The chocolate frog frame-up: a chocoholic mystery

by JoAnna Carl

  “That’s almost exactly what he did!” We all jumped as Dolly Jolly’s voice boomed out.

  “Oh!” I said. “The chief told me that you saw more than you realized. Was that what you saw?”

  “Didn’t see him bending the canoe! Saw him dragging it up onto the lawn!” She turned to Joe. “He painted a board red and nailed it to a tree!”

  “Sure! He needed painted that would match the runabout. That makes perfect sense.”

  Dolly Jolly cleared her throat. She helped herself to an amaretto truffle (milk chocolate interior flavored with almond liqueur). “Don’t want all of you to think I’m just a snoop! The owners of Gray Gables – cousins of this Trey Corbett – they asked me to look around, keep an eye on the property! Think they realized he’d been using the boathouse for some private project. One reason they rented me the old cottage!”

  We all nodded wisely. It seemed logical that Trey’s relatives would have been suspicious.

  “Meanwhile,” I said, “I guess Trey lured Hershel to Gray Gables, hit him in the head, and left him unconscious. He must have planned to throw him in the water and leave him to drown.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “He’d already sent me off to Saugatuck so I wouldn’t have an alibi. But Hershel must have come to and staggered off. As I understand head injuries, Hershel may not have remembered what happened to him, but he probably knew it was something bad. But this was Hershel, wasn’t always logical even when he hadn’t been hit in the head. Instead of calling an ambulance or the cops or going to Ms. Jolly’s house for help, he got across the river somehow. Maybe just walked across on the Haven Road bridge. He was probably headed for the old chapel.”

  “Which,” I said, “Patsy said he regarded as a refuge.”

  “Right,” Joe said. “He hid in the woods around the chapel, then tried to get hold of Nettie, because he trusted her.”

  Aunt Nettie shook her head sadly. “But Trey found him before Lee and I did.”

  Joe went on. “Trey knew that Hershel saw the old chapel as a hideout. He’d probably been looking for him there ever since Hershel disappeared. He might not have been too worried about him being found alive. People wouldn’t believe anything Hershel said.”

  The party broke up not too long after that. There were ramifications afterward, of course.

  First, Meg left town that night, and as far as I know has never been seen in Warner Pier again. I now believe she told Trey she’d had an affair with Joe to make her husband jealous. That would be in line with the “tricky” philosophy she told me was the best way to deal with men.

  She obviously knew about Trey’s plan to build the snazzy resort hotel; I’ve always suspected he came up with the project because Meg wanted him to make some real money. But Trey denied she was involved in the murder and the murderous attacks on Joe and me, so she got away. If the Corbett family helped her or Trey, they didn’t do it publicly.

  As for her relationship with Joe when they were in high school, Joe asks me if I wanted to know more, and I declined. We’ve never mentioned Meg again, and I don’t plan to bring her up. I hope I’m not as stupid as Trey.

  Dolly Jolly came by TenHuis Chocolade a few days later and asked if the apartment over Aunt Nettie’s shop would be available for rent the next fall.

  “I don’t usually rented in the winter,” Aunt Nettie said.

  “I’ve decided to stay in Warner Pier year-round!” Dolly said. “Living over a chocolate factory sure would smell good! Hope to find a job!”

  “What kind of job are you interested in?”

  “Food! Food related!”

  So that situation looks interesting.

  A week after Trey was arrested a house painter named John Adolph called the County Sheriff to report that someone had broken into his storage building and stolen his black Dodge panel truck. He’d been on vacation and had just missed it. Why, yes, he said, he had done several painting jobs for Trey Corbett’s projects, and, yes, Trey was familiar with his workshop and knew where he stored his equipment. The panel truck turned up late the next October, after the leaves began to fall, in a ravine about a mile from Gray Gables. Fake numbers had been painted on its tag, with the zeros turned into eights.

  As for Frank and Patsy, they’re still together. If he’s drinking and staying out nights, Greg Glossop hasn’t spread the word yet.

