The Chocolate Cat Caper (4 page)

Lindy still had a sweet dimpled face. She’d gained a little weight since high school, of course, but she looked great.

“Aunt Nettie says you have three kids now,” I said.

“Right. And I hope you’re ready to look at pictures!”

Everybody who comes into TenHuis Chocolade gets a sample, so Lindy picked a strawberry truffle (White chocolate and strawberry interior coated with dark chocolate). Then we went into the office, where I admired the pictures of three cute, dark-haired kids. Lindy had married Tony a year after we graduated from high school. I’d been working in Dallas and hadn’t had the time or money to come for her wedding. Aunt Nettie hadn’t been too optimistic about the marriage. Tony and Lindy were “too young,” she had said. Tony had been working for his dad’s catering business when they got married.

“Is Tony still working for his dad?”

“Oh, no! He hated that, you know. He went to school, became a machinist.”

“Does he like that better?”

“He did—until he got laid off a month ago.”

“Ouch! Has he found anything else?”

“They’re supposed to call everybody back in the fall. For now he’s doing what he can find—helping Handy Hans repair cottages, painting houses. He’s been working with Joe Woodyard some.”

“I guess it’s reunion week,” I said. “I ran into Joe out at the Ripley house.”

“Joe! What was he doing there?” Linda leaned close. “He and the Ripper split up two years ago.”

“I guess they had some business to discuss.” I might be disappointed in Joe for trying to get money out of his ex, but I decided I didn’t need to spread the word around Warner Pier. It would spread fast enough without my help. Warner Pier is a town that size.

“Tony says Joe’s having some business problems,” Lindy said.

“What does Joe do?”

“Well, he used to be a lawyer. But now he’s restoring antique powerboats.”

“Antique powerboats?”

“You know. Wooden speedboats and such.”

“He quit practicing law to do that?”

Lindy shrugged. “His mom was mad as hops. She was real proud of her son the lawyer. But when Joe walked out on the Ripper, he dropped out of law, too. He bought the old Olson shop at the far end of Dock Street. It caused a lot of conversation in the local coffee klatches.”

I laughed. “I guess so. When I was in Warner Pier Joe was definitely tagged as ‘most likely to succeed.”’

“Oh, yeah. Joe’s kept the town on its ear since he was state high school debate champ and state wrestling champ in the same year. Then he organized the student Habitat for Humanity chapter for Michigan. He won all kinds of scholarships. And apparently he did real well in law school, ran the—what do they call it?—law review.”

I nodded. “That’s quite an honor.”

Lindy went on. “His mom was bragging about all the big law firms that offered him high-paying jobs, but he went with one of these outfits that help the poor. Legal Aid? That was in Detroit. Then he married big, and his mom started bragging again. But two years ago he left the Ripper and quit law completely.”

“Money isn’t everything.”

Lindy rolled her eyes. “Wish I had enough of it to say that.”

“Money.” I opened my purse, produced the check, and leaned out into the workroom. “Tah-dah!” When Aunt Nettie looked around I waved the check.

She smiled sweetly. “Oh, good!”

I turned back to Lindy. “Mission accomplished. I delivered a huge order of chocolates to Clementine Ripley, and this is the check for them. But I didn’t get to see the inside of the house.”

“It’s ugly as sin. I get to see it several times a year.”

“How do you rate? Are you an Animal Rescue League supporter?”

“No, I’m a waitress! Tony quit his dad, but I’ve been working for him sometimes—Mike Herrera’s Restaurant and Catering. We do all of Clementine Ripley’s parties.” Her dimples deepened, and her face lit up. “Do you really want to see the inside of the house?”

“Sure. But what excuse do I have to go back?”

“Waitress! You waited tables when you were in college, didn’t you?”

“I did it more recently than that. When I walked out on Rich it was the only job I could get in a hurry. Rich nearly had a fit.”

“Why?”

“He was telling all his friends I was out to take him financially. Then I showed up on the lunch shift at his favorite Mexican restaurant. Running my feet off. It made it sort of obvious that I hadn’t taken a lot of his worldly goods with me. Waiting tables is hard work.”

“Well, the Ripley parties are a snap. It’s just circulating with a tray and picking up dirty napkins. And Papa Mike’s been looking all over for an extra waitress for tonight. If you really want to see the inside of the house, I’ll call him and see if he’s found anybody.”

