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Authors: Joanna Carl

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BOOK: The Chocolate Book Bandit
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Chapte
r 9

When I got to the kitchen, my brain felt as if it were the same consistency as the potatoes I was mashing.

Joe was on the defensive about Meg. There were two obvious reasons. One, he was sexually attracted to her. Two, he felt protective about her because of their youthful relationship.

And maybe both were a factor. But in any case, this could be a crisis for our marriage.

Although Joe had been railing at his mother’s attitude toward Meg, I was aware that his anger was also directed toward me. Joe thought I had much the same attitude toward Meg that his mother did. He was trying to avoid an open quarrel with me, but he saw how unhappy I was about Meg’s reappearance, and he resented it.

Joe usually handles his life very sensibly, but he’d blown it over the matter of Meg.

Why hadn’t he just told me Meg had showed up as a client and he took her to lunch? Why did he get mad when I talked to him about her? I’d tried to be rational and nonaccusatory, but he’d gone into this tirade about his mom being prejudiced against Meg—eighteen years ago.

Was it because he and Meg had begun an affair? The suspicion stabbed me right in the gizzard, but I forced myself to face it.

And I decided it was unlikely. Joe admitted that, as a college jock, he had not been in the habit of going home alone. But he seemed to have lost his taste for casual sex in his mid-twenties, before he married for the first time.

No, what worried me about Meg wasn’t that she and Joe might visit the local motel for a quickie. It was that Meg touched Joe on a much deeper level. I was afraid he might fall in love with her.

For that matter, did I have the right to suspect Joe of unfaithfulness when I’d spent much of the previous evening and the current day feeling lustful toward another man?

Well, I hadn’t considered doing anything about it. Anything specific. Except tell the law enforcement authorities an out-and-out lie.

Would I have done that if I hadn’t been strongly attracted to Butch Cassidy?

Heck, no!

I growled. The whole thing was too big a mess for me to figure out on an empty stomach. I mashed the potatoes hard, then added milk and butter and whipped the dickens out of them. Food. I needed food. Specifically, down-home Texas comfort food.

“Dinner,” I said loudly, “is served.”

Chicken-fried steak, cream gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Yum. Yum. This might not be as comforting a meal to Joe as it is to me, since he was brought up in Michigan, and that state’s semiofficial favorite dish is brats and sauerkraut. But no person with operational taste buds can say chicken-fried steak isn’t good. Joe got to the table as soon as I did, and we both chowed down.

This is not a meal I cook often. Too many calories. It’s a once-in-a-while treat, unless the diners are spending their days digging ditches. With shovels. But when you need comfort, it’s the best.

Worried as I was, I hadn’t lost my appetite, and Joe hadn’t lost his either. We had both cleaned our plates when headlights flashed on the living room windows.

“Were you expecting anybody?” Joe looked out the window. “Like Hogan?”

My heart sank. I assumed that Hogan had come by to talk to me. He must not be buying my story about finding the missing letter in the bottom of my purse.

I heard a car door slam. Just one door. At least Hogan had come alone. He hadn’t dragged Lieutenant Larry Underwood along. I’d have to lie to only one person.

However, that person was a man I loved and respected like a second father.

But I had to do it. I was committed. To Butch.

I took a deep breath and opened the back door. “Hi,” I said. “Have you had dinner?”

“Nettie fed me.”

“We’re ready for dessert, and I was thinking about putting on the coffeepot. Want to join us?”

Hogan sighed as he came in the door. “Coffee sounds pretty good, Lee. If I have a cup, maybe I’ll figure out a way to convince Larry Underwood that you don’t know anything about our new homicide.”

“Well, that ought to be simple, since I really don’t know anything about it.”

Hogan was in the house before I got a look at Joe’s face. He’d completely lost his deadpan expression.

That’s when I realized that Joe still thought that Abigail Montgomery died from a fall down the stairs. We hadn’t talked about it the previous evening, in front of Tim, and apparently he hadn’t heard anything about it that day.

But when Joe spoke, his voice was calm. Maybe even cold. “I can’t believe Lee thought you might suspect she was mixed up in a homicide, Hogan. We’ve been talking for an hour, and she’s never mentioned it.”

I’d been chided.

Hogan looked from one of us to the other.

I turned away and got the coffeepot. “Joe, if you’d clear the table, it would be a big help,” I said.