  Joe says he suspected that Frank had been mishandling Hershel’s trust. When the final accounting was made the judge asked some pointed questions – or so Joe heard over at the courthouse. But in the end Frank wasn’t accused of any misdeeds.

  But all that was later. The big discussion between Joe and me came the night Trey was arrested. I’d stayed to lock the shop up after our little chocolate coffee brandy gathering. Joe stayed, too, because he’d left his boat at gray Gables, and he needed a ride home.

  As Mike went out the front door, he clapped Joe on the shoulder and said, “I am relieved to have this settled. Now we’ll put our discussion item back on the workshop agenda. Ten a.m. Wednesday. City Hall.”

  Joe just nodded, but I stopped Mike. “What are you all conspicuous about? I mean, conspiring! What are you conspiring about?”

  Mike grinned happily. “Lee, you’re so funny!” Then he spoke to Joe. “I guess you keep her around for laughs, right?”

  “Actually,” Joe said, “she never does that when were alone.” Then Mike left, and I locked the front door.

  While I was locking up I realized that Joe had spoken the truth. I rarely made my verbal gaffes when he and I were by ourselves. Why was that?

  I didn’t try to answer my own question. I wanted to ask Joe about this “agenda item” Mike had mentioned. Joe had gone out the alley door and was standing between my van and our dumpster.

  I followed him out into the alley and locked the door. Then I demanded an explanation. “Joe, what are you and Mike up to?”

  “Up to?”

  “Don’t act innocent. He’s made several references to this mysterious ‘agenda item,’ and you even called him once and talked about it.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. That. What’s going on?”

  “Warner Pier has never had a city attorney. They just hire somebody if they need legal counsel. Now Mike’s going to recommend that they put someone on retainer. Just part time. I’m going to apply for the job. But Hershel’s death put a crimp in our plans. They couldn’t hire me if I was involved with a crime.”

  “But you said you never wanted to practice law again. You gave me all this stuff about the sanctity of craftsmanship and the morality of boat restoration.”

  Joe laughed. “I’m trying to have my craftsmanship and eat it, too. Warner Pier isn’t exactly swamped with legal problems. I think I can read over the contracts and warn the city councillors that they’re about to break the law without giving up Vintage boats.”

  “I don’t like that. You’re already handling two full-time jobs – winding up at the Ripley estate and the boat shop. Now you’re going to take on another job part time?”

  “The problem with the two jobs I have now is that neither of them pays on a regular basis. The boats pay when you finish a job or when you sell a boat. The Ripley estate, as you know, doesn’t pay at all, since I’m still determined not to take any money on that deal. Oh, I’m keeping track of my expenses – lunch, mileage, phone calls. But my real aim is to get the estate in good enough shape that I can give the Warner Point property to the city.”

  He tugged at my hand until I was facing him. “Don’t tell anyone that, okay? Not even Mike. I may not be able to work it out, so I can’t make a commitment.”

  “Did anybody ever tell you you’re an awfully nice guy?”

  “I’m a guy who feels guilty. The city should have had that property all along. In a way, I was responsible for Clementine’s deciding to build a summer place here and snagging the property out from under Mike’s nose. It’s simply a matter of justice. But her estate is so far in debt I may not be able to bri
ng it off. I’ve had one offer, and I may yet have to sell it. So please don’t say anything.”

  I kissed him. He kissed me back. After a few moments of this, he spoke. Actually, he swore.

  “Dammit! I went to a lot of trouble – moonlight rides, trips up the river for dinner – so we could have this conversation in a romantic setting. And we wind up having it leaning on a dumpster!”

  I laughed. “I don’t see anything particularly romantic about your taking a third job. I barely fit into your schedule as it is.”

  “The point of the city job is really you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve made me realize that I don’t want to live in one room in the back of a boat shop for the rest of my life. I might even want to get married.”

  “Oh.” I gulped.

  “Or I might if I could interest the right person,” Joe said.

