The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (9 page)

But if Joe had been there, I reminded myself, Hershel probably wouldn’t show up.

“See the big white house?” Aunt Nettie said. “Turn right.”

We had already been driving down a heavily wooded blacktop road, and our right turn—once we were past the big white house—took us into the real woods. The blacktop became gravel, the road narrowed, and the trees closed in. They met overhead and choked the ditches, crowding in on the road. I had to struggle to keep my teeth from chattering Aunt Nettie’s voice was soothing. “It’s not more than a half mile,” she said. “I haven’t been up here in years.”

“What is this place? This Riverside Chapel?”

“Originally, it was a boys’ camp, I think. There are some cabins and some sort of pavilion that must have been the dining room. When the camp closed down, a group of the summer people started a nondenominational chapel there.”

“Like the Lake Shore Chapel?”

“I think that’s what it turned into. This location was so remote that the congregation found a more central site and built a real building.”

“So the old chapel was just abandoned?”

“As far as I know. Oh, people used it for picnics or family reunions. But there’s no plumbing—or maybe just a well.”

“And it’s posted,” I said. I stopped the van with the headlights on a sign. “Private Property,” it read. “No Trespassing.”

“I don’t think we can let that stop us,” Aunt Nettie said.

“It certainly wouldn’t have stopped Hershel,” I said. “According to Patsy Waterloo, he prowls everywhere—all around Warner Pier.”

“I think she’s right. I know I’ve seen him over on our road and on the beach, just trudging along. I wouldn’t go so far as calling him a window peeper—but . . .”

“But he spies on people, I gather.” I took a deep breath and edged the van forward. “At least the old chapel doesn’t seem to have a gate.”

I had spoken too soon. Around the next bend in the road a barred gate appeared. “I’ll open it,” Aunt Nettie said. Before I could say more than, “Aunt Nettie . . .”, she was out of the van and over to the gate. She shoved at it. It wiggled, but it didn’t open. She came back.

“The gate’s padlocked. We’ll have to walk from here. I hope you have a flashlight.”

We’d come this far; neither of us was going to balk at going the last few feet. I reached into the bin under Aunt Nettie’s seat and produced a heavy flashlight—the kind my dad says every vehicle should be equipped with.

“I’ll leave the van’s lights on,” I said. “At least we’ll be able to find it on our way back.”

Aunt Nettie and I climbed over the gate. The road was not graveled but was merely a sandy lane—the type with grass down the middle. The trees, of course, met overhead and were crowding into the road.

“It can’t be far,” I said.

“It’s not. In fact—Lee, shine the flashlight up ahead.”

I was terrifically relieved to see a structure less than a hundred feet away.

“We can make it,” I said.

I dropped the light back onto the ground immediately in front of us, and the two of us walked up to the building. As Aunt Nettie had said, it was a rustic pavilion suitable for use for picnics or outdoor worship. The roof, which probably had holes in it, was held up by posts—four on each end, and eight down each side. There were no walls, and the floor—I could see bits of cement slab—was covered with matted leaves and other forest debris.

The place was deserted. Nobody called out to us, and I didn’t see Hershel standing there waiting. Aunt Nettie stepped under the roofed area, and I used the flashlight to check my watch. “It’s five till twelve,” I said. “I vote that we don’t wait long.”

“Lee!” Aunt Nettie’s voice was tight. “When you lifted the flashlight—there’s something over in that corner. Shine the light over there.”

She gestured, and I turned the flashlight where she directed. I saw nothing.

“Farther back,” Aunt Nettie said. “It was outside the pavilion, I guess.”

She clutched my arm as I inched the light farther and farther away, directing the flashlight’s beam to the edge of the pavilion, then beyond. Now I saw something, too. It was a lump, huddled on the ground. I turned the light full on it.

We were looking at a bright green shirt.

A
unt Nettie and I clutched each other.

“That’s Hershel’s shirt,” I said.

“He’s hurt,” Aunt Nettie said. “We’d better see if we can help him.” She took a step toward the heap.

“Wait!” I grabbed her arm. “Let’s look around first.”

“But, Lee . . .”

