The Chocolate Cat Caper (7 page)

“I assume you’ll do an autopsy.”

Chief Jones nodded. “We’d have to, Joe. Unattended death. You have any objection?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. I’ve been out of the picture for two years, remember?”

“How come you’re here?”

“Clementine and I might not have been able to live together, but I didn’t wish her any harm.” Joe nodded toward me. “Like the lady says, Clementine was pretty short on friends. And she didn’t have any family. Except maybe Marion. And Hugh said Marion took off for Holland right before somebody called the EMTs.”

“We’re looking for Ms. McCoy now,” the chief said. “Joe, I’d appreciate it if you’d hang around awhile.”

Joe nodded. He pulled a spindly Windsor chair away from the wall, moved it toward Clementine Ripley’s body, and put it down several feet from her head. “I’ll be here,” he said. “I’ll stay until they take her away.”

He sat down in the chair, and though he didn’t snap out a salute, bark out orders, or even sit up straight—actually, he leaned over with his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and stared at the floor—it was clear that he was standing guard over his ex-wife.

The EMTs brought in a sheet and laid it over Ms. Ripley. Gregory Glossop helped them, but he didn’t say another word. The chief conferred quietly with his two uniformed officers. I made a quick retreat to the kitchen and slunk into my spot beside Lindy.

She leaned close and spoke in my ear. “What happened?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to describe either my stupidity or Joe Woodyard’s behavior.

Why had Joe married Clementine Ripley? She was a lot older than he was. She was also a lot richer, and he’d been asking her for money earlier that day. The conventional opinion around Warner Pier would probably be that he married her for money—just as most of Rich’s friends had thought I married him for his money—or to advance his career as an attorney. But somehow I thought Joe’s relationship with Clementine had been more than that.

Whatever Clementine Ripley had been, she was definitely not a fool. She must have known that “everyone,” whoever that is, would have thought she bought Joe as a boy toy, a plaything. I couldn’t imagine a woman with the ego Clementine Ripley must have had allowing her friends to laugh at her over her choice of a husband. Unless Joe had fooled her completely, and his behavior now was another act. I’d never know. It was, I reminded myself, none of my business.

The catering crew huddled in the kitchen until we got the word that we could pack up and leave. Mike Herrera came in, smiled, and told us we were all wonderful employees, and he appreciated our calmness. The food, he said, was to be donated to the homeless shelter in Holland. He didn’t explain who made that decision.

I didn’t quarrel with that—obviously, the party was off—but it made me wonder about Marion McCoy. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t out there giving orders. If she’d gone to Holland—which was an odd thing to do right before a party—hadn’t she taken a cell phone? Had anybody even told her that Ms. Ripley was dead?

And Duncan Ainsley? Where was he? If he was a house guest—he’d told me he was staying in “the guest cottage”—you’d think he show some concern over the death of his hostess.

All the Herrera Catering employees bustled around, putting the glasses, plates, and silverware back into their racks, wrapping rolls, refolding tablecloths, and stuffing napkins into sacks. I tried to help—I expected to be paid and wanted to earn my wages—but somebody had to explain everything about the routine to me.

When the new excitement began I was in the dining room concentrating on refolding tablecloths. The others on the crew were nudging each other and whispering before I caught the raised voices from the big room and realized something was going on.

“You’ve got to be wrong!” It sounded like a scream from a tortured animal. I had to listen to the second scream before I could identify the voice as coming from Marion McCoy.

“I only ran into Holland for a few minutes! Clementine can’t be
dead
!”

A low rumble answered her. It could have been either the police chief or Joe Woodyard. But whatever was said didn’t mollify Marion.

“No! No! It can’t be true!”

Then I heard Greg Glossop’s whiny tenor. “She may have been poisoned,” he said. He sounded self-important.

“Poisoned!” Marion was still out of control. “That’s impossible!”

Another voice tried to calm her. Was it Duncan Ainsley.

Then Marion again. “It must have been natural causes! No one would have wanted to hurt Clementine!”

That’s not the way I’d heard it, of course. I kept folding, resisting the temptation to look around. But I admit I was listening hard.

