JoAnna Carl

by The Chocolate Bear Burglary (lit)

  Wham! She whacked the bakje mold onto the table, as if emphasizing her determination.

  That time Mike didn't jump. "Mrs. VanHorn is just another Warner Pier absentee property owner. I don't care what she thinks. But you're still going to take part in the Teddy Bear Getaway, aren't you?" Mike Herrera is not only Warner Pier's political chief, he's our biggest tourism promoter. He'd pushed hard to make sure all the merchants took part in the special winter tourism campaign.

  Aunt Nettie's magic hands kept working. "My ladies have made and hand-decorated hundreds of teddy bears. We certainly hope to sell them." She whacked another tray onto the parchment paper.

  "They'll have to do double duty as decorations in the shop," I said.

  I guess I sounded impatient, because Mike spoke soothingly. "Oh, chocolate teddy bears will be fine decorations! I'm sorry if I sound worried, but I am. It's just so odd—why break in here? If there's any place in town that's not likely to leave cash in the register, it's y'all." Mike is another transplanted Texan, raised near Dallas, and his accent is an inter­esting mix of Southern and Hispanic.

  He looked at me. "And I know, Lee, that you can swear that this stepson of yours didn't break the glass. But he is driving a Texas car."

  "That's hardly incriminating," I said.

  "I know, I know—it's that I'm concerned about that car they found over at the Superette."

  "What car?"

  "Greg Glossop ..."

  I groaned. Greg Glossop operates the Superette's pharmacy and he's notorious as the biggest gossip in Warner Pier. Joe suspected Glossop was the pipeline to the tabloids.

  Mike Herrera made a calming gesture. "I know, I know, Greg's not the most popular man in Warner Pier, but he doesn't miss much. He noticed a car with a Texas tag in the parking lot this morning. It had apparently been there overnight. Some kind of a small Ford, several years old. The chief says the gas tank was empty."

  I immediately thought of the car seen by Joe's buddy who worked at the station out bn the highway. It was likely the mayor had also heard the truck stop gossip and was thinking the same thing.

  "Jeff wasn't doing anything illegal last night," Aunt Nettie said. "I'm not going to let anybody gossip about him. He kept the burglar from taking anything." She gave Mike a firm look, then whammed another mold onto the stainless-steel table for emphasis.

  Mike left, still frowning, and I called Gail Hess to ask her to come and get the molds. I got her answer­ing machine.

  I left a message, then hung up, wondering where Gail was. I also wondered why she hadn't been over first thing in the morning, or even in the middle of the night. Everybody else in Warner Pier knew about our break-in.

  Then I called Mercy Woodyard, Joe's mother, be­cause she handled our insurance. I got her answering machine, too, and left another message.

  And I called the two Dallas numbers for Jeffs par­ents. More answering machines. Was there a human being left near any telephone in the universe?

  I got a packing box from the back room. I took all the antique molds down and heaped them on the counter. Then I wrapped each of them in tissue paper and packed them in the box. That made me feel bet­ter. If Gail didn't show up to take them away, I'd take them home with me that night. Or put them in the bank. Or something.

  I actually got some work done in the next thirty minutes, despite a call from the obnoxious George Palmer, our banker, reminding me we had an appoint­ment at four o'clock. I'd just assured him that I'd be there when the bell on the street door chimed. I hung up on George to go out to the counter to wait on a customer, a great-looking guy.

  He seemed familiar, but how did I know him?

  His face was young, but his beautiful head of dark hair was beginning to be shot with silver. It looked soft and silky. I found myself wanting to rub my cheek against the top of his head. He would have had to sit down for that, because he was at least my height. His eyes were a dark brown, with black lashes. Then I recognized him, and I knew we had never met.

  "I'm Hart VanHorn," he said. "You must be Mrs. TenHuis's niece."

  He was Olivia VanHorn's son. The state senator who was rumored to be running for the U.S. House. Of course he looked familiar. Not only did he have his mother's eyes, but I'd also seen him on the evening news and in the Grand Rapids Press. Neither medium had shown how sexy he was, however.