“Hershel can wait another minute,” I said. I guess I’d already decided Hershel hadn’t been hurt in some kind of accident. I felt sure he’d been attacked, and I wanted to make sure the person who had attacked him wasn’t still there waiting for us to lean over Hershel and become easy targets.

I pivoted slowly, shining the flashlight’s beam all around the pavilion. I saw nothing. Nothing but trees.

Aunt Nettie shook off my hand and went to Hershel. I followed her.

Hershel was on his back, with his face turned slightly away from us. He looked peaceful, lying there in a clump of ferns. His eyes were open, but the bright light from my flashlight brought no reaction from his pupils. A pool of red had spread beneath his head.

Aunt Nettie knelt and touched his wrist. “He’s still warm,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I took first aid, but I don’t think he has a pulse. I don’t think we can do anything to help him.”

She spoke very calmly, but I saw that her hand was trembling.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“I don’t think we should leave Hershel here alone.”

“I’m certainly not leaving you here with him. And I’m not volunteering to stay myself. We’ll have to go back to town and call the police.”

“It doesn’t seem right.”

“Oh, yes, it does!”

I pulled her to her feet, and in the process I nearly dropped the flashlight. It swung around crazily.

And, at the other end of the pavilion, the light reflected on a pair of eyes. Someone was standing there looking at us.

I nearly went into cardiac arrest for the second time that night. Then I forced myself to focus the flashlight on the eyes. And I saw Joe Woodyard leaning against one of the pavilion posts, squinting.

“What the heck are you two doing?” he said.

I’ve had a lot of emotional ups and down in my twenty-nine years, but right then I felt as if I were on a roller coaster. I was so relieved it was Joe that I could have kissed him and so mad at him for scaring us that I could have killed him. My feelings ricocheted around that pavilion.

But when I spoke, I guess I sounded fairly calm. “Do you have your cell phone?”

Joe reached for his pocket. “Yeah. I’m not sure it’ll work up here—the reception on this side of town is iffy. Who do you want to call?”

“The police.” I turned sideways and motioned toward Hershel.

Joe gave a low whistle and walked toward us.

“He doesn’t have a pulse,” Aunt Nettie said. “At least, I can’t find one.”

Joe checked Hershel’s pulse, then listened to his chest and put a wisp of grass beneath his nostrils. “I don’t think CPR would do any good,” he said. Then I remembered that Joe had been a lifeguard for three summers.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers. And he didn’t punch in 9-1-1. He tapped in a whole string of numbers.

“Who are you calling?”

“City Hall. The dispatcher can hear the answering machine this time of night. It’s quicker than getting the wrong 9-1-1. Which is easy to do from a cell phone.”

That made sense. But other question flitted through my mind. How had Joe known the number of Warner Pier’s City Hall? And why did he know all this stuff about the dispatcher’s routine? The question evaporated before it could get out of my mouth. It didn’t seem all that important at the moment.

Joe waited, then spoke, apparently to the answering machine. “Hey, Lorraine—are you on duty? Pick up, please. It’s Joe Woodyard. We’ve found Hershel Perkins, and he’s dead.”

The dispatcher came on immediately, and Joe described exactly where we were. “I think we’re still inside the Warner Pier city limits,” he said. Trust a lawyer to worry about jurisdiction at a time like that. “Okay. We’ll wait here.” He put his phone back in his pocket.

“She said she’d get the patrol car and the chief right away,” Joe said. “Just what were you two doing up here?”

“We came to meet Hershel,” I said. “How did you happen upon the scene? And how did you get to the pavilion without our hearing you?”

“Tiptoed. I was following you.”

“Why?”

“After the way you acted, I thought you were up to something. And I sure hope that answer satisfies Hogan Jones. Because he’s also going to wonder just what I was doing up here.”

Joe chivalrously offered to stay with Hershel while Aunt Nettie and I went back to the van, but we refused to leave. I explained how Hershel had come up to the truck and told me he wanted to see Aunt Nettie. Then the three of us stood there waiting. The atmosphere was cozier with three of us. It was a long five minutes before we heard a siren, and several minutes later before we saw car lights flashing among the trees.

