The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (25 page)

But it was Trey’s next words that really caught me by surprise.

“We can go into the details later. And we might be able to work out some kind of a deal, but if we do, there’s one perk you’re not going to get. From now on, you’re going to stay away from my wife.”

I
gasped, but luckily Joe gasped even louder, hiding the noise I’d made. Then he laughed.

“Maggie Mae—I mean, Meg—is a very pretty woman. But if you think we’re fooling around, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“You dated her.”

“When I was seventeen! She was sixteen. It’s ancient history. I hadn’t seen her again until you two moved back to Warner Pier. Then maybe we’d see each other in the checkout line at the Superette. I’ve never even been alone with her since we got out of high school. Fifteen years!”

“She said she slept with you.”

Joe was silent a minute. “I don’t know why she’d tell you that.”

“Because I asked her!” Trey yelled it out.

Joe yelled his answer. “Then you’re dumber than you have a right to be!”

I expected that Trey would yell back and that the argument would escalate. It didn’t worry me too much; I was sure that if it came to a fight Joe could turn Trey inside out.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, Trey gulped three times. I could see his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallowed his anger. Then the one eye I could see narrowed craftily and he spoke. “Maybe I overreacted. Maybe she was teasing me.”

“That’s got to be the answer, Trey. There’s nothing between Meg and me.”

Trey nodded. “But you asked about what I planned for the Lake Shore Drive site. Let me show you.”

Had he brought the drawing here? To the boathouse? I watched as Trey turned and gestured toward a large table behind him. The table was covered with a sheet, which he carefully removed, folding it and laying it aside.

And there, displayed under the bare bulbs of the boathouse, was a four-foot-long model of the structure I’d seen in the drawing—the beautiful Victorian resort hotel.

It incorporated the Old English Motel in the form of a mock Victorian village, and it used the DeBoer House as the main hotel. But there were no remains of the old Root Beer Barrel in between. On the model the motel and the historic home were linked by picturesque cottages. A swimming pool and elaborate landscaping completed the model.

The old Root Beer Barrel would definitely not have fit in.

Joe whistled. “Wow! What a layout.” He leaned over, concentrating on the model.

Trey leaned over, too, and to Joe it probably seemed that he was also admiring his model. But I could see his right hand. I could see it move behind the table’s leg and bring out a metal bar. I caught a glimpse of the split end, and I recognized it. It was a small crowbar.

Trey did not need a small crowbar to show Joe a model of a resort hotel. He definitely had another plan for the tool. I reached into my purse and grasped my own weapon, the lucky stone wrapped in a chamois.

Trey straightened up, but I didn’t wait for him to hit Joe with the crowbar. I yanked out my improvised sling—sending my purse flying—and I smashed the window I was looking through.

Then I began to yell, and I ran for the door, hoping the smash and noise would distract Trey from his attack on Joe.

I plunged through the door and into the harsh light of the boathouse.

Trey was gawking over his shoulder, looking toward the window, but Joe had already taken action. He was reaching for Trey’s hand, the hand that held the crowbar.

Then—well, all hell broke loose.

A tarp in the back seat of Joe’s sedan lurched as if a small earthquake had hit it. It was thrown back and Jerry Cherry popped up. The boat rocked wildly as he scrambled onto the dock.

Footsteps pounded outside the boathouse, the door I’d come in was smashed back against the wall, and a whole crowd ran in. I was so confused I could barely identify them as Mercy Woodyard, Mike Herrera, Dolly Jolly, and Aunt Nettie.

Then a loudspeaker started booming. “This is the police! Put down your weapons! Come out with your hands raised!”

The boathouse wasn’t really big enough for all this activity. Especially since Joe and Trey were now having a wrestling match under the table that held the model. I danced around, trying to get a chance use my lucky-stone sling—rather hard to do when your intended target is under a table.

Mercy was yelling, and she and Mike fell to their knees. Each of them grabbed for one of Trey’s flailing feet. But the feet were flailing too hard; they couldn’t catch hold of them.

Then Joe rolled on top of Trey, and the two of them hit the table leg. The table jumped and the model went flying. Trey screamed like a wounded shebear. They rolled again, this time out from under the table. I began to swing my weapon, something like little David getting ready for Goliath, but I was afraid I’d hit Joe. So I just kept swinging it around.

