The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (7 page)

Trey stepped back from her attack and nearly fell off the narrow dock. “Patsy, I’m sorry . . .”

“Oh, I don’t mean you, Trey! You were one of the few who didn’t make fun of Hershel, who didn’t mock him.” Her eyes flashed around the group. Was it my imagination, or did they linger on Meg?

But it was Chief Jones who drew fire next. He made the mistake of putting his mike away and turning back to our group, and Patsy pounced.

“And you!” She was yelling. “You’d think the chief of police would have some patience with his town’s eccentrics!”

“I thought I was patient for a long time,” the chief said.

“You threatened Hershel with jail!”

The chief sighed. “Now, Patsy . . .”

“Don’t you ‘now, Patsy’ me. I was the one who had to find Hershel that time. He was hiding up at the old chapel. He only goes there when he’s really upset! He was scared to death!”

“I’m sorry, Patsy. But we had to keep him from turning in these crazy reports.”

“I could have stopped him. All you had to do was call me!”

“I didn’t know that then. You’d just come back. You were in the middle of your renovation. I didn’t . . .” Chief Jones stopped talking and scowled at his shoes.

Patsy attacked again. “Didn’t what? Didn’t want me to know about it?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” the chief said.

Frank moved in then. “Patsy . . .” And Patsy turned on him.

“It’s all my fault, Frank! I talked you into coming back to Warner Pier. I thought I could handle the situation. Now we’ve squandered our money . . . ruined our marriage.”

Frank grabbed her. I think it was supposed to look like a bear hug, but it looked more like a stranglehold from where I was standing. He crushed her face into his shoulder. “Shhh! Shhh! We’re not going into that now. Just calm down, honey.”

Patsy pushed him away. “I’m just so tired of it! I try to meet my family responsibilities, but it’s been hard! I thought I could do what Mother asked if we kept Hershel here. I thought the trust could help both of us. But it’s turned into a nightmare. Especially for you, Frank.”

I stood there helplessly, watching Patsy cry. Then I felt a breath on my neck, and Joe leaned over my shoulder. He whispered. “Get Patsy inside the shop and see if you can calm her down.”

I wanted to turn around and glare at him. Another case of the menfolks thinking that the womenfolks can take care of an emotional crisis. But I had to admit he had a point. When Frank had tried to act sympathetic, it only seemed to make Patsy worse. Maybe another woman could help matters. And Meg didn’t seem to be ready to offer support. She was hiding behind Trey.

“Patsy,” I said, “why don’t you come inside with me for a minute. Joe keeps a big box of Kleenex in his office. You and I can sit in there and use it up.”

I put my arm around Patsy’s shoulder and aimed her at the door to the shop. She didn’t move very fast, but I was able to maneuver her inside.

Once I had her sitting in Joe’s office chair, with Kleenex in hand, I pulled up a straight chair and sat opposite her. I didn’t say anything.

Patsy sniffed. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re entitled to a good cry.”

“It’s just been really hard.”

“I can see that it has.”

“Hershel bothered everybody in town.”

I smiled. “He didn’t bother TenHuis Chocolade. Aunt Nettie always acted happy to see him, and he never gave me any problem.”

“You’re lucky! Meg got the idea—I could have smacked her. But she’s that type.”

“I just met her tonight, but I admit she didn’t make a good impression. What problem did she have with Hershel?”

“She always thinks all the men are after her. She got the idea Hershel was stalking her! It was crazy.”

I didn’t speak. Stalking is crazy, true, but I didn’t think that was what Patsy meant.

“It was Trey he was stalking,” Patsy said.

“Trey?”

“Oh, stalking is the wrong word. Hershel got hipped on a new subject. It happened all the time. When Trey was working on our renovation, Hershel would hang around. He lives on the property, after all. Trey was always nice to him.”

“Trey seems like a pleasant person.”

“He is. I don’t know how he got mixed up with that Meg. Her name used to be Maggie Mae, you know. And Trey—well, true, his name is Charles Thomas Corbett the Third, but he was known as Chuck until he took up with her. I think it was her idea to rub everybody’s nose in his family connections. But everybody knows he comes from the poor side of the Corbetts. Anyway, Trey explained some things about historic preservation to Hershel—actually treated Hershel like a grown-up. Of course, it backfired. Hershel began going over to their house.”

