The Chocolate Mouse Trap (20 page)

In another state, clear across the country, a guidance counselor named “D. B. Denham” had blown the whistle on a scheme her principal had worked out, a scheme which misappropriated a local foundation’s scholarship funds. The local newspaper’s stories on the scandal were indexed on the Internet, and so were the stories run by a major newspaper in the state.

I didn’t have time to read all the stories, so I skipped to the end of the index. And I came up quite frustrated. The stories ended abruptly with an out-of-court settlement that was not revealed. Hmmm.

I looked back at a couple of the news items, and I began to read between the lines. The school board had been covering up like mad. The erring principal had been fired, true, but not before he had persecuted—that’s not too strong a word—the whistleblower. The whistleblower, this D. B. Denham, had finally sued the principal and the school board because of the persecution and the board’s failure to stop it. The school board, which had clearly been in the wrong, had been forced into an out-of-court settlement. D. B. Denham had accepted the settlement, signed an agreement not to reveal any more details about the case publicly, and taken early retirement.

“And bought a B&B in Warner Pier, Michigan,” I said. “Hmmm.”

No wonder Diane had resented Julie nosing into their affairs. If her connection with the case had made the papers, it would have endangered her settlement.

The phone had rung two more times while I was checking the Internet—one friend and one customer—and now it rang again. I didn’t even bother to sigh before I picked up the receiver.

“TenHuis Chocolade.”

“Is this Lee McKinney?” It was the voice of a woman. It didn’t sound young, but it sounded firm.

“Yes. May I help you?”

“I hope so. This is Rachel Schrader. I’m going to be at the Warner Pier cottage tomorrow, and I’m hoping you can come to see me there.”

S
tunned amazement swept over me. Rachel Schrader? The grande dame of western Michigan? She wanted me to come to see her? I was dumbstruck, so when I was finally able to speak, naturally I said something dumb.

“Mrs. Shatter? I mean, Mrs. Schrader! Of course, I’ll be happy to meet with you. What . . . ?”

I stopped in the middle of my question. I couldn’t think just how to ask Rachel Schrader what the hell she wanted.

I might be confused, but Mrs. Schrader wasn’t. “Naturally, Ms. McKinney, you’re wondering what my business is, and how it concerns you. I’m calling because we are beginning to dispose of Julie’s belongings, and I want to ask your help.”

“My help? I mean, of course I’ll be glad to help.”

“I’ve always read the Warner Pier weekly newspaper, just because I own property near there. And last week I happened to note that the chamber of commerce is sponsoring a drive to collect clothing and household goods to benefit the women’s shelter.”

“Yes. It’s one of our ongoing projects.”

“Martin told me you were serving on the chamber board. I’d love for Julie’s things to benefit abused women. If you wouldn’t mind helping me by delivering them . . .”

“Of course, Mrs. Schrader. But—”

She didn’t let me finish my sentence. “In addition, this will give me an opportunity to have a chat with the granddaughter of my old friend.”

Her invitation was a royal command. I couldn’t argue, though I did tell her TenHuis Chocolade would be open, even though the next day was a Sunday. Mrs. Schrader gave me two phone numbers—the Warner Pier house and her cell phone—in case I was going to run late. We agreed to meet at eleven o’clock.

I was still amazed as I hung up, and I headed straight back to the workroom. I felt sure Aunt Nettie would understand what was so peculiar about Rachel Schrader’s request.

I tried to tell her about that request in simple terms, not imposing my own amazement. I wanted Aunt Nettie’s honest reaction. And after I told her, I found it satisfying to see her eyes grow wide and even more satisfying to hear what she said.

“That’s the oddest thing I ever heard of.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said.

“Doesn’t Mrs. Schrader realize that the women’s shelter is
in
Holland? Why would she go to Holland, load Julie’s things up, and bring them to Warner Pier to give them to the chamber drive? Some chamber person will have to load them up and carry them back to Holland.”

“It would certainly be a lot easier to do it directly.”

“Unless she thinks the chamber benefits in some way.”

“Like winning a contest? She said she had seen the story about the drive in the
Warner Pier Gazette.
And that story made it quite clear that we were trying to benefit the shelter, not gain any benefit ourselves.”

Aunt Nettie nodded. “So her request is obviously just an excuse. She wants to talk to you, Lee. Why?”

“That’s the question. If she wants to talk to me, why take this indirect method? Why not just call me up and talk? I certainly would get together with Rachel Schrader any time of the day or night, on the phone or in person. Why does she feel she needs an excuse to ask me to come to see her?”

Aunt Nettie and I shrugged and shook our heads in unison. Neither of us had an answer.

“Take her a pound of chocolates,” Aunt Nettie said. “And at least you’ll get a look at that house. It’s supposed to be a real showplace.”

I decided to keep seeing the house as my goal and to quit trying to anticipate what in the world Rachel Schrader wanted. Whatever it was, worrying wasn’t going to help me figure it out. And it would be fun to see the Schrader house. Joe had pointed it out to me from the lakeside. From the water it looked like a flying saucer, if a flying saucer could be made of glass, floating in for a gentle landing on top of the dunes. Yes, it would be interesting to see the revolutionary structure up close.

So at ten forty-five the next day I headed for the south edge of Warner Pier and turned into the nondescript entrance to the Schrader property. I’d had to ask Aunt Nettie how to get there from Lake Shore Drive. There was certainly nothing of the showplace about the entrance.

