The chocolate frog frame-up: a chocoholic mystery

by JoAnna Carl

  We came to a stop with the hood of the pickup about a foot from a fence post.

  Behind us, the semi-honked long and hard. He whizzed by.

  Joe and I spoke at the same time. ”Are you okay?”

  Apparently we both were. We unhooked our seatbelts and met in the middle of the pickups front seat. Neither of us said anything for a long moment. We just held each other.

  “Well,” I said finally, “if you get tired of repairing boats you can take up driving a race car.”

  “The finish line didn’t go exactly the way I planned. I thought I could stop on the shoulder. But it took a lot longer to brake than I’d expected.”

  “I thought those trees were going to stop us.”

  Joe’s voice was savage. ”The guy better not have damaged that boat.”

  Joe pulled his flashlight from under the seat and got out to inspect the boat. I started to follow him out the door on the driver’s side, but Joe stopped me. ”Wait there. There’s probably a lot of poison ivy out here, and you’ve got on that short skirt.”

  So I sat sideways, with my legs dangling out of the truck. It was a typical west Michigan June night – temperature in the mid fifties – so I put on my extra sweater. By this time several cars had stopped, and people were coming down the slope to us. We assured them we weren’t hurt. I picked up the cell phone, which had landed on the floor, punched “redial” and told the Warner Pier dispatcher what had happened. She promised to have the state police there ASAP.

  Joe was dealing with the spectators, so I leaned against the doorframe and try to figure the whole thing out.

  What the heck had happened? Three times a guy – or maybe a gal – and a black panel truck had tried to wreck us. The third time he or she had succeeded. Despite Joe’s best efforts, we had hit the ditch. Joe’s efforts, however, had meant we left the highway gradually and slowed at a suitable rate of speed, and neither of us had been hurt. Our luck had been to, I was convinced, not simply to dumb luck, but to skill on Joe’s part and to his experience in hauling boats with that particular pickup.

  But why? Why had the person in the black panel truck made such a determined effort to run us off the road? We hadn’t seen the truck before we stopped for gas at the Willard exit. In fact, I was convinced I had never seen it before in my life.

  Had it been waiting for us?

  That thought sent a chill up and down my spine, and I had to admit it was possible. Anybody familiar with the customs of Warner Pier could have predicted we’d stop at Willard on our way back from Grand Rapids. And the truck had been sitting there, waiting. No one had been visible through the windshield, and the side windows had been so heavily tinted we hadn’t been able to see inside them. But, I reminded myself, something had made the truck moved slightly. It could have been the driver, moving around inside while he watched us.

  Plus, the driver had apparently been familiar with that stretch of highway. At least, he’d known exactly where the bridges were, where being pushed off the road would be most dangerous.

  The whole thing was unbelievable. Someone had tried to shove us off the road. Maybe kill us. But why on earth would anybody want to do that?

  It was a relief to see flashing red, white, and blue lights on the highway. The state police had arrived.

  Once they made sure we weren’t hurt, Joe began to describe what had happened. It didn’t sound any more logical when he told it than it had when I thought it through. The state police officer, frankly, was looking skeptical.

  Just as Joe got to the end of the tail a really tall man walked down the slope. ”I lost the S.O.B.” he said.

  We all stared at him. The state police officer spoke. ”Who are you?”

  “I was in that semi-right behind this guy.” He gestured at Joe. ”I saw what happened. I tried to follow the jerk who shoved him off the road.” He turned to Joe. ”You guys okay?”

  We assured him we were, and he nodded. ”It looked as if you were pulling off the slow, and there were other cars around. I figured they’d help you, so I took off after the truck.”

  Then I remembered that the semi-had tried to warn us the last time that the black panel truck attacked. And he’d blasted his horn after we went off the road.

  The trucker – he must have been at least six six – said his name was Ron Vidmar. He told us he had followed the black panel truck 5 miles south, where the truck exited at Haven Road. ”I lost him after that,” he said. ”My rig’s not too good as a chase vehicle on those back roads. Lots of houses. Lots of trees and bushes.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. ”There are plenty of summer places down there. Plenty of little roads and subdivisions. But we sure appreciate the effort. Especially since we may need a witness.”

  I wrote Ron Vidmar’s name, address, and cell phone number down and thanked him for coming back to report. A wrecker came. I got out of the truck – refusing Joe’s offer of a piggyback ride – walked up to the highway, and stood by the state police car, shivering in the night air, while first the boat and then the pickup were hauled back to the pavement. Joe looked mighty relieved when the pickup started right up.

  Ron Vidmar’s semi-came by again – he’d had to drive back to the previous exit and swing around to get back on the Interstate going in the right direction – and he gave a farewell blast of his horn. I got into the truck, and I thought we were on our way when another car with flashing lights pulled off the highway and parked on the shoulder ahead of us. The Word “POLICE” was stenciled on its trunk.