I thought about it a second. “What do you wear?” “Black slacks, white shirt. Mike will furnish the vest and tie.”

“It might be easier to wait until the house is in
Architectural Digest
.”

“Come on, Lee, do it!” Lindy said. “It’ll give us a chance to talk without the kids underfoot.”

I considered for a long moment before I spoke. “Sure. I’ll do it. Call.”

It wasn’t until after Mike Herrera had agreed to take me on and after Lindy had gone home that Aunt Nettie heard about the plan. Her reaction amazed me. She looked horrified.

“Oh, no!”

“What’s wrong?” I said. “It’s just a chance to talk to Lindy.”

“I just don’t like the thought of you working for the woman who was responsible for your uncle’s death!”

I
stared at Aunt Nettie. When Uncle Phil, my mother’s brother, had died eighteen months earlier, that left Aunt Nettie as sole owner of TenHuis Chocolade—an expert on chocolate, but a little hazy on the business side. Uncle Phil had been killed by a drunk driver. But the guy had been tried and sentenced to jail, and this was the first time I’d heard that Clementine Ripley had anything to do with it.

“What do you mean, ‘the woman who was responsible for Uncle Phil’s death?’ ”

“That was the reason I didn’t want to do all that chocolate!”

“But you had the chocolate cat mold.”

“Oh, I ordered that two years ago, and it got here too late to use. When Clementine Ripley called the order in, it was your first day. I wasn’t here, but I guess somebody told you about the cat mold.”

“Yes, I asked one of the ladies, and she said the special mold was available. But what’s this about Clementine Ripley’s connection with the wreck that killed Uncle Phil?”

“She kept that terrible Troy Sheepshanks out of prison.”

“Troy Sheepshanks? Wasn’t that the driver?”

“Yes! He killed your uncle Phil. But it was the second time he’d been involved in a fatal accident. The first time he hired Clementine Ripley, and the district attorney wouldn’t even file charges.”

“Then the evidence must not have been good.”

“It would have been good enough if Troy had had any other attorney. The district attorney was simply scared to face her in court. So he dropped the case.”

“That’s terrible. But . . .”

Aunt Nettie sat down in an office chair and pursed her lips. She looked as solid as ever, and she hadn’t burst into tears. Only someone like me, who’d known her a long time, would have realized that she was extremely upset.

“Because Troy Sheepshanks was never charged in that first case, he got his license back and was on the highway—drunk again—when he killed Phil.” She sat back and folded her arms across her solid bosom. One lonely tear ran down her cheek. “I’ve always blamed Clementine Ripley as much as I blamed Troy Sheepshanks. If she’d been responsible at all, she would have seen that he shouldn’t be driving. You don’t know how often I’ve longed to kill that woman.”

I was sitting in an office chair that was on rollers. So I dug in my heels, grabbed the end of the desk, and scooted across the floor until I was knee to knee with Aunt Nettie. Not graceful, but I got there. “Why didn’t you tell me all this?”

She shrugged, sniffed, and shook her head silently.

“If I’d known, I’d never have urged you to fill that order for chocolates.”

“No. You were right. We can’t refuse to sell chocolates just because we don’t like the customers who want to buy them.” Aunt Nettie sniffed again, but this time she smiled. “I hate Hawaiian shirts, but I’m glad to sell chocolates to people who wear them.”

“We could put up a sign on the door: ‘Hawaiian shirts? No service.’ ” That made her laugh, just a little, and I gave her a one-armed hug. “Listen, I’ll call Mr. Herrera and tell him I can’t serve at the party after all.”

“No! No! He’s counting on you now.”

I could have predicted that reaction, I guess. The Warner Pier business community is not large, and the merchants help each other out. “I won’t make a habit of being backup help for Mike Herrera,” I said. “But Mom didn’t tell me a thing about all these problems with Clementine Ripley.”

“She probably didn’t know. For the last few years your uncle and I haven’t had much contact with her. And you were having your own problems when Phil died.”

