The Chocolate Castle Clue (25 page)

Then, as soon as I'd dropped them off at Aunt Nettie's, I drove home and figured out who had killed Verna Rice and might have killed her husband.

I didn't intend to do that, of course. It was just the way my thought processes followed a series of ideas inspired by things people told me. Solving the mystery was purely accidental.

The first inspiration came when I saw the Garretts' Cadillac parked in their drive.

The Garrett driveway is directly across Lake Shore Drive from our little sandy lane, and Dick and Garnet—yes, her name is Garnet Garrett—are friends of ours. They spend most of their time in Grand Rapids, where they lived full-time until Dick retired.

I had checked out their drive Friday night when Joe and I walked down to the scene of Mrs. Rice's accident, and at that time a dark-colored truck had been parked in it. I had flashed my flashlight on it, wondering whether Dick and Garnet had come down unexpectedly, but then I ignored the truck, thinking that someone had pulled in there so they could walk down Lake Shore Drive and gawk at the accident. I'd noticed the license tag, which was 7214, just because I'm a number person and I notice numbers. The truck had been gone when Joe and I walked home, and I had pushed the episode out of my mind.

Now, seeing the Garretts' car in the same spot made me remember the small truck. But again, I didn't pay much attention. I was hoping for half an hour of mindless television watching. As soon as I got into the house—and I was nervous enough that I locked the doors once I was inside—I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, turned on the television, sat on the couch, and propped my feet up.

But somehow I couldn't think about TV. That new map I'd picked up began to haunt me. I kept thinking about what it might show. I got up and retrieved my copy from my purse. Spreading it out on the coffee table, I looked at the downtown area.

That didn't take long. Warner Pier's downtown is five blocks long and two and a half blocks wide. I had been wondering how the guy on the motor scooter had managed to disappear so quickly, but after all, he hadn't had far to go.

The last time I'd seen him, he'd been on foot right in front of TenHuis Chocolade, on Fifth Street, not far from Peach Street. (Nearly all Warner Pier streets are named for fruits; this is orchard country.)

I'd sprayed him with pepper spray through my partly open window. Then I'd driven off on my rims, tearing up two tires in the process. I'd gone two blocks to Herrera's parking lot, located at the end of the business district. The Warner Pier PD and the Michigan State Police had arrived two or three minutes after that and started looking for the guy on the motor scooter. But no sign of him had been found.

The state police, judging from what both Lieutenant Jackson and Joe had said, were assuming that he might not exist.

But I knew he existed. He must have gotten out of the downtown area quickly. But why hadn't I heard the sound of his engine? Actually, earlier the motor scooter had been surprisingly quiet, so maybe I had simply been too excited to listen for it. But I believed I would have heard something if he had ridden off.

A motor scooter would be fairly easy to hide. I hadn't measured it, but it looked to be about five feet long and three feet high. The rider could have stashed it behind a large bush until the search for it was over.

However, there are no large bushes in downtown Warner Pier. We have ornamental trees planted in holes in the sidewalk, but we do not have bushes large enough to hide even a small motor scooter.

What did our downtown have that
could
hide a motor scooter?

A Dumpster? I was sure the law officers had searched behind every Dumpster in the downtown area. They'd probably searched inside every Dumpster, too, but it would be hard to lift a motor scooter into one. I didn't think that was a practical plan.

Trucks or other vehicles? In movies they hide small cars inside trucks, but semis or even large panel trucks are not commonly found in downtown Warner Pier at night. The only one I could think of was the furniture store's delivery vehicle, and after the store closes, it's usually locked in the store's garage.

Garage!

What a simple idea. And it would work. The rider could simply have ridden, or even pushed, his motor scooter into a garage. Then he'd lock the door and stay there until the coast was clear.

But there weren't all that many garages in downtown Warner Pier. Which meant I knew where nearly all of them were.

I pored over the map. Where was the garage nearest to TenHuis Chocolade?

