The Chocolate Castle Clue (16 page)

I did. But I admit I took the long way. I flipped a U-turn and went back to Dock Street. I went left. And I came to Herrera's parking lot.

“Herrera's parking lot has a half dozen cars in it.” I said. “Anybody could be there.”

“Go back to your office,” the operator said. She sounded angry. “Go to the front. Park there. Lock the car door. Do not get out of the car.”

I laid the phone down again. I had to turn around somewhere, so I drove into Herrera's lot.

Herrera's is Warner Pier's nicest restaurant, the one Aunt Nettie had selected to entertain the Pier-O-Ettes at lunch. Because it's a white-tablecloth place, its dinner crowd comes in late-ish. At the moment, just before six o'clock, the parking lot was just beginning to fill up. None of the cars looked unusual. None had a bumper sticker that read MOLESTERS UNITE or anything else that singled it out as likely to belong to the person who had tried to waylay me.

As I drove I noticed something. My van was becoming very hard to steer. And it was leaning to the left.

Did I have a flat?

I toyed with the idea of parking at Herrera's and running inside, but I decided against it. Flat or no flat, I wasn't stopping. I was getting back to the shop to meet the cops.

I drove out of the parking lot slowly—still searching the sidewalks and alleys—and I went back to the shop. I had to fight the steering wheel every foot of the way, but I managed. I turned into a parking place at the curb, and I threw on the brakes.

As the van came to a halt, I heard a chugging sound. It was a motorcycle, or maybe a motor scooter. And it wasn't far away.

“He's on a motor scooter or something!” I yelled the words at the 9-1-1 operator.

The idea of a motor scooter was reassuring. If the guy was armed, he'd have to be an acrobat to fire a gun while riding a motor scooter.

Maybe I could still get a look at him. I was out of my parking space and back on the chase in a flash. Ignoring the van's desire to pull to the left and to tip over, I drove around the corner and poked the nose of the van into the alley—the one behind TenHuis Chocolade. It was dark in there. I flashed my headlights to high, and I saw movement at the other end of the block.

It was beyond the reach of my headlights, but it was movement. I headed down the alley as fast as I dared. If I had to buy new tires, okay. I wasn't going to give up my try at getting a look at this guy.

Of course, going down a narrow alley, dodging Dumpsters and piles of boxes and the other stuff people tend to stack in alleys, made me feel as if I was speeding madly. In reality, I was probably going thirty miles an hour, bouncing along with the right side of my van higher than the left.

I hadn't had a clear view of the motor scooter, but I had an impression that it had turned left. When I came out at the other end of the block, I spun the wheel and went in that direction. This brought me back to Fifth Street. And Fifth had streetlights—the type that shed pools of light every thirty feet or so up and down the block. I should be able to see the fleeing motor scooter.

But no. The street was completely empty. Not a pedestrian, a car, a truck, a bicycle, a rickshaw, or a motor scooter in sight. I lowered my side window a few inches and listened. No noise. No motor scooter. No nothing.

I growled into the cell phone. “He must have gone toward Dock Street.”

“I don't care where he went. You go back to your shop. Now!”

I decided it was time for me to obey.

“Yes, ma'am.” I tried to sound meek. I went to the front of the shop, and I parked. This time I was directly under a streetlight, just two doors down from the corner of Peach Street.

I turned off the motor. This, of course, unlocked my doors, so I hit the magic button and relocked them.

I sat there, listening. There was no sound of a motor scooter. There was no sound of a siren. I was completely alone. I debated getting out of the van to look at my flat, but I decided it was pointless. I couldn't tell what caused it in the dim light. I'd probably picked up a nail in my travels through Warner Pier's alleys. Getting out of the car wasn't a good idea.

I'd wait for the cops.

As soon as that decision had been made, I heard a noise.

It was a footstep. Normally, that's not a very frightening noise, but it made my heart leap into my throat. I stared frantically around, trying to tell the direction the sound had come from.

The first footstep was followed by more, but still no one was in sight. I picked up the phone, still connected to the 9-1-1 operator, and started to tell her someone was approaching. I assured myself that I was safe from unknown pedestrians ; after all, I was locked in my van.

Then, startlingly fast, a man in a ski mask ran around the corner and headed straight toward me.

I screamed. I hit the horn. And I turned the key in the ignition.

I'm locked in, I told myself. I'm locked in.

The man ran up to the van and reached out his hand. I saw he was wearing gloves.

And in his gloved hand was a key.

He used it to unlock the door of my van.

I daily thank heaven for three things.

First, I had the car window down a few inches.

Second, the person who unlocked my door had on a ski mask, which has eyeholes, rather than a motorcycle helmet of the type that covers the whole head.

Third, one of the useful items on my “no-harm charm” chain was—ta-da!—pepper spray.

I yanked the chain out of its pocket, found the pepper spray, flipped its top open, and made a direct hit on the left eyehole of the guy's mask just as the door lock clicked open.

He grabbed at his left eye, and I aimed for the right one.

I've never known if I hit it or not. The van's motor had caught, and I took off. I might be tipped sideways and traveling on the rim of my left front tire, but I was getting out of there.

As soon as I had a free hand, I began honking madly. The door the guy had unlocked automatically relocked, and I closed the window. I headed toward Herrera's. There were people there. I should have stayed there in the first place.

As far as I could tell, nobody was following me. I thumped into Herrera's parking lot, pulled into a handicapped parking place—it was closest to the front door—and jumped out clutching my keys in one hand and my phone and “no-harm charms” in the other.

