The Chocolate Cat Caper (3 page)

I’d really done it this time. Joe’s smile almost turned into a glare. I spoke quickly. “I used to hang out at Warner Pier bitch when you were a lifeguard.” I decided to ignore turning “beach” into “bitch” and kept talking. “I always saw you looking down from that high chair.”

“Yeah, Joe Lifeguard, lording it over the beach.” He started walking again. I trailed him. “I remember you.”

Joe Woodyard had been the head lifeguard at the Warner Pier beach the year I was sixteen, the year my parents divorced and I was packed off to work for Aunt Nettie and Uncle Phil in the chocolate shop. I’d made a few friends among the local girls who had summer jobs in the downtown businesses, and we’d spent our off hours at the beach, flirting with the Warner Pier guys (dating a summer visitor could ruin your rep) and drooling over Joe Woodyard. He’d been the best-looking guy in Warner Pier in those days—dark curly hair, dark brows, long lashes, and vivid blue eyes, not to mention great shoulders. He was three or four years older than we were, and he had an air of dangerous arrogance. To the sixteen-year-old mind he had been the epitome of cool, but intimidating.

He had been a sharp dresser, too. But now I recognized his matching shirt and slacks as “work clothes,” the kind you buy at Kmart. And he wasn’t as good-looking now. Or maybe he was good-looking in a different way. At twenty he’d been almost too handsome; now he looked tougher, more rugged, sadder—as if he’d had a few rocky nights and rough days.

Joe spoke again. “What are you doing back in Warner Pier?”

“Working for Aunt Nettie. I’m planning to commute to Grand Rapids and take the CPA review course. What are you doing now?”

Joe’s smile twisted into its sardonic version, but before he could speak, a new voice sounded from in front of us. It was a deep, throaty voice, a voice with vibrato that could make a stone shudder—or at least sway a jury.

“Don’t you know?” the voice said. “Joe is the former Mr. Clementine Ripley.”

I
recognized her, of course.
Sixty Minutes
, the
Today
show,
Dallas Times-Herald, Time
magazine—Clementine Ripley and her photograph had been everywhere during the prominent cases she had worked on. After Thomas Montgomery’s estranged wife was found beaten to death, for example, nobody had believed even the Montgomery millions could keep him off death row. But Clementine Ripley had done it. When rock star Shane Q. was accused of burning down his record producer’s house, the evidence looked damning. But Clementine Ripley kept him out of jail. And the fee from either case—or from any of a dozen others she had handled—could have paid for the house in Warner Pier.

Clementine Ripley would have drawn attention even if her photo hadn’t been plastered over the world’s news media. She was an attractive woman, but there was nothing showy about her looks. She simply looked competent. If I’d had a small country I’d needed running, I’d have hired Clementine Ripley for the job on sight, never mind the references.

Then she came out of the house, down a step, and I was surprised to see that she wasn’t very tall. She had a full figure—no skinny lightweight could look as reliable as Clementine Ripley looked—but she wasn’t plump. She wore casual pants in light blue denim with a matching man-tailored shirt, but the embroidered trim showed that the outfit hadn’t come off the rack at Penney’s. Her hair was blond—bottled, but not brassy—her features symmetrical, her makeup subtle. Her skin was outstanding—finetextured and smooth, but with lines around the eyes.

She was at least fifteen years older than Joe Woodyard, I realized.

“Meow.” The comment made me jump guiltily, for my cattiness. Had Clementine Ripley read my mind?

Then Ms. Ripley emerged from behind a bush that had partially hidden her, and I saw that she was holding a cat, an enormous ball of white and minkybrown fur.

The cat spoke again. “Meow.”

“Oh!” I said. “Is this Yonkers?”

Ms. Ripley caressed the cat with a gesture as sensuous as Aunt Nettie’s chocolate cream. “Yes.”

“He’s beautiful!”

Champion Myanmar Chocolate Yonkers accepted my admiration as his due, and Ms. Ripley ignored it. She looked at Joe Woodyard. “Joe, are you going to introduce me to your attractive friend?”

She managed to make the last word almost objectionable, and I spoke quickly, before Joe could react. “I’m Lee McKinney, from TenHuis Chocolade. Mr. Woodyard showed me the way back here. I’m here to deliver your order.”

