The Chocolate Bear Burglary (10 page)

For this reason, Barbara never used her office for confidential conversations. And she also installed a fan in the ladies’ room that ran all the time, effectively covering the noise of flushing and hand washing, so these sounds wouldn’t be heard in her office.

When Barbara was given a new assignment, apparently no one had told her replacement about this little quirk. George used the manager’s office all the time, closing his door and assuming his conversations were private, whether the exhaust fan was on or not.

When I quizzed one of the women tellers about it, she giggled. “We
tried
to tell him,” she said.

Anyway, the more I looked at George and Olivia talking, the more I was dying to know what they were saying. I left my jacket and the file folder that held my bank records in my chair and went to the ladies’ room. When I entered the tiny room, the furnace was on, and its fan added to the background noise. I took the opportunity to reach up high and unplug Barbara’s specially installed exhaust fan. In a minute the furnace fan went off, and the next sound I heard was the voice of Olivia Hart VanHorn.

“You can assure Bob that Hart is definitely going to run,” she said.

She sounded as if she were right in the room with me. My heart pounded for a minute. It seemed impossible that she wouldn’t know I was listening.

George spoke. “To be honest, Mrs. VanHorn, that’s not what Hart said to me yesterday.”

Olivia spoke again. “I admit that my son has a serious handicap for a political candidate. Modesty. He sometimes doubts his own abilities. But I’ve helped him turn this into an advantage.”

“In what way?”

“Hart is never unwilling to share credit. And since the legislative process requires cooperation and . . .”

“Back-scratching?”

“Dickering. Trading favors.”

I stared at the vent. Maybe I should be feeling guilty, but I wasn’t. I felt curious. After all, I had accepted a date with Hart for the next night. If he and I were going to be friends, I had a right to know what others thought of him.

Sure, I did. I threw any qualms in the trash with all the used paper towels and extended my ear toward the heating vent.

George was speaking. “Bob says you’re the best politician in Michigan.” I realized the Bob he and Olivia had been talking about was his father-in-law, a well-known political and business figure in Michigan.

Olivia laughed a ladylike laugh. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s right. Michigan has a lot of expert politicians. But I have had experience in back-scratching, as you call it.”

“Why have you never run for office yourself?”

There was a pause before Olivia answered. “Perhaps I might have, George, if I were thirty years younger. But back when I convinced Vic he should seek office, it was still somewhat rare for women to enter the political arena. I would have had to get involved in the Equal Rights Amendment, in support or opposition of pro-choice legislation. I would have been smeared as a woman who neglected her son, her husband.”

Huh, I thought. Other women ran for office then. They made their positions known on those issues. You just wanted to be a kingmaker, the power behind the throne.

“No, I’ve always thought I made the right decision,” Olivia said. “I’ve been able to pursue my goals through my work with Vic, with the party. And now through Hart.”

“If Hart runs.”

“Oh, he’s going to run. Hart has a complete, perfect background for national office, beginning with Boy’s State and his success in high school debate. Then there was Harvard, study abroad, a law degree
and
a graduate degree stressing government theory. He handled the right kind of law cases, backed the right kind of legislation, supported the right social causes.”

George didn’t sound convinced. “Hart has the reputation—well, I’ve heard he’s been seeing . . .” His voice faded away, as if he couldn’t bear to finish the thought.

Olivia laughed. “You’re worried because Hart has never married. Well, he’s a perfectly normal man, and he sees lots of women. But Hart has had no serious entanglements. No scandals are going to surface. And he’s only thirty-five. I feel certain that soon Hart will find the right woman.”

Olivia sounded as if she already had the right woman picked out. And somehow I didn’t think that Hart’s wife would be a blond divorcée with a tangled tongue. Maybe I represented rebellion to Hart.

George stammered out a few unintelligible words, but Olivia kept talking. Her voice became more triumphant. “There are no skeletons in Hart’s closet. Absolutely none. Hart has the VanHorn looks and charisma and the Hart family’s drive, ambition, and brains. Hart is going to go far, George, and if you’re smart, you’ll go along with him.”

I was mesmerized. Then the furnace fan started again. It broke the spell I was under. With its noise as cover, I plugged in the exhaust van again. Then I dashed out of the restroom before George noticed the difference in the sound of the fan and I got caught. I sank into the chair where I’d left my jacket, whipped out my loan folder, and pretended to study the papers inside.

Wow! That Olivia VanHorn was something. Her ambition for Hart took my breath away; she obviously thought the U.S. House was just a step on the ladder. But she made me sad, too. Why had she turned that ambition loose on her husband and her son? She had even refused to serve in Congress when she had the chance, if what Mercy had said was right.

Aunt Nettie had thought Mercy Woodyard might be a difficult mother-in-law. Mercy would be a piece of cake compared to Olivia VanHorn. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go out with Hart after all. Maybe I’d be seen as a threat to his political career, and if I were, Olivia would trample me flat.

Though Hart did seem to have the gumption to stand up to her. At least he was hesitating to commit to a run for Congress, a run she’d plainly decided he was going to make, like it or not. It was going to be interesting to see who won.

But I think at that moment I knew—though it gave me a twinge of regret—that I was never going to be seriously interested in Hart VanHorn. I had my own problems.

In a few minutes I saw George helping Olivia into her mink jacket. She nodded to me regally as she left the bank, and George motioned me into his office.

I thought he might make some comment about Olivia, but he didn’t. He seemed troubled, and he barely spoke. I had no need to snow him with my figures; he didn’t try to talk me into refinancing at all. He merely accepted my check, and we both signed the papers for the loan extension—at the same interest rate. Then I gave him his chocolates and left.