The van was no longer my sanctuary, my fort on wheels. I ran up the front steps of the restaurant and banged in through the front door.

Now I realized that the 9-1-1 operator was talking on my phone. “What's going on? Mrs. Woodyard!”

“I'm okay! I'm inside Herrera's. He didn't follow me.”

I leaned against the wall and panted. Then I realized that my old friend Lindy Herrera, night manager of the restaurant, was standing near the door. She looked scared to death. “Lee! What's wrong!”

I shushed her. She listened while I told the operator what had happened. “I'm waiting here,” I said. “What's taking the cars so long?”

Her reply sounded petulant. “I told you it would be ten minutes.”

Ten minutes? It seemed as if I'd been chasing around Warner Pier's downtown streets and alleys for an hour. But when I looked at my watch, I realized it had been just over five minutes.

Lindy brought me a chair and a glass of water, and I sat down. And I sat. And sat. Since I was safe, finally, the Warner Pier patrolman and the state police car checked out every crack in the pavement in downtown Warner Pier before they came to check on me. It was a third car that arrived at Herrera's. A woman officer in a state police uniform came in to interview me.

Just after she came in I heard steps running up to the front door, and Joe rushed in.

We fell in each other's arms with lots of “How did you know what happened?” and “Why didn't you call me?” remarks. Lindy took us into a private dining room that wasn't in use, and Joe and the state police officer listened to my story.

I didn't get a whole lot of sympathy.

When I came to the part where I cracked the back door so I could look out into the alley, Joe gave a loud, “What!” And when I told about running back out to try to get a look at the guy who'd been in the van, he got up and stomped all around the room, shaking his head. After that he didn't look at me.

When I'd finished talking, I looked at him. “I don't know what's wrong with the tires, Joe.”

He got to his feet. “Neither do I, Lee, but it sounds as if the guy you were chasing slashed them.”

“Slashed them?”

“Yes.” Joe's voice was angry. “He was trying to keep you from chasing him. But what he got was something even better. He was able to trap you out in the open, with no one to help you. You are damn lucky to be alive.”

I glanced at the state police officer. She didn't say anything, but she didn't tell me I'd been brave either. It was obvious she agreed with Joe.

Joe headed for the door. But before he left the room, he stopped and turned around to glare at me. “You can sure be stupid, Lee.”

He left. I was surprised that he didn't slam the door. And I lost it. My temper, that is.

Oh, I didn't yell and scream and throw things. But Joe had pricked my ego in a way that . . . Well, right at that moment I believe I could have killed him.

I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. An unknown person had been hiding in my van, lying in wait for me. And I'd not only discovered he was there, by exercising a habit of caution, but I'd also had the presence of mind to pretend I hadn't seen him and to call the police. Then, when he'd tried to get away, I'd chased him, trying to get a look at him.

I wasn't trying to capture him or even to confront him. I just wanted to get a look at him. To know if he was small or tall.

I suppose it's a good thing that I was too mad to cry. The release tears can bring would have felt good at that moment, but I'd been so scared—well, if I had let down, I would have fallen apart completely. And that's not okay. Not for me. I can't lose control completely and keep my good opinion of myself.

Yes, I'm quoting my therapist. When I left my first husband—Rich the rich guy—my whole family and all my friends thought I was crazy. I couldn't figure out how to explain to them that I felt as if Rich thought he had bought me. I was just another toy, a trophy to show his status. If I complained, he bought me a piece of jewelry or a new Lexus. He expected me to think those things were as good as respect and love.

Anyway, I began to think my family and friends might be right. Maybe I
was
crazy. So I went to a counselor.

Luckily, I found one who thought Rich was crazy, not me. But the counselor helped me make a list of qualities I valued and wanted to have.

First on the list was intelligence.

Oh, I know. Brains aren't as important as kindness, as concern for others, as love. After all, Rich the rich guy was smart, even though he was a jerk. But the counselor helped me realize that I'm a reasonably intelligent person and that it's important to me for that to be recognized.

I'm sure it's the result of years of being told I was pretty, then having people act surprised to learn that I made good grades. And years of saying the wrong word—hello, Mrs. Malaprop—and having people laugh at me.

I dropped out of counseling before I analyzed the reasons completely. All I know is that if someone says I'm dumb, stupid, unintelligent, that “the light's on, but nobody's home”—it cuts me to the quick.

And Joe had just said it.

The fact that in this particular case he might be right was immaterial. He could say I was impulsive or that I hadn't used good judgment, and I could shrug it off. But saying I was stupid was unforgivable.

Joe knew that.

I folded my arms and sat back in my chair. I waited. I kept my mouth shut.

I was still sitting there, immobile and steaming, when Joe came back in and said we could go home.

“The wrecker is going to tow the van into Holland,” he said. “I hope—Ms. Financial Manager—you have a few bucks put aside for new tires and maybe wheels, because you're the one who cut us back to the thousand-dollar-deductible car insurance.”

Well. No need to wonder if Joe was still mad. He was. So was I. But I wasn't going to display my anger.

So I smiled sweetly. “That's what the savings account is for, Joe. Emergencies. I think I left my purse in the van. I'll get it.”

I stood up and went outside, still steaming. And my cell phone rang.

It was in the pocket of my jacket. I pulled it out and saw Aunt Nettie's number displayed on its tiny screen. I assumed she'd heard about the man hiding in the van and chasing me. She probably wanted reassurance.