The Chocolate Book Bandit (7 page)

“I’m not asking for one! You can investigate all you want! Do you want to search me? My car? My house? Go for it! But I did not take that envelope. And I don’t appreciate your not taking my word for it.”

I stood up. “And now I’m leaving. Unless I need to get a lawyer.”

“Go! Go! We’re obviously not getting anywhere. But unless that envelope turns up, I’ll have to ask you about it again.”

I walked out. Out of Hogan’s office and out of the police station. I was so angry with Hogan that I think I had tears in my eyes.

And the reason I was so angry with Hogan was that I was angry with Joe over his meeting with Meg. Yes, it was illogical. One situation had nothing to do with the other. But I couldn’t yell at Joe, so I yelled at Hogan. It was stupid, but that’s the way I felt.

I considered going home, where I could rant, rave, and cry in private. I wanted to bang my head against one of the show windows of the stores I was walking past. I wanted to bang Joe’s head against one of those show windows. I was worried, and I didn’t have the slightest idea how to deal with my problem.

But I didn’t go home. I went to TenHuis Chocolade, and the aroma of chocolate swept over me as I went in the door. Instead of being tempting and soothing, as it usually is, it made me feel nauseated.

I must be sick. I decided I would go home after all. I’d just take the rest of the day off. I’d go home and feel sorry for myself.

I started into the workroom, so I could tell Aunt Nettie I was leaving.

But the counter girl caught me. “Lee,” she said, “you have a visitor.”

I must have looked dismayed. I carefully turned my back on the glass cubicle that held my desk. “Who is it?” I said.

The girl leaned close. “It’s that old teacher,” she said. “Miss Vanderklomp.”

My heart sank. I didn’t want to see anybody at all, and I definitely didn’t want to see Miss Vanderklomp.

But it was too late. I heard her voice. “Mrs. Woodyard! Mrs. Woodyard!”

I turned toward her. I couldn’t force a smile, but I tried to look pleasant. “Hello, Miss Vanderklomp.” I walked into the office, dragging my feet as if I were going to the guillotine, and sat down behind my desk. “How can I help you?”

Miss Vanderklomp adjusted her bra straps and picked up her water holder, the one that supposedly held Pepsi. “I need some information,” she said, “and it occurred to me that you might be able to help me.”

“If I can. What did you need to know?”

“I gather that the law enforcement officials are likely to search the basement of the library.”

“I imagine they’ve already done that.”

Miss Vanderklomp looked startled. “What? There were no official cars there this morning. Would they have searched during the night?”

Belatedly I remembered that no official announcement had been made on the cause of Abigail Montgomery’s death. Miss Vanderklomp probably believed that she died in an accident. Besides, she apparently knew nothing about police procedure, so she wouldn’t understand the significance of searching the basement.

I also remembered that Hogan had asked me not to reveal what he believed was the real cause of death.

“Well, you see . . .” I stuttered around. “Hogan called in the state police’s lab men just to look the situation over. They were there last night. So while the scene was fresh, I imagine they went over it pretty thoroughly.”

Miss Vanderklomp looked affronted. “I really cannot imagine that valuable police skills and time were spent on the scene of an accidental death.”

“Yes, it’s hard to understand.”

“That basement is extensive. My grandfather used to store produce in it.” Miss Vanderklomp chuckled. “I hardly think they would search the entire room.”

“I wouldn’t want to guess at how extensive their search was. I know they were working there last night for several hours.”

“Hmmm. The basement door is now marked as off-limits, sealed with that yellow tape. How soon do you think they will permit access to library board members and volunteers?”

“I have no idea. Miss Vanderklomp, why are you asking me all these questions? You need to be asking Chief Jones directly.”

Miss Vanderklomp gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t want to bother him.”

So you bother me instead? I resisted the temptation to throw something at her.

“The chief is the only one who knows what’s going on in the investigation into Mrs. Montgomery’s death. If you want an authoritative answer, you’ll have to ask him.”

“Why do they need some detailed investigation? It was just an accidental death!”

“The cause of death won’t be official until the medical examiner rules on it. The medical examiner must have come last night, but apparently there won’t be an official ruling until they’ve completed an autopsy.”

That was as close as I could come to telling her Abigail Montgomery had been murdered. But she didn’t seem to catch on. She looked horrified, true, but it apparently wasn’t the idea of murder that caused her reaction.

“An autopsy?”

“Perhaps not a complete autopsy, but a pathologist will be determining the cause of death.”

“I’m shocked! I can’t believe that a man of Hart VanHorn’s influence will permit that.”

“Hart’s an attorney. He knows that they have to follow the law.”

“But you’re making it sound as if Abigail’s death involved some sort of . . .” Miss Vanderklomp paused and lowered her voice. “Some sort of foul play.”

“Until the medical examiner rules on a cause of death and the state police report on their preliminary findings, that remains a possibility.”

“But it’s ridiculous!” She lowered her voice some more. Apparently I was to receive an important confidence. “I have some important personal items stored in that basement. I need to access them.”

“You can talk to Chief Jones. He might let you in.”

“Would he want to accompany me?”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Vanderklomp bit her lip. “I need to visit the basement privately.”

“Miss Vanderklomp, I really have nothing to do with all this. I’m just describing what I’ve learned by watching other investigations and by talking to Chief Jones in an informal way. You need to take this up with him directly.”

“Oh no!” She leaped to her feet. “No, that would never do.”

She left the office without another comment. I belatedly realized that I hadn’t even offered her chocolate.

I also realized—as my temper cooled—that the whole episode cast an odd light on Miss Vanderklomp. She had acted unsure of herself. She had been hesitant to call Hogan and demand what she wanted. She didn’t seem to want to talk to him, much less request any favors.

