The Chocolate Cat Caper (2 page)

In Texas, we’ve all given up trying to live without air-conditioning and it’s installed everywhere—in houses, offices, industrial plants, cars, trucks, and tractors. My used van had a Texas tag and enough Texas air-conditioning to keep chocolate from melting in any temperature the Great Lakes region was likely to hand out.

I went back and forth out the back door, sliding the trays onto the floor of the van, making sure each tray was wedged firmly. Aunt Nettie didn’t get a lot of orders for trays already arranged, but when she did, she wanted them to look artistic. She always arranged them herself, without the help of any of the “hairnet ladies,” who were also bustling around the workroom.

These chocolates looked gorgeous. Aunt Nettie carried the last tray out, and I put it in the floor of the front seat. Then I looked at the array and sighed. “They’re almost too beautiful to eat.”

Aunt Nettie gave a satisfied snort. “They’ll eat them,” she said. “Now I’ll get the cats, and you can go.”

While Aunt Nettie went to the storage room, I popped into the rest room off the break room and freshened up. I had to duck to see the top of my head in the mirror; I got a tall gene from both the Texas side and the Michigan Dutch side of my family, so I’m just a shade under six feet. I tucked my chocolate-brown shirt with the TenHuis Chocolade logo into my khaki slacks. I rebrushed my hair—whitish-blond like the Michigan side—and clipped it into a barrette on the back of my neck. Then I added the merest touch of mascara, tinted faintly green like my Texas hazel eyes. I wiped my mouth and put on a new coat of medium pink lipstick. It was nice to look like myself again. Mr. Gottrocks, whose name was actually Richard Godfrey, always liked me to wear bright red lipstick and big hair, but I’d left the glamour behind with my wedding ring.

As I came out Aunt Nettie was arranging the last of Clementine Ripley’s special order of cat-shaped candies onto a smaller silver tray. I admired these, too. Each about three inches high, they were made of solid white chocolate, formed in a mold specially ordered from the Netherlands. They had been handdetailed with milk chocolate glaze and colored chocolate, so that the blue eyes and the light brown markings of the cats mimicked the photo Clementine Ripley had provided of her Birman male, Champion Myanmar Chocolate Yonkers. To a non-cat-fancier like me, Yonkers looked as if a Siamese cat had decided to let his hair grow. He had immensely fluffy Persian-like fur, but had the delicate light brown paws, ears, nose, and tail of a Siamese.

Even to a non-cat-fancier, Yonkers was a beautiful creature, and his chocolate replicas looked scrumptious on their silver dish. “Gorgeous!” I said.

Aunt Nettie wrapped the dish with a huge sheet of food-service Saran, then picked up a small white box tied with blue ribbon from the table behind her. “Here are the samples,” she said.

“Samples? For me?”

“No! For Clementine Ripley. I don’t want my display ruined. So I packed a few extra chocolates for her to sample. I wrote her name on top.”

I laughed. “Maybe you’d better send an extra cat, so she won’t get into those either.”

“There’s a cat in there. Amaretto truffles are her favorite though. She buys those every time she comes in. So I sent a half dozen. But I’d better get my money!”

“No check, no chocolate. I talked to her assistant—Ms. McCoy?—and she assured me she’d have the money ready.”

“Good girl!”

I shook my finger at Aunt Nettie. “And unlike some other people—I’m sticking to it. Not a chocolate comes out of the van until I have that check.”

Aunt Nettie smiled sheepishly. She’s much too understanding and patient. A year earlier she had let Clementine Ripley have chocolates for her big benefit party on credit. But in the offhand way of the really rich, Ms. Ripley neglected to pass on the invoice in a timely manner to the person who paid her bills. It had been several months before Aunt Nettie got her money. This year we weren’t going to let that happen.

I’d insisted that Clementine Ripley use a credit card, but that hadn’t worked either. Now I’d arranged to get a check when the chocolates were delivered.

I checked to be sure I had the invoice, slung my purse over my shoulder, and took the tray of cats to the van. I was settled behind the wheel when Aunt Nettie ran out, waving. “Wait! Take these.”

I rolled down the window, letting out valuable air-conditioned air, and took what she handed me—a dispenser box containing a few pairs of plastic food-service gloves.

“In case any of the chocolates shift, use these to move them back in place.”

