The Chocolate Cat Caper (20 page)

The detectives believed the note had been printed out on the ink-jet printer in Marion’s office, and the original message had been found saved in her computer. The message was in memo form, printed out neatly on Clementine Ripley’s letterhead, signed, folded in thirds, and sealed in a white business envelope.

Anyway, an hour after Joe and I stood in the kitchen door kissing each other, the crisis about the murder of Clementine Ripley seemed to be over. I rushed back to the shop and told Aunt Nettie what had happened, of course. Then the phone began to ring.

Nancy Burton, the customer who had taken all our Crème de Menthe bonbons for her B-and-B, called and told Aunt Nettie that only that morning she’d rented her last two rooms to reporters, and within an hour of Marion McCoy’s death they’d both checked out and gone back to Chicago. So we figured that the press had gotten the word. We found out later that CNN put an item on right away, being careful not actually to say that Marion had confessed.

A steady stream of cars must have been leaving town, each with a PRESS decal on the windshield, because we saw no more of the press—tabloid or otherwise—after Marion’s death.

The chief did come by the shop to give us one other interesting bit of information. “You said the burglar you had last night fell off your porch, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” Aunt Nettie said. “He fell down the steps.”

“Try she, not he.”

“Marion McCoy?”

“We may never figure it out for sure, but when the EMTs got that long-sleeved black thing off of her, her arms were covered with bruises. Like she’d had a fall. So VanDam had them check her legs before they took her away. They were bruised, too.”

“But why did she do that?” Aunt Nettie said. “Did her note explain that?”

“Nope. We may never know the answer to that one. But I guess she did it.” He ducked his head and looked like a tall, skinny elf. “Another thing—when they got that turtleneck shirt all the way off—well, they found scars. She’d had surgery.” His lips twichted. “Pretty recent. A bob job.”

I gasped. “So that’s what whe saw the plastic surgeon about in Dallas!”

I guess so. Anyway, I’ve learned a lot during the past couple of days. I’ve never been a suspect before, and it sure gave me a new outlook on law enforcement.

“I guess you’re glad it’s over,” Aunt Nettie said. “Has Lieutenant VanDam left?”

“Oh, no. He’ll hang around a couple of days, or Underwood will, making sure the lab work gets done.”

“Then they’re still investigating?”

The chief’s manner became evasive. “They have to tie up all the loose ends. Check the fingerprints. Wait for the autopsy results.”

I started to ask the chief if Joe had told him or VanDam about my idea that Marion might have been about to go on the lam, to “fly” away. But the phone rang, and by the time I got it answered, the chief had left. So I didn’t mention it to Aunt Nettie.

In fact, I told myself, the whole idea had probably been wrong. If Marion was planning to kill herself, she wouldn’t be worrying about flying anywhere.

But one more question did cross my mind: What had Marion hoped to gain by killing Clementine Ripley? Even if Clementine were dead, somebody was going to check that Visa bill. Then I remembered that Marion had been surprised to learn Clementine had not signed her new will, the one cutting Joe out of the estate and naming someone else executor. She’d probably thought she’d be named executor herself.

But it seemed sort of fishy. And Joe had agreed with me, had seemed to think my interpretation of Marion’s ravings could well be correct. When I thought about the whole thing, my relief turned to unease.

Chief Jones might have left, but we still had visitors. First Mike Herrera knocked at the street door and came in to exult over Clementine Ripley’s murder turning out to involve “outsiders.”

“Now Warner Pier can get back to normal,” he said. “I suppose this might even improve business this season. You know, lotsa people will have read about Warner Pier in the newspapers and seen our beautiful city on the television news.”

This inspired one of the few tart answers I heard from Aunt Nettie. “I certainly hope we didn’t go through all this just as a tourist promotion.”

Mike seemed a little embarrassed. “Oh, nice lady! I didn’t mean I’m glad it happened! I just want us to make the best of what we’re stuck with.”

Aunt Nettie let him off the hook. “I know what you mean, Mike. But this has surely been a strain. I just hope it really is over.”

As Mike went out the front door, a new caller showed up—Greg Glossop. Since we had the door open, it was impossible not to let him in.