  He smiled, giving me lots of eye contact. Aware that I was standing there gawking at him, I quickly extended my hand in shaking position. "I'm Lee McKinney."

  "Oh. It's not TenHuis?" He took my hand.

  "My mother was a TenHuis. My father is a Texan."

  "I see. Uncle Tim said you had a charming South­ern accent."

  "I don't know how charming it is, but I can legally y'all." I realized I was still holding his hand. Yikes! I was about to drool on his snow boots. I dropped his hand and stepped back behind the counter. "I enjoyed meeting your uncle yesterday. He's a charmer."

  Hart VanHorn grinned. "Uncle Tim is one of my favorite people. He has his problems, but ordinary human meanness was simply left out of his character."

  Also sobriety. Time to change the subject. "Did you come in to see the mules? I mean the molds." Curses! My tongue was tangled up again. "I already packed them up."

  "Oh? You're not going to display them?"

  "After the break-in, I didn't want to take the chance."

  "Mother wouldn't mind, but I understand how you must feel. I wanted to make sure that you and your aunt weren't upset by the excitement last night."

  "We were just grateful that the burglars didn't take anything. Particularly the molds."

  "Down at the post office I heard that your stepson scared the burglars off."

  "My former stepson. Yes. He saw someone moving around in the shop as he drove by, so he stopped. Then he saw that the glass in the door was broken."

  "I'd like to give him a reward."

  "That's not necessary, but it's very nice of you."

  "May I meet the young man?"

  "Not right now. We all slept late, and Jeff isn't here yet. I'll tell him you came in."

  That seemed to bring the conversation to a halt, and I expected Hart VanHorn to smile his beautiful smile and say good-bye. But he lingered. "I also need some candy."

  "That I can take care of!"

  I didn't correct his terminology directly. In the choco­late business, the word "candy" means hard candy— lemon drops and jawbreakers. Our product is "chocolate."

  "We have lots of chocolate," I said, "and it's all for sale. What do you need?"

  "Well, the board members from a Grand Rapids shelter for battered women helped push a bill I'm sponsoring in the legislature. They worked really hard, and I'd like to give them all something in recognition. It should be versions of the same gift—you know, not singling any one person out. So, my mother suggested a box of candy for each of the twelve board members."

  "Of course. I think they'd all be delighted. We have four-ounce, eight-ounce, and one-pound boxes."

  "Oh, I think at least a pound."

  "That would make a very nice gift. The one-pound boxes are thirty dollars. If you want tins, it's a dollar more." I always work the prices in early in the conver­sation. Not everybody is pleased to pay thirty dollars for a pound of chocolates—even chocolates as deli­cious as TenHuis's. A purchase of twelve boxes could run him three hundred sixty dollars, plus tax. That would make some people decide on a thank-you note instead.

  But Hart VanHorn didn't turn a hair of that beauti­ful head. "Fine," he said. "And the boxes are okay. But—well, could you put one of those chocolate teddy bears in each? They're collecting teddy bears for the children who come to the shelter. And could you wrap each box a little differently? I mean, different-colored ribbon or something?"

  "I'm sure I can come up with something. And for an order that size I can give you a fifteen percent discount. When do you need them?"

  "Today, I'm afraid. I have to run up to Grand Rap­ids, and I wanted to take
them along." He smiled. "Their board meets tomorrow. Is that too soon?"

  "Oh, no. I have enough ready. Unless you want them individually packed?" I pulled ready-to-go boxes from a shelf against the wall and showed him the as­sortments inside. I demonstrated how I could substi­tute a molded teddy bear for four of the chocolates, and Hart VanHorn approved the plan. Then we dis­cussed the decorations. I found ribbons in different colors—gold, silver, red, green, blue, plaid, pepper­mint stripe. And the boxes came in white, gold, and silver, so making each one different from the others wasn't difficult.