I was back in my own office, still thinking about what I’d overheard, when the next commotion started.

The outside door to TenHuis Chocolade was opened so suddenly and with such force that it nearly flew back into one of the show windows. A figure hooded in emerald green dashed inside and slammed the door.

I stared. When the newcomer pushed her hood back, I saw that it was Gail Hess. She was panting slightly.

“Lee!” she said. “I just heard about the burglary! Is it true you and Jeff saw the burglar’s car? Tell me all about it!”

I
stared at Gail. “Are you just hearing about our excitement?”

“I went over to Lansing last night, so I could go to a sale this morning. I just got back. Mercy Woodyard told me about it. What happened?”

“We had a break-in. The molds are safe.”

“Thank God! What did they take?”

“Nothing. My former stepson—” Suddenly I realized Gail didn’t know anything about Jeff. I sighed. “It’s a long story. Let me start at the beginning.”

I sketched out Jeff’s arrival—leaving out his trying to break into our house—and ended with his interrupting the burglar.

“So the burglar might have been after the molds, Gail. That’s why Aunt Nettie and I want them out of here.”

Gail seemed to think deeply. “It could have been coincidence. I mean, why? Is it true you and your stepson got a look at the burglar’s car?”

“It was turning onto Blueberry before I saw it.”

Gail leaned over the counter, and—I swear—her eyes sparkled. “Mercy said that one of the taillights was out.”

Her reaction mystified me. “Jeff said one of them was. I didn’t get a good look.”

“So you don’t know what kind of car it was?”

“Jeff might. Guys that age are up on cars. He thought it was some kind of sports car.”

Gail looked at me with those bright, excited eyes. “It’s funny that the burglar came in through the front door. I’d have tried the alley, myself.”

“The door back there is steel and has a dead bolt. It would be almost impossible to get through. And the window has steel mesh. The front door may be more public, but it was a lot easier to break in.”

“It’s just lucky your stepson saw the burglar.”

“Yes. We owe Jeff a lot.”

“I guess he didn’t even know there was anything valuable in the shop.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, uh, Jeff’s mom owns an antique shop in Dallas. He did recognize the molds as collector’s items. The chief . . . well, he’ll have to know about that. But Jeff had no reason to break in.”

Gail smiled gleefully. “Of course he didn’t! It will probably be one of those unsolved crimes.” The thought seemed to delight her.

Gail took the box of molds and went back to her shop, still excited. But she’d left me down in the dumps again.

Gail’s questions had reminded me about Jeff. It was now after four o’clock, and we hadn’t heard a word from him.

I called the house. The phone rang eight times, and I was about to hang up when Jeff answered with a sullen, “Yeah.”

“Jeff? Were you still asleep?”

“No.” There was a long pause before Jeff went on. “Sorry I didn’t get down to work.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’d have come down, but that policeman showed up.”

“Policeman! What policeman?”

When Jeff answered, he didn’t sound quite as sullen. “Cherry? Officer Cherry? He wants me to go down to the police station, Lee.”

Was I imagining the slightly plaintive quality in Jeff’s voice? “Oh! I can meet you there.”

Then the tough Jeff was back on the phone. “Butt out!” he said. “It’s no big deal. I can handle it.”

He hung up.

He hung up on me? I made my mind up to quit feeling worried about Jeff and let him take care of himself. I angrily slammed a few things around on my desk. Then I tried to call both of Jeff’s parents one more time. Both were still unreachable. I even asked Rich’s British receptionist for Alicia Richardson, who had kept books for his company since it was founded. Alicia knew where all the bodies were buried. But she wasn’t there either. I still didn’t want to tell Miss Brit about Jeff’s problems.

My stomach lurched. How would Rich react if he learned his son had run away, come to Michigan, and gotten arrested for burglary? It was like a pit opening under my feet.

It was no good. I checked the time. It had been a half hour since I talked to Jeff. I was still worried about him. I decided to walk down to the Warner Pier City Hall and find out what was going on—even if Jeff didn’t want me to. I wanted to know what Police Chief Hogan Jones was up to.

Chief Jones is not your typical small-town lawman. He’d spent most of his career on a big-city force and had been headed up the final steps of the promotions ladder until Clementine Ripley, prominent defense attorney and Joe Woodyard’s ex-wife, turned him inside out on the witness stand. I don’t know all the details, but after that Hogan Jones retired and moved to Warner Pier, where he and his wife had long spent their vacations. A year later his wife died, and Jones, maybe feeling the need for a new interest in life, had taken the job as chief of Warner Pier’s police—in charge of all three patrolmen and a part-time secretary. He seemed to get along fine in Warner Pier, maybe because his retirement income wasn’t dependent on city politics. He was quite willing to tell the Warner Pier merchants and city officials where to get off. Consequently, they didn’t fool with him a lot.

I put on my ski jacket and hollered at Aunt Nettie to tell her where I was going, then I went out the front door.

Warner Pier’s business district is incredibly picturesque. One of the town’s attractions to tourists—besides great beaches, miles of marinas, and an art colony—is its Victorian ambiance. The town was founded in the 1830s, and by the 1860s and ’70s was a prosperous center for growing and shipping peaches. The captains of the lake steamers and the wealthy fruit growers built classic Victorian houses along the Warner River and on the bluffs along the lake. When the artsy crowd moved in during the 1890s, they added Craftsman-style homes and cottages. Luckily, the same families owned many of these for years, and sentiment prevailed; only a few of them had been “modernized”—another word for “ruined” in the view of the historic-preservation crowd.