JoAnna Carl

by The Chocolate Bear Burglary (lit)

  Jeff was not enthusiastic about becoming a choco­late packer. But I made it clear that neither Aunt Nettie nor I—and certainly not Joe—was likely to come up with a loan, so he grudgingly said he'd try it. Somehow I didn't expect him to be a long-term employee.

  Jeff was also unenthusiastic about staying at the Lake Shore Drive house, but he accepted Aunt Net­tie's invitation. When I quizzed him, he said he was down to less than five bucks. So he didn't have much choice.

  Joe left, headed for Benton Harbor, and Jeff and I unloaded the Lexus and put his things in the bedroom across the upstairs hall from mine. He had apparently left his dorm room in a hurry, because he had nothing but a change of clothes and a laptop computer. Then I drove the two of us into town; Aunt Nettie's house is inside the city limits, but in an area that's not fully developed, so we always talk about "going to town" when we mean to the Warner Pier business district. There are plenty of parking spaces in the winter. I parked on Peach Street.

  "How come all the streets in this town are named for fruits?" Jeff said.

  "Because it's a big fruit-growing region," I said. "But there are a couple of non-fruity streets. Dock Street. West Street. Lake Shore Drive."

  "Yeah. And Orchard and Arbor."

  I made a mental note of that comment. Evidently Jeff had driven around Warner Pier before he went out to the house. At least he'd read the names of the streets in the downtown business district and identified Warner Pier's main drags. In fact, he had seemed to know which street led to TenHuis Chocolade. But if he'd driven by there earlier, why hadn't he come in? His story was full of holes.

  Jeff's entrance into TenHuis Chocolade was inter­esting. He walked straight across the shop, went be­hind the counter, and looked at the dirty bear mold that had distressed me earlier.

  "Your aunt collects antique chocolate molds," he said. "That's a dandy."

  "It's borrowed," I said.

  Jeff had moved on to the mold of the acrobat teddy bear wearing a fez. "That's a really old one."

  "I was told it's a Reiche, if that means anything to you."

  "I don't know a lot about them, but Reiche was one of the big guys."

  "Does your mother's shop handle chocolate molds?"

  "Not many. But she's got a customer—a guy who runs a Dallas chocolate company—and she keeps her eye out for anything he might like."

  Aunt Nettie came in, and I introduced Jeff. She greeted him with her usual beaming smile. "Jeff, we're glad to get a little help down here. Have you ever done packing or shipping?"

  "Furniture. I've packed furniture. Sometimes dishes. But not chocolates, Miz TinHouse."

  Jeff's Texas pronunciation of the family name made Aunt Nettie smile, though a kid born and raised in Dallas sounds much less like a hick than a person like me. I lived in a small town out on the prairie until I was sixteen, and even two years with a speech coach hasn't removed all the twang from my voice.

  "It rhymes with 'ice,' Jeff," I said. "Ten-hice."

  Aunt Nettie still looked amused. "Lee said it just the same way, the first summer she worked here'. But don't worry about it. You can call me Nettie, or Aunt Nettie. And the first thing you need is a sample choco­late. Every TenHuis employee gets two each day."

  Jeff didn't look sullen about that. He picked an Ital­ian cherry bonbon ("Amareena cherry in syrup and white chocolate cream"), and while he didn't gush about how good it was, he looked pleased enough to suit Aunt Nettie.

  "Now, come on back and I'll show you where to put your coat," she said. "We need you, because this is still our busy season. Do you know how to use a tape gun?"

  Aunt Nettie took him away, and I got back to work. She wasn't kidding about this being our busy season. The summer tourist rush is busy enough. It keeps the front shop going hard, as our summer student helpers sell bonbons, truffles, and molded chocolate to the thousands of tourists and summer residents who pour into Warner Pier every year. That rush ends at Labor Day, or whenever the Chicago schools go into session.

  Then things really pick up. Halloween, Christmas, Valentine's Day, Easter, and Mother's Day are big holidays for our mail-order side, with Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, New Year's, and Father's Day also bring­ing in business. In addition to the sixteen types of truffles and bonbons we always keep in stock, TenHuis makes fancy molded pieces and specially packaged boxes of chocolates—like the teddy bears on display in the showcase. We ship them all over the United States. Aunt Nettie has twenty women making choco­late all winter.

