The Chocolate Cupid Killings (14 page)

I looked around my desk. How about “phone”?

Hmmm.

Christina could have used the TenHuis Chocolade phone, of course. She could have called someone. If that person had caller ID, they'd know the number. She might even have given someone the number and asked that person to call her back.

TenHuis Chocolade has two phone lines, and either can be used in three places. My office, the cash register, and the break room all have extensions. Christina-Pamela had never used the phone in the office, at least while I was there, and I'd never seen her near the phone behind the cash register. But she could easily have used the extension in the break room.

I went into the workroom, where Aunt Nettie was standing over a wonderful copper kettle, part of a chocolatier's traditional equipment. She used it to make the fillings for her luscious chocolates. The kettle is about two and a half feet in diameter and is eight or ten inches deep. It sits enthroned on a metal stand that also holds its own gas burner. Aunt Nettie had loaded the kettle with cream, butter, and sugar. She was stirring the potion, and—I believe—muttering incantations. At least it seemed to me that the fabulous concoctions she made in that kettle could only have been produced by magic.

I asked her if she'd ever seen Pamela using the telephone. “No,” she said.

Which didn't mean Pamela hadn't done it when neither of us was around. Of course, I could check on the long distance calls. But I had no way of knowing about local calls. I wasn't even sure the phone company would be willing to give me that information, though Hogan had told me law enforcement agencies can get it.

Forget it, I told myself.

I tried to think about work. I checked my e-mail, printing out two new orders for Easter bunnies, but I couldn't concentrate on the job. Since I was online and still curious, I Googled Harold Belcher. What I found distracted me even further.

According to a story in the previous day's
Detroit Free Press
, Harold Belcher was out of prison.

Belcher had completed his sentence for his chop shop activities. He was appealing his conviction in the wife-beating case. The judge had ruled he should be released until his appeal was denied or upheld.

“Rats!” I said.

I could only hope that neither PDQ Investigations nor anyone else had told Harold where Christina had been hanging out. I did not want a guy with the nickname “the Butcher” dropping by to see if she was working at TenHuis Chocolade.

But what could I do about it? I pulled out the photo of Belcher I'd printed out earlier and looked at it.

I needed advice. I called Hogan.

I didn't tell him that Christina-Pamela had been working at TenHuis Chocolade and had been spirited away in the middle of the previous night. I told him that Derrick Valentine and Tom O'Sullivan had come to TenHuis Chocolade because they thought she had been there. I told him I was afraid they might have told Harold that.

“Because who else could be their client?” I said.

Hogan made soothing sounds, but he didn't deny that I had a valid concern.

I went on. “So what do we do if he shows up?”

“I wouldn't expect him to come busting in the door firing a tommy gun,” Hogan said. “One of the scariest things I've heard about Belcher—and I haven't had any connection with the case, of course—is that he's quite cold-blooded. If he offed someone in the course of his job with the mob, he did it so coolly that the FBI hasn't been able to prove anything. Apparently the only person he ever hit in anger was his wife.”

“I don't find that reassuring.”

Hogan sighed. “I don't either. I'll pass your concern on to the State Police. Frankly, at the moment Warner Pier is full of state cops because of the killing of Valentine, so I'd expect Belcher to avoid the place. If he has any interest in coming here. And we don't know that he does have any such interest.”

He repeated his promise to alert his officers and the state cops who were around town, telling them that Belcher had been released.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I locked the front door. It just made me feel better. We don't have much walk-in traffic in the winter. I left the OPEN sign up. If a customer knocked, I'd go let him in.

Unless the customer was a big, bald guy with a crooked nose.

Then I called Joe and told him I'd have to stay late at work that night. I had completely wasted the whole afternoon.

“Will you have time to get a pizza at the Dock Street for the second night in a row?” Joe said. The Dock Street Pizza Place is Warner Pier's handiest place for a quick dinner.

“I guess so,” I said. “Or you could pick one up and bring it by here.”

“It'll do you good to get away for a few minutes. I'll go by there, get a booth, and order. Then I'll call you. You can take half an hour away from the office.”

I agreed. Which is why we found ourselves in a booth at the Dock Street when Gregory Glossop walked up to the table.

Greg Gossip—I mean, Glossop—is one of my least favorite people. He operates the pharmacy at the Superette, the one place in Warner Pier where groceries are sold. He sits up in a high office overlooking the store, he sees everyone who comes in, and he checks out which aisles they visit. If an older couple buys baby food, he knows their grandchildren are coming. When customers get prescriptions filled, he pumps them. I can't point to any occasion on which he's passed on information about his customer's health issues—I'm sure Greg would find
that
unprofessional—but he sure passes on everything else he hears. And he hears a lot.

So I wasn't thrilled when Greg came by to table-hop. He was sure either to tell us something or to ask us something we didn't want to know.

Sure enough, after a few preliminaries, Greg turned to Joe. “Is there some city problem out at the Lake Michigan Inn?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Greg's voice was jovial. “I wondered why you'd been out there.”

I was surprised. Greg had put an innuendo in this question that was truly ugly. Even for Greg Gossip it had been a dirty crack.

I knew it wouldn't bother Joe. Between his naturally quick wits and his legal experience, he always knows the right thing to say. I waited to hear him say, “I went out there to see a man about a boat, Greg. What's it to ya?” or something equally brilliant.