In ten seconds I was laughing.

The nearest garage was right behind our shop.

It was the garage and storeroom that TenHuis Chocolade had rented for twenty-five years and which Dolly Jolly had used for her Jeep until the owner of the building wanted it back.

The garage was right across the alley from where my van had been parked when its tires were slashed. And that garage was empty and nearly cleared out. Dolly and I, with Joe's help, had seen to that the previous Friday.

We would turn the garage and the adjoining storeroom back to the landlord as soon as Joe and I took the final load of junk to the dump. And since it held nothing valuable, I'd left it unlocked.

But it sure seemed to be a far-fetched hiding place. It simply was too crazy. I was amused by the idea, but I didn't believe it.

I toyed with the idea of going back downtown and looking in the garage, just to see if there was any evidence that a motor scooter had been hidden there.

Immediately I heard Joe's voice—just as loudly as if he'd been in the room. And the voice was saying, “Stupid. Stupid, Lee. Don't do anything stupid.”

In fact, it was saying, “Don't do anything
else
stupid.”

No, it wouldn't be smart for me to go down a lonely alley, late on a fall afternoon, with the sun beginning to go down and the light getting dim. Not only would it be stupid; I simply didn't want to do that.

So I sat there, staring at the television, not seeing what was on the screen, and wondering if I should call Joe—or the Warner Pier PD or the Michigan State Police or somebody—and tell them about my latest brainstorm.

But it seemed so far-fetched.

I probably wouldn't have done anything about it if Joe hadn't called me.

He called to say he had an appointment with Shep at five o'clock, so he would be late coming home.

“Okay,” I said. “Joe . . . there was one thing I might mention to you.”

When I told him about the garage idea, he sounded more exasperated than interested. But he listened. And he didn't say it was stupid. I think he'd figured out that he'd better not.

What he did say was, “We need to check on that storeroom anyway. I'll run by and see if there's any sign that somebody's been fooling around in there.”

“I guess it's a far-fetched idea.”

“It won't hurt to check. But even if the guy hid the scooter there last night, he's probably gotten it out by now.”

“When could he do that?”

“Oh, probably around six this morning. The Warner Pier business district isn't exactly thronged with people at any hour this time of the year, but it's definitely deserted then.”

Relieved to have shifted the responsibility for my idea, I settled back to watch the TV. And another thought began to nudge my imagination.

I began to think about the Garretts' Cadillac sedan, now parked on their driveway, near their cottage. I idly wondered about the strange vehicle I had seen there Friday night. Had the driver of the truck simply been someone who stopped to gawk at Mrs. Rice's accident? The van's license tag figures—7214—still lingered in my number-oriented brain.

I had ignored the letters on the license plate, but the numbers were easy for me to remember.

That strange vehicle kept bugging me. It reminded me of something. But what? The only thing I'd even noticed about it was the dark color and the tag number.

I don't notice every car tag number I pass on the street. The only other one I'd noticed lately was the tag on Good-Time Charlie's antique Corvette. That one was 7321.

So?

Both numbers began with seven. Again, so what? A license tag number has to begin with something.

But—

I sat up straight on the couch. Both numbers followed the same pattern. They began with seven, and if the seven was multiplied by the second number, you got the final two numbers.

Charlie had told Joe and me that he deliberately sought out tag numbers that were sevens and multiples of seven.

It could be.

All Michigan vehicle owners are encouraged to buy tags by computer, so most Michigan license plates were issued at random. But it is possible to go to a secretary of state office and get a tag. Considering how much business a car dealer like Charlie might do at such an office, he could well be able to get a small favor—such as a special number request—from the clerk behind the counter.

In small-town Texas, where I grew up, it would have been a snap. Local officials like to keep their constituents sweet. I was willing to bet it wouldn't be too hard in Michigan either.

Of course, Michigan auto owners can order special tags—vanity tags. But I didn't think these had been vanity tags. Those usually had words on them. And these had followed the standard Michigan pattern of a three-letter prefix followed by numbers.