“I’ll drive slow and steady,” I said. “And I’ll try not to say anything stupid, either.”

Aunt Nettie laughed. “You’re not stupid, Lee,” she said. Bless her heart. I hope she’s right, but not everybody agrees with her. She waved as I drove off.

Nothing’s very far away from anything else in Warner Pier. Clementine Ripley’s overly dramatic showplace home on the cliff at Warner Point was only two miles from TenHuis Chocolade, located on Fifth Street between Peach and Pear Avenues.

I pulled out of the alley and very gently turned onto Peach Street, then followed that a block to Dock Street, the pride of Warner Pier. Dock Street has been turned into a real attraction—a mile of marinas, all crammed with boats and yachts in the summer. And dividing the street from the marinas is a mile-long park—a narrow series of green spaces, gazebos, and wooden walkways. Boaters can dock at a Warner Pier marina, then walk across the park to reach a business district filled with good restaurants, antique and gift shops, art galleries, trendy and expensive clothing stores—and the occasional specialty shop like TenHuis Chocolade. It’s pretty neat, or so we Warner Pier merchants think. I followed Dock Street, driving slowly because of the chocolates and because of the tourists who roamed the streets, until I was out of the business district.

The older residential neighborhoods of Warner Pier were designed by Norman Rockwell in 1946. At least, my mother always claims she grew up on the cover of an old
Saturday Evening Post
magazine. The town looks as if it’s under a glass dome. Just shake us, and it snows on the white Victorians, Craftsman bungalows, and modified Queen Anne cottages and on their lush, old-fashioned gardens.

Warner Pier lies along the Warner River, not far upstream from the spot where the river enters Lake Michigan. In the 1830s, settlers—some from the Netherlands and some from New England—saw a chance to make money by cutting down all the native timber. With those trees gone, the next generation planted replacements, but they concentrated on fruit trees, and Warner Pier became a center for production of “Michigan Gold,” which was the early-day promoters’ nickname for peaches. By 1870 Warner Pier had become a town of prosperous fruit growers and ship owners—solid citizens with enough money to build the substantial Victorian houses that today are being gentrified into summer homes or into bed-andbreakfast inns. Warner Pier is still a fruit-producing center, but today a lot of the area’s “Michigan Gold” comes from tourists and summer residents.

I followed the curves of Dock Street to the showplace home of Clementine Ripley, one of Warner Pier’s most famous summer visitors. Most summer people come for the beaches and Victorian ambiance, but Ms. Ripley seemed to have come seeking seclusion. Several years earlier she had acquired ten acres of prime property on top of a bluff overlooking the Warner River, right at the point where it entered Lake Michigan. She built a low stone house that appeared to be about two blocks long, with a tower slumped at one end. That tower was apparently based on an abstract idea of a lighthouse—or maybe planned as a squatty version of the Washington Monument. It was known to boaters up and down the lake as “the sore thumb,” because that’s what it stuck out like.

The house might be highly visible from the lake, but it was not inviting. Signs warning boaters and swimmers to keep away were posted along the shore. Guards and a high brick wall kept Clementine Ripley private and protected from the land side.

Clementine might well need protection, and from more than prying eyes. Her office was in Chicago, but she had a national practice in criminal law. As one of the nation’s toughest defense lawyers, she’d kept a series of high-profile clients out of prison on charges that ranged from fraud to murder. Not a few people—witnesses she’d shredded on the stand, prosecutors she’d made look like circus clowns, former clients and their victims, plus the tabloid press—had it in for Clementine Ripley. Even sainted Aunt Nettie, who loved everybody else in the world, didn’t like her. She hadn’t told me why, but her feelings seemed to be deeper than a payment problem.

So Clementine Ripley might need her guards, I told myself as I drove up to the metal security gate. The gate was probably eight feet high, and its grill seemed to snarl. I wouldn’t have touched it on a bet; the thing looked as if it would carry thousands of volts of electricity. I stopped by the intercom mounted on a post and punched a button on its face, feeling as if I was about to order a hamburger and fries.

A disembodied voice answered, “Yes?”

“Lee McKinney, with a delivery from TenHuis Chocolade.”

“Just follow the drive up to the house,” the voice said.

The gate slid sideways, and I drove on in, almost frightened of what might happen once I was behind the brick wall and in the area controlled by Clementine Ripley.