“Nobody would have wanted to hurt Clementine.” Marion said it more quietly. Then she gave a gasp. “Except—except you!”

Then I did look around. Marion was pointing at Joe Woodyard.

“Don’t be silly, Marion,” Joe answered her calmly. “I know you and I never got along, but Clem and I had settled our differences two years ago.”

“Oh, is that true? Then why were you arguing with her just a few hours ago?”

“We didn’t have an argument.”

“Didn’t you? You were here asking for money.”

Joe didn’t answer, and when I looked through the archway that separated the dining room from the living room, I saw that his face was like a thundercloud rolling in over the lake.

Marion McCoy evidently thought she was winning, and she pressed her advantage. “He was here, Chief Jones. And he did ask for money.” She looked around, her face furious and excited, and her eyes rested on me.

“I can prove it, too,” she said. “There was another witness. That woman from TenHuis Chocolade!”

She pointed at me, and everybody in the room turned in my direction. The chief, Joe, and Marion—all of them stared at me.

“Lee McKinney!” Marion McCoy said. “She can back me up. She heard every word Joe said!”

I
didn’t do the first thing that occurred to me—turn and run out the kitchen door. I stood still, looking at everybody looking at me.

I’m not a fast thinker. If I hadn’t become aware of this on my own over the years, I have plenty of friends and family who tell me about it. So I compensate. I don’t act in a hurry. Rich used to yell at me over it. “Why are you just sitting there? Say something!” But I’ve found out from sad experience that, when I pop off and do or say the first thing that comes into my head, it usually lands me in a worse mess than I was in to begin with. As the old saying goes, it’s better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to say something and remove all doubt.

So after Marion McCoy yelled at me, I just stood here, and Marion, Joe Woodyard, Chief Jones, Duncan Ainsley and two members of the Herrera Catering crew all stared at me.

Then Marion McCoy spoke again. “Well? You heard him, right? You heard Joe Woodyard demanding money from Clementine. If I heard him, you must have heard him, too. So tell the chief about it!”

After that I knew what I wanted to the opposite of whatever Marion McCoy wanted me to do. So I picked up the tablecloth I’d been told to put away, and I matched up the right and left corners and shook it out, ready to fold again. Then I turned toward Marion McCoy, and I said, “I’m sorry, but if there’s some sort of quarrel going on out here, it’s none of my affair. I will be happy to answer any questions Chief Jones has for me, but for now I don’t think I’ll make any comment.”

Marion McCoy looked as if she were going to explode. Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh—just one
Ha!
—and Chief Jones looked over the top of his glasses and grinned.

Duncan Ainsley patted Marion’s shoulder awkwardly. His hands were shaking “Now, Marion,” he said. “The chief will be taking statements from all the witnesses. Why don’t you go back to your apartment? You prob’ly feel like the ragged end of a misspent life.”

I had to admire the guy. He could keep up the colorful Texan act even when he seemed shook up himself. He escorted Marion past me, into the hall that led to the office where I’d taken the cat. He was all attention as he walked with her, patting her arm, very much the friend who was helping her cope with the death of her employer.

There was just one odd thing. Right before he led Marion McCoy past me, as he reached a point when only I could see him, he nodded and winked at me.

What did that mean?

Of course, an investment counselor—even a famous one—is basically a salesman. That sort of gesture, designed to build rapport, was second nature to a man like Duncan Ainsley. There was no way he could have a personal interest in me.

Not long after that Mike Herrera told Lindy and me that we were finished, and the police chief didn’t seem to have any more interest in us, though he warned that we might have to make formal statements later. The phrase “after we know the cause of death” was left unsaid.

So Lindy and I left. I was surprised that there was no crowd outside the heavy security gate. I guess I’ve lived in a big city too long; I’d expected a lot of reporters to be gathered there, but the street was empty. I reminded myself that Warner Pier is a long way from major news agencies. As for the expected guests, Clementine Ripley had died two hours before the benefit was scheduled to begin, so apparently somebody—maybe Mike Herrera—had known whom to call to announce that the party was canceled. The security guard—Hugh?—would have turned away any guests who showed up.