Ms. Ripley’s eyes narrowed like the cat’s. “I’m sure that the security guard can help you unload the chocolates. You can go back the way you came.”

She was beginning to unnerve me, and that always had a bad effect on my tongue. “I was told I could find your personal assailant here.” Oops! I went back and tried the remark over. “I need to talk to your personal assistant.”

The catlike eyes blinked twice, and Ms. Ripley called out. “Marion!” She turned and looked into the room behind her. “Someone wants to talk to you!”

She turned around and put the cat inside the house, then slid a screen door shut, imprisoning him. Champion Yonkers immediately leaped onto the screen and climbed, using his claws as pitons and grumbling deep in his throat. The screen was speckled with enlarged holes; apparently the cat made this climb frequently. At any rate, both Joe Woodyard and Clementine Ripley ignored his stunt.

The real cat reminded me of the candy one. I lifted the white box and thrust it toward Ms. Ripley. “My aunt sent these.”

She eyed the box suspiciously. “Your aunt?”

“Jeanette TenHuis. She’s the chocolate expert. She wanted you to see one of the special order cats. She sent several Amaretto truffles as well.”

I kept the chocolates extended, and Ms. Ripley took them. She slid the blue ribbon off the box, opened it, and pulled out the white chocolate cat. She smiled. It was impossible not to smile at the chocolate version of Champion Yonkers.

“Delightful!” She held the cat up for Joe Woodyard to see. “Isn’t it lovely, Joe?” She sounded slightly sarcastic when she spoke to him.

“Just dandy,” Joe said. “I need to talk to you. Where’s Marion?”

“I’m coming,” a woman’s voice answered. “I was upstairs.”

The woman who came toward us, sliding the door open only a few inches and making sure the cat didn’t get out, was frankly middle-aged. Or maybe she was much the same age as Clementine Ripley, but not as well kept. Her hair had been allowed to stay its natural gray, and she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. She had on polyester pants and a loose, sloppy T-shirt. She was almost as tall as I am, and she was thin. Not slender, not svelte, not slim, but something close to skinny. Her skin had been weathered by the sun.

She stopped a few feet away from Clementine Ripley and stared at Joe Woodyard. “What’s he doing here?” she said.

Ms. Ripley ignored her remark. “It’s the chocolate delivery,” she said. “This woman says she needs to talk to you.”

Marion McCoy glared at me. “The security man could have called me to the door.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “But you promised to have a check—”

She cut me off before I could finish the sentence. “Just come this way.” Still glaring, she brushed past her employer.

“Wait a minute,” Ms. Ripley said. She put her hand on Ms. McCoy’s arm and stopped her, but she looked at me. “Did you say you were to receive a check?”

I nodded unhappily.

“But I thought I put the chocolates on my Visa card.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ms. McCoy said firmly.

“Please wait, Marion. Let this young woman answer me. Didn’t I give you my credit card number?”

I glanced at Joe Woodyard, standing with his arms folded, and at Marion McCoy, who was glaring. I didn’t want to have to answer that question.

“Have you stopped taking credit cards?” Ms. Ripley was insistent. “Someone asked for one when I called the order in.”

“Oh, we still take them! It’s just that—well, there was some discrepancy. The card was dejected.” Oh, I’d done it again. “It was rejected,” I said.

Ms. Ripley stood there deadpan, then gave her slow, catlike smile again. “Rejected?”

Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh. “You’re maxed out, Clem. Is that why you’ve gone back on our deal?”

Clementine Ripley turned on him, and now she looked like a cat who was ready to claw. I spoke quickly, before she could attack either of us. “There are a lot of possible explanations,” I said. “We may have taken down the wrong number over the phone, for example. But Ms. McCoy assured me—”

“Yes, I’ll write a check on the personal account,” Marion McCoy said. She shook her employer’s hand off her arm and moved toward me.

Ms. Ripley was back in control of herself, but her eyes were still narrow. “You do that, Marion,” she said. “And we’ll discuss this later.” Then she reached into the little white box of chocolates, but she didn’t offer to share. She pulled out the chocolate cat and took a bite. She chewed and swallowed, made a satisfied “ummm” sound, and popped the rest of it in her mouth. Then she slid the blue ribbon back around the box, effectively reserving the chocolates for herself.

“Here, Marion,” she said. “Take these into the house, please. Just put them in my room. I’ll eat them later.”