Joe and Trey flipped one more time, and this time they were close to the water. I thought both of them were going to go in, right between the dock and the sedan.

And finally—finally—Jerry Cherry was able to get through the crowd and grab Trey. He and Joe wrestled Trey face down onto the dock. He couldn’t move, though his feet were still flailing.

Dolly poked her head over my shoulder. “Do you want me to sit on him?” she said.

“Nah,” the voice came from the darkness. “I think we can manage now.”

Chief Hogan Jones and the other two members of the Warner Pier Police Force came in through a door near the open end of the boathouse.

Then all of us—Joe, Jerry, Chief Jones, Mercy, Mike, Dolly, Aunt Nettie, and me—said the same thing, in unison.

“What are you doing here?”

By the time Chief Jones and Jerry Cherry had Trey handcuffed, and Chief Jones had sent one of the patrol officers for a car to come and get him, we’d begun to sort it out. Apparently three separate groups had decided Joe needed rescuing and had taken on the job.

Aunt Nettie was the one who mystified me. “How did you get involved?” I asked her. “What were you doing at the shop? I thought you were safely home in bed.”

“Stacy called me,” she said. “She said you had gone tearing out of there with Mercy. She and Tracy overheard you leaving a message for Chief Jones. She thought I’d like to know.”

“I don’t know if I should be mad at her or at you.”

“All’s well, Lee. Joe’s okay, and I guess Hogan got the goods on Trey Corbett.”

Joe joined the conversation then. “That’s what I’m afraid isn’t true,” he said. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled something electronic out.

I stared, then realized what it must be. “You were wired!”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s certainly reassuring to know that my nearest and dearest friends and relatives—my girlfriend, my mom—all thought I was dumb enough to have a one-on-one meeting in a secluded spot with a murderer.”

“That’s why you kept asking Trey to cut you in on the deal!”

“You heard that? Chief Jones and I were trying to get him to admit he killed Hershel.”

“So the whole thing is on tape.”

“Not that it’s going to do much good.” Joe looked at the chief.

Hogan Jones frowned. “We can get him for the attacks on you and Lee.”

“But doesn’t that prove he killed Hershel?” I said.

The chief and Joe shook their heads in unison. “Nope,” Joe said. “If I were still a defense attorney, I’d have a great time with that recording. All it does is establish me as a crook.”

“And now,” Chief Jones said. “I’d appreciate all of you stepping outside. I have permission from Jim Corbett, the owner of this property, to search. Trey was apparently using this building for the projects he wanted to keep quiet, and there’s always the possibility we will find some evidence that Hershel was here. Not that it will do much good.”

Mercy spoke that time. “Why not? If you can prove Hershel was here . . .”

“It won’t prove a thing,” Joe said. “He probably had been here. It’s established that Hershel followed Trey around. Even if the chief finds Hershel’s fingerprints on every inch of this boathouse, it won’t prove he was here the night he was killed.”

I was feeling extremely dispirited as I turned to follow the group outside. We picked our way through all the junk carefully, but it was too late. We’d had good intentions, but we’d definitely contaminated the crime scene.

It was Mike Herrera who stumbled and kicked the trash basket over. Sawdust, hunks of plastic, paint cans, scrap wood—everything dumped out in a heap on the floor.

Mike growled and leaned down as if he were going to scoop it all back up.

“Leave it!” The chief’s voice was sharp. “We’d have to go through that basket anyway.”

But Aunt Nettie had already leaned over. “Oh, look,” she said. “A TenHuis box.”

And there, covered with sawdust, was a white box tied with a blue ribbon. I didn’t need to see the snazzy sans serif type in the corner to recognize it. It was the kind of a box we use for a pound of chocolates. Or for a fancy molded chocolate item.

“Chief!” I almost jumped up and down. “If there’s a bog in that fox it will prove Hershel was here the night he disappeared! I mean, a frog! In the box!”

“Oh, yes!” Aunt Nettie said. She looked nearly as excited as I did. “Hershel bought one of our eightounce white chocolate frogs the afternoon he disappeared. I packed it for him personally—in a box just like that one. It’s the only one we’ve sold so far. If that’s the frog . . .”