The three of us talked about the weather or some similar subject until the coffee was made, the dishes from the table were in the sink, and I’d put a dozen TenHuis chocolates on a plate. I sublimated all thoughts of murder and thought about foil-wrapped autumn leaves and Asian spice truffles (“milk chocolate centers flavored with ground ginger and enrobed with milk chocolate”). Of course, the truffles I offered were not decorated the way they should have been, and the designs on the autumn leaves had smudged. Everybody makes a mistake now and then, and chocolate-company employees get to bring home the unsellable stuff for free. I’m definitely too cheap to pay even employee-discount rates just to get out of making dessert.

After we were settled in the living room with our coffee and goodies, I quickly jumped in before Hogan could and asked the first question. “You’re now calling Abigail Montgomery’s death a homicide. The last time I saw you, it was still a probable homicide. So I gather you have new evidence.”

“We got a preliminary report from the medical examiner. The fatal wound definitely did not come from falling down the stairs.”

I shuddered. “Is the wooden stick from the newspaper rack the weapon?”

“The tests aren’t complete, but that seems likely.”

“Did I ruin the fingerprints?”

“Yours were the only ones on it. I think it had been thoroughly wiped before you picked it up.”

Joe was looking more and more amazed. “How did I miss all this?”

I tried not to sound sarcastic. “You haven’t been around.”

Yes, the night before, Joe had gone to bed without speaking to me, and that morning he’d left while I was still in bed. Our predinner conversation had been on another important matter. Communication had been lacking.

“Besides,” I said, “Hogan said he didn’t want it to be public knowledge.” I quickly asked Hogan another question. “Has any particular suspect emerged?”

“It’s got to be one of the people who were at the library yesterday evening.”

“Nobody could have snuck in the back way?”

“It doesn’t seem likely. And the general public wasn’t present. The custodian at that church across the alley was working outside, and he didn’t see anybody.”

“People were lined up to check out books as I came in.”

“Yes, and because they checked out books, we knew who they were. Apparently all of them had gone out the front door before Mrs. Montgomery went down to the basement.”

“How do you know?”

“Mrs. Blake checked out books, and Cassidy locked and unlocked the door to let people out. Their remembrances match. Mrs. Blake remembers Mrs. Montgomery being there after the other library patrons left.” Hogan took a drink of coffee. I started to ask another question, but he waved me into silence.

“Now it’s my turn. First, I’m still trying not to make a general announcement on the cause of death until it’s firm. I talked to Hart VanHorn, and the family is going along with that. So I’d appreciate it if neither of you would mention this.”

We both nodded, and Hogan spoke again. “Tell me about finding that letter. In your purse.”

“Hogan, I have no idea how it got there.” First lie.

“How did you find it?”

“Well, I left the office early—”

“Why?”

“I just couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t really have a reason.”

“Where did you go?”

“Down to the beach.” I continued with the story I’d decided on ahead of time. I went to the beach and parked in the public area. I tossed my purse into the floor of the front seat, locked the van, and walked down to the water. When I came back to the van, the purse had fallen over, and I saw the plastic sleeve with the letter in it sticking out of the purse.

I even threw in a little uncertainty—“I don’t know how long I was walking up and down the beach, but it wasn’t more than half an hour.” That was to show that I hadn’t made the story up ahead of time. And I refrained from looking at Hogan as if I wasn’t sure he would believe me.

Hogan didn’t call me a liar. I guess that’s the best I could say. I finished up with an apology.

“Hogan, of course I knew you were looking for that letter, and I feel like an idiot for having it all the time. I guess I just stuffed it in my purse when we were looking for the keys—absentmindedly. I certainly did not know it was in there.”

Hogan asked a few more questions. Had I left the purse unattended anytime today? Could someone else have put the letter in it? I said I didn’t think so. I didn’t remember any such opportunity.

Finally, Hogan rubbed his eyes. “Larry Underwood isn’t going to be happy with this.”

“Tough,” I said. “It’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.” Part of me hoped I could do that, and part of me was sure I couldn’t. But I had to try.

“Larry doesn’t like oddball remembrances. I’d like to tell you that you’re off the list of suspects, but he’s not going to go for that.”

“I never even met Abigail Montgomery,” I said. “I had no reason to kill her.”

“I know. But this letter—disappearing and reappearing—is going to make him wonder.”

Hogan stood up. “Of course, you might make a better impression on Larry if you came up with some other information.”

