The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (11 page)

“But you
know
Joe. He’s a decent human being! He wouldn’t hurt anybody. Besides, what conceivable reason would he have had to harm Hershel?”

The chief gave a little snort. “Face it, Lee. Anybody in the vicinity of Warner Pier might have had a reason to get Hershel out of the way.”

“Because he was annoying? That would be a pretty extreme reaction.”

“Not because he was annoying. Because he was nosy. He wandered all around town, more or less spying on everybody.”

“But he hadn’t spied on Joe.”

“Not until he brought up all this business about the old Root Beer Barrel being pulled down.”

“But that wasn’t true!”

“What if it was true, Lee? Joe’s had an awful time with his ex-wife’s estate. Right?”

“I’ve never asked all the details.”

“I don’t know all the details either, but I do know Joe took the Root Beer Barrel property as payment on a bad debt—a debt owed to Clementine Ripley’s estate. But the property was virtually worthless.”

“Lakefront property is not worthless. Not in Warner Pier.”

“But the lot couldn’t be redeveloped because of the Root Beer Barrel, right? The Historic District Ordinance required that the Barrel be saved. And that made the property hard to sell.”

“That rule was silly. The previous owner had allowed the old Barrel to become dilapidated. Joe was planning to go to the board and ask permission to take it down.”

“He might not have gotten that permission. And just at that moment the Barrel happened to blow down.”

I was silent.

“A simple coincidence,” Chief Jones said.

“Of course!”

“Except that Hershel said it wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Nobody believed Hershel! Besides, all this happened three months ago. Nobody thought anything about it when it happened. Why didn’t Hershel come forward then, if he knew anything?”

The chief shook his head. “I don’t understand it, Lee. And I’m not hauling Joe down to the station yet. But when Hershel’s canoe is sunk and then Hershel himself is found dead—and both these things happen near Joe’s boat shop—and Joe doesn’t have an alibi for either event, I can’t just say, ‘Ol’ Joe wouldn’t do a dastardly deed like that,’ and ignore it. I’ve got to look at one of the primary rules of detection—‘Cui bono?’ Who benefits?”

That pretty much ended our conversation. I made my statement, then agreed to come back at noon—when the chief’s secretary would have it ready to sign. But I left in a huff. I was furious at the chief’s suspicions of Joe.

I was also scared spitless. The chief was right. Joe had argued with Hershel. And he really was eager to sell the Root Beer Barrel property. And he did not have an alibi for either time Hershel had been attacked. The first time he’d been out in the lake on a boat. The second time he’d followed Aunt Nettie and me up to the old chapel—except as he himself had pointed out, he could have been there first.

I had to do something. But what? The whole situation was scary. Joe would never have knocked the old Root Beer Barrel down. I wasn’t even sure he’d know how.

At least, I was sure I didn’t know how. Who would know? Who worked with old structures and could tell me how to demolish one?

The answer, of course, was Trey Corbett. And he’d hung up on me at seven that morning after he’d implied my boyfriend might be seeing someone else and I’d countered with a similar implication about his wife.

Then Aunt Nettie had handed me the news that his wife and my boyfriend had once dated each other. What did that mean? They went out a few times? Went steady? Were queen and king of the prom?

I knew Meg didn’t have Joe’s letter jacket, because he’d dug it out of his mother’s attic and given it to me, more or less as a joke. I’d hate to think Meg had had it earlier—but high school was a long time ago. Maybe I needed to call Trey and apologize. I mean, Trey and I were both doing business in Warner Pier. We needed to get along, right? We even served on a Chamber of Commerce committee together.

When I opened the shop door and saw the two teenagers behind the counter and the dozen hairnet ladies calmly molding chocolates in the workroom, I felt relieved and comforted. Aunt Nettie was bustling about with her usual happy expression, and the wonderful aroma of warm chocolate filled the air. I concluded that my amateurish work at refilling the chocolate vats the night before hadn’t done any harm. Business seemed to be progressing as usual. Tracy was getting a Bailey’s Irish Cream bonbon (“Classic cream liqueur interior”) for a broad-beamed woman wearing red shorts not quite big enough for that broad beam.