  “You probably could,” I said. “But people who’ve made one bad decision are sometimes scared of making another.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “I don’t pull my malapropisms when were alone. Maybe that means I feel safe. Are you scared?”

  “Terrified. I’m scared of losing you.” He kissed me again. “We don’t have to rush into anything, but I don’t want to wait forever.”

  ” No,” I said. “Not forever.”

  CHOCOLATE CHAT

  _________________

  DUTCHING LEADS TO CHOCOLATE BARS

  Dutch chocolate maker Coenraad Johannes van Houten revolutionized the drinking of chocolate. Van Houten invented what Americans call cocoa, patenting his process in 1826.

  Van Houten first used a hydraulic press to reduce the percentage of cacao fat in his product. The resulting powder was then treated with alkaline salts, a process known as “Dutching.” This improves its ability to be mixed, though it does not make it dissolve more easily.

  Van Houten’s new process mentioned the old thick beverage, which required frequent stirring, was now much easier to prepare and only needed to be stirred now and then. His process also meant that cocoa and chocolate could now be produced on a large scale. Chocolate was no longer the elite, expensive drink and food it had been.

  In 1847 the British firm of JS Frey and sons developed a method of mixing cocoa powder, sugar, and melted cacao butter into a product that could be cast in a mold.

  The chocolate bar was born and the taste buds of chocoholics have been grateful ever since.

  Table of Contents

  He sounded calm. "What are you talking about, Hershel?"

  Hershel Perkins did not sound calm. He was almost shouting. "It's about the old Root Beer Barrel. Don't try to act innocent!"

  "The old drive-in? I'm trying to sell it."

  "Yes, you money-grubbing piece of..."

  Those were fighting words to Joe, I knew, because Joe—who happens to be my boyfriend—was in a financial hole right at the moment. It's a long story, but he needed money, even if he had to grub for it, and the sale of the dilapidated and abandoned drive-in restaurant might be the raft that kept his business afloat.

  Joe raised his voice just a little when he answered. "What is your interest in this, Hershel?"

  "I hear you might tear it down!"

  "Tear it down? It's already fallen down."

  "It's a piece of history!"

  "History?" Joe sounded puzzled, as well as annoyed. "It's a bunch of boards lying in a parking lot. It's junk."

  I was all the way inside the post office now, and I could see Hershel. He seemed to be puffing himself up. Not that Hershel was all that small. He was at least five nine, just a few inches shorter than I am. He was around forty, with a broad face and a wide narrow lipped mouth that made him look like a frog. It was a resemblance he seemed to relish—he combed his thin hair flat and always wore green shirts, flannel in winter and cotton in summer. Even his voice was a froglike croak, and he went places in a green canoe named the Toadfrog.

  He gave an angry grunt. "Junk! You call it junk? It's vernacular architecture!"

  Joe laughed.

  Hershel went nuts. He rasped out incoherent phrases. Words like "typical commercial," "innovation," "rehabilitation,"‘ "Social geography," and "culturally significant. None of it made sense to me—and I was willing to bet it didn't make sense to Hershel, either. Hershel is not one of the brightest bulbs shining on Warner Pier, Michigan.

  Joe tried to talk over the ranting, which meant he had to raise his voice. "Hershel, I already talked to the Planning Department. The Historic District commission has no interest in that property since the building was destroyed by an act of God".

  Hershel kept up the angry bullfrog act, although hollering out "architectural ethnicity!" is not an effective way to argue.

  Finally Joe did absolutely the worst thing he could have done—even worse than laughing. He turned his back on Hershel and reached for his post office box.

  Hershel gave a loud roar and began to pummel Joe's shoulders with both fists.

  Joe whirled around, throwing up his elbows to protect his face. Then he caught hold of Hershel's arms—first the left and then the right—and he whirled again. He pinned Hershel against the wall of post office boxes, almost the way he had pinned his opponents to the mat in the days when he was a high school wrestling champ.

  Hershel finally shut up.

  "Hershel," Joe said very quietly, "You can't go around hitting people. Get in your canoe and paddle home."