  I gave Hart VanHorn a dozen gift cards, and he stood at the counter writing them out while I fixed up the boxes of chocolate. He didn't refer to a list, which I found awe-inspiring. I couldn't remember the names of my twelve closest relatives without looking them up. He kept writing, but it seemed that whenever I looked at him, he was looking at me. I began to feel as if I should say something.

  Finally I thought of a question. "How is your con­gressional campaign going?"

  "It may not go at all."

  "Oh? The newspaper says you're the front-runner."

  "I suppose I have a good chance, since the incum­bent isn't running and my mother's pulling in all her chits. But I'm not sure that's how I want to spend the rest of my life." He smiled. "That's one reason we're down here without any staff. I'm trying to make up my mind."

  His mother had already made hers up, judging from her comments the day before. I didn't bring that up, just smiled and kept working. And Hart kept writing. And staring at me.

  As I worked I reminded myself that Hart VanHorn was a politician, so eye contact would be his standard operating procedure. Though I did remember that the Grand Rapids Press had identified him as one of Mich­igan's most eligible bachelors.

  I was impressed with him. His selection of gifts was tactful—equal, but easy to tell apart. And he didn't seem embarrassed to credit his mother with the inspi­ration for the twelve boxes of chocolates. That was interesting, too, though I wasn't sure of its significance. Was he a mama's boy? Or simply secure enough to admit her influence? Was she making the decisions on his campaign? Or was he? How long were her apron strings?

  I tied up the final box and took out a large white shopping bag with "TenHuis Chocolade" printed near the bottom in the classy sans-serif type Aunt Nettie uses in her logo.

  "Anything else?" I said. "Are there any children on your shopping list?"

  Hart VanHorn grinned broadly. "Do I want fries with that?"

  I laughed. "Retail sales are not my specialty. But I'm trying to learn all the tricks. How about a box for your mother?"

  "Your aunt gave Mother a box yesterday."

  "Then how about a free sample for yourself?"

  "Sure!" Very few people refuse a sample of Ten­Huis chocolate. Hart VanHorn picked a double fudge bonbon ("Layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating") and ate it with eye-rolling relish. Then he sighed and leaned his elbows on the counter next to the cash register.

  "Ms. McKinney," he said, "I know I'm being what my mother would call forward. But honestly, I'd love to get out of dinner with her and Uncle Tim one night this week. They're not going to be good company. And you would be. Would you consider going out to the Dock Street and splitting a pizza with me tomorrow?"

  Chapter 6

  I almost clasped my hands to my bosom and said, "Sir! This is so sudden." In spite of the eye contact and chitchat, I had not been expecting Hart VanHorn to ask me out.

  Not that I don't get asked out now and then. But I've never accepted too many invitations. When I was in high school, I was a drudge. I knew I'd have to put myself through college without much help from my parents, so I always had a job, plus I was still afraid of serious relationships because of my parents' divorce. I was too cautious for either commitment or casual sex. It made for a lot of boring Saturday nights.

  But during my senior year my mom and dad de­cided I might be less gawky and lacking in poise if I did something public, so they pushed me into the beauty-pageant circuit. That didn't help my social life. A little success there, I discovered, meant the guys I met were either awed or thought I must be easy. I never liked either kind—a date who was too scared to say anything or a date I had to fight off before he bought me a Coke.

  College didn't change much. I still lived with my mom—couldn't afford a dorm or my own place—and the pageant circuit didn't add glamour, though it meant enough money to pay for a speech coach, once I learned where to buy used evening gowns.

  I was still trying to get through college when I was twenty-two, and I met the guy I thought was my dream man—Jeff's father. He was old enough and suc­cessful enough not to be impressed by having a wife who had once been a loser in Miss Texas competitions. He was settled in life, I told myself. I could trust his love.

  Wrong again. Rich didn't love me. He loved his idea of me—a blonde who could look good when we went out with his business associates and who was barely smart enough to punch in the phone numbers for the right caterer and the right decorator.

