The Chocolate Pirate Plot

by JoAnna Carl

  Ken was, however. He told me Maggie had taken Jill to her dorm and had told him she planned to stay until the young woman seemed to be okay.

  “Max Morgan told me Jill lives at the theater dorm,” I said. “But where is that?”

  Ken chuckled. “It used to be known as the Riverside Motel.”

  “Oh, gee! What a lucky bunch of actors!”

  “They need to suffer for their art,” Ken said. We both laughed.

  I drove on to the Riverside, now the Showboat dorm. It’s a Warner Pier landmark. Sort of.

  Warner Pier may be the quaintest resort on the east shore of Lake Michigan, but our pretty little village still has a few spots that are less than picturesque. The Riverside Motel might head the list.

  The Riverside was probably the first motel constructed in west Michigan, I’d guess in the early 1930s. In those days motels were usually a collection of tiny buildings, sometimes styled to imitate English cottages or log cabins or—in the Southwest—adobe houses. I found this out from a series of articles on vernacular architecture run in the local weekly. Warner Pier is nuts on architecture of all types.

  The Riverside had begun life as a dozen or so faux boathouses. This effect had been attained by putting a little porch on the front of each cabin and using heavy timber piers, like those used for docks, to delineate the porch corners. I’ve seen a picture from the 1930s showing the motel porches draped with fishing nets.

  So each unit of the Riverside is a little house. The roofs still have the original wide eaves. Parking spaces are between the units. Of course, those parking spaces were designed to hold Model Ts, so they are not big enough for today’s full-sized cars, though subcompacts or motorcycles fit nicely.

  The itty-bitty boathouses are arranged in a semicircle, and in that early-day picture I saw they were centered around a pond about thirty feet across. At some time the pond had been replaced with a swimming pool.

  About 1933 the site may have had a certain charm, but neglect and time had de-charmed it. The little boathouses needed paint, the fishing nets and other cutesy props were long gone, and the imitation pier posts had rotted. The swimming pool was cracked, empty of water, filled with trash, and surrounded by a chain-link fence. I didn’t want to imagine what the rooms were like. I could almost guarantee that the décor included sagging mattresses, leaking showers, and stained walls. If the Showboat cast and crew members were smart, they brought their own linens. I wouldn’t want to touch a sheet or towel provided by the management.

  The motel wasn’t even in a very convenient location for the Showboat personnel, since it was on the opposite side of the river from the theater. There is a little ferry, but it was strictly for tourists—foot traffic only—and it quit running long before the final curtain on performance nights.

  As I pulled into the motel’s drive, I realized that I didn’t know where I was going. Who was assigned to which little house? Luckily, there was a sign that read MANAGER outside the structure nearest the street. I parked in front of it.

  This little boathouse seemed to be living quarters, rather than an office. A sign on the door said PLEASE KNOCK, so I did. At first I thought no one was going to answer, but I wasn’t eager to make the rounds of the motel, rapping on each door, so I stood on the porch, looking around the area for someone else I could quiz. Then I heard footsteps dragging inside, and the door opened.

  A bone-thin woman stood in the doorway. Her hair was dyed that dead black that means an amateur job, and it was teased as high as 1968.

  “Yes?” Her voice was whiny, and somehow her face looked whiny as well. She had that hollow-jawed look that nineteenth-century pioneers had, the look that meant they’d lost their molars.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for Jill Campbell.”

  “She’s in cottage number three, honey. With Mikki White.”

  “Thanks.” I turned away, then thought of another question. “Did Jeremy Mattox live here? I mean, does he live here?”

  To my dismay, tears began to run down the woman’s face. “Oh, honey, I’m so upset about his accident.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible.”

  “It was just yesterday he was out back, practicing. I can’t believe he’s gone!” Her face screwed up like that of a baby about to wail. But she sounded calm enough when she spoke again. “Had you known Jeremy long?”

  “I didn’t know him at all, I’m afraid. His accident happened near our house. My husband was part of the rescue team.” I didn’t want to tell her that I was there simply out of nosiness.