“To Gray Gables?”

“No, to Trey and Meg’s house. On Arbor Street. He was only trying to see Trey, but Meg got all excited.” Patsy subsided into her Kleenex again.

I thought her outburst was over. If she had told the truth, I had a certain sympathy for Meg. I wouldn’t like Hershel hanging around my house. It wasn’t as if you could really be a friend to Hershel. He wasn’t unintelligent, but he was so unpredictable that he wasn’t any fun to talk to.

I heard a tap at the office door, and I turned around to see Joe standing there. “I brought Patsy a cup of coffee,” he said.

“Oh, Joe, that was nice of you,” Patsy said. “You didn’t have to make coffee.”

Joe grinned and came into the office. “I didn’t. They had a jug of it on the patrol boat. Frank said you didn’t take sugar or cream.”

Patsy sipped the coffee. “I’ll try to straighten up. Then Frank and I will go home.”

“Before you go, I’d like to know how Hershel got the idea that I knocked down the Root Beer Barrel.”

“I don’t know exactly what made him think that. You know how he prowled around town.”

“But the Root Beer Barrel came down during the last big snow storm. In March.”

Patsy patted her eyes again. “I know. Hershel loved to walk in the snow. Especially along the lakeshore. He told me the Barrel had fallen down before I heard it anywhere else.”

Joe thought a moment. “It’s at least a mile from Hershel’s house to the Root Beer Barrel property,” he said. “Just what did he tell you he saw?”

“Hershel never made much sense. It was something about a truck. What difference does it make?”

“It would make a lot of difference to me,” Joe said. “It might give me problems selling that property. We’d better tell the chief about it. Can you stand to talk to him?”

Patsy gave a weak smile. “I’ll try. I need to apologize to Hogan anyway. He tried to be patient with Hershel.”

We went back outside, but Joe, Frank, Patsy, and I stood around waiting while the chief finished up with the water patrolman. By the time he joined us, there was only a little sunset glow left in the western sky and Jerry Cherry’s portable lamps were casting a harsh light on the dock. Meg and Trey were gone.

At Joe’s insistence, Patsy repeated her story. In fact, Joe cross-examined her. Joe doesn’t do his lawyer act too often, but when he does do it, I can see that he must have been good at it. He went at Patsy from six different angles.

But Patsy didn’t know anything else, and Frank swore Hershel had never said anything to him about the old Root Beer Barrel.

“Why does it matter?” Patsy said. “I didn’t believe it. Apparently Hershel didn’t spread it around town. Why do you even care, Joe?”

Joe and the chief looked at each other. “It’s the Historic District Regulations,” Joe said.

“I’ve never heard of the city having to enforce a case,” the chief said.

“Yeah, it’s usually just obeyed,” Joe said. “I certainly would never buck the city regs.”

“Historic District Regulations?” Frank said. “I know we had to follow them when we renovated Patsy’s mom’s house. Trey did the design, and he advised us. We didn’t have any problem.”

Joe nodded. “Trey’s an expert on the regulations. They aren’t all that onerous, but there’s a part that deals with ‘demolition by neglect.’ In other words, if you own a historic structure and you just let it fall down. That’s not allowed. I’d have to look at the ordinance to see what the penalty would be. Then there’s a section about deliberately demolishing a historic structure—a property owner couldn’t get away with that. He’d have to pay fines. He might even have to restore the demolished structure in some way.”

I was confused. “But why would the Historic District Regulations even apply to the old Root Beer Barrel? It didn’t have any artistic or historic merit, did it? Not like—oh, say, Gray Gables. That’s a real mansion.”

“Right, Lee,” Joe said. “Gray Gables is worth preserving because it’s beautiful—at least to people who like High Victorian architecture—and because it was owned by a famous man—Trey’s great-grandfather, the ambassador—and because it’s a great example of the late nineteenth century summer home. But as I understand the ordinance—and I studied it pretty carefully—ordinary structures are also covered.”

“You mean all that stuff Hershel said at the post office . . . ?”