He was enjoying the situation thoroughly. “You can’t believe the silly gossip that’s already started,” he said. “Some one asked me if it was true that Clementine Ripley’s secretary made a run for it and drove her car into a bridge abutment down by South Haven.” He preened. “Luckily, I could tell her that was a complete fabrication.”

We had to hash over the whole affair before he was satisfied. And the phone kept ringing. The word was spreading like the great fire of 1871, which left half of Warner Pier in ashes. All of Aunt Nettie’s friends called.

The result was that I thought we’d never get rid of Greg Glossop. In fact, he was still there when I got a call. From Joe.

Luckily, I answered the telephone that time.

“Hi,” Joe said. “Your line’s been busy for thirty minutes.”

“I know. All of Warner Pier’s called up to tell us how glad they are that we’re not going to be tried for murder.”

“People around here are really nice, aren’t they?” Joe’s deadpan tones emphasized the sarcasm in his remark.

I laughed. “Oh, people are pretty much the same everywhere, I guess. You should have heard the strange questions the Texans asked when I left my ex. Are the detectives through out there?”

“No. They’re still at it. Working in the office. I’m on the kitchen line. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Was he going to bring up that kiss?

He didn’t say anything for a long time. I didn’t say anything either. Finally, we both spoke at the same time.

“Listen . . .” I said.

“I hope . . .” Joe said.

We both shut up again, and there was another silence. Then Joe spoke.

“Back there as you were leaving . . . I was way out of line. I owe you an apology.”

His comment struck me funny. “That’s not very complimentary,” I said.

“I don’t mean I didn’t enjoy it!”

I laughed, and in a few seconds, I heard a chuckle from the other end of the line.

“As long as you’re not mad,” Joe said.

“No, I obviously enjoyed it, too. But . . . listen, let’s forget the whole thing, okay?”

“Forget it? That’s a tall order.”

“I mean—well, we’ve both had some bad experiences, and I think . . . I think both of us need to get out more!”

There was another long silence. Then Joe spoke seriously. “You don’t want my class ring?”

“No, but I’d be tempted by the letter jacket.”

We both laughed. It was such a relief to be able to joke. But I couldn’t forget my unease about Marion’s plan to fly away.

“Joe, I had one thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I gotta go,” Joe said. “VanDam’s waving at me. Can I call you later, when things calm down?”

“I may call you.”

We both hung up, and I looked up to see Aunt Nettie standing in the office doorway. “Lee, do you think we could go home now?”

“Did Greg Glossop leave?”

“Finally.”

The phone rang again, but this time I let the answering machine catch it.

“We’re not here,” I said, turning off the sound. “In fact, we’re no longer murder suspects, and we’re going to go out on a toot to celebrate.”

“And just what kind of a toot did you have in mind?”

“I have enough room left on
my
Visa card to treat us to a pizza. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful. I definitely don’t want to cook.”

“Come on then. There’s no cloud hanging over our heads, and we’re gonna howl!”

I stuffed my doubts about the details of Marion’s crime under a mental rock and led Aunt Nettie out the door to the alley.

P
each Street was still crowded with tourist traffic as we drove out of the alley. The most interesting thing I noticed was a black Mercedes convertible parked in front of Downtown Drugs. There was no sign of Duncan Ainsley, however.

“Is the Dock Street still the best place for pizza?” I said.

“Well, I think they have really good sauce—and plenty of it. And they’ve become a sort of social center, too.”

“You mean the tourists discovered it?”

“No, I mean it’s a center for us locals. I understand that if a couple is seen together in the Dock Street it’s practically an announcement that they’re going steady. And they’ve put in a dining room since your day.”

“A dining room? Do you want to eat there?” I nudged her. “Everybody already knows we’re related.”

“Sure. If we can get a table.”

The Dock Street Pizza Place has been a Warner Pier institution for a long time. It’s the best kind of pizza place—long on spices, cheese, and toppings and short on ambiance. I was pleased to see that we still ordered by walking up to a counter and that the “dining room” consisted of a dozen tables in what had been a garage off the alley back when I went there as a teenager. And it still smelled like garlic, tomatoes, pepperoni, and hot bread.