  Another tall guy got out and walked back to the pickup. Chief Hogan Jones.

  “Joe,” he said. ”What the hell were you doing going to Grand Rapids? Suspects in a murder case are supposed to tell the investigating officer before they take off.”

  Chapter 13

  The state police wanted us off the Interstate, of course, so Chief Jones followed us out to Joe’s shop, where Joe opened the double doors at the end and backed to the 1955 Chris-Craft continental inside. He turned on all the lights.

  “So why didn’t you tell me you are going to Grand Rapids?” The chief asked.

  “It didn’t occur to me that you’d be interested,” Joe said. He began looking at the side of the boat.

  “Is it damaged?” I asked.

  “A crack and a bad scrape.” Joe ran his hand a long beside. ”That plank had to be replaced anyway. It didn’t do anything that can’t be fixed.”

  “Good.”

  That’s when Chief Hogan Jones raised his voice. ”You two! Pay attention to me!”

  We turned toward him. ”I’m sorry, Chief,” Joe said. ”I guess I’m not thinking too logically yet. Do you want to hear what happened?”

  “First, I want to know why you went to Grand Rapids.”

  Joe and I looked at each other. ”I guess it was my fault,” I said.

  “But it was my idea,” Joe said. He sketched our concerns about the old Root Beer Barrel and Frank Waterloo’s possible connection to Tom Johnson, who wanted to buy it. Then he told the chief about our trip.

  The chief glared. ”Then you didn’t go to the airport?”

  “Why would we go to the airport?” I asked.

  Joe and I stared at the chief, and he stared back. I was still mystified, but Joe began to crowd. ”Who thought we were headed to the airport?” he said.

  “He didn’t give his name.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Not enough to put out an all points for a blue truck.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. ”Are you saying somebody called you and said Joe and I were headed for the Grand Rapids airport?”

  The chief nodded. ”An anonymous call. He said Joe was on his way out of the country. Didn’t mention you, Lee.”

  “Why would anybody say that?”

  Joe leaned on the boat. ”He did it to make it look as if I was fleeing the investigation.”

  I turned on the chief. ”You couldn’t believe that! It’s obstreperous! I mean, preposterous!”

>   Joe spoke very quietly. ”The chief didn’t believe it, Lee. If he had, he would have had the Grand Rapids police pick us up.”

  The chief looked a little embarrassed. ”Well, I did call TenHuis and ask for Lee. Nettie told me the two of you had gone to Grand Rapids to pick up a boat. I figured that if you were breaking for the Canadian border, you wouldn’t haul a boat along.”

  “Certainly not on an airplane,” Joe said.

  I was still irate. ”But who would make a call like that?”

  “Apparently I have an enemy,” Joe said.

  “Yeah,” Chief Jones said. ”Any ideas on who it might be?”

  Joe shook his head. ”I guess I’d stepped on as many toes as anybody else in my life. But I don’t have any idea who would dislike me so much they try to frame me for murder. And, Chief, that’s what’s going on.”

  The chief nodded, and I decided to jump back into the conversation. ”Yeah, and when the chief didn’t send the Grand Rapids police after us, whoever this is took direct action and try to shove us into a bridge railing. Three times!”

  I belatedly remembered something about those three episodes, and I turned to the chief. ”The license number! I gave the license number to the dispatcher. That’ll tell us who was in the black panel truck!”

  The chief shook his head. ”No such luck, Lee.”

  “What do you mean? It was a Michigan plate. You should be able to check it.”

  “We were able to check it. We have a magic computer that checks license plates almost instantaneously.”

  “What did it say? Who owns that truck?”

  The chief sighed. ”It isn’t that easy, Lee. The license tag number you gave the dispatcher belongs to four-year-old Ford…”

  “It was a Dodge!”

  The chief went on. ”… A four-year old Ford pickup. Registered in Dearborn. Sorry, Lee. Either you got the number wrong or the driver of the panel truck faked the tag.”

  There didn’t seem to be a lot more to say or do, so the chief left pretty soon, and Joe began closing up the shop. ”Guess I’d better get you back to pick up your van,” he said.

  “You know,” I said, “I may have figured out the real motive of the anonymous caller.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Put your arms around me, and I’ll explain it.”

  Joe complied with my request willingly. A few minutes later he nibbled my ear. ”So? Explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Explain why the anonymous caller sicced the cops on us.”

  “It’s a part of a plot designed purely and simply to interfere with our romantic life.”

  “Oh, is that why all this is happening?”

  “Yes. Just analyze it. Last night you planned a romantic evening for us. Right?”

  “Yep. Boat ride, nice dinner. Even warned you about the possibility of mosquitoes.”

  “Correct. I’m sure you noticed I wore my sexiest scent of Deep Woods Off.”

  Joe breathed deeply on the nape of my neck. ”Mmmmm.”

  “And what happens? We barely get dinner down, and we’re called back because that dumb green canoe has turned up at the boat shop.”