Except the paving. Around Warner Pier, as in most rural neighborhoods, ordinary property owners have drives surfaced with sand or gravel. The Schrader driveway—naturally it had been cleared of snow—was asphalt. I will say that it was a one-way drive, quite narrow, but it was asphalt. The asphalt didn’t cover a short drive, either. That drive stretched toward the lakeshore, disappearing into the woods as it curved to the right.

On the first curve was a small wooden house. It wasn’t made of logs, but it had natural wood siding, and I was immediately sure it was the “cabin” that Brad Schrader had described. A Prius, a combination electric-gasoline car, had been backed into an open shed at the side. So I gathered that Brad was home, though I didn’t see any sign of life as I drove by.

The road went on, passing through thick woods. Giant trees—some with bare branches and some evergreens—towered overhead. The snow on the ground was lumpy; young trees and other undergrowth would cover the ground in spring.

The woods were lovely. I could see why Mike Herrera was eager to find out what the family’s plans for the site were. Judging by the length of the road into it, the property was several hundred acres in size—maybe more. And it ran along the lakeshore. With woods and beach, the property had everything to make it a fantastic nature preserve. On the other hand, it would also make a great site for a resort—if the right zoning could be arranged. I didn’t know which Mike thought would benefit Warner Pier the most.

After driving what seemed like three miles, but which was probably under a tenth of that, I saw the glint of glass through the trees. I rounded a final curve and drew up before a dramatic house.

If the house looked like a flying saucer from the lake, from the land it looked like an egg—a brown egg. It was oval and apparently made of cast concrete painted a medium tan. But it was built in a strictly symmetrical design. A door—carved and painted black—was smack in the middle of the front façade. The door was flanked by broad floor-to-ceiling windows. Even broader expanses of concrete stretched out beyond the windows, forming an arc that reflected the shape of the six broad stone steps that led from the drive. Matching concrete planters curved around the steps. I suppose they held plants in warm weather, but now they were full of rounded humps. A closer look showed me that lake stones the size and shape of ostrich eggs were peeking through the snow here and there.

I parked and got out of the van, bringing the box of chocolates Aunt Nettie had sent. Apparently Rachel Schrader had told her staff I was coming, because the carved black door opened immediately, and an attractive gray-haired woman wearing a white pants suit came out.

The woman gave me a welcoming smile, which displayed deep dimples. She spoke in a strained, high-pitched voice. “Ms. McKinney? Please come in.”

She ushered me into the house. “I’m Hilda VanTil,” she said. “Mrs. Schrader’s aide. She’s out in the overlook.”

Ms. VanTil took my coat and hat, and as she was hanging them up I got a glimpse of a control panel that must have powered a fancy security system. Then she led me through a foyer and a living room, both filled with the kind of completely unadorned furniture that costs the earth. The simple rooms could have seemed cold, but they didn’t. The furniture, flooring, and walls were warm colors—corals, rusts, deep browns—and the textures were nubby and wooly and comforting. The few pieces of art—giant paintings and imposing sculpture—were strikingly displayed.

The room beyond was another story. Ms. VanTil had called it “the overlook,” and that was a good name. It was obviously a space that had been designed to provide the best possible view of the dunes, the beach, and Lake Michigan. This was the part of the house Joe and I had seen from the lake, the part that had seemed to hover over the dunes like a spaceship just about to land.

The area was about thirty feet deep, with glass walls forming a sort of eight-sided drum that stuck out from the house like a pavilion. Mrs. Schrader sat next to the farthest window. She was in her wheelchair, and as Ms. VanTil and I entered the room she pivoted around to face us.

“Hello, Lee,” she said. “Everyone always wants to see the overlook, so I thought I’d wait for you out here.”

“It’s spectacular,” I said. “And you’re right; I did want to get a look at it. I’d seen it from the lake, and I was curious about what all that glass enclosed.”

Rachel Schrader turned her chair toward the lake again. “There’s no point in a beach house, of course, unless you make the maximum use of the lake view. And I wanted to see the beach year-round, not just in the summer. I told the architect I didn’t want one of those boxy enclosed decks that are the usual solution.”

“He certainly took you at your word.”

“Some people find the view of ice and snow and frigid water too chilling, but I enjoy it. Most of my family didn’t agree with me. They like it in summer, when we open up the walls. Only Brad sees it the way I do. We think it’s stimulating.”

Before I could reply that it could definitely stimulate an armful of goose bumps, Mrs. Schrader wheeled around toward me again. “But sit down, Lee. Hilda is bringing us some coffee. Unless you’d rather move back into the living room?”

“No. You’re right. The view is lovely. And it’s perfectly warm out here.”

The room held very little furniture, but I found a couch covered with brown sailcloth and sat on it. For twenty minutes Rachel Schrader and I chitchatted. We discussed the ecological problems of the Lake Michigan dunes, but only in a general way. Nothing was said about the fact that my hostess owned a substantial stretch of those fragile dunes. Then she told me stories about my grandfather. She asked about my background, and I gave a short account of how I’d come to be born in Texas and how I had wandered back to Michigan two years earlier.

“Then you and Nettie are the last of the TenHuis family,” Mrs. Schrader said.

“The last of our branch, I guess. Of course, Aunt Nettie’s only a TenHuis by marriage. And I’ve never really been a TenHuis at all—by name or by culture. I know very little about the Dutch settlers of west Michigan and a lot about the cowboy culture of Texas. Warner Pier people have been kind, but I know I’ll always be a stranger here in a lot of ways.”

“I’m afraid that will always be true of Brad, as well. He didn’t have an easy childhood. But he says Warner Pier is as close to a hometown as anywhere else, and I’m hoping he’ll put down some roots. Which reminds me—Martin said you had had some computer problems.”