Chief Jones knelt and looked at the box. “Let’s get some photos before we look inside,” he said.

He motioned all of us non-lawmen on out the door. We stood around, talking excitedly. Through the door we’d come out, we could see flashbulbs now and then. But it was nearly ten minutes before the chief came out, carrying a brown paper sack.

“I guess I’ll never get all of you to go home unless you see what was in the box,” he said. He spread the top of the sack open, and held it out at arm’s length. “Nettie, we’ll let you peek first.”

I knew what it was as soon as I saw her face, but my heart was pounding as I took the second peek.

Nestled inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper, was a big white chocolate frog with dark chocolate spots on his back.

“Yee-haw!” I said.

It’s hard to do a group hug when you’re jumping up and down, but we managed.

T
here’s one nice thing about hanging out with foodies. First, Aunt Nettie insisted that everybody come by TenHuis Chocolade for a talk session and some chocolate, and Mike immediately said he’d bring coffee. Nobody said no. Aunt Nettie, Mercy, Mike, Dolly Jolly, Joe, and I all met in our break room. Mike brought two party-sized Thermoses of coffee and a bottle of brandy. Nobody said no to that, either.

After Aunt Nettie had served up a plate of truffles, bonbons, and solid chocolate—but no chocolate frogs—Joe wanted to know how I figured out Trey was the bad guy, and I wanted to know how he and Chief Jones figured it out.

Joe took an Italian cherry bonbon (“Amareena cherry in syrup and white chocolate cream”) and started talking. “You remember I was going to ask a few questions about Tom Johnson? I turned my pal Webb Bartlett loose on the project.”

Webb Bartlett is a law school buddy of Joe’s who practices in Grand Rapids. He’s one of those people who knows practically everybody in the world and if he doesn’t know them, he know somebody else who does.

“Webb discovered Tom had been involved with a crooked developer who had conned a Grand Rapids architect. Webb knew the architect, so he called him and found out Trey used to work for his firm. And yes, Trey had been around when the architect got involved with Tom Johnson. So Trey had known Tom. That established a link. The chief had thought all along that Trey’s story about being sideswiped by that black panel truck sounded fishy. Besides, another witness you and I didn’t know about . . .”—Was it my imagination, or did Dolly Jolly’s natural ruddiness grow even redder?—“had seen something that involved Trey. So I was able to convince Chief Jones that Tom Johnson was probably fronting for Trey, who must be the actual buyer for the old Root Beer Barrel property.”

“But why couldn’t Trey simply buy the property in the regular way?”

“Because he sat on the Historic District Commission.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t own and develop property in Warner Pier.”

“No, but it does mean he’s not supposed to vote on issues he’s personally involved in. And he wanted to vote on demolishing the old Root Beer Barrel. So he had to make it appear that he had the idea for the resort and bought the property after—
after
—the Barrel had been torn down. Plus, Trey must have had money problems. I’ve gathered that he’s a sort of poor relation to the wealthy side of the Corbett family. Buying a whole block of lakefront property would take a bundle of money. Maybe two bundles. He didn’t have it.”

“He’d have to have major financing to get that much money together,” I said. “He couldn’t do it without bringing in partners.”

“I don’t think Trey wanted partners. From what Webb picked up from Trey’s former boss, he fired Trey because Trey’s not a team player. He’s the kind of architect who wants to make all the decisions on a project. He didn’t want to build buildings that suited the client—the kind that architects actually get paid for.”

“That fits with what Frank Waterloo said about him,” I said. “Trey made all the decisions on their renovation—just let Patsy make the ‘final choice’ on the wallpaper.” Since I had the floor, I described finding the elevation showing Trey’s plan for the site and how I had later recognized the site after I got a look at the DeBoer House.

“Meg nearly had a fit when she realized I’d seen the drawing,” I said. “At the time I didn’t understand why. I’m guessing that Trey figured out the justification—I mean, juxtaposition!—the relationship of the Old English Motel and the DeBoer House, and he saw the potential for the site to become a re-creation of a turn of the twentieth century resort. But the Root Beer Barrel was 1940s commercial. It didn’t fit in with his ideas.”