  Our winter hours are different, however. In the summer Aunt Nettie comes in about seven thirty and leaves at midafternoon, and I come at one and stay until the shop is closed and cleaned up, around nine thirty. Between Labor Day and Memorial Day we all work nine to five, unless we're behind on orders and need to put in overtime.

  And in our current financial position, I was trying to keep Aunt Nettie from supporting overtime.

  I went into my office, which has big windows over­looking both the workroom and the retail shop, and called our supplier in Grand Rapids for an extra order of heavy cream. Then I checked the figures I needed when I faced our loan officer that week. I was fighting the despair that exercise always caused when the bell on the front door chimed and a customer came into the retail shop.

  I jumped up and went out to the counter. "Can I help you?"

  The customer looked familiar, but I didn't think I knew him. He was a distinguished-looking older gent with a beautiful head of white hair, a perky gray mustache, and a red face. Who did he remind me of?

  "I've come in to apologize," he said. "I've been told that I've pulled a major boner." He leaned forward in a sort of bow, and he gave a smile that must have wowed the sorority girls forty years earlier. "I've come to sheek your forgiveness."

  The "sheek" gave me a clue about his condition. Then his head bounced around like a toy clown's. Whoever he was, he'd drunk his lunch.

  "I'm sure, whatever it is, it will be all right," I said. "Your apology is accepted."

  "M'sister scolded me severely," he said. "According to her, I'm selling the family treasures for filthy lucre, and I embarrashed her in front of your aunt and the antique woman."

  I was beginning to figure out who this must be. "Are you Mrs. VanHorn's brother?"

  "Timothy Hart, m'dear. An embarrassing limb of the Hart family tree."

  "I'm Lee McKinney, Nettie TenHuis's niece." We shook hands.

  He looked at the display of chocolate molds behind me. "Mama's collection looks very nice."

  "My aunt arranged it. It's a lovely collection. I un­derstand why Mrs. VanHorn wants to keep it in the family."

  "I don't understand it! Olivia's spent years trying to live down that particular side of the family. They're my favorite anchestors, but she finds them a bit too earthy. She always wants to remember that Great-grampa Amos invented the Hart centrif—centrifi— centrifugal molding machine and forget that he worked as a candy butcher. He walked up and down the cars of the Illinois Central, selling candy, apples, and bananas from a basket."

  I warmed to Timothy. "But that's inspiring! A real American success story. I can see y'all have a wonder­ful family connection with the chocolate business."

  "But if Olivia values the collection so highly, why did she toss it in a box in the basement?"

  "Sometimes things get put away in the wrong place."

  "True. I mustn't be too hard on her. She hasn't been around for the past fifteen years. Couldn't face the Warner Pier house after Vic died there."

  "Vic? Was that Mr. VanHorn?"

  "Congressman VanHorn. She's spent fifteen years grooming her son to take his place. Though that ambi­tion may elude her."

  "A political career could be very rewarding, but it's always uncertain."

  "That's so." Timothy Hart shook his finger at me. "That sweet Southern accent has me pouring my heart out, Miss McKinney. I'd better leave."

  "Not without a sample of TenHuis chocolate."

  Mr. Hart selected a Jama
ican rum truffle ("The ulti­mate dark chocolate truffle"). "A small additional taste of the good stuff won't hurt," he said. "I'm not driving. Lost m'license years ago." Then he shook his finger at me again. "Now, don't tell m'sister I came in here. She told me an apology would make things worse."

  "You haven't made things worse at all, and I've enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Hart." I waved as he went out the door. Yes, Timothy Hart was quite pleasant— for a drunk. But if he pulled this stunt very often, I could see that his relatives would get tired of it.

  I sighed, looked at the clock and went back to the office. Closing time was almost here, and I hadn't got­ten started on the accounts payable or reached Jeffs parents. I called Rich's office and Dina's shop again. Both still unavailable. I left new messages. I wanted them to know about Jeff as quickly as possible.

  I heard the UPS man come in the back, and Jeff appeared. I saw that Aunt Nettie had found him a baseball-style cap; at least he wouldn't have to wear a hairnet.

  "They sent me for the UPS paperwork," he said.

  I handed him the forms. "How's it going?"