  Warner Pier is such a small town. This woman probably knew Aunt Nettie. I decided I’d better act polite. “I’m Lee Woodyard. You may know my aunt, Nettie Jones. I work for her at TenHuis Chocolade.”

  “Nettie Jones? She wasn’t Nettie Vanderheide?”

  “Yes, she was. She married my uncle, Phil TenHuis. He died five years ago, and last year she remarried.”

  “I’m Ella Van Ark. I knew Nettie when we were girls. I just moved back home, got the job managing this place.” She pulled out a Kleenex and patted her eye. “And now Jeremy is gone. Such a sweet boy!”

  “We mustn’t give up hope, Mrs. Van Ark. They haven’t found him yet.”

  “True, true. But we’d better prepare ourselves for the worst.” She seemed to relish the prospect, although genuine tears were welling in her eyes. “What the theater will do without him, I don’t know.”

  “I understand he was a key employee.” I moved to the edge of the porch. I had come to talk to Jill, not a woman who dyed her hair with shoe polish. Then another question occurred to me. “Did Jeremy have a roommate?”

  “At first he did, but Harold moved out the second week in June.”

  “Harold?”

  “Yes. Jeremy and Harold Weldon came at the same time, and they roomed together. Seemed to be old friends. Both worked at the theater. Then all of a sudden Harold came over, paid his rent up, and said he had quit his job and was leaving.”

  I stopped. This Harold might know more about Jeremy than anyone. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Said he had a new job, and it included room and board. I never saw him around again.”

  “Harold Weldon? Was that his name?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Van Ark sighed deeply. “He and Jeremy used to do their tricks out back of their cottage.”

  “Tricks?”

  “They were wonderful. Harold did the lifts, of course. He was big, you know. Big and strong. Jeremy was—is—small. It was a wonder to see him leap right up onto Harold’s shoulders.”

  “Did they perform at the Showboat?”

  “They were good enough to. But they never wanted anybody to see them do their act. They said it was ‘under development.’”

  My heart was going pitter-patter. Had I found two of the pirates? They certainly sounded like the two guys who had boarded our boat. A big guy and a little guy, both trained acrobats.

  I found myself longing for a look at Harold. “You don’t know where Harold was working?”

  “No! He just said that Jeremy would forward any mail he got. And now Jeremy is gone, too. I don’t know what I’ll do with the things in his cottage.”

  I assured Mrs. Van Ark that someone, either the authorities or Max Morgan, would contact Jeremy’s family. Then I started toward Boathouse 3. Luckily the numbers were clearly marked on the porches.

  As I walked, I thought over what Mrs. Van Ark had said. Jeremy and his roommate had apparently been acrobats. She didn’t mention them being expert swimmers, but acrobatics was definitely one of the skills the pirates used. Jeremy and Harold would be strong possibilities as the two male pirates.

  Could Harold be the man found drowned that morning? Had Jeremy known his body was near Beech Tree Public Access Area? Had Jeremy faked his own drowning to force a search of the area?

  But why not just call the authorities and say, “Hey, my buddy was going swimming alone at Beech Tree beach, and he never came home—maybe we�
��d better look for him”?

  But even if I knew the answer to that question, it wouldn’t explain why Jill had been programmed to come to Joe and me for help. What did we have to do with a drowning—either of Jeremy or of Harold?

  I was so deep in thought that I had walked onto the porch of Boathouse 3 and had raised my hand to rap on the door before I realized where I was.

  I didn’t have my questions ready. Besides, I was looking for Maggie, not Jill, and I could see that Maggie’s car wasn’t there. I turned to go away, but the door swung open and a young woman spoke.

  “I’d about given up on you!” Then she did a double take. “Oh! I thought you were my roommate.”

  The most striking thing about the young woman was that she was looking me in the eye. I’m so tall, I rarely look another woman directly in the eye unless she’s standing on a footstool.

  This girl was not only tall; she was also attractive, with dark hair and smoky gray eyes. Her figure might have been her only drawback; like lots of us tall girls, she was on the thin side—bony rather than curvy.

