The Chocolate Cat Caper (10 page)

It took me a minute to realize that Jerry must be the patrolman, the one whose name tag read CHERRY. His name was Jerry Cherry it seemed. I was too upset to giggle.

The chief was still talking. “Some neighbor may have seen a car, or a stranger. But there’s a lot of traffic along Lake Shore Drive, and the trees hide Nettie’s house.”

Chief Jones went out to his car and began to put his case in the trunk. Patrolman Jerry Cherry came back and told him he hadn’t had any luck with the neighbors. “I’ll try the mailman,” he said. “But I’m afraid he comes in the morning.”

When he spoke again he lowered his voice, but I could still hear him through the open door. “Who’d you draw from the state police?”

“Alec VanDam.”

“Didn’t he work that holdup and shooting over at Perkins Lake?”

“Yeah, he’s the one. I was sure they’d send somebody good. High-profile case like this.”

“It’s still a dirty deal. You woulda done just as good, Chief.”

Chief Jones snorted. “It would raise too many questions,” he said. He got in his car and drove away.

Dirty deal? What had Jerry Cherry meant by that?

I decided I wanted to know. So I went out on the porch, leaned against the railing, and turned on my Texas accent. “Off-cer Chairy?”

“Yes, Ms. McKinney?”

“We really ’preciate all this attention. I grew up in a small town, in north Texas, and the law enforcement officials were just as kind as you and Chief Jones have been. In fact, my daddy’s garage has the contract for maintenance on the sheriff’s cars. But then I moved to Dallas, and it was a dif’rent story in a big city! I’m shore glad to see that the small-town spirit is still alive up here in Michigan.”

Cherry straightened his shoulders, just a little. “We try to serve, Ms. McKinney. Chief Jones is real firm about that.”

“Chief Jones sure is an interesting man. Is he a native of Warner Pier?”

“Oh, no! He was one of the top detectives in Cincinnati. We’re really lucky to have him here.”

“From Cincinnati to Warner Pier? The city fathers must have offered him a lot of money!”

Cherry laughed. “He took early retirement from the Cincinnati force, and he and his wife moved up here. That was more than five years ago.”

“I see.”

“They’d always vacationed in the area—you know, decided they’d like living here. But Mrs. Jones died three years ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yah. It kinda left the chief at loose ends. So when the job of police chief opened, he applied. The council was smart enough to hire him.”

I sat on the porch rail. “If he has a lot of experience as a detective—well, I’m a little surprised that he called in the state police to investigate the death of Clementine Ripley. Seems like he would have handled it himself.”

I smiled—not flirtatiously, but in a friendly manner. And I looked at Officer Cherry and waited for him to speak.

But he didn’t. His jaw clenched just the way the chief’s had. I didn’t say anything, either.

This game of nonverbal chicken went on for about thirty seconds, I guess, though it seemed like thirty minutes.

Finally Jerry Cherry spoke. “It’s up to the chief,” he said. “I’d better go. You call in if anything else happens.”

He got in his car and drove away, leaving me and my Texas accent flat.

“Lee,” I told myself, “you’re definitely losing your touch.” I’d have to ask somebody else. Maybe Aunt Nettie.

But Aunt Nettie wasn’t likely to know. She concentrated on TenHuis Chocolade almost to the exclusion of everything else, and she was too kindhearted to enjoy idle gossip.

So who did I know who would know? Well, all the city officials, the mayor . . .

“Ye gods!” I said. “How lucky! I forgot to go by and give Mike Herrera my Social Security number.”

M
ike Herrera’s office, Aunt Nettie told me, was down the block from TenHuis Chocolate, above Mike’s Sidewalk Café. And, yes, Mr. Herrera did own the café.

“He’s bought several Warner Pier restaurants,” Aunt Nettie said. “I think he leases most of them, but Mike’s and the main restaurant, Herrera’s—down on the water—he operates himself.”

I went down the street—past T-Shirt Alley, with silly sayings in the window; Leathers, which displayed expensive handbags and luggage; and the Old Time Antique Shop, whose window was packed with stuff Aunt Nettie and I used at home every day. I crossed the street and climbed the stairs to the office of Herrera enterprises. A middle-aged woman who identified herself as the bookkeeper gave me the proper forms to fill out so I could get paid for the few hours of work I’d done. There was no sign of Mayor Mike Herrera.