But the two tags had followed the same pattern, and this coincidence could be checked. If the SUV was registered to Good-Time Charlie, the state of Michigan would know. I called the Warner Pier PD and asked for Jerry Cherry. He wasn't there, but the secretary-dispatcher said she'd have him call me. I felt confident that Jerry would check the license numbers if I asked him to. Of course, since I didn't know the letters, it might take a while. Quite a while.

And again, so what? If I proved that both license tags were for cars registered to Charlie McCoy, would it matter?

Yes, I decided. Because Charlie had told the state police that he hadn't been in Warner Pier Friday night. He had told me that until Saturday he hadn't been to Warner Pier for forty-five years. But that small panel truck sure had been there. In fact, it had been about a block from where Mrs. Rice was killed. A shudder ran down my back. I hadn't considered Charlie—joking Charlie with all the puns—as a killer.

But when I did consider him as a killer, I came up with another factor that was interesting. Charlie owned a whole car lot full of vehicles. Charlie could easily have access to a motor scooter and a small commercial van, as well as a flashy Corvette.

But wouldn't they have dealers' tags? Not, I decided, if Charlie was planning to use them for some nefarious purpose. Dealers' tags would be much more noticeable. Charlie could borrow a truck from his lot if he needed one, then switch one of his own tags to it.

And that small panel truck I'd seen—the one with the numbers 7214 on its tag—was big enough to haul a motor scooter away. It had solid side panels. And it might even have a mechanical lift, making it easy to get an object like a motor scooter in through the back doors.

I assured myself that I was letting my imagination run away with me. Then I settled back on my couch, took a drink of my Diet Coke, and checked the television.

But I couldn't pay attention to it. I clicked the set off and considered Charlie as a killer. What motive would he have for killing Mrs. Rice?

I had no answer. He had known her for nearly fifty years. He had worked for her husband.

But what motive could he have? Charlie had told me he had never come back to Warner Pier.

When Joe's mom had told me Mrs. Rice told her—talk about hearsay—that she rented her house to a Holland car dealer, the name of Good-Time Charlie had immediately popped into my mind. I had, however, rejected that idea because I would have called Charlie a used-car salesman, not a car dealer. I would reserve that term for someone who had a manufacturer's franchise. A Chevy dealer, a Cadillac dealer.

But what if Charlie
had
been the person who rented the house? The person who allowed “unprim and improper” people to use it?

Why would Mrs. Rice agree to that?

Because she was forced to?

Bingo! Blackmail!

If Good-Time Charlie had something on Mrs. Rice, he might want money to keep it quiet. But Mrs. Rice had only a limited amount of money to begin with. And this rental deal happened around twenty years after Dan Rice died. By then Mrs. Rice might have had no more money to pay a blackmailer. So Charlie might have forced her to let him use her house.

Margo said Mrs. Rice had tried to blackmail her. Maybe she got the idea from Charlie.

I wondered if an audit of finances for Charlie's original car lot would show Mrs. Rice as an investor.

But why would Charlie stop demanding money and kill Mrs. Rice?

Because something had happened to change their relationship. Charlie had been exploiting Mrs. Rice. And she was willing to pay up. But after forty-five years of submitting to blackmail, she found “new evidence” and rebelled.

I was sure this was right. After all, the last person Mrs. Rice had spoken to was Joe. And she had told him she had “new evidence” in her husband's death. How could Mrs. Rice have found “new evidence” at nine o'clock on a Friday night? What had happened on that Friday that might have produced new evidence about an event that happened forty-five years earlier?

It had been a busy day. Dolly and I had cleaned out the garage. The Pier-O-Ettes' reunion had begun. And Shep had showed up in town.

Well, I knew Dolly and I hadn't found evidence in the garage. I was almost positive that none of the Pier-O-Ettes had talked to Mrs. Rice. That left Shep.