door handle. The door into the garage swung open, and I stumbled out and ran headlong into Hart VanHorn.
I screamed like a Texas banshee.
Hart grabbed me. He screamed, too. But the sounds he made produced words. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
At first I could only point at the door and shriek. Then I managed, “A gun! She’s got a gun. She’s going to kill me!”
Olivia came rushing out. She was still brandishing her pistol, and she aimed it at me.
Hart’s grip on my arms tightened, and for a second I thought he was going to hold me still so his mother could shoot me. Then he slung me around.
He shoved me behind him. He put his body between me and his mother. He yelled, “No! Stop!”
Olivia looked like a madwoman. Her calm façade had completely collapsed. “Get out of the way!” she screamed.
“No!”
“She’s a burglar! I’m going to shoot her!”
“No!” Hart let go of me, and I staggered against his mother’s car. A shot echoed thunderously, bouncing off the garage walls.
Hart jumped toward his mother. They were both yelling. He grabbed at the pistol, and it went off again.
Blood spurted. I shrieked. Hart growled.
Olivia screamed. “I’ve shot you!”
The “you” was Hart. He clutched his arm and leaned against the fender of his mother’s Lincoln. I realized he was still trying to stay between me and the gun.
Olivia dropped the pistol to her side and stared at him. Fear, horror, shock, and anger washed over her face.
In the sudden silence, Hart spoke quietly. “Mother, no matter how many people you kill, I’m not going to run for Congress.”
Now the emotion on Olivia’s face was agony, and her voice was a whisper. “Hart, Hart. I love you. I wanted to protect you.”
“I know, Mother. But I can’t hide behind you any longer.”
“Does it all have to come out?”
“Yes. This can’t go on.”
Olivia sobbed. After all the screaming, the yelling, and the shots, that simple sound may have been the most soul chilling of all.
Then she turned and ran back into the house.
Behind me I heard Timothy Hart’s voice. “What on earth is wrong with Olivia?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But call an ambulance. Hart’s been shot.”
I heard a piercing, shrill sound. A sir
en. The cavalry—personified by the Warner Pier Police Department—had arrived.
I saw a box of what looked like clean rags on a shelf near the door to the kitchen stairs. I grabbed a handful. I went to Hart, helped him out of his jacket and applied pressure to his arm. Timothy was disappearing up the driveway, I assumed to direct the police car to Olivia’s garage. In a few seconds I heard him speak. “Thank God you got here so fast. Olivia’s gone berserk. And we need an ambulance.”
Right at that moment I heard a far-off, muffled thump from inside the house. Hart closed his eyes and groaned, way down deep in his chest.
I was using both hands to hold the rags on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Hart,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
It didn’t seem adequate, but what else was there to say?
Faced with an armed suspect, Jerry Cherry followed procedure and called for a backup. Chief Jones and a Michigan State Police car were there within minutes. The chief and the state cop entered the VanHorn house through the garage while I sat in the patrol car, shaking. Olivia did not challenge them or answer the questions they called out to her.
They found her in the bathtub, dead, still wearing her fur coat. There was a note on the bathroom counter, which the chief let me see later. “I killed Gail Hess,” it read. “She was a filthy blackmailer, and she had found out I broke into the TenHuis shop and took the mold. Fifteen years ago, I killed my husband. Hart had nothing to do with it.”
As usual, word of what had happened at the Hart-VanHorn compound spread through Warner Pier rapidly. By the time I got to the police station to make a statement, Joe was on the spot. He met me with a big hug, a hug I deeply appreciated, and he didn’t reproach me for breaking and entering.
We were sitting on a bench in the main room, holding hands, when Hart VanHorn and Timothy Hart came in. Hart’s arm was in a sling.
Timothy gestured at Hart. “He should have stayed in the hospital.”
Hart shook his head. “My arm’s not that serious,” he said. “I need to talk to Chief Jones, and I want to do it now.”
The Chocolate Bear Burglary Page 20