  I was still trying to finish my accounting degree when we got married, and he encouraged me to enroll in a full class load the next semester. I overlooked the patronizing way he wrote my tuition check, but I caught on when I brought my grades home. I made the President's List, and Rich sulked for three days. Then I asked a few accountant-type questions about his business, and Rich was furious for three weeks. Because I get my tang tongueled all the time, he'd thought I was stupid. And that's what Rich had wanted me to be. When he found out there were a few brains under my natural blond hair, it ruined our marriage.

  I'd wasted five years on Rich. Then I wasted nine months on Joe Woodyard. Now Hart VanHorn was standing there, smiling at me and offering to buy me a pizza at the Dock Street. A lot of emotional baggage might have flashed through my mind, but I answered him within fifteen seconds.

  "That sounds wonderful," I said.

  "Great! About seven?"

  "Fine. But are you sure you want to make it the Dock Street?"

  "Nearly everything in Warner Pier is closed this time of the year. Doesn't the Dock Street have the best food of any place that's open?"

  "Oh, yes. But the Dock Street is gossip central for Warner Pier."

  Hart laughed. "I don't mind. But I don't live here. If you'd rather go into Holland . . . ?"

  "No, the Dock Street is fine."

  "Good. Now you tell me just where to pick you up."

  I described the landmarks that identified Aunt Net­tie's drive. "This time of the year you can see the house easily," I said. "I'll leave the lights on in front and in back, and you may want to come around to the kitchen. That sidewalk's easier to get to, since the drive curves around to the side of the house."

  "I know the house you mean," Hart said. "It's not far from our place. I'll be there."

  I rang up his chocolates. While he was signing the MasterCard slip I stood there beaming because one of the most eligible bachelors in Michigan had asked me out to a highly public place. Then our boarded-up front door opened and admitted an attack of guilt.

  Joe Woodyard's mother came in.

  I almost ducked down behind the counter. I'm sure I did turn red and look guilty. For a mad moment I was sure she was going to accuse me of being untrue to her son.

  "Hi, Lee," she said. "Sorry I wasn't in the office when you called. Of course your insurance covers your break-in—after your deductible."

  "Oh!" I'd forgotten that I'd called her. "Handy Hun called the grass destroyers."

  Joe's mom and Hart VanHorn both stared at me incredulously. I'd reached a new standard in scram­bled language.

  I spoke again, slowly and carefully. "I mean, Handy Hans called the glass installers. They'll be here tomor­row." I gestured toward Hart. "Mercy, have you met Hart VanHorn? Aunt Nettie and I were terribly relieved that the burglar didn't take Mrs. VanHorn's mold collection."

  Mercy Woodyard's whole demeanor perked up. She be
amed at Hart. "No, we haven't met, but I heard the speech you gave at the insurance convention last summer. On the state violence-against-women bill. It was excellent."

  They shook hands. I left them chatting about wom­en's shelters and insurance coverage for battered wives and went to tell Aunt Nettie that Mercy was there. By the time I got back, Hart was going out the door. He waved at me. "See you later," he said.

  I hoped Mercy Woodyard hadn't seen the way he lifted his eyebrows. I interpreted the lift as indicating he intended to see me at a specific time. I was flooded with confusion again, and I was afraid I was blushing.

  Mercy Woodyard, however, was smiling. "Now that's one politician I might be able to support," she said.

  I tried to sound noncommittal. "Oh?"

  Mercy laughed ruefully. "And to think Joe could have been a member of his law firm."

  "Oh?"

  "Oh, yes. When he quit the Detroit job and moved over here he was contacted by one of the partners. They offered him a nice deal." She shook her head. "Joe can't do anything by halves. He stuck with the boats. But Barton and VanHorn—of course, there's a whole string of partners. It would have been a good opportunity."

  Then she looked at me sharply. "Maybe you could convince Joe he should go back into law, Lee."

  I almost gasped. I had assumed Joe had told his mother nothing about me. Did she know about our telephone courtship? I decided to change the subject.

  "You know, Mercy, there's one thing I've been wondering, and I'm sure you know. What happened to Hart VanHorn's father?"

  "Vic VanHorn? I'm afraid he wasn't much of a loss."