Why? Why was the dominant and domineering Miss Ann Vanderklomp—fabled for her imitation of a human bulldozer—hesitant to call her city’s police chief and ask a favor? Normally I’d expect her to march into the police station and make demands.

A thought came to me, but I brushed it away. It was impossible. Miss Vanderklomp acted as if she were afraid.

I assured myself that couldn’t be true. It would be completely out of character. But what else could explain her attitude? Miss Vanderklomp had definitely wanted into that basement before the police got there. The news that they’d probably already searched it had been unwelcome. It hadn’t exactly sent her into a panic, but she sure hadn’t liked it.

Maybe I should have told her that she had nothing to worry about. Butch and I were the obvious suspects.

I got to my feet, still determined to go home and eat worms. What a lousy day this had been. And what could I do about it? I couldn’t think of anything.

I told Aunt Nettie I was leaving, instructed the counter girl to catch the telephone, and headed out. I don’t think I even knew where I was going. The rednecks who hang out in my dad’s garage back in Texas would have said I was lower than a snake’s belly.

I simply had to do something to cheer up.

So I went to the beach.

Our house is on Lake Shore Drive. Every town around Lake Michigan has a Lakeshore Drive or a Lake Shore Drive. Our house is on the inland, or low-rent side. Property with lake views is a lot more valuable, but our side is fine. We can walk to a public-access area of the beach in ten minutes, and we don’t have to pay the taxes the people with a view of the water do.

So I drove to Beech Tree Public Access Area, the beach near our house. The day was sunny, the autumn light was beautiful, the foliage was beginning to turn gorgeous, and that afternoon the temperature was in the mid-sixties. I kicked off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, went down the stairs to the beach, and walked in the sand.

My situation seemed a little better already. Okay, I asked myself, what’s the worst thing that can happen?

Well, Joe could leave me for Meg. The thought made me feel as if I’d been kicked in the middle.

But awful as that would be, I knew I’d go on living. I wouldn’t live very happily, but I’d still breathe and sleep and eat and survive, just as I would if someone close to me died.

What could I do about that situation? First, I wasn’t remotely sure that was a threat. Second, if it was a threat, I didn’t exactly understand what Meg’s attraction was, so I wasn’t sure how to counter it. And if Joe was involved with Meg, did I even want him back? Would our relationship be destroyed in any case?

That situation was the worst thing I had to face, and all I had was a bunch of questions and no answers. I decided to worry about something else.

The other problem of the day was how the detectives investigating Abigail Montgomery’s death could think I had interfered with their evidence.

I considered the missing evidence, the letter that had disappeared. Was I really suspected of taking it? Nah, I told myself. That wasn’t too likely. Hogan knows—in his heart of hearts—that I wouldn’t do that. They might ask me a bunch of questions, but I was telling the truth. I hadn’t taken the mysterious letter addressed to Henry C. Whoever.

Did the missing letter make me a suspect in her death?

It was hard to believe that I’d be a suspect in Abigail’s death at all, since I had never met the woman while she was alive. But I knew from my association with Hogan that one of the main factors in a murder investigation was opportunity. MOM, he said. Means, opportunity, and motive.

Well, the means of Abigail’s death—the rod from the magazine rack—was handy for anybody who went into the basement and wanted to use it. And I certainly had the opportunity. I could easily have wandered down there before the library board meeting began.

Anybody who had been in the library building before the board meeting could have gone into the basement, met Abigail, quarreled with her, and hit her in the head with a handy wooden rod.

But I had no motive at all.

I walked along, sticking to the sandy areas of the beach and avoiding the rocky areas. Those rocks might have been smoothed by the ancient glaciers, but they were mighty hard on bare feet. I kept my head down, looking at where I was stepping.

Which will have to be my excuse for almost falling over someone I knew.

I had become vaguely aware that someone was sitting on a driftwood log ahead of me, but I had my head ducked, so I hadn’t taken in any details.

I was within fifteen feet of the person when I heard a deep voice. “Hello, Mrs. Woodyard. Lee.”

I looked up and saw Butch Cassidy.

“Oh! I didn’t see you. I mean, I didn’t see who was there. What a coherence! I mean, what a coincidence.”

“I guess we both felt the need for a little fresh air after our sessions with the cops.”

“I often come here. It’s close to our house.” I walked a step closer. “Where are you living?”

“For the moment I’m in a place owned by Rhonda Ringer-Riley. She calls it a summer rental. I think this means I need to get out before the first hard freeze.”

I smiled, but I was afraid that he was right. The Ringer-Riley place—a house with several small cottages Rhonda rented to tourists—was a mile south of us on Lake Shore Drive.

“Do you have heat?”

“Yes, there’s an electric heater. So far the house has been very comfortable. And I have lake access. I walked up the shore. I hope I’m not trespassing.”

“I think you’re legal. As I understand it, the water and the area right along it are public, so anybody can walk up and down. You might have trouble if you go up toward one of the houses along the bluff.”

I turned to see exactly where we were and saw the corner of a large brick house about thirty feet above us. “Oh, golly! We’re right beside Abigail Montgomery’s house. Talk about fate! She’s haunting us.”

Butch groaned, put his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head to his hands. “What a mess!”

Butch was attractive even when he was discouraged. I gave a silly giggle. “Don’t despair! If you’re worried about that letter—well, I imagine that Lieutenant Underwood dropped it on the way to the car. Eventually they’ll figure out that it had nothing to do with either of us.”

Butch looked up. “Oh, they’ll figure it out sooner, rather than later. I’ve decided I have to go explain.”

“Explain?”

“Yes. When everybody dropped to their knees to look for your keys . . . Well, the letter was the second thing in the bin of plastic envelopes. I just slid it inside my jacket and walked off with it. I’m the one who took the mysterious letter.”