I will say, however, that as we drove back toward the main part of Warner Pier we saw an unusual number of people sitting on their screened-in porches; it was a warm evening, and maybe they didn’t have air-conditioning. But they all seemed to be paying close attention to the vehicles driving by. Warner Pier wasn’t ignoring Clementine Ripley’s death, whatever had caused it.

Personally, I was betting on natural causes.

It wasn’t dark yet—just after eight o’clock. TenHuis Chocolade would be open another hour. I dropped Lindy off at her house and declined her halfhearted invitation to come in. Tony came out to the car and we spoke briefly; I wouldn’t have known him as the skinny kid who used to flirt with Lindy over a limeade at the Downtown Drugs soda fountain. He’d grown five or six inches and gained forty pounds in the ten years since I’d seen him.

I saw what Lindy meant about his trying to get in touch with his Hispanic heritage. When we’d been in high school, Tony had tried hard not to look Mexican, while his father had been definitely Latino. Now his father just looked like a dark-haired American, and Tony had grown a mustache and sideburns.

I drove back to the chocolate shop and parked in the alley. As soon as I walked inside, Aunt Nettie ran to meet me. “Lee! Are you all right?”

“Of course. What are you doing here? You were supposed to go home at four.”

“I had to make sure you were okay. I went out to Clementine Ripley’s house, but they wouldn’t let me in. What happened?”

I told her the story, but I slurred over the chocolates and the accusations that Gregory Glossop had made about one of them containing cyanide. I told her he had suggested cyanide poisoning, but I didn’t specifically say that he’d accused an Amaretto truffle of being responsible for her death.

As I finished, Aunt Nettie shook her head. “Terrible, terrible. Such a thing to happen. And that Gregory Gossip! He’s terrible, too.”

“Then you don’t trust his opinion on the cause of death?”

“Of course not. Greg always wants things to be as bad as possible. Nobody would poison anybody in Warner Pier. It’s just a little place!”

I was torn. Should I tell her the rest, prepare her for the worst? Or let well enough alone? Which cliché applied?

Before I could decide, the phone rang.

I answered. “TenHuis Chocolade.”

“Oh! Are yew open?” The voice on the phone was startled, but it still sounded Texan.

I checked my watch. Eight-thirty. “We close in half an hour.”

“Ah see. Is this Lee McKinney?”

“Yes.” The accent made the caller’s identity plain. “Is this Mr. Ainsley?”

He laughed. “Shore is. I guess it’s impossible for me to hid, up here in Michigan. But if I try to talk different, it’s like putting a high-dollar saddle on a jackass.”

Why on earth was he calling? I wondered, but I tried to be polite. “My Texas grandma would have said your accent sounds as nice as a cotton hat.”

“I’d better watch you, young lady. A Texas gal can tell when I’m bullin’. But when I called I was expectin’ an answerin’ machine. Do y’all work round the clock?”

“The shop is open from ten a.m. until nine p.m. My aunt comes in at eight, since she’s in charge of making the chocolates. I come in at noon and work until the place is closed and the cleanup finished. Why? Did you need chocolates tonight?”

Ainsley chuckled. “An emergency chocolate attack? No, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry Ms. McPicky”—his voice was scornful—“tried to put you on the spot, and to tell you that you handled her as smart as a tree full of owls.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ainsley.” I assumed he was trying to explain the wink. “I know Ms. McCoy’s really upset.”

“She is, as we all are, so we have to make allowances. But she shouldn’t have asked you to make a statement discrediting your friend.”

“You mean Joe Woodyard? I really can’t claim him as a friend. I was one of the girls who used to hang around on the beach when he was a lifeguard. That was twelve years ago. I doubt he even remembered me, except as a face in the crowd.”

“Oh, then you’re not seeing him—socially?”

“Oh, no! I hadn’t thought of him in years. When we ran into each other this afternoon, it took me a few minutes to figure out who he was.”

“I see. Well, in that case . . .” He paused for a moment, then spoke again. “Well, before I go back to Chicago I just wanted to assure you that you shouldn’t be upset over Marion’s actions, and to say you handled the situation as slick as a peeled onion.”