  I prepared to speak politely and go on my way. “Hi. I’m Lee Woodyard—”

  The girl gasped so loudly that I quit talking. “I thought you were a guy!”

  “No. I’m a gal. Had you heard my name?”

  “Hal talked about you. He was supposed to come by to meet you, but he hasn’t showed up.”

  “I think there’s some mistake . . .”

  “No, no! I’m sure Woodyard was the name. It’s—you know—kinda odd.”

  “Yes, it’s unusual, but—”

  “I guess I was just being sexist. I mean, I expected a man.” She rolled her eyes. “Dumb me!”

  I threw up my hands in a stop-traffic gesture. “Wait a minute! I think we’re mixed up.”

  “I sure was.”

  “Look, is this where Jill Campbell lives?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You’re right. I’m looking for a woman named Maggie McNutt—”

  “Oh, I know Maggie!”

  “If you’re connected with the Showboat, I’m sure you do. Maggie is a friend of mine. She was supposed to be bringing Jill home. I want to talk to Maggie. She didn’t answer her cell phone. So I came over.” The girl started to say something else, but by using a gesture that was slightly short of putting my hand over her mouth, I managed to keep her from speaking. “I have nothing to do with Hal.”

  “But you’re supposed to!”

  “Why?”

  “He said you were going to help him.”

  “I’ll be happy to help Hal any way I can. But right now I need to talk to Maggie. Since she’s not here, I’ll be on my way.”

  I turned around and started to walk off the porch.

  “Don’t leave!” the dark-haired girl almost wailed. “Hal will be really mad if he comes and you’re not here!”

  I turned back. “I’ve never even heard of Hal. What could he possibly want with me?”

  “It was a professional engagement! Hal was ready to pay you.”

  “Pay me? He wanted chocolate?”

  “Chocolate?” Now complete confusion came over the girl’s face. “He’s a health-food nut. I never saw him eat chocolate.”

  “Look,” I said, “we’re obviously talking about two different things. If Hal wants to talk to me, ask him to call TenHuis and ask for Lee.”

  I started toward my van again, this time determined to get in it and drive away, despite the dark girl, who was following along, yapping at my back like an unruly Great Dane.

  But when I turned my back on her and looked at the van, the situation became clear.

  Joe’s truck was parked next to my van, and he was leaning against the fender, arms folded, watching my approach.

  I began to laugh, and I spun around to face the girl.

  “I get it! Hal is looking for a lawyer.”

  Chocolate Chat

  Chocolate Makes Moms, Babies Happy

  It’s long been known that chocolate makes women happy. But scientists have found that if pregnant women eat it, apparently their babies will be happier, too.

  Researchers at the University of Helsinki observed three hundred pregnant women. Some ate chocolate daily, and some didn’t. The scientists discovered that babies born to women who ate chocolate laughed and smiled more than the babies born to women who didn’t eat it.

  If women who were stressed ate chocolate, researchers also discovered, their babies were less fearful. Mothers who were stressed but who didn’t eat chocolate were apt to have babies who were more fearful.

  This study was described in “The People’s Pharmacy” column written by Joe and Dr. Teresa Graedon. Other types of candy, they said, did not have this effect.

  Chocolate can lower blood pressure, the Graedons point out. It can make blood vessels more flexible and help prevent blood clots.

  But if you mix sugar with it—watch out! Then we’re talking calories.

  Chapter 9

  The dark-haired girl stared at me. “Well, duh!” she said. “Why else would Hal call you?”

  “If he wanted a lawyer, he wouldn’t call me. But he might call my husband.” I pointed at Joe. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the attorney in the family.”

  Joe, the tall girl, and I met beside the fence surrounding the swimming pool. The girl was, as I’d suspected, Jill’s roommate, Mikki White.

  “Boy, do I feel dumb,” she said.

  I assured her that she’d made a logical mistake. “You were expecting a lawyer named Woodyard, and when someone by that name showed up, you naturally assumed I was the person you were waiting for. But I’m in the chocolate business. It’s just a coincidence that I came by looking for Maggie McNutt.”