  A couple of Warner Pier locals—one of them Hershel's brother-in-law, Frank Waterloo—appeared beside Joe. From the back of the room I heard another deep voice, this one smooth and slightly accented with Spanish. It was our mayor, Mike Herrera. "Yes, Hershel," he said, "pleeze go home. We have a forum for discussion of theese design matters. You can bring it up at the Preservation Commission. There ees no need to battle it out here. Not weeth all our summer visitors as weetnesses."

  The altercation had upset Mike. I could tell by his long "E's." Mike was born in Texas, and his accent usually tends more toward a Southwestern drawl than Spanglish.

  Frank Waterloo, who's a bald, hulking guy, made his voice soft and gentle as he spoke to his brother- in-law. "Let's go, Hershel," he said.

  Joe let go of Hershel. Hershel eyed the ring of guys around him I swear he flicked his tongue in and out like a frog after flies. Then he walked slowly toward the street door, ignoring Frank. After Hershel pulled the door open, he paused and looked back. "That's what you say!" he said hoarsely.

  He went outside, followed by Frank, then poked his head back in for a final croak. "I'll file charges!"

  And he was gone. Nervous laughter swept the post office, and a couple of guys went over to Joe and assured him they'd back him up if Hershel filed any kind of complaint.

  "The guy's crazy," Trey Corbett said. "The Historic District Commission has no interest in seeing the Root Beer Barrel rebuilt." Trey is a member of the commission.

  "You haven't voted yet," Joe said.

  Trey ran a hand over his thin, wispy hair and adjusted his thick glasses. To me Trey looks like a middle-aged boy. He's only in his mid-thirties, but his worried expression and nerdy appearance make him look as if he ought to be older. He doesn't sport a pocket protector, but he looks as if he should.

  Trey shook his head. "Besides, Hershel hit you first. You only punched him in self-defense."

  "Joe didn't punch him at all," I said. "He just griped—I mean 'grabbed'! He grabbed him. " No harm in getting that idea foremost in the public mind right away.

  Mike Herrera said, "Joe, you, handled it as well as you could. But we sure doan want any gossip right at this point, do we?"

  I wondered what that meant, but I decided this wasn't a good time to ask. So I spoke to Joe. "Are you hurt?"

  Joe shook his head. I'm fine, Lee." He turned to Mike and Trey. "Let's forget it. Hershel's just a harmless crank."

  "He's a crank," Trey said. "But that doesn't mean he's harmless. Some cranks wind up walking up and down the str
eets with an Uzi."

  "I'm no mental health expert;" Joe said. "See you later." He turned to me. "You going back to the shop?"

  "Oh, yeah. I'm there till closing."

  "I'll walk down with you."

  I dumped my invoices into the proper slot while. Joe closed his post office box and stuck his mail in his shirt pocket. We walked down Pear Avenue toward TenHuis Chocolade. TenHuisit— rhymes with "ice"— is where my aunt, Nettie TenHuis, makes the finest European-style luxury bonbons, truffles, and molded chocolate in the world and where I'd be on duty until after nine o'clock.

  The Fourth of July, when the biggest invasion of tourists hits the beaches of Lake Michigan, was still more than a week away, but the sidewalks of Warner Pier were crowded, and cars, vans, and SUVs were parked bumper to bumper. The three classes of Warner Pier society were out in force.

  The first class is the tourists—people who visit Warner Pier for a day or a week and who rent rooms in the local motels or bed-and-breakfast inns. They were dressed in shorts or jeans with T-shirts—lots of them touting either colleges ("M Go Blue") or vacation spots ("Mackinac Island Bridge"). The tourists wander idly, admiring the Victorian ambiance of Dock Street, giggling at the sayings on the bumper stickers in the window of the novelty shop, licking ice-cream cones and nibbling at fudge, pointing at the antiques ("Gramma had one just like that, and you threw it away!"), and discussing the prices at the Warner Winery's shop. They buy postcards or sunscreen or T shirts, and sometimes antiques or artwork or expensive kitchen gadgets.