“I’ve told you everything I know. What other information does he want?”

“I guess you’d call it the local gossip. You know. Who got along with who. Which board members were buddy-buddy, and which ones never spoke.”

“How would I know all that? I’m not even on the library board yet! I haven’t had any opportunity to see how they interact.”

“Well, I hear they’re having a special meeting tomorrow.”

“Nobody’s invited me. And, besides, the library board is a public body. You can go yourself.”

“You’re a smart gal, Lee. It would be interesting to hear your impression of what goes on when they all get together.”

“Hogan! Are you asking me to spy on the library board members?”

“Not spy, Lee. Just do your duty as a citizen.” Hogan patted my shoulder. “That way I can assure Larry Underwood that you’re on our side.”

“Of course I’m on your side!”

“He may be a little hard to convince. I mean, he may feel that you weren’t as forthcoming as you might have been over that missing letter.” Hogan patted my shoulder. “Just don’t let any of the board members lure you down to the cellar.”

Joe walked Hogan out to his car, and I started putting pots and pans in the dishwasher. Not the cast-iron skillet, of course. I was rubbing that out with a paper towel when Joe came back inside. He leaned casually against the kitchen door.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the deal on this letter Hogan was talking about?”

C
hapter 10

This was going to be tricky.

To be honest—so to speak—I’d pictured lying to Hogan about the letter, but I hadn’t prepared myself to lie to Joe.

But what choice did I have? I could hardly tell him I fell in lust with a total stranger and on the spur of the moment decided that I’d help him lie to law enforcement authorities, including one I was related to.

So I stood there silently, continuing to scrub the remnants of chicken-fried steak out of the iron skillet, and Joe spoke again. “Why didn’t you mention this, Lee? It seems sort of important.”

I still didn’t have an answer. So Joe tried again. “You never mentioned being a witness in a murder case. Instead we bickered about Meg Corbett—who doesn’t matter a crap to us.”

I shot a glance at him. Meg didn’t matter a crap to us? Had all my worry been for nothing? Or was Joe lying before I could?

Joe was looking innocent. A little too innocent. Was he shading the truth?

In any case, he was still asking questions. “Why didn’t you tell me about the changes in the investigation into Mrs. Montgomery’s death?”

I took a deep breath and went for it. “Hogan told me not to mention it, though I suppose he didn’t mean I couldn’t tell you. But I guess I just didn’t want to talk about it. You can see why; now Hogan wants me to spy on the members of the library board.”

“That’s not exactly what he asked you to do.”

“It’s what it amounts to.”

“All he asked for was background.”

“Background, my eye! He’s trying to figure out who among the people at that meeting last night disliked Abigail Montgomery enough to kill her.”

“That’s his job.”

“Yes, but it’s not mine.” I turned and spoke directly to Joe. “Am I sneaky enough to do that?”

“You say yourself that you’re nosy enough.”

“Yes, but when I try to find things out, Joe, I just ask. I don’t finagle around.”

“You become Mrs. Blunt? Actually, Lee, you’ll do nearly anything to find stuff out, if you want to know badly enough.” He grinned, but we both knew he wasn’t being funny. “It’s one of the things I like best about you. You’ve got a curiosity bump the size of a watermelon.”

The argument might have grown if the phone hadn’t rung right then. Joe was closest, so he picked it up, then handed it to me. It was Rhonda Ringer-Riley. And she was inviting me to a meeting of the library board.

“We’re calling it for four o’clock tomorrow,” she said. “That’s plenty of time to comply with the open-meeting law.”

All I could think of was Hogan’s request. Find out who likes whom, who dislikes whom, who always disagrees with whom.

My impulse was to tell Rhonda I couldn’t come. Then she went on. “I hope you can make it, Lee. We need an outside view.”

“Why?”

“We’ve become a rather ingrown group. Abigail was the only person who hadn’t been on the board for at least five years.” She laughed. “We’ve been through two pregnancies with Gwen!”

I took a deep breath and decided to be blunt. “Hogan wants me to go. He wants an outsider to look at the relationships among the board members.”

“In relation to Abigail’s death?”

“I guess so. I’d feel like a spy.”

“Spy away, Lee. I don’t think anybody on the board has anything to worry about. None of us know anything about Abby’s accident.”

I hung up without committing myself, but I kept thinking about her last comment. She didn’t think anybody on the library board knew anything about what had happened to Mrs. Montgomery.

