The Chocolate Castle Clue

by JoAnna Carl

  What was wrong with Kathy, anyway? She could sing like an angel. But why did she act so odd? Why did all her old friends protect her? All except Hazel.

  How did Shep Stone fit into the picture? He must be in his late sixties, but he was still a handsome man. He must have been a heartbreaker at twenty-two or twenty-three. Had one—or more—of the Pier-O-Ettes been in love with him?

  Who had written and asked him to come to the reunion? Why had that person used Aunt Nettie’s name?

  I laid all the questions out for Joe. He didn’t have any answers. “I could ask my mom,” he said. “She might know something.”

  Joe’s mom, like Aunt Nettie, has lived in Warner Pier all her life. She owns the town’s only insurance agency, and she’s married to the mayor, Mike Herrera. If anybody knows where the bodies are buried, it’s Mercy Woodyard, but she’s careful not to tell everything she knows. That’s a valuable quality in an insurance agent. Also in a mother-in-law.

  I thought about Joe’s offer seriously. Should I ask Mercy if she knew anything about the Pier-O-Ettes and their days at the Castle Ballroom?

  “No,” I said finally. “Your mom is nearly ten years younger than Aunt Nettie, so she might not know anything. Plus, I think I’d be overstepping Aunt Nettie’s confidence. I’d better stay out of it. But believe me, once this reunion is over, I’ve got some questions for Aunt Nettie.”

  By then my idea of going to dinner “someplace nice” had faded. Joe pointed out that I wouldn’t have to get dressed up to go to the Dock Street Pizza Place. Truth is, I was so tired that I was easy to convince. A pizza, another beer, and I could hit the shower with nothing planned for afterward but climbing into my pajamas. Unless Joe came up with a better idea.

  The Dock Street Pizza Place is a Warner Pier legend. It’s not fancy. The ambiance consists of red-checkered tablecloths, a beer and soft drink cooler, and a pickup counter. It simply has great pizza and salad and pretty good spaghetti and meatballs.

  No Warner Pier restaurant is crowded after the tourists have gone home in the fall, so Joe and I were able to snag our favorite booth, the one at the back. We were even able to sit together on one side—the side facing the door—without feeling like teenagers on a date.

  We had just ordered a large pepperoni with mushrooms when the door opened and a woman came in. I tried not to stare, but she was definitely worth a second look.

  My first thought was that she looked like a tiny gnome grandma. She was so bent and so thin, her bones almost poked through her skin, and she looked as if those bones must be made of twigs. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, and her white hair was wispy. She even carried a cane made of cedar. Actually, it was a gnarled staff about four feet high, something I would have expected to see in the movie version of a Tolkien book.

  As soon as she was inside the door, she stopped and looked around the restaurant. The lighting isn’t particularly dark in the Dock Street, so I could see her plainly. Her head was turning slowly, and her black eyes scanned around like searchlights. When her eyes reached our booth, her head stopped moving. And she began to walk toward us.

  As she approached I remembered that I had seen her before. The last time I’d been in the Warner Pier Public Library, she’d been using one of the library computers.

  Joe was looking toward me, not toward the door. I nudged him discreetly. “Joe, who’s that woman who just came in?”

  He looked. “Good night! It’s Mrs. Rice.”

  “Who?”

  The old woman might look frail, but she was walking at a normal pace. By then she was standing beside our booth, and it was too late for Joe to answer my question.

  He slid out of the booth and stood up. “Hello, Mrs. Rice. It’s been a long time.”

  “Is this your wife?”

  Her remark hadn’t sounded friendly, and Joe turned to face her, placing his body between the newcomer and me. “Yes, Mrs. Rice. This is my wife, Lee. Lee, I used to mow Mrs. Rice’s lawn when I was in junior high.”

  Mrs. Rice’s hard, black eyes drilled in on me. “You’re Nettie Vanderheide’s niece.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was one of those little Pier-O-Ette bitches.”

  I’m sure I gasped. Then I spoke. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rice. I can’t sit still . . .”

  Actually, I couldn’t do anything but sit still. That’s one effect of sitting in a booth. You can’t jump to your feet. I did start sliding along on the wooden seat, moving toward the end of the booth. From there I would be able to get up.