That was true. Uncle Phil had died a month after I left Rich and when I was hitting my lowest point financially. My mom is notorious for never saving a cent. She is totally immersed in her work as a travel agent, though that has its good side. When Uncle Phil died, she was able to get us a standby flight. If she hadn’t, neither of us would have even been able to come to Warner Pier for the funeral. But we had stayed only two days. Neither of us had been any help to Aunt Nettie.

Aunt Nettie took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “I guess that’s why I hate that big house of Clementine Ripley’s so much. It’s like a memorial to the injustice of Phil’s death.”

“What does the house have to do with Uncle Phil’s death?”

“The first time Troy was accused of drunk driving, the Sheepshankses paid Clementine Ripley’s fee by giving her that ten acres out on Warner Point. The city had been trying to get hold of the property, but Ms. Ripley ruined that.”

We left the situation as it stood. Aunt Nettie didn’t want either of us to have anything to do with Clementine Ripley, but I’d promised to help out one of Aunt Nettie’s fellow Warner Pier merchants, and she wouldn’t hear of my backing out.

I dashed to the bank to deposit the check for Ms. Ripley’s chocolates, making it into the main lobby before three p.m., when the bank closed for the weekend. I could have deposited the check at the drivethrough, which would be open Saturday, but I was trying to establish rapport with Barbara, the branch manager. Then I went out to the house, changed into black slacks and a white shirt, and pulled my hair into a knot at the back of my head. Not glamorous, and not really required by the health department, but I hate waitresses who look as if they’re shedding hair into the onion dip. At four-thirty, I picked up Lindy at her house—Tony had taken the kids to the beach, so I didn’t see them—and I headed the minivan toward Clementine Ripley’s estate for the second time that day. And this time I planned to see the inside of the place.

We were allowed through the gate and directed around the house by a service drive. We parked in a gravel area beside a four-car garage, next to the Herrera Catering van. The van was brand-new and had a classy logo painted on the side.

“Looks as if your pa-in-law is doing well,” I said.

“He’s really thrown himself into the business since Tony’s mother died four years ago,” Lindy said. “He’s become a workaholic. Though recently we’ve caught a few hints that he’s got some new romantic interest.”

“How does that hit Tony?”

“Not very well. Of course, we both want Mike to be happy. But he’s so secretive. We don’t know who he’s seeing. It makes us feel . . . worried.”

I had the sense to nod understandingly and keep quiet.

Lindy took a deep breath before she spoke again. “It sounds silly, but Tony’s afraid he’s dating an Anglo.”

“So? Tony married one.”

“I know. Maybe that’s why he’s trying so hard to hang on to his cultural heritage. Trying to teach the kids Spanish. Stuff like that.” She smiled. “It all started when Papa Mike changed his name from Miguel.”

The breeze had switched to the north, dropping the temperature and humidity from their earlier highs and promising a pleasant evening for Clementine Ripley’s party. The terrace overlooking the lake faced west, so sun might be a problem on that side of the house, but the terrace on the river side was shaded by some big trees.

I greeted Mike Herrera. I barely remembered him from my teenage summers in Warner Pier; all I had was a vague recollection of a man with slicked-down hair and a little Latin mustache who was always cheerful. Now I saw that he’d changed his persona over the past twelve years, with a shave and a new hairstyle that turned him into a sort of heavyset Antonio Banderas. It was a surprising transformation. The twenty-eight-year-old me noted that he was an attractive man, something the sixteen-year-old me had missed.

Mike Herrera had been the first Hispanic to own his own business in Warner Pier—most Mexican-Americans in the area pick fruit—and I knew Aunt Nettie thought a lot of him. I felt sure he didn’t remember me at all, but he pretended that he did. Every successful caterer is a born glad-hander, and Mike Herrera had the act down pat.

He smiled broadly as he took my hand in both of his. “Lee. The little Texas lady who stayed with Jeanette and Phil and worked in their shop. Welcome back to beautiful Lake Michigan.” His accent was very faint.

“This time I plan to stay through the winter, Mr. Herrera. Do you think a Texan can stand the snow?”

“You’ll grow to love it, Lee. Brisk! Invigorating! And the summers—ah, yes. Life without air-conditioning. You know I grew up in Denton? But I’d never go back to Texas now that I’ve discovered this beautiful place.” He gave my hand a final pat, and a subtle change came over his face. When he spoke again I recognized it; Mike Herrera had moved from Warner Pier booster to businessman.