  “But she’s not here. And neither is Jill. Hal didn’t show up either, and he said he’d be here at four o’clock.”

  I had belatedly remembered that Hal was a nickname for Harold. “Is Hal the guy Mrs. Van Ark called Harold Weldon?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  I turned to Joe. “He was Jeremy’s roommate, but he moved out early in the summer.”

  “I see.” Joe spoke to Mikki. “Why did Hal want to see me?”

  “I don’t know. He just called and said he needed a place to talk to you and asked if Jill and I would let him use our room.”

  “I have an office. I wonder why he didn’t want to see me there.”

  Mikki’s eyes got as wide as the sky over Lake Michigan. “He didn’t want to wait until Tuesday.”

  That was logical. Since Joe works only three days a week, he wasn’t scheduled to have any office appointments until Tuesday.

  Mikki kept talking. “Hal was real anxious to talk to you. I can’t figure out why he’s not here.”

  I had thought of a reason. Hal, according to his landlady, was tall and acrobatic. I was still wondering whether he was the drowned man found at Beach Tree beach.

  I spoke before Joe could, blurting out my question. “Does Hal have a tattoo? On his upper arm?”

  Mikki looked at me as if I were crazy. “Not that I know of. I mean, he could. I’ve never seen him without his shirt. We’re not on that sort of terms.”

  Joe grinned. “What does he look like, Mikki?”

  “He’s tall. Dark hair. His eyes are really big. He has a heavy beard. I mean, he shaves, but he always has a five o’clock shadow. Why do you need to know?”

  “I thought maybe I knew him. I’m trying to figure out why he wanted to talk to me.”

  “I can tell you what he said. It sounded kind of funny.”

  “What was it?”

  “He said he didn’t want to do the time unless he did the crime.”

  I’m sure I gaped, but Joe nodded as if he understood what Mikki was talking about. Did he? Or was he merely doing his imperturbable-lawyer act?

  A crime? If Hal was mixed up in a crime, yes, he probably needed a lawyer, so a call to Joe or some other attorney would be logica
l. But what sort of a crime could be involved? I’d been standing around becoming more and more sure that Hal was one of the elusive pirates. But that was no crime. Well, maybe if the law wanted to get technical, boarding a boat without permission was a form of burglary. But it was much on a par with trick-or-treaters coming to the door, since no harm was done, and it would be strange for the boat owner to call the cops. I hadn’t heard of any boater who had objected to being boarded. They had bragged about it.

  No, if Hal was worried about a crime, it probably had nothing to do with our funny summer pirates. But in the last fifteen minutes—ever since Ella Van Ark had told me Hal was an acrobat—I’d become convinced that he must be the drowning victim who had been found at Beech Tree Public Access Area.

  While I was analyzing all this, Joe had been quizzing Mikki. No, Hal hadn’t said anything that would make his cryptic comment more intelligible. Yes, she had asked him, but he had refused to explain further. He just said he needed a place to meet with Joe.

  “I was surprised when he called,” Mikki said. “I mean, we’re not that close.”

  Joe’s voice was noncommittal. “You don’t see him regularly?”

  “No, no! He quit his job at the theater. We’re just buddies. Pals. We have a lot of repertoire.”

  It took me a second to realize she meant “rapport.” Darn! Mikki was another Mrs. Malaprop, a dark-haired version of me. It was crazy.

  After a few more minutes, Joe and I said good-bye to Mikki, and Joe gave her his cell phone number, so she could pass it on to Hal if he showed up. Then Mikki headed toward her room, and Joe turned toward our vehicles. I grabbed his arm.

  “Wait a minute! Joe, I can’t help wondering if Hal isn’t the dead man the rescue team found this morning.”

  Joe frowned, and I went on before he could speak. “Think about it, Joe! He’s tall! He knew Jeremy well. He needs a lawyer, so he’s in some kind of trouble. And you haven’t heard the most important evidence.”