It was tempting to forget poor Hershel, lying dead with rock-shaped wounds in the back of his head. And I might have tried to forget him, if I hadn’t been so worried about Joe.

I helped myself to a Dutch caramel bonbon (“Creamy, European-style caramel in dark chocolate”) and reminded Aunt Nettie that sometime that day she needed to make a formal statement about finding Hershel. Then I went to the telephone. I got out the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce directory—all ten pages of it—and found Trey’s number. I made a few notes about what I needed to ask him, then I called.

The phone was picked up immediately. Trey’s voice said, “Hello.”

“Hi, Trey,” I said. “I wanted to apologize for . . .”

But Trey’s voice was still speaking. “You’ve reached the office of C.T. Corbett Architectural Services,” he said. “Please leave a message after the tone.”

I had to gulp hard before I could leave a message. I’d been so psyched up about speaking to Trey that it didn’t seem possible he wasn’t in his office. I managed to stammer out my name and the TenHuis phone number, then hung up. His secretary must be out. If he had a secretary. Trey’s operation didn’t seem to be very large.

I remained uneasy. Maybe I should talk to Joe. I stared at the telephone, tapping my finger on the key that would speed dial the boat shop. Then I remembered that Joe’s phone was out of order, or it had been the day before. Besides, the chief had probably kept him up all night; he was likely to be asleep.

I punched in the numbers for Joe’s cell phone. If he was asleep, surely he would have turned that phone off.

He answered immediately. “Vintage Boats.”

Suddenly I had nothing to say. I had no real excuse for calling Joe. I just wanted to hear his voice.

“Vintage Boats.” Joe repeated his greeting. One more second and he’d decide I was a crank call and hang up.

“Joe,” I said. “It’s Lee.”

“Are you okay? Haven’t stumbled over any more bodies?”

“Not this morning.” Better keep this light. “Did the chief keep you up all night?”

“Just until a little after 2 a.m. Then he and Jerry were at the shop poking around before seven. I hadn’t slept much anyway. Has he already had you in for a statement?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know about the stone they found.”

“Yes, he made me identify the initials. Some lucky stone.”

“This whole deal with the Root Beer Barrel has been unlucky.”

I remembered that I’d told the chief I had never asked about the details of Joe’s business dealings. That was deliberate. Money problems—too much, not too little—had been a major factor when my first marriage broke up. I guess I’d shied away from discussing money with Joe because I was afraid we’d argue about it.

But at the moment I needed to be nosy. “Exactly how did you get hold of the Root Beer Barrel, anyway?”

“A guy named Foster McGee owed Clementine money. He’s a Chicago insurance executive. She got him off on a fraud charge.”

Joe paused, and I prompted him. “So?”

“McGee had paid Clementine only half her fee, so he owed her money, and as you know, she owed me money. McGee owns a condo up here, and he’d been suckered into buying the Root Beer Barrel—didn’t realize it wouldn’t be easy to redevelop the property. The city began giving him some trouble over letting the property become dilapidated. When the interest he owed Clementine’s estate got too high, he offered the estate the property as payment.”

“Why did you agree to take it?”

“Because McGee is almost bankrupt and is none too honest. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to do anything with the property, but if he went belly-up the estate might never get anything at all. I started preparing a petition, getting ready to ask permission to demolish the Barrel. Then a miracle happened—or so I thought. The thing blew down. I thanked my lucky stars and thought there might actually be light at the end of that particular tunnel. Especially when a real live potential buyer showed up.”

“Who is this buyer?”

“A guy from Grand Rapids—somebody Frank Waterloo works with. He owns a development company up there, and he wants to expand in our direction.”

“What does he want to build down here?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. He’ll have to comply with the Historic District Regulations, and I don’t think the city would go for a McDonald’s.”

I laughed. Warner Pier’s economy depends on its Victorian atmosphere, so the city is extremely picky about what new structures look like. Plus, pressure from local merchants keeps the Planning Commission and City Council notoriously wary of fast food chains. “Yeah, McDonald’s couldn’t get in, even if they put gingerbread up and down the arches.”