  But Joe kept me from doing that. He stood at the end of the booth like a door, blocking my exit. And he put a hand behind his back, palm toward me, giving me a clear signal that said, “Stay where you are!”

  When he spoke, he used his calm, lawyer voice. “Mrs. Rice, I don’t know what problem you have with Mrs. Jones, but she’s always been kind and wonderful to Lee and me. I suggest you move along now.”

  “Kind and wonderful!” The old woman spit the words out.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “Kind and wonderful.”

  I was leaning forward, still ready to jump to my feet and take on this old—well, witch. But Joe was still blocking me in. The only way I could get out would have been to slide under the table and crawl out at the end. Not very dignified.

  And even as mad as I was, I understood that wouldn’t be a good idea. Yelling at an old woman—who was obviously crazy—in a public place wouldn’t make me look good. Besides, she was the one with the big stick.

  I sat back in my place, seething, and let Joe do his soothing act. He’s the professional negotiator, after all.

  He managed to get her headed away from our booth. He even walked along with her for a few steps. His voice was gentle. “Did you come in for dinner, Mrs. Rice?”

  “No. I saw that truck of yours in the parking lot, and I came in to give your wife a message for Nettie.”

  She turned around and came back to the booth. She seemed ready for another confrontation.

  But Joe again stopped her. “What was the message?”

  She leaned over the table and looked closely at me. “You tell that aunt of yours and all those slutty Pier-O-Ettes that this time they’re going to get their come-up-er-ance. This time justice is going to be done.”

  She shook her stick one more time, turned around, and walked toward the door.

  Chocolate Chat

  Chocolate Places: Indianapolis

  I was introduced to Elizabeth Garber, owner of the Best Chocolate in Town, in Indianapolis, by Jim Huang, bookseller and mystery expert. “You’ve got to meet Elizabeth,” Jim said. “She makes great chocolate, and she’s a mystery fan.”

  In that first meeting, Elizabeth gave me facts on chocolate that became key to The Chocolate Jewel Case, and she’s still a real pal. I can call Elizabeth and ask anything about chocolate. She knows the answer, and she’s nice about sharing it.

  Elizabeth says that she’s a self-taught chocolatier. She began working with chocolate while in college, looking for a way to earn extra money. This experience led her to establish her own chocolate factory and shop after graduation. Today her delicious handmade chocolates are sold in around fifty outlets, mostly in the Indianapolis area, and in her own shop.

  Elizabeth’s Web page is bestchocolateintown.com.

  But watch out! The truffles and other goodies on that

  Web page may have you drooling all over the keyboard.

  Chapter 5

  I watched Mrs. Rice go out the door. So did everyone else in the restaurant. She was definitely the most unusual person who had been in all night.

  The Dock Street’s owner, H. G. Brown—universally known as “Brownie”—came out of the kitchen and walked toward us. Brownie is bald and has the kind of paunch an expert pizza maker should have. He gestured toward the door, now closed behind Mrs. Rice. “Sorry, folks. Every town has a nutcase or two. I’m sorry I didn’t get out in time to head her off.”

  Joe was sliding back into the booth. “
No problem, Brownie. Mrs. Rice lived around the corner when I was a kid. I used to mow her lawn. I’ve known her my whole life.”

  “I haven’t!” I said. “Who is she? And why does she have it in for Aunt Nettie?”

  Brownie and Joe both ignored my question. “I try to keep her out,” Brownie said, “but she comes around. For the obvious reason.”

  Joe nodded, but I was completely mystified. “What obvious reason?” I said. “I’ve never seen her in the Dock Street before.”

  Brownie spoke again, still aiming his remarks at Joe. “I’ve had to tell her not to come here. But sometimes she wanders in anyway.” He went back to the kitchen.

  “Who was that woman?” I said.

  Joe took a drink of his beer before he spoke. “Lee, you’ve lived in Warner Pier what—four years? I figured you would have run into all the local characters by now.”

  “I’ve seen her in the library, but I don’t know who she is. Mrs. Rice? Was that her name?”

  “Verna Rice. Does that ring a bell?”