Marion snatched the box ungraciously, then walked off without another word. I followed her. Behind me I heard Ms. Ripley speak. “So, Joe—why are you here?”

“I want my money,” Joe said.

I didn’t hear any more. I didn’t want to. I didn’t know just where Joe Woodyard and Clementine Ripley stood. Maybe they were in the middle of their divorce. Or maybe they were divorced already. Maybe Joe was asking for alimony. And maybe the credit card “dejection” meant Ms. Ripley had more serious money problems than a bill from TenHuis Chocolade.

I followed Ms. McCoy along the flagstone terrace, which overlooked a broad lawn dotted with trees trimmed carefully to avoid blocking the view of Lake Michigan. It wasn’t as hot or muggy here on the lakeshore. The sky was blue, the clouds fluffy, a fresh breeze teased the water into rhythmic lines of whitecaps.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

Ms. McCoy ignored me. She certainly wasn’t friendly. She led me past a long row of windows, then through a French door and into a paneled office. I stood by while she dug a big flat checkbook out of a drawer in the walnut desk that centered the room. She took the invoice I handed her and wrote the check.

As she gave it to me, she glared. “There was no need to bother Ms. Ripley about this.”

“I didn’t intend to. Joe Woodyard happened to pop up as I arrived, and he told the security goon—I mean, he told the security guard that he’d take me out to the terrace to find you.” I could feel myself blushing. Goon! Had I really said that? I went on quickly. “How do I get back to the drive where I left my van?”

Without a word Ms. McCoy led me across a hall, through a utility room, and out a door. We emerged behind some bushes, turned a corner, and were back on the circular drive. My minivan and the security guard—he did look and act like a goon—were right where I had left them. Another vehicle, a sporty vintage Mercedes convertible, had been parked behind me. Its driver—a tall man with a beautiful head of gray hair—got out, waved at Marion McCoy, and went up the steps to the front door.

I unlocked the van, and the security man and Ms. McCoy unloaded the chocolates, turning down my offer to help. The security man managed to tip one of the trays, of course, and all the chocolates slid to one side. I offered to rearrange them, but they again refused my offer. So I handed Ms. McCoy the food-service gloves and advised her to use them to rearrange the chocolates. Then I got in the van and drove away.

I met only one more crisis. When I got to the massive gate, I slowed, wondering how to open it. It slid back on its own, and I found myself hood to hood with a police car.

A pair of sunglasses and a head of dark hair sprinkled with gray poked out the window of the police car, and its driver called out, “I’ll back up!”

He backed onto the street, and I drove out the drive. I waved as I passed him, to acknowledge his courtesy, and he gave me an answering wave and a friendly grin. If he was on official business, it didn’t seem to be anything serious. In fact, his grin was the only genuine one I’d seen since I left TenHuis Chocolade.

“Whew!” I said aloud as I turned toward the Warner Pier business district. “What a bunch. Rude secretary. Officious security man. Family fight. Everybody at everybody else’s throat.” It would be nice to get back to the chocolate shop, where Aunt Nettie kept all her employees happy. And where I could absorb the news that Joe Woodyard, the guy the sixteen-year-old me had thought was so cool, was trying to squeeze money out of his ex-wife.

But as I turned onto Peach Avenue, I realized I hadn’t seen the inside of the house. I refused to count the office and the utility room as a view of a showplace home.

When I came through the back door of TenHuis Chocolade, I could see Aunt Nettie standing at a stainless-steel worktable, using a big metal lattice to cut a sheet of lemon canache into diamond shapes. Canache—it rhymes with “panache”—is a thick filling, stout enough to stand up on its own, but not as solid as a jelly. Pieces of this are “enrobed,” or covered with chocolate, and turned into a type of bonbon I think is actually more like a truffle.

Aunt Nettie was talking to a woman whose back was toward me. All I could see of her was shoulderlength brown hair.

Aunt Nettie beckoned. “Lee! See who’s here!”

The woman turned around. “Lee!” She held her arms out.

I yelled at her, “Lindy Bradford! I mean, Lindy Herrera!”

We hugged each other enthusiastically and made good-to-see-you-again noises. Lindy had worked for TenHuis Chocolade the same summers I did. The two of us had lazed on the beach and ogled the local guys on our days off. I’d always thought Joe Woodyard was the coolest, but Lindy had had her eye on Tony Herrera even then.