This in turn reminded me of one of Hogan’s tenets: Anybody will kill if they’re pushed too far.

And it also reminded me of his more recent advice: “Don’t let anybody lure you to the basement.”

That had been Abigail Montgomery’s mistake.

I shuddered. And as I did I realized that Joe was still standing there, waiting to continue the argument about why I hadn’t told him Hogan thought Abigail Montgomery’s death had been a homicide, and that I was among the suspects.

And I still didn’t want to tell him I didn’t bring it up because I was more upset about seeing him with Meg than I was about poor Abigail being killed.

I had to fight the temptation to stamp my foot and yell, but I finally spoke fairly calmly. “I just don’t want to talk about this. Okay?”

Joe seemed to awaken to the fact that I was truly upset. He took three steps toward me and put his arms around me. “It’s okay, Lee. I should have understood. You took it all so calmly last night that I hadn’t realized how upset you really are.”

I guess the heroine of a romantic novel would have burst into tears. But all I did was hug him back. In fact, I nearly broke one of his ribs. That’s because I was picturing that rib as being Meg Corbett’s neck. If she got hold of Joe . . . Well, in that case I could tell Hogan exactly what event pushed me hard enough to commit murder.

Anyway, the rest of the evening and most of the next day passed—with Joe and me not talking about the things that were really on our minds. And at four o’clock on Wednesday I trailed into the Warner Pier Public Library, waved at Mrs. Blake—once again checking out books—and went back to the meeting room. And once again the only person already there was Dr. Cornwall. But this time he was awake.

“Good evening, Mrs. Woodyard,” he said. “May I call you Lee?”

“Please do.”

“It’s a name I find interesting. During my scholarly career, I made a lengthy study of the famous general. Since you were born in a state that seceded during the Civil War, I wondered if you were named for General Robert E.”

“Not directly. Lee is a common middle name for both girls and boys in Texas, and I imagine originally it may have been popular because of the general. But I was the first Lee in my family. I think my parents just liked the name.”

“Then Lee is your middle name?”

“Yes. My first name is Susanna. After a pioneer great-great-great-somebody who came to Texas while it still belonged to Mexico.” I smiled. “I think my mother was on some sort of Texas kick when I was born. I’m lucky I wasn’t called Dallas, Austin, or Waxahachie. So I wasn’t named after General Lee, but my dad did have a great-great-grandfather who served in the Texas cavalry during the Civil War. Of course, my mom had a great-grandfather who served in the Third Michigan.”

“That unit campaigned in Texas. Did your ancestor get as far as San Antonio?”

“No, he was wounded at Sharpsville and went home for the rest of the war. So I’m not haunted by the specter of my great-great-great-grandfathers shooting at each other.”

“Lots of Americans should be. More than most people realize.”

I was quite surprised at Dr. Cornwall’s friendliness. He had previously seemed quite grumpy. The opportunity to pump him seemed too good to miss, though I didn’t have the nerve to start with questions about Abigail Montgomery.

I began with something innocuous. “Are you a native of Michigan?”

“No, I’m originally from Indiana. I vacationed here for years and finally became a permanent resident ten years ago.”

“And where did you spend your academic career, Dr. Cornwall?”

This was meant to be an innocuous question, but his response was not innocuous. It was almost as if I’d thrown a bomb. He glared angrily and snapped out an answer.

“I’m not Doctor Cornwall!”

My response was to gape like an idiot.

He went on, and he continued to be snappy. “I prefer to be Mr. Cornwall. Or just Corny.”

“Certificate! I mean, certainly.” Darn, I’d twisted my tongue into a real knot. “Mr. Cornwall it is.”

Cornwall seemed to realize he’d been rude. He spoke in a more moderate tone. “I lectured on the Civil War at a small college in Indiana for thirty-five years.”

Then he sat back, folded his arms, and gave a loud snort.

Naturally, we were interrupted before I could decide what to say next. Gwen Swain came bustling in, still swathed in a giant sheet of fabric that held her baby. The baby itself—I couldn’t identify sex or age because of the enormous covering—peeked around to see whom Mommy was greeting.

I seized the opportunity to ask Gwen questions. Anything seemed better than continuing to try to converse with Corny Cornwall.

I started with, “What is your baby’s name?” That ought to give me a hint as to sex.

