The Chocolate Castle Clue (5 page)

“I don't know yet. How long will everyone be here?”

“Everyone?”

I realized that Aunt Nettie didn't want to add Shep Stone to the mix of old high school chums who were already in her house. And I thought Shep was beginning to realize that, too.

“Are all the Pier-O-Ettes here?”

Aunt Nettie nodded unenthusiastically.

“It would be great to see them.”

“Well, Shep—it might not be wise.”

Now the guy was definitely frowning. “Why not, Nettie? Are they mad at me?”

“It's Kathy, Shep.” Aunt Nettie sighed. “She's just as wacky as ever.”

“Oh. I see. And she's mad at me?”

“I honestly don't know. But she's already had one hysterical fit. Let me talk to Margo and see if I can figure it out. Then we can get together later. Where are you staying?”

Shep said he was at the Holland Holiday Inn. His smile was gone. He turned and walked a few steps down the walk, then whirled and came back.

“Nettie,” he said angrily. “If you all didn't want to see me, why did you write and invite me to come?”

Aunt Nettie had invited this guy? I didn't think so. Not from her reaction. I waited to see how she'd answer him.

Aunt Nettie took her hand out of mine, stepped forward, and put that hand on Shep Stone's arm.

“I didn't invite you!” She sounded anguished. “Not that it isn't good to see you—but, Shep, I didn't even know where you were living! How could I write and invite you?”

She and the tall man stared at each other.

Finally Stone spoke. “Then who the hell did? I sure wouldn't have showed up without an invite.” He turned around abruptly and walked away.

Aunt Nettie followed him. “Shep, let me talk to the rest of the group. Maybe somebody knows something about it. Do you have a cell phone?”

Stone recited the number. Aunt Nettie was still so rattled that going back into the house for paper and pencil seemed to be beyond her. Luckily I had a notebook and pen in my purse, so I wrote the number down at the bottom of a grocery list. Then I copied it onto a fresh page and ripped it out. Aunt Nettie put my note in her pocket, and I hoped that she'd be able to find it later.

Shep Stone left. I stood and watched him drive away—he had a nice-looking black SUV—then turned to Aunt Nettie. “Now, what was that all about?”

“I don't know, Lee! I certainly didn't invite Shep to the reunion.”

“Who is he?”

“Back when we used to sing at the Castle, Shep worked there.” She shook her head. “We were all so young then!”

“You're not over the hill yet. What did Shep do?”

“I don't know, really. I never understood just what happened.”

“I meant his job. Was he a bartender? A waiter?”

“Oh! He checked IDs, kept things in order. Anything Mr. Rice wanted done.”

“So Shep was a bouncer. And who was Mr. Rice?”

Aunt Nettie seemed to come back from a faraway place. She didn't answer my question. “Oh, Lee! You need to go home.”

“Joe won't go to pieces if I'm a little late. Who was Mr. Rice?”

“He owned the Castle. Listen, this is a long story, and we really can't go into it now. You go home, and we'll talk later.”

She gave me a loving little push. I argued a bit more, but she kept urging me to leave. Finally I left, telling her to call me if she needed anything. Such as help.

Why did I have the feeling she might need help?

As I drove off, Aunt Nettie was still out on her front lawn. Julie Hensley had joined her, and they were conferring seriously. I felt a little less worried at the thought that she was apparently willing to confide in at least one of the Pier-O-Ettes.

When I got home, Joe greeted me with that smile that seemed to mean he was really glad to see me. It made me feel a lot better.

“Where've you been?” he said. “I went down the alley and saw that you and Dolly had closed up the storage room.”

“Oh, I had quite an experience,” I said. “For one thing, I got to hear the Pier-O-Ettes sing.”

That got Joe's attention; he had to hear the whole story. We got a couple of Labatts from the refrigerator and went out onto our own screened porch, and I told all. By the end of the story, life seemed to have improved—except for one thing. I was still just as mystified by the events at Aunt Nettie's as I had been when I left there.

Why had Uncle Phil hidden—yes, that was the right word for it, I decided—Aunt Nettie's high school souvenirs?

Why had Kathy Street gone nuts at the sight of the trophy?

How did Aunt Nettie and the other Pier-O-Ettes know the rest of the souvenirs wouldn't upset her?

What was wrong with Kathy, anyway? She could sing like an angel. But why did she act so odd? Why did all her old friends protect her? All except Hazel.

How did Shep Stone fit into the picture? He must be in his late sixties, but he was still a handsome man. He must have been a heartbreaker at twenty-two or twenty-three. Had one—or more—of the Pier-O-Ettes been in love with him?

Who had written and asked him to come to the reunion? Why had that person used Aunt Nettie's name?

I laid all the questions out for Joe. He didn't have any answers. “I could ask my mom,” he said. “She might know something.”