  “No.” I spoke firmly, but then a bell did seem to give a tiny ting, way in the back of my mind. “Wait. Did Aunt Nettie refer to the owner of the Castle Ballroom as a ‘Mr. Rice’?”

  “You got it. Dan Rice was the owner of the Castle Ballroom. He was found shot to death in his office more than forty years ago. Mrs. Rice is his widow. She never got over the tragedy.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry for her, Joe, but she can’t simply badmouth people the way she did Aunt Nettie. What does she have against the Pier-O-Ettes?”

  “I have no answer for that question.” Joe grinned. “Mrs. Rice has made public scenes so often that her relatives tried to commit her for treatment, but the psychiatrists say she’s just cranky, not crazy. So, unlike most of us Warner Pier–ites, she’s been certified as sane.”

  That made me smile, and I began to feel less annoyed. “I’ve been told that Warner Pier is too small to have a village idiot, so we all have to take turns. Nice to know I’m not competing with Mrs. Rice for the honor.”

  Our salads came then, and for the next ten minutes we concentrated on salad greens, tomatoes, purple onions, and Italian dressing. The pizza was on the table before I brought up Mrs. Rice again, and then the reference was indirect. “Joe, ever since I came to Warner Pier as a sixteen-year-old kid, I’ve heard of the Castle Ballroom. But I’ve never really known much about it.”

  “It was demolished ten or fifteen years before I was born, but I’ve heard about it all my life, too,” Joe said. “It must have been really something. It was built in the early twentieth century, and in those days it was one of the few stone buildings in Warner Pier.”

  “I guess that was the big lumbering era.”

  “It was the tail end of it. Anyway, excursion boats from Chicago used to bring people over to go to the Castle, just the way people came over to visit the Pavilion, up at Saugatuck. Later—in the thirties and forties—the big bands played there.”

  “Benny Goodman?”

  “Yes, and Glenn Miller. My grandparents went to hear him at the Castle before they were married. My grandmother never forgot it.”

  “I never knew it was that . . . well . . . special.”

  “It was. You’ll have to go over to the library and look at the pictures. The Castle was enormous—a block long and a block wide. It had a stone tower at each corner, and a deck along the river. Electric lights were strung along the roof and along the deck and outlined the towers.”

  “It must have looked beautiful reflected in the water.”

  “The summer people used to come in their boats and tie up for the evening. And an evening at the Castle was elegant.”

  “What did they have for attractions after the big-band era ended?”

  “That’s when the story gets a little vague. Mom tells me the sixties weren’t kind to Warner Pier in general. Apparently a druggie crowd moved in.”

  “That must have been a shock. So many of the cottages around here are owned by families who’ve been coming to Warner Pier for generations—some of them for a hundred years.”

  “Exactly. Warner Pier has always been a family resort. Even now there’s hardly any nightlife.”

  “True. The wildest entertainment is the piano bar at the yacht club or the deejay on weekends at the Dockster.”

  “Yeah, and as the former city attorney, I can testify that the city fathers like it that way.”

  “Today they do.”

  “They did back then, too. I’ve read the files. You can’t believe the city ordinances they tried to pass in those days—all aimed at keeping the ‘hippie element’ out. Or at least the Supreme Court wouldn’t have believed the ordinances they tried to pass. Freedom of speech wasn’t a major concern for the city council back then.”

  “How did this affect the Castle?”

  “The unconstitutional city ordinances probably didn’t bother it, but the era itself nearly killed it. Rice tried to keep the Castle respectable. But it was a losing battle. Big ballrooms just weren’t popular, and the place had closed up by the time the disco era arrived. I think the talent show that the Pier-O-Ettes were involved in was a last-ditch effort to attract so-called family entertainment. Then Rice was found shot to death.”

  “Was it suicide?”

  “Nobody knows. Rice was shot in the heart at short range. The wound could have been self-inflicted. Or he could have been shot by some attacker. Or a stretch of the imagination would allow for an accident.”

  “What was the law enforcement ruling?”

  “They didn’t really know. The insurance company claimed it was suicide, but that was to their advantage.”

  “Rice must have had a newish policy.”

  “Right. He was way under the two-year limit. If it was suicide, the insurance didn’t have to pay off. Of course, Mrs. Rice tried to prove it was an accident.”