“True. As I said, the thing’s been a headache all along.”

“And now this. But Joe, after three months—they’ll never be able to prove whether or not the Barrel was deliberately torn down.”

“I know. And I don’t think they can prove I killed Hershel either. But if they don’t figure out who did do it—well, I’m sunk anyway.”

“None of your friends will believe this. It’s silly!”

“But it ruins my reputation.”

“Your reputation? I never knew you to worry about what other people thought of you!”

Joe was silent for a moment before he spoke. “Sometimes other peoples’ opinions can be pretty important.”

Then he hung up.

Our conversation hadn’t been reassuring. I was more confused than ever, especially by Joe’s reaction. Instead of relying on his friends to believe in him, he seemed more concerned about the opinions of people who didn’t know him.

“Lee.” I looked up to see Aunt Nettie standing in the doorway. “Do you want to go over to the Waterloos’ house with me?” she said. “I stopped by the Superette and bought a ham.”

F
ood equals sympathy. The universal belief of small town America.

“I could get some coffee and tea,” I said.

Aunt Nettie beamed. “That’s a good idea.”

I noticed that she had changed from her white pants and tunic into light blue slacks and a matching cotton sweater. I was glad I’d happened to dress up a little, though my plaid skirt might be a little short. But Aunt Nettie seemed to think three inches above the knee was okay for a condolence call.

It was a beautiful summer day in west Michigan, which stars at producing beautiful summer days. We stopped at the grocery store—where I bought three pounds of gourmet blend coffee and a big jar of instant tea, drove across the Orchard Street bridge, then turned up Inland Avenue. Nice of the Warner Pier city planners to label the street which led away from Lake Michigan so clearly. If we’d turned the other direction, we’d have been on Lake Shore Drive, the street that eventually led to Aunt Nettie’s house.

The Waterloos’ drive was full of cars, of course, and since Hershel had lived next door, I wasn’t surprised to see a Warner Pier PD patrol car and the Michigan State Police mobile crime lab along the curb. The chief would be searching Hershel’s house.

We parked down the street and walked back past several beautiful cottages—two Gothic revivals, one folk Victorian, and a Queen Anne which was heavy on the turrets and shingles. The Waterloo house was Craftsman, the style that led up to Frank Lloyd Wright. All us Warner Pier folks know this stuff; we can tell Greek revival from colonial revival with only a brief glimpse of a roofline.

When we walked up onto the broad porch, Betty VanNoord, a math teacher at Warner Pier High, opened the front door. Behind her were two other women I recognized from the Warner Pier High School honor assembly I’d gotten roped into attending the day Stacy got a scholarship. Patsy’s fellow teachers had apparently taken over hostess duty.

“Thanks for coming,” Betty said. “I’ll put the food in the kitchen. Patsy’s out on the deck.”

“We don’t want to intrude,” Aunt Nettie said.

“Patsy will want to see you,” Betty said. “You two found Hershel.”

I hadn’t considered that aspect. I hoped Patsy didn’t want a play-by-play description.

Another teacher led us through the house to the deck. I’d seen the deck from the river, of course. It was a beautiful addition of a twenty-first century amenity to an early twentieth century house. It was like an extended porch and overlooked a lawn which led down to the river. There was a small dock, but no boat.

Frank was leaning on the deck’s rail, big and bald as ever. Nearby Patsy, dressed in a new set of artistic draperies, was sitting in a wicker chair. Both got up and greeted us with the obligatory air kisses, while we murmured useless phrases. But they seemed glad we’d come.

One of the teachers brought coffee, and Patsy asked us to describe what had happened the night before. I gave a general report, slurring over Hershel’s disdain for “that bunch on the dock,” a group that had included both Patsy and Frank.

“I was afraid to bring anybody except Aunt Nettie to meet Hershel,” I said. “He was adequate—I mean, adamant! He was really firm. He wanted to see her and nobody else. Then he ran off into the woods, and I didn’t see how anybody could find him unless he wanted to be found.”

“Hershel prowled around so much. I guess he knew every foot of the riverbank, and the lakeshore, too.” Patsy dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “When you found him . . . did he look . . . was he . . . ?”