Joe's mom, like Aunt Nettie, has lived in Warner Pier all her life. She owns the town's only insurance agency, and she's married to the mayor, Mike Herrera. If anybody knows where the bodies are buried, it's Mercy Woodyard, but she's careful not to tell everything she knows. That's a valuable quality in an insurance agent. Also in a mother-in-law.

I thought about Joe's offer seriously. Should I ask Mercy if she knew anything about the Pier-O-Ettes and their days at the Castle Ballroom?

“No,” I said finally. “Your mom is nearly ten years younger than Aunt Nettie, so she might not know anything. Plus, I think I'd be overstepping Aunt Nettie's confidence. I'd better stay out of it. But believe me, once this reunion is over, I've got some questions for Aunt Nettie.”

By then my idea of going to dinner “someplace nice” had faded. Joe pointed out that I wouldn't have to get dressed up to go to the Dock Street Pizza Place. Truth is, I was so tired that I was easy to convince. A pizza, another beer, and I could hit the shower with nothing planned for afterward but climbing into my pajamas. Unless Joe came up with a better idea.

The Dock Street Pizza Place is a Warner Pier legend. It's not fancy. The ambiance consists of red-checkered tablecloths, a beer and soft drink cooler, and a pickup counter. It simply has great pizza and salad and pretty good spaghetti and meatballs.

No Warner Pier restaurant is crowded after the tourists have gone home in the fall, so Joe and I were able to snag our favorite booth, the one at the back. We were even able to sit together on one side—the side facing the door—without feeling like teenagers on a date.

We had just ordered a large pepperoni with mushrooms when the door opened and a woman came in. I tried not to stare, but she was definitely worth a second look.

My first thought was that she looked like a tiny gnome grandma. She was so bent and so thin, her bones almost poked through her skin, and she looked as if those bones must be made of twigs. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, and her white hair was wispy. She even carried a cane made of cedar. Actually, it was a gnarled staff about four feet high, something I would have expected to see in the movie version of a Tolkien book.

As soon as she was inside the door, she stopped and looked around the restaurant. The lighting isn't particularly dark in the Dock Street, so I could see her plainly. Her head was turning slowly, and her black eyes scanned around like searchlights. When her eyes reached our booth, her head stopped moving. And she began to walk toward us.

As she approached I remembered that I had seen her before. The last time I'd been in the Warner Pier Public Library, she'd been using one of the library computers.

Joe was looking toward me, not toward the door. I nudged him discreetly. “Joe, who's that woman who just came in?”

He looked. “Good night! It's Mrs. Rice.”

“Who?”

The old woman might look frail, but she was walking at a normal pace. By then she was standing beside our booth, and it was too late for Joe to answer my question.

He slid out of the booth and stood up. “Hello, Mrs. Rice. It's been a long time.”

“Is this your wife?”

Her remark hadn't sounded friendly, and Joe turned to face her, placing his body between the newcomer and me. “Yes, Mrs. Rice. This is my wife, Lee. Lee, I used to mow Mrs. Rice's lawn when I was in junior high.”

Mrs. Rice's hard, black eyes drilled in on me. “You're Nettie Vanderheide's niece.”

“Yes.”

“She was one of those little Pier-O-Ette bitches.”

I'm sure I gasped. Then I spoke. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rice. I can't sit still . . .”

Actually, I couldn't do anything but sit still. That's one effect of sitting in a booth. You can't jump to your feet. I did start sliding along on the wooden seat, moving toward the end of the booth. From there I would be able to get up.

But Joe kept me from doing that. He stood at the end of the booth like a door, blocking my exit. And he put a hand behind his back, palm toward me, giving me a clear signal that said, “Stay where you are!”

When he spoke, he used his calm, lawyer voice. “Mrs. Rice, I don't know what problem you have with Mrs. Jones, but she's always been kind and wonderful to Lee and me. I suggest you move along now.”

“Kind and wonderful!” The old woman spit the words out.

“Yes,” Joe said. “Kind and wonderful.”

I was leaning forward, still ready to jump to my feet and take on this old—well, witch. But Joe was still blocking me in. The only way I could get out would have been to slide under the table and crawl out at the end. Not very dignified.

And even as mad as I was, I understood that wouldn't be a good idea. Yelling at an old woman—who was obviously crazy—in a public place wouldn't make me look good. Besides, she was the one with the big stick.

I sat back in my place, seething, and let Joe do his soothing act. He's the professional negotiator, after all.

He managed to get her headed away from our booth. He even walked along with her for a few steps. His voice was gentle. “Did you come in for dinner, Mrs. Rice?”

“No. I saw that truck of yours in the parking lot, and I came in to give your wife a message for Nettie.”

She turned around and came back to the booth. She seemed ready for another confrontation.

But Joe again stopped her. “What was the message?”

She leaned over the table and looked closely at me. “You tell that aunt of yours and all those slutty Pier-O-Ettes that this time they're going to get their come-up-er-ance. This time justice is going to be done.”

She shook her stick one more time, turned around, and walked toward the door.