  “Double indemnity?”

  “Right again. If it was an accident, she got a double benefit.”

  “So nobody wanted it to be murder?”

  Joe laughed. “Nope. That didn’t benefit anybody financially. Plus, Mrs. Rice swore her husband was such a wonderful man that no one could possibly want to shoot him.” Joe raised his eyebrows quizzically. “But Mrs. Rice is still today trying to prove it was an accident.”

  “After forty-five years! I guess you have to admire her tenacity.”

  “I don’t know. There comes a time to let go of the past. Mrs. Rice inherited the place, but she didn’t try to keep it open. Finally the banks foreclosed, the property was sold at auction, and the building was demolished. If she proved her case today, the whole thing would go to legal fees.

  “Today Mrs. Rice is almost a recluse. Now and then she emerges, just to put on some sort of scene.”

  “Why does she haunt the Dock Street, Joe? Why did Brownie say Mrs. Rice came in ‘for the obvious reason’?”

  “The Dock Street Pizza Place sits on the site of the Castle.”

  “Ye gods!”

  Joe called Brownie back, and the two of them explained where the Castle had stood. Actually, Brownie said, the building’s site occupied an area that today is on both sides of the street, plus the street itself.

  “The street went around it then. Or rather it ended on one end and took up again on the other,” Brownie said. “I’ve seen maps. Anyway, once the Castle was gone, the city nabbed a right-of-way through the property and extended Dock Street—the way it should have been in the first place.”

  “Brownie,” Joe said, “you have to remember that when the Castle was built—when? 1900?—this was the edge of town. Dock Street dead-ended into the Castle.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” Brownie scratched his paunch. “Today’s layout is much better. The city took the land for the park along the river and ran the street itself through the area in a logical pattern. Then Mrs. Rice sold the lots on this side of Dock Street.”

  “The bank sold them,” Joe said. “She refused. The bank had to foreclo
se. At least I heard that someplace.”

  “I guess she fought everything all the way,” Brownie said.

  Joe nodded. “As far as Mrs. Rice is concerned, Dan was a victim of a tragic accident. She still wants to prove that.”

  I shook my head. “She’s sad.”

  “Sure.” Brownie nodded. “It’s a sad case. But she’s not coming in here and making scenes with my customers.”

  He nodded firmly as he went back to his kitchen.

  Joe and I finished our dinner. We’d just put the leftover pizza into a to-go box when my cell phone rang.

  I looked at it. I didn’t recognize the number, and I almost didn’t answer. Finally I punched the proper button and gave an unenthusiastic hello.

  An excited voice answered me. “Lee? This is Aunt Nettie!” I instantly knew something bad had happened. It wasn’t ESP. It was my familiarity with Aunt Nettie’s voice. She sounded upset.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “We’ve had a wreck!”

  “Who?”

  “All of us. Julie took us for a ride in her beautiful limo and—”

  “Is anybody hurt?”

  “No! No, we’re all fine. Just shaken up. Is Joe with you?”

  “Sure.” I spoke to Joe. “The Pier-O-Ettes have had a wreck.” Then I punched the button that put the cell phone on speaker. “Now Joe can hear.”

  Joe leaned close. “Nettie, where are you?”

  “We’re at Fifth and Peach, just down from the shop.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  “No!” She sounded panicky. “I mean, that’s not why I called you.”

  “Then, why?”

  “I want you to ask the patrolman not to tell Hogan about this! I don’t want his workshop to be interrupted.”

  Joe shook his head. “I’ll be right there,” he said. “Then we’ll see.” The two of us ran for the door.

  Joe spent more than a year as Warner Pier’s city attorney. It’s only a part-time job, since the city doesn’t have that many legal affairs. But Warner Pier’s city hall houses the police station as well as other city offices, so just by proximity Joe got acquainted with the entire Warner Pier Police Department—the chief, the secretary, and all three patrolmen. Of course, he also got acquainted with Chief Hogan Jones by marrying his wife’s niece—me. Joe has a new job now, but he still knows all the guys on the force and is an in-law to the chief. So he was a good person for Aunt Nettie to ask to intercede with the investigating officer.