But Joe didn't say anything.

I looked at him. And darned if he hadn't grown three shades redder than usual. He looked embarrassed.

I was so astonished that I cracked up. Broke out laughing big-time.

This had the effect of making Greg look at me, which was a good thing, I guess, because it gave Joe a moment to calm his blush.

First Joe spoke to me. “What's with you?”

Then he turned to Greg. “I parked in the Lake Michigan Inn's lot while I ran over to the Stop and Shop and got a Coke from the machine outside.”

I was still whooping with laughter.

Joe spoke again. “Why did you want to know, Greg?”

His question managed to abash Greg Glossop, which is no easy task. The guy buys gall by the gallon. He muttered something about concerns over zoning policies, then left the restaurant.

By the time he was out the door, I'd stopped whooping, but I still had a serious case of the giggles.

Joe looked at me with half a frown. “I'm not sure I like this.”

“What?”

“When the town's biggest gossip lays out a remark that could be interpreted as a slur on my faithfulness, my wife thinks it's funny.”

“It was your reaction that was funny. You were embarrassed.”

“So? A couple of months back a low-down motel desk clerk got the idea you were a call girl. Did you find that amusing?”

“It made me darn mad.”

“Oh? Then why should Greg's innuendo about me make you laugh?”

I was afraid I had hurt Joe's feelings. He doesn't display them much, so it's hard to tell when they've been bruised. I put down my pizza and tried to make amends.

“First, I've read that incongruity—surprise—is one of the main components of humor.”

“Right. We all laugh when the guy in the top hat slips on a banana peel.”

“Greg's remark caught me completely by surprise. Second, you are so quick mentally that I expected you to puncture Greg with your rapier-sharp wit. The way you finally did.”

“You couldn't put off laughing until I thought of something to say?”

“Joe! You were blushing!”

“That was funny?”

“It was unexpected.”

Joe took a drink of his beer. “You're not taking me for granted just because we're married, are you?”

He looked at me slyly, and I saw that he was teasing. I moved my plate, pizza and all, across the table. “Move over,” I said. I got out of my side of the booth and sat down on his side, turning to face him.

“Third, bozo,” I said, “the Lake Michigan Inn isn't the hot-sheets joint of choice for Warner Pier. People from Holland or Kalamazoo might check in there, but locals? Never. It's no place to do anything sneaky because Greg Glossop probably checks the parking lot on his way to and from work every day. Warner Pier people go to Grand Rapids or Kalamazoo to fool around.”

“Good point.”

“And the fourth reason is my ego.”

“You've got a nice supply of that.”

“That's right, dear heart. If you're already sleeping with the most desirable woman on the shores of Lake Michigan, why would you need to check into a motel without her?”

I gave him my most provocative look.

Joe began to laugh.

I let him finish and accepted a surreptitious hug—Joe's wary of public displays of affection—before I asked the question I wanted the answer to.

“So? What
were
you doing at the Lake Michigan Inn?”

“You heard me. I parked there while I ran over to the Stop and Shop to get a soft drink out of the machine.”

Joe's face looked as bland as a piece of toast before it was loaded with butter and peach preserves. Obviously, there was more to the story. Just as obviously, he wasn't going to tell me what it was.

I tried to hide my curiosity. “More mystery, huh? Fair enough. I already ran into a couple of mysterious things today. One more won't kill me.”

As we ate our pizza, I told him about my encounter with Marty Ludlum and his accusation that I was keeping Joe tied to small-time life, and about Marty's quest for background information about Warner Pier.

I ended my account with a question. “How did Marty get the idea that I can exert undue influence over your career?”

“Remember that when he knew me, Lee, I was married to Clemmie. She did influence my career. Quite a bit.”

“I hope I don't do that, Joe.”

“I want you to care about my work! And I care about your opinion. But you don't boss me around drastically. Besides, I'm older and wiser now than I was when I was married to Clemmie. I rebelled against her, in the end, remember.”

“Then let's get one thing straight. If you want to go back to practicing law full-time, it's okay with me.”

“If I decide I want to do that, I'll mention it.”

“And the next question is, what is this ‘local knowledge' that Marty Ludlum is after that you don't want to tell him?”

“I'm not sure what Marty is after. I just don't think it's a good time for me to get together with him. Marson Endicott and his problems ought to be the only thing Marty is thinking about right now, and I don't see how that case has any direct connection with me or with Warner Pier. I'm not interested in it.”

He took a drink of his beer. “But you said you ran into two mysterious things today. Was that the second one?”

“No, the second one was Lindy. There's no real mystery about it. The mystery is how to handle it.” I quickly outlined Lindy's anxiety about Tony, ending by saying, “I think Tony would be a disaster in the restaurant business.”

“Yeah, and he definitely wouldn't like working for his wife or his dad.” Joe gave a short, barking laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. “Tony and Lindy's problem is a lot harder to solve than Marty's.”

“Maybe both of us should stay out of it.”

“Probably.”

“Anyway, I told Lindy I'd tell you about it.”

“Yeah, and I can tell Tony . . . What? I don't see how I can say anything unless he brings it up.”

I nodded and took another bite. Lindy was up a stump, and her plea for help had put Joe up there, too.