  "There's a lot more to it than I thought there would be." He took the papers and rushed back.

  I smiled as I went back to my computer. Maybe a few days as a peon would do Jeff some good. Every overprivileged kid needs a lesson or two before he develops respect for the skills ordinary working people have—such as packing fragile chocolate rabbits so carefully that they can be shipped clear across the country without arriving in pieces and ruining Easter bunny sales for Neiman Marcus.

  I had the bank figures done by quitting time. It was going to be close, but we weren't going to have to increase our loan. Not that my report would suit our new loan officer. He wanted us to have to refinance; then he could increase our interest.

  I could hear Aunt Nettie's hairnet ladies calling out as they left through the back door. Soon Jeff came up, saying Aunt Nettie had asked him to drive home with me. She would stop at the store and get some­thing for dinner. I told Jeff to pick out his second chocolate for the day, and he picked a Bailey's Irish Cream ("Classic cream liqueur interior"), but he said he'd take it along to eat afterward, so I gave him a small box to put it in. I sorted my paperwork into piles, and Jeff and I drove back to the house on Lake Shore Drive. It was dark when we got there, but we could still see that the yard was covered by snowmo­bile tracks. The crazy people who drive those things are always riding around on the lawn and cutting through all the little paths that link us with our neigh­bors. It annoys Aunt Nettie.

  Aunt Nettie came in a half hour later with chicken breasts and tomato sauce. Jeff was subdued—or maybe just sullen—during dinner, but he asked Aunt Nettie lots of questions about making and shipping chocolates. I was glad that he gave some impression of being interested in his job. I still couldn't take my eyes off the quarter-inch holes in his earlobes. They were more eye-catching than the lip stud.

  I expected Jeff would want to check his e-mail after dinner, and I steeled myself for an argument when he was told he'd have to pay for any long-distance calls, including those made to his e-mail server. But Jeff didn't suggest that. He put stuff away in his room, then I showed him how to operate the washing ma­chine, and he washed some underwear and a sweatshirt. As I said, he hadn't brought much, though he did have a few warm clothes, including the ski jacket he'd had on that afternoon.

  While his clothes were in the dryer, I sat him down at the dining room table and tried again to quiz him about why he'd left college. He muttered something about his grades.

  "I can't believe you can't do college work, Jeff," I said. "You were always a good student."

  "There's a lot more to life than college."

  "True. Like packing chocolate."

  He scowled. "Look, my dad wants me to learn to handle money, stuff like that, but he wants to make all the decisions—my major, where I live, the kind of car I drive, how I dress. I just need to try it on my own."

  I might have believed him if he hadn't cut his eyes at me. I knew he was checking out how I was taking his story. Jeff had cut his eyes the same way when he was thirteen and was trying to convince me his mother rented X-rated movies for him to watch.

  At ten thirty the dryer buzzed, and Jeff folded his underwear, then said he'd take a shower. He was still pouty, but he didn't make any comments about our strange bathroom.

  Aunt Nettie's house was built by my great­grandfather and originally was the TenHuis family's summer cottage. My grandparents decided to live there full-time, so they winterized the house in the late 1940s, but the bathroom hasn't changed much since the family got indoor plumbing in 1915, For one thing, there's only one bathroom in the three-bedroom house. For another, we still have an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. Uncle Phil had changed the plumb­ing to allow for a shower. He hung a circular rod over the tub and Aunt Nettie put up a shower curtain on each side. That was the shower. It wasn't exactly like the facility I knew Jeff had in his mother's house – his own bathroom was a tiled, walk-in shower. So I was surprised that Jeff didn't complain. He'd grown up in a house full of antiques; he wasn't likely to think the claw-foot tub was quaint.

  As soon as I heard the shower, I knew the noise would keep Jeff from hearing anything else. I looked at the phone and again wished I could talk to Rich or Dina, but I still had no home numbers for either of them. So I called Joe Woodyard.

  Several nights a week Joe called me. But Aunt Net­tie's house not only has only one bathroom, it also has only one phone. And that phone is in the kitchen. So when I talk to Joe I sit on a stool by the kitchen sink. Aunt Nettie tactfully stays in the other room. I didn't want to carry on a conversation with Joe while Jeff was digging in the refrigerator for a bedtime snack or otherwise standing around with his ears hanging out. I told Joe as much.