“I need to talk to Mr. Herrera,” I said. “Is he here?”

“I think he’s over at city hall,” the bookkeeper said. “But he’ll be back soon. He always checks on things before the evening dinner crowd shows up at Mike’s.”

Mike’s was new since my high school days, and I had noticed it seemed to be packed at every meal. It wasn’t quite your standard sidewalk café. Yes, it had tables on the sidewalk, inside a little railing, but it really got its name from its decor. The floors of both the outside dining area and the inside room were covered with graffiti—they looked like children had been writing on a sidewalk. I’d figured out that this was actually paint, since the waitresses ran back and forth all the time and the chalk never wore off.

The aisles between the tables were delineated by hopscotch games, and the walls were decorated with jump ropes, jacks, and other children’s toys and games. There was a big black slate wall, too, where customers were invited to write their own graffiti.

Kids loved the place, obviously, but after five p.m. children were only served in one section and by ten p.m., or so, I’d noticed, Mike’s turned into a date bar. It seemed as if Mr. Herrera had covered all the bases at Mike’s—Aunt Nettie had even remarked that the food was pretty good, high praise from her.

When I came down the steps and looked into Mike’s, it was nearly six p.m. and the place was filling up. Mike Herrera was at the back of the restaurant, headed into the kitchen. I went inside and called out. “Mr. Herrera! Can I talk to you a minute?”

He stole a glance at his watch before he motioned me to a stool at the end of the bar and stood beside me. His beaming smile contrasted with his earlier look at his watch. “Miss Lee. A pleasure.”

I decided a frontal attack was going to be the best plan for a busy man. “I’m here with a nosy question,” I said quietly, “but I have an excuse. I heard that cyanide was found in Clementine Ripley’s chocolates, and I’m determined to stay on top of this situation because of my aunt.”

Mike Herrera looked concerned. “The situation is truly shocking, but I’m sure the lovely Mrs. Nettie has nothing to do with the events.”

“I’m sure of that, too, but her chocolates were apparently used as a murder weapon. So she—and I—are involved whether we like it or not.”

“So what was your question?”

“I’m trying to understand why the state police have been called in when I hear that Chief Jones is himself an experienced detective. Can you explain?”

“Eet is a motter of routine,” Herrera said.

Hmmm. His Spanish accent had abruptly reappeared. Did that mean my question had made him nervous?

“The choice was up to Chief Jones heemself,” he said. “The officials of Warner Pier weesh to cooperate fully in the death of thees prominent woman, to make sure that all channels of investigation are fully explored. Chief Jones—indeed, all the city employees—weel work with the state detectives en any way we can.”

I felt that I’d just given him a chance to practice for a press conference. But I hadn’t gotten any kind of an answer.

“I’m sorry to be a pain in the neck,” I said. “It’s just that so much gossip goes around a small town. I’m much rather get the story from an authoritative source—such as the mayor himself—rather than relying on Glossop. I mean, relying on gossip!”

I couldn’t believe I’d done that. I’d actually threatened to ask Greg Glossop, the bigmouthed pharmacist, and I had pretended the threat was a slip of the tongue. I waited for Mike Herrera’s reply.

He stared at the floor for a moment, then leaned close and gave me a smile that told me I was about to receive a confidence. “I’m sure you’ve been told that Chief Jones and Ms. Ripley had a history.”

A history? I raised my eyebrows, but I kept my mouth shut.

“In his previous job in Cincinnati, our chief was a witness in a case Ms. Ripley defended. I do not think this is a pleasant memory for the chief. I hope that as the press descends to cover Ms. Ripley’s death—well, we all hope that they will not make this factor of too much importance.” He shook my hand solemnly. “Now I mush check on the kitchen. Jason! Please give Ms. McKinney a drink on the house.”

He turned and almost ran into the kitchen. I looked around to see my ponytailed cohort from the Ripley party grinning at me from behind the bar. “Hi, Lee,” Jason said. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’ve got to get back to work. I hope I didn’t upset Mr. Herrera.”