“Bailey.” That was no help. Luckily Gwen went on. “She’s eight months old. My husband got home early today, so I didn’t have to bring the other two. They’re curious enough after being here last night when all the excitement started.”

“But Hogan did let you go home as soon as possible last night?”

“Yes, the police were very nice. But there was a lot of excitement when Abigail was found. People were running around and saying . . . things I didn’t want the kids to hear. Geraldine has been full of questions all day, and Hal’s drinking it all in.”

“I guess Hogan had a lot of questions for you, too.”

“That Lieutenant Underwood came out to the house. He was there for half an hour. I didn’t have much to tell him. I barely saw Abigail last night. We said hi as we came in.”

“I didn’t see her at all. In fact, I don’t think I ever met her. Did you know her well?”

“Fairly well. She came to the Lakeshore Preservation meetings. In fact, she was chair of the research committee.”

Mr. Cornwall’s voice rumbled. “People forgot that Abigail came from a political family. And she was an expert researcher.”

“Oh yes,” Gwen said. “Abigail was the one who discovered that one little paragraph in the Kimbel trust, and that’s what is keeping that stretch of beach undeveloped.”

Mr. Cornwall’s voice was gruff. “So far.”

“True,” Gwen said. “That battle isn’t over yet. Abigail also worked hard on the library construction. She was the one who balked at approval of early payment to the contractor.”

“Which,” Mr. Cornwall said, “turned out to be a good thing.”

This was a surprise to me. “You had trouble with the contractor for the new library?”

“No.” Cornwall’s tone was satisfied. “Since we declined to approve the final payment, the city had a weapon to hold over his head. So there was no problem. If Abigail hadn’t been adamant that the board not approve that final payment, the city might have handed the money over. Following the contract’s requirements to the letter meant there was no problem.”

Gwen laughed. “This infuriated the city treasurer—until he saw what might have happened.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I thought the city was in charge of the library funds.”

“It is,” Cornwall said. “But when a volunteer body is strongly urging a particular course of action, the city treasurer tends to pay attention. However, you’re quite correct. The board’s influence is unofficial.”

“Except on the Vanderklomp trust,” Gwen said. “We actually have a minor say on that.”

“Are there other trusts benefiting the library?”

Both Gwen and Cornwall shook their heads. Then Gwen looked behind me and smiled. “And here’s the expert on our finances. Hi, Carol.”

Carol Turley came in, and just as she had at the previous meeting, she slammed her red leather folder down. Her hair was just as dull and lifeless as it had been earlier. Then she looked up, and her big brown eyes flashed around the room.

The old pageant contestant in me wanted to shake my head in disbelief. If Carol would just stand up straight, wear a little makeup, and do something with her hair . . .

Carol nodded to everyone, but I was the only person she spoke to by name. “Hi, Lee. I see you haven’t given up on us.”

“Rhonda particularly asked me to come. I guess she wants to go over exactly what happened the other night.”

Carol looked around defiantly and plunked herself into a folding chair so hard, I thought it was going to fold up. “I’m tired of talking about poor Abigail. The whole thing makes me sick!”

I was smart enough to keep quiet, but Gwen walked right into the buzz saw.

“But, Carol,” she said, “the situation isn’t going to go away until the law officers are convinced that Abigail . . .”

Carol slammed her fist on the table. “Abigail! Abigail! Saint Abigail! I’m sick of it. Abigail was a hard worker, but she was just a person! She was a nitpicker to end all nitpickers! I used to get so tired of her that I could barely hold my tongue. And now she’s dead, and she’s still causing trouble!”

With that Carol got up and walked out of the room, leaving Gwen, Mr. Cornwall, and me sitting there blankly.

“Wow!” I said. “A little pent-up resentment there, I guess.”

“Not pent-up anymore,” Mr. Cornwall said.

Gwen shook her head sadly, and Bailey gave a sudden cry from her sling.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Gwen said soothingly. “She’s just upset. People get upset. But they get over it.”

Would she? Carol’s reaction to Abigail’s death and the investigation into it seemed extreme. Would I have to report it to Hogan?

This wasn’t shaping up as a very polite meeting.

That thought had barely crossed my mind when I heard another loud voice coming from outside the meeting room. This time it was a man’s voice.

“No! No, I can’t allow it.”

“Mr. Cassidy! I must look for some personal property!”

That voice I recognized. It was Miss Ann Vanderklomp.

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