  "So you and Nettie took the kid in," he said.

  "Aunt Nettie's too kindhearted not to. But there wasn't really anything else to do."

  "You could send him to a motel."

  "I suppose my credit card would stand it, but Jeff claims he left college because he wants to be on his own. Lending him money doesn't seem like a good thing to do, and neither does paying his rent. And I could hardly send him to the homeless shelter."

  "You could send him to jail."

  "No, I couldn't, Joe. That's not a realistic opinion. I mean option."

  "Maybe not. But—listen, how about if he comes over here?"

  "No! You don't have any room for him." Joe was living in one room at the boatyard. He had a rollaway bed, a hot plate, and a microwave.

  "I've got an air mattress and a sleeping bag. I don't like him alone in the house with you and Nettie."

  “Don't be silly.”

  “I'm not. The kid definitely tried to break into the house this morning. That's a criminal act. You admit you don't know him too well. How long has it been since you saw him?"

  "A couple of years."

  "Have you heard anything about him in the mean­time? Like, was he president of his Sunday-school class?"

  "No, I haven't heard much about him since Rich and I divorced, and I doubt he's president of his Sunday-school class, since I never heard of either of his parents taking him to church. But I'm not afraid to have him in the house."

  "Well, put a chair under your doorknob."

  The water stopped then, and Joe and I hung up on that slightly antagonistic note. It seemed that a lot of our conversations had been ending that way lately.

  I guess I was getting tired of sitting home by the telephone. Joe kept telling me he wanted us to start dating, but we didn't seem to be getting close to that goal.

  Joe was a Warner Pier native; his mother ran an insurance agency across the street from TenHuis Chocolade. I'd first known him—or known of him—twelve years earlier, when Joe was chief lifeguard at Warner Pier's Crescent Beach, and I was one of the gang of teenaged girls who stood around and admired his shoulders. Joe had been a high school hotshot—all-state wrestler, state debate champion, s
traight-A stu­dent, senior class president. He got a scholarship to the University of Michigan and did well there and in law school. Aunt Nettie says his mother glowed every time his name was mentioned.

  But after law school Joe surprised his mother by going to work for a Legal Aid-type operation instead of the big firm she'd pictured. His mom wasn't as ex­cited about that.

  Then Joe met Clementine Ripley. The Clementine Ripley. One of the nation's top defense attorneys, the one the movie stars and big financiers called before they called the cops.

  Ms. Ripley went to Detroit to defend one of Joe's clients pro bono. Before the trial was over, he'd fallen for her in a major way, and she had found him a pleasant diversion. Joe convinced her that they should get married, even though she was more than fifteen years older than he was.

  Warner Pier says that it was doomed from the start, and Joe says he was naive—only he uses the word "stupid." He also might not have expected the atten­tion the marriage drew from the tabloid press: top WOMAN DEFENSE ATTORNEY WEDS TOYBOY LOVER IN MAY-DECEMBER ROMANCE.

  That was followed by top woman defense attor­ney BUILDS SHOWPLACE HOME IN TOYBOY HUSBAND'S HOMETOWN. Next, TOYBOY HUSBAND OF TOP WOMAN DEFENSE ATTORNEY QUITS LAW CAREER, DENIES PLAN TO BECOME HOUSE HUSBAND. Finally, TOP WOMAN DE­FENSE ATTORNEY SPLITS WITH TOYBOY HUSBAND. AGE not factor, both claim, with a subhead, "Ex now repairing boats."

  Joe's version is that Clementine Ripley's approach to the practice of law crystallized his disappointment in the morality of a legal career and made becoming an honest craftsman seem a more honorable way to make a living. So he bought a boat repair shop in his hometown. Specializing in antique wooden boats, he did beautiful work, work to be proud of. But his mother had quit glowing whenever his name came up.

  Then, just when Joe had thought he'd escaped from the glare of the media, Clementine Ripley was mur­dered in her "showplace home in toyboy ex's home­town." The tabloids came back.

  The crime was solved—that's how Joe and I met each other again. Then Ms. Ripley's lawyers dropped another bombshell. They revealed that she hadn't changed her will after her divorce from Joe. Joe inher­ited her entire estate, plus he was named executor. The tabloids stuck around.