“Oh, the first reporters have arrived. That’s what upset him.”

“I didn’t help. But I really feel I need some background, or I might put my foot wrong. Do you know what the situation was between Chief Jones and Clementine Ripley?”

“I know Mike doesn’t want the reporters to figure it out, but . . .”

I waited without saying anything while Jason polished a glass. His hair and his big dark eyes made him look like an eighteenth-century pirate.

Finally he grimaced and spoke again. “There’s no way to keep it a secret. But so far none of the reporters have tumbled to the fact that Chief Jones used to be Detective J. H. Jones—the guy who lost the Montgomery case for the Cincinnati Police Department.”

“Oh? I have only a vague memory of the details . . .”

“He was the chief investigating officer. The only way the Ripper could keep Thomas Montgomery out of jail was to make the police look incompetent. So she did it. It ruined Hogan Jones’s career.” He leaned across the bar. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

I nodded, thanked Jason, and headed back to the chocolate shop, mulling over what he had told me. So Clementine Ripley had ruined Chief Jones’s career. The guy must have felt haunted by her. First she ran him out of Cincinnati, so he retired and moved to Warner Pier. He became police chief here. Then she showed up and built a showplace weekend home.

Yikes! That alone was motive for murder. It’s as if she had deliberately had it in for him.

Yes, Chief Jones definitely needed to step aside and let someone else investigate her murder. He might not want her murderer caught at all.

He would even be a suspect. After all, he’d been out at the Ripley estate before the party—he’d been going in as I left after delivering the chocolates.

And the state police’s top detective had been assigned to the case. I shoved the door to the shop open. I felt sure I’d get to meet this Alec VanDam from the Michigan State Police—and his team—quite soon.

When I got inside, Aunt Nettie was in the workroom.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“Some detective called the house and asked me to come in. He wants to talk to both of us.”

She didn’t look at all afraid. And suddenly I loved her so dearly that I could have cried. When I was an obnoxious teenager upset about my parents’ divorce, she’d taken me in—given me someone who would listen, who taught me to work hard and be proud of what I did, who was always there for me. Now, twelve years later, my own marriage had fallen apart, and she had taken me in again. She was simply good through and through, and she saw only goodness in others.

The only exception to this had been Clementine Ripley. Aunt Nettie had adored Uncle Phil, and she had blamed Clementine Ripley for his death, as lots of people had known. And now a chocolate Aunt Nettie had handled and packaged might be linked to Clementine Ripley’s death. Aunt Nettie might be accused of killing her.

Did she even see her own danger? She might not. She was such an innocent that she might walk right into some sort of trap, incriminate herself.

But she wasn’t alone. She had me. And I was going to make sure her innocence wasn’t used against her.

I gulped and got ready to face down that detective.

At least he hadn’t come to take either of us away. We didn’t seem to be threatened with arrest. I toyed with the idea of recommending that Aunt Nettie call her lawyer. But wouldn’t that make it seem as if she was guilty? Besides, Aunt Nettie’s lawyer would be some local guy who drew up wills and checked land titles. Would he be any real help in a murder investigation?

And the state police’s request to see us obviously centered on the chocolate shop. If not, they would have come out to the house, or asked the two of us to meet them on their own turf. This was perfectly logical; the investigators would have to understand how the suspect chocolates had been handled—where they’d been made, stored, packaged.

Anyway, I didn’t mention calling a lawyer.

Warner Pier’s traffic was typical for a Saturday night, of course—awful. Half the tourists in western Michigan were circling through the business district looking for parking places, and two tour buses were in town, so the sidewalks were packed as well. It was twenty more minutes before two men in suits came in the front door and showed their badges.

Detective Lieutenant Alec VanDam looked as Dutch as his name. He had the face of a Van Gogh peasant, a plodding gait suitable for wooden clogs, and a shock of hair of such a bright gold it would have looked natural on one of those Dutch boy dolls they sell up in Holland, Michigan. He introduced his companion—his subordinate, obviously—as Detective Sergeant Larry Underwood. Underwood was younger than VanDam, maybe around thirty, with a blocky build and blunt features. He wore a buzz cut that left only an inch or so of black hair standing on top of his head. Neither of the detectives was quite as tall as I am.