There was nothing scary in there, of course, unless you find deep woods threatening. But the undergrowth in these particular woods was largely cleared out, and ahead I could see the long stone house, its tower leaning like a drunken troll. I drove on slowly—still remembering my fragile cargo—and I coasted around the circular drive and came to a halt in front of the wide flagstone steps.

On the steps was a hulking man—broad and tall. He had a shaved head and a thick upper lip that curled into a snarl. He wore a gray uniform, and the patch above his shirt pocket read GRAND VALLEY SECURITY SERVICE. He motioned for me to lower my window.

When he spoke, his voice surprised me by being a high-pitched squeak. “Ms. McKinney? I’ll unload the delivery here.”

I told myself not to say anything stupid. Then I took a deep breath and spoke. “Do you have my check?”

He spoke curtly. “Check? No, payment is handled by Ms. Ripley’s personal assistant, Ms. McCoy.”

“I told Ms. McCoy we had to have payment before we delivered the chocolates.”

“It will be taken care of.” The gray-uniformed man went to the back of the minivan.

I jumped out, leaving the motor running, and went after him.
Keep calm and speak carefully,
I thought.

“I can’t allow the chocolates to be unloaded until we are paid.”

Gray Uniform reached for the handle to the back door. “You’ll be paid,” he squeaked, but he still sounded curt.

I stepped between him and the door. I was taller, but that didn’t give me any real edge, since he was broader. “I’m sure we will be paid, but I need the password today.”

Rats! I’d done it. Said something stupid.

The security guard looked puzzled. “Password?”

“Payment,” I said. There was nothing to do but go on. “I need payment. I explained to Ms. McCandy.”

That ripped it. Now Gray Uniform was grinning, obviously amused. Darn! If I’m going to have a speech impediment, why can’t I lisp? People recognize a lisp as a problem. This saying the wrong word business simply makes me sound like an idiot.

I tried again, speaking slowly and carefully. My insides were twisting up to match my tongue. “I can’t unload the chocolates until I receipt the check. I mean, receive! Receive the check.”

Gray Uniform’s grin became patronizing, and he gave a clumsy wave, as if he were going to brush me out of the way. “Now listen, young lady . . .” Then his eyes widened, and he looked behind me, obviously surprised.

Could it be the famous Clementine Ripley? I whirled to see.

It wasn’t. It was a tall man—at least two inches taller than I am. He had dark hair and was wearing navy-blue pants and a matching shirt. Sunglasses seemed to cover his face from hairline to upper lip.

“What’s the problem, Hugh?” His voice boomed. Definitely a basso.

The guard squeaked in reply. “Joe! How did you get here?”

The mouth of the tall guy shaped into a sardonic grin. Somehow that grin seemed familiar. “I tied up at the boathouse and walked. Why? Have you got orders to run me off?”

“No, no!” Gray Uniform sputtered, but the newcomer cut off his excuses.

“What’s your problem here?”

Gray Uniform stumbled through an explanation, while the dark-haired man and I eyed each other warily. Or I think he eyed me behind his sunglasses. I kept trying to place him. Who was he? I was sure I’d met him, but I couldn’t figure out where or when.

Gray Uniform’s mouth began to run down, and the tall man scowled. “Sounds like Clemmie hasn’t been paying her bills. Where’s Marion?”

“Out on the terrace, but—”

The man’s head turned toward me. “I’ll take you around.”

“Let me get the invoice.” I opened the driver’s door and retrieved my purse and the small box of sample chocolates Aunt Nettie had sent. I checked to see that I had my extra car keys; then I locked the door and slammed it.

The tall guy spoke again. “You left the motor running.”

“Air-conditioning,” I said. “I can’t let the chocolates melt.”

“Oh.” He turned and led the way along a flagstone walk that circled the house. I tried to keep up.

“I do appreciate this,” I said. “The security man seemed determined to unload the chocolates, and I promised my aunt—”

He stopped and turned toward me. “Your aunt? Are you Jeanette TenHuis’s niece?”

“Lee McKinney.” I put out my hand.

He took the hand. Then he took off the sunglasses and hung them on his shirt pocket.

I gave a gasp. “You’re Joe Woodyard! I thought you looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize you with clothes on.”