Aunt Nettie and I snagged a table for two in a corner, and I went up to the counter and ordered a medium Italian sausage and mushroom pizza, two side salads, and two glasses of red wine from our local winery.

I took the salads and wine back to the table. I was sitting with my back to the counter, and I was so tired that I was ignoring the social side of dinner at the Dock Street. So I was surprised when Aunt Nettie looked behind me and her eyes grew wide. “That Mr. Ainsley is coming over here,” she said softly.

Amazed, I turned around. Duncan Ainsley was the last person I’d have expected to see in the Dock Street. “Duncan!”

“Lee.” He smiled and patted my shoulder. Then he turned to Aunt Nettie. “And Nettie TenHuis, the famous chocolatier.”

“I sure am glad to run into y’all. May I join you?”

“Of course,” Aunt Nettie said. There was no way to refuse. Plus, I was rather honored that a man as well-known as Duncan Ainsley wanted to sit with us. The
Business Week
article had described him as a “bachelor who likes to be seen with a beautiful woman on his arm.” That night “beautiful” hardly applied to either Aunt Nettie or me. Duncan, however, was as suave as usual. Not a hair in that beautiful head of gray was out of place.

“I thought Lindy was fixing dinner for you,” I said.

“She left something to heat up, but—thank the Lord!—I was finally allowed to get out of that house,” Duncan said. “So I got.”

“Are you going back to Chicago tonight?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll wait and go in the morning. There’s no point in fighting Sunday evening traffic. I was able to check into a B-and-B.”

“How did you find the Dock Street?” Aunt Nettie asked. “I thought only us locals knew about it.”

“I asked somebody where to get some good Italian food.” Duncan smiled broadly. “Pizza sounded good. And the company’s a lot better than out at the Ripley house.”

“Is Joe the only other person there?”

“Except for the security guard. And Joe may well be a fine fellow, but I heard too much about him from Marion.”

“I know you must have known her well.”

“Marion and I had an odd relationship. Sometimes it was such a headache that I was sorry Clementine Ripley had become a client. Oh, I made money on the deal, but I rarely saw Clementine, and Joe refused to have anything to do with her business affairs, even before their divorce. That left all the details to Marion. And her relationship with Clementine . . .” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You’ll have figured out that it was kinda peculiar.” He turned to Aunt Nettie. “Will y’all be leaving Warner Pier next winter?”

“Maybe for a vacation,” she said. “Why?”

“Then you don’t spend the winter in Florida, the way some of the resort shopkeepers do?”

“Oh, no,” Aunt Nettie said.

I spoke then. “TenHuis Chocolade is quite busy year-round. We do a lot of mail-order business.”

“I had no notion.”

“I think Aunt Nettie should expand, but she wants to keep a close eye on just how TenHuis chocolates are made.”

“You have to watch every detail,” Aunt Nettie said.

Duncan frowned. “But I’ve been in the shop. You’re obviously not making all the chocolates yourself. Lee, do you help?”

“Nope. I keep my hands strictly out of the chocolate and into the business side. TenHuis has about thirty-five ladies who make the chocolates.”

“Thirty-five! That’s a much larger business than I realized, Mrs. TenHuis.” He turned to me again. “Then you don’t put on hairnets and gloves and dig into the marshmallow cream?”

I laughed at the horrified expression that the notion of marshmallow cream inspired in Aunt Nettie. “We use neither marshmallow cream nor plastic gloves,” I said.

“No? I thought health department rules said food handlers had to use them.”

“Not always,” Aunt Nettie said, “but we have what the health department calls an alternate policy. Our employees are specially trained in hand washing and food handling, so they don’t have to wear gloves.” She leaned over and spoke confidingly. “McDonalds’s has the same kind of deal. My ladies do wear hairnets. But it would be extremely hard to do some of the detail work we do while wearing gloves.”

“I can see that you’re as busy as three windmills in a tornado.”

At that point the counter girl called my name, and I went up to collect our pizza. Duncan shared tour he sausage and mushroom until his arrived, and we had quite a companionable time, with Duncan entertaining us with more stories about his famous clients.