“That’ll be Tom Jordan. I’ll walk down and meet him,” Joe said. I knew Tom Jordan—an older guy who worked for the Warner Pier Police Department part-time during the summer tourist season. But I hadn’t known who was on duty that night. I wondered how Joe had happened to know.

In a minute Tom—his gray hair glimmering in the flashlights—came toward the pavilion, with Joe leading the way. Chief Jones was close behind them. The chief wearily asked Aunt Nettie and me how we’d happened on the scene, then told us to go home. “I’ll get your statements tomorrow,” he said.

I pictured my van, parked on that one-lane road with its nose right up against the gate. “You’ll have to let us out,” I said. “I guess there are three cars behind us now.”

“Just Tom and me,” the chief said. “Who else did you think would be there?”

I turned to Joe. “Where did you leave the truck?”

“There’s a little turnoff a couple of hundred yards back down the road,” he said. “I nosed the truck in there, in case I didn’t want you and Nettie to know I was here.”

The chief looked at Joe closely. “You didn’t come with Lee and Nettie?”

“No. Lee acted so odd—well, I figured she was up to something. So I followed them.”

“But you parked back down the road?”

“Right.” Joe sighed. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

I didn’t get it. “What doesn’t look good?”

The chief shrugged, so Joe answered the question. “Since I’m not parked behind you, I can’t prove I arrived after you did,” he said.

“But what difference does your time of arrival make?” I said. Then I saw the answer. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “I could have been here ahead of you—in plenty of time to kill Hershel. First his canoe was apparently run down near my dock, then I’m on the scene when he’s killed. If I were the chief, I’d have me down at the station in a flash.”

I wanted to argue, but Joe shook his head. “You’d better get Nettie home,” he said.

By this time the patrolman was moving the two Warner Pier PD cars, and I couldn’t really justify hanging around. So I backed down the narrow lane to the place where Joe had turned in—the patrolman walked along and showed me where it was—then I turned around and headed back to Elm Street.

We had to go to the shop, of course, because Aunt Nettie’s car was parked behind it. And going behind the shop meant going inside, so that she could make sure the big electric chocolate kettles were functioning properly. I almost had to lasso her to keep her from washing the pots, pans, and bowls we’d left in the sink.

“No,” I said. “You’re going home. You came to work a long time ago. The morning crew can wash the dishes.”

Aunt Nettie sighed. “I guess I’m getting old.”

“You don’t seem to be, but I’m aging fast.”

We went home. We got in bed. I didn’t close an eye, but morning came anyway.

At seven a.m. the phone rang. I could hear Aunt Nettie in the bathroom, so I ran downstairs and caught the call.

“Lee? It’s Trey.”

“Trey?” I double-checked the time. Why was Trey calling so early? Why was he calling at all? “What’s up?”

“Is it true that you and Joe found Hershel’s body last night up at the old chapel?”

“I’m afraid so.” I didn’t mention Aunt Nettie.

“So Hershel didn’t drown?”

“Not unless—” I bit back a snotty remark about a wash tub. “No. It looked like a head injury, but I’m no expert. I guess you and the rest of the river patrol volunteers wasted your time looking for him in the water.”

“That doesn’t matter! We were home by dark. After Meg and I had a bite, I even went over to the Millers’ to work on that fireplace. But I guess you and Joe kept looking for him.”

“That’s not exactly the way it happened, Trey.”

“I’m just stunned. If Hershel had a head injury, I wouldn’t have expected him to be able to get to the chapel.”

“What do you mean?”

“The chapel’s way up on the bluff. If he was that badly injured, I’d have expected him to be found down by the river.”

I answered without thinking. “He didn’t get the head injury in the boat accident!”

“What do you mean?”

I thought about it. Could Hershel have been that badly injured and still talked to me in the dark, down at the boat shop, coherently? Or as near coherently as Hershel ever talked? Could an old wound have begun bleeding or something? Could a twenty-fourhour-old injury have killed Hershel?

Trey spoke again. “What do you mean, he didn’t get the head injury in the boat accident?”

“I don’t know, Trey. Maybe he did. I guess I’d better shut up until the chief has taken my statue. I mean, my statement!”