  “You just might be right,” Joe said. ”Just think – later on, after we got everybody cleared out around here, I thought I had enticed you back into the romantic mood and – bingo! Hershel turns up.”

  “Yes. And that ruined the rest of the evening.” I clenched my fists in Joe’s shirt. Finding Hershel hadn’t really been a joking matter.

  “Then today I took up the effort again,” Joe said, “luring you up to Grand Rapids. A town simply stick with motels and hotels.”

  I began to laugh. ”Yeah! And think what would have happened if we checked into one of them.”

  “What?”

  “The chief would have decided we were taking too long on our trip and called the Grand Rapids police. We would have been hauled out in the middle of our tryst and taken down to the station.”

  “It might have been worth it,” Joe said.

  He kissed me again, and this time I didn’t laugh. Tears began to run. I had to stop kissing, go into Joe’s office, and use one of his Kleenex is to blow my nose. I sat down behind his desk and bawled. He followed me, looking helpless, the way men do when faced with an emotional woman.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. ”This whole thing is just… so…”

  “Yeah. It’s getting me down, to.” Joe kissed me again, but this time his target was the top of the head. ”Come on. I guess I’d better get you back to your van. And then I’m going to follow you home.”

  “You’re the one who’s got an enemy.”

  “Apparently. And the best way to hurt me would be to hurt you.”

  Aunt Nettie was in bed when I got home. Joe didn’t insist on looking in all the closets and under all the beds, though he waited until I was inside. I didn’t think I’d sleep, but somehow I did. Pure exhaustion, I guess.

  In fact, I slept until after Aunt Nettie had left for the shop the next morning. I had barely dragged out of bed at nine thirty, when she called the house. ”What’s this I hear about you and Joe having a wreck?”

  “It’s a long story. Neither of us was hurt. Who told you about it?”

  “Trey Corbett. He came in wanting to know all the details. He apparently had a run in with the same driver.”

  That was interesting. Maybe Trey had been able to identify the driver. As soon as Aunt Nettie hung up, I called Trey. I got his chatty answering machine. I left a message, then got ready for work and dashed to the shop.

  The ladies in hairnets were bustling about, and Aunt Nettie was standing over her large copper kettle, the one she uses to make fillings for truffles and bonbons, the one with its own gas burner. The big white plastic pail of fondant was on the work table next to her, and as I came in she was using a broad spatula to dip out a chunk of the fondant and put it onto a scale.

  “Hi, Lee,” she said. ”I’m sure glad to see you’re not bruised all over.” She eyed the scale, then added the fondant to the copper kettle, adjusted the gas flame, and began stirring.

  “If I’m not black and blue, it’s thanks to Joe’s driving,” I said. ”I just wanted to assure you everything was all right before I went to the post office.”

  “Fine. But when you get back, I want to hear all the details.”

  I gave Aunt Nettie a hug and headed down the street. The two blocks to the post office and two blocks back turned into a long walk that morning. It seems that every downtown merchant in Warner Pier had already heard about our excitement and wanted a personal report.

  By the time I got back to TenHuis Chocolade, the aroma of the place had changed. When I opened the door I had the sensation that I’d fallen into a vat of syrup. I realized that Aunt Nettie was making the filling from maple truffles, “a milk chocolate truffle flavored with sweet maple.” Sounds like a cliché candy – I mean, everybody makes a maple cream. But everybody doesn’t make one like Aunt Nettie’s.

  I took a deep breath and walked back to the work room. Maple flavoring has the strongest aroma of any flavoring Aunt Nettie uses. Somebody broke a bottle of it once, and we smelled sickeningly sweet for a week. But in the proper proportions – in Aunt Nettie’s proportions – maple flavoring smells absolutely wonderful.

  I smacked my lips enthusiastically. ”Can I lick the dish?”

  Aunt Nettie smiled. She added a ladle of warm milk chocolate to the copper kettle and stirred. ”First you tell me about this wreck you and Joe had.”

  I told her. The whole story. I didn’t gloss over what had happened. I gave up trying to keep things from Aunt Nettie a long time ago.

  She didn’t gloss it over, either. ”I don’t suppose Joe could take a trip for a while,” she said. ”Just get out of town and stay away from whoever is after him.”

  “I don’t think the chief would like that. Besides, he would have to come back eventually.”

  “And Joe doesn’t have any idea who would be so eager to
get him involved in Hershel’s death?”

  “No. The whole thing won’t be resolved until the chief catches the person who really murdered Hershel. Right now, it strikes me that the best way to do that would be to find out who was driving that black panel truck.”

  Aunt Nettie vigorously stirred the mixture in her copper kettle. She added the maple flavoring. ”Trey said he’d call back. Maybe he saw something.”

  It was an hour before I heard from Trey. He came in the door, looking more nerdy than ever. He seemed scrawnier. I wondered if he was losing weight, though he didn’t have any to lose. I motioned for him to come into the office.