“Yeah. Hershel was right. Vernacular architecture is considered worth preservation. An unusual business structure like the Root Beer Barrel would definitely be included. That’s the one of the main reasons that section of Lake Shore Drive hasn’t been redeveloped since the road fell in.”

Joe turned to Patsy. “Believe me, I did not allow the old Barrel to deteriorate on purpose.”

“I didn’t think you did, Joe,” Patsy said. “You only became the owner last fall, right?”

“I’m not really the owner at all. The owner is Clementine’s estate. I’m just the executor. The estate acquired the property as settlement for a debt. But it was of limited value, because the ordinance required that the old Root Beer Barrel be preserved. I admit I gave a loud ‘hurrah’ when the storm blew the thing down. But I didn’t help it along.”

We all stood silently, contemplating the fate of the old Root Beer Barrel. Then Chief Jones spoke. “At the time, nobody suggested that the Barrel had any help coming down. I don’t know how we could figure out what happened to it now, three or four months after it happened. I’ll talk to Trey and some of the other experts. But as Patsy says, it probably doesn’t matter at this point.”

The circling boats had left by then. Patsy and Frank drove off in their SUV, and Jerry Cherry and the chief began to load up some equipment. The trees all around were closing in on me. I moved a little closer to Joe.

He spoke to me quietly. “I guess I need to get you home.”

“Do you?”

“Our romantic evening is completely shot.”

“I guess so. At least we had a good dinner.” I led Joe inside the shop, out of sight of the chief and Jerry Cherry. “May I have a goodnight hug?”

Joe obliged. He expanded the hug to include a kiss. And another kiss.

“I guess we don’t have to take a boat ride,” I said.

Another pause. “We could go by the shop,” I suggested. “The break room ought to be deserted. I could make coffee.”

“Well, it would make an awful nice interlude before I go to jail,” Joe said. “Could I have a double fudge bonbon?”

“ ‘Layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with dark chocolate coating.’ You could have two.”

“Yum, yum. I’ll have to lock up.”

“I could help you.”

Joe and I went back down the dock, and he fastened the sedan in its proper place, locking its mooring chain. Chief Jones and Jerry called out good-byes, promising to be back early in the morning.

Joe followed the chief to Jerry’s car. “If I’m not around, and you need to get into the shop, there’s a key in a magnetic case behind the drain pipe at the corner of the building.” He pointed to the corner he meant.

We waved, and the Warner Pier police car drove away. Joe and I watched as their lights disappeared behind the trees that surrounded the shop. Then we got in Joe’s truck, alone at last. I moved over to the center of the truck, and Joe put his arms around me. We sat there several minutes, fully occupied with each other. The windows of the truck were rolled up. It was really dark.

Then I gasped. “Oh!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I left my tote bag in the sedan.”

Joe nibbled my ear. “I guess you need it.”

“I guess so.”

He nibbled again. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll be waiting.”

Joe fished a large, square flashlight out from under the seat of the pickup, then got out of the truck. He closed the door. I could hear his footsteps crunching over the gravel and could see the beam from his flashlight bouncing over the ground as he walked around the side of the shop. Then the light disappeared, but I could still see it reflected overhead on those scary trees. The sound of Joe’s footsteps faded away, and all I could hear was the night insects.

Then a voice hissed out of the darkness. “Miss McKinney! Miss McKinney!”

Someone rapped on the passenger’s side window.

I
f I didn’t wet my pants, it was because I was too busy trying to restart my heart. It had come to a dead stop. My head, however, whirled toward the sound at the speed of light.

I don’t know if I whispered or shouted. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Hershel Perkins.” The croaking voice was unmistakable.

“Hershel!”

Oddly enough, knowing it was Hershel outside the truck calmed my fears. Hershel was strange, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I rolled the window partway down. “Hershel! We thought you were dead! Where have you been?”

“I’m hiding.”

I tried to open the truck’s door, but Hershel pressed against it, holding it closed. “No! Don’t open the door! I don’t want any light.”

“Why not? You must be hurt. We need to get help for you.”

“I’m not hurt as bad as some folks want me to be.”

“People think Joe rammed your canoe. We’ve got to tell the police you’re all right.”