The Chocolate Cupid Killings (17 page)

I couldn't comprehend Sarajane's words. I “Let me get this straight,” I said. “Myrl still hasn't let anyone know where she and Pamela are?”

“Oh, yes. The person she called didn't tell me where they are, of course, but apparently Myrl contacted—well, the right person, the person who needs to know.”

“Then they're okay?”

“As far as I can tell. It's just that skipping the phone call to her mother was an odd thing for Myrl to do.”

“Maybe we should talk to Hogan tonight, Sarajane.”

“No. I feel sure they're safe. Let Hogan get his sleep.”

We left it at that, but I wasn't happy.

I moved my papers to the dining table and tried to concentrate on reconciling the telephone bill. I've been picky about this since one of our employees ran up the bill one month by repeatedly calling her boyfriend in Muskegon. Since then I log all my long-distance calls on a pad I keep beside the telephone, and I request that everyone else do the same thing.

Of course, I wouldn't swear I never forget to write a call down, but logging it in has become second nature to me. Aunt Nettie and her chief assistant, Dolly Jolly, also occasionally make calls, and I've nagged until they rarely forget to log either. Besides, most of the people we call—our customers and suppliers—are on our phone bill month after month. I recognize their numbers and know why someone would have called them. So reconciling the phone bill is normally a ten-minute chore.

But this time I came up with two numbers I didn't recognize, numbers that also weren't listed on the log.

My earlier suspicion that Pamela had called someone from the TenHuis phone flashed through my mind.

One of the numbers had the same area code as a Chicago gift shop we supplied with seasonal chocolate, but I knew it hadn't been made to that store. They had a number that ended by spelling out g-i-f-t, so it ended with 4-4-3-8.

The second unlogged number had an area code I didn't recognize, 7-7-0.

Could Pamela have made the calls?

I could fire up the computer and try reverse lookup, but my home computer connects to the Internet very slowly—one effect of living in a small town that isn't electronically up-to-date. We have a satellite connection at the office, but Joe and I are still in the dark ages of dial-up at home.

Or I could use my cell phone and simply call the numbers and see who answered. I had plenty of minutes to do that at no extra charge. But my cell phone might not be working. Thanks to its location on the edge of a big lake and away from larger cities, Warner Pier has huge dead zones. Sometimes we can use a cell phone at our house, and sometimes we can't. Sometimes it helps to go upstairs, but I'm sure there's no service from our basement.

I reached for the cell phone, and the little marks went up on its tiny screen, showing that I had at least minimal service. It was after ten o'clock, late to be making phone calls, but—tough. I wanted to get through with that phone bill, and I wanted to know if Pamela had used the office phone. I decided I'd try the two numbers. The unknown area code was probably in a time zone west of us, I told myself, so it would be earlier wherever it was. The Chicago number was an hour earlier, I knew. We're Eastern; Chicago is Central.

So I first punched in the 7-7-0 number. It picked up on the second ring. But it was a recording that merely asked me to leave a message. It didn't identify the person or business who paid the phone bill. My caller ID simply showed the number.

I hung up. I'd have to call again in the daytime.

Next I tried the Chicago number. The phone rang four times before it was picked up. As soon as I said hello, a voice spoke tersely. “You bitch,” it said.

It was a gruff, raspy voice—what my grandmother would have called a whiskey voice. It sounded so rough that for a moment, I almost decided not to go on.

I did speak, however. “I beg your pardon!”

The voice rasped again. “I'm not in the mood for jokes.” Then the line went dead.

So much for that effort. I hung up. I must have made a disgusted noise, because Joe put the television set on mute and turned around. “What's wrong?”

“I just called someone rude. Or maybe I was rude.”

He looked puzzled. “You're not usually rude. Who'd you call?”

“I don't know.”

“If you don't know them, why did you call?”

I explained about the unidentified number, though I didn't go into its possible connection to Pamela. “So I thought I'd take a shortcut and call the numbers,” I said.

“Did the rude guy's name come up on your caller ID?”

“Nope. Just a number. Unfortunately, he'll see my name and number on his caller ID. So he'll know who called him. Unless . . .” I quickly checked my phone. “Oh, thank goodness! My outgoing calls are blocked. He won't know who called. We can start fresh tomorrow. I have to call the other number then anyway. Or check the reverse directory.”

Joe frowned. “Then you were trying to identify two numbers?”

“Right.”

“When were the calls made?”

I double-checked the dates. “Both the same day. Two weeks ago. They were the final calls made during the billing period.”

“And you don't know who's at the other number?”

“No. I'll try again tomorrow. I don't even know where the area code is.”

“We might be able to figure it out from the phone book.”

Joe brought the telephone directory and found the page with a map of area codes. He traced them down, starting at the top right with New England. I would have given up, but he hung in there, reading the tiny numbers as his fingers followed the East Coast.

Finally he tapped the page. “Huh! It's an Atlanta prefix.”

“Atlanta? Surely not Atlanta!”

“Do you know anybody in Atlanta?”

I thought before I spoke. “Just one person, Joe.”

“Who's that? A customer?”

“No, I don't think we have any regular customers in Atlanta. The only people from there I've met recently were Derrick Valentine and Tom O'Sullivan of PDQ Investigations.”

“Whoops!”

I nodded. “Joe, could somebody have used our office phone to call PDQ Investigations in Atlanta? Two weeks ago?”

“It doesn't seem likely. Maybe one of the ladies called her Aunt Millie in Smyrna.”

“I think I can check it out.” I reached for my purse and dumped out the collection of notes, business cards, and scraps of paper that had accumulated in the side pocket. Sure enough, Tom O'Sullivan's card was among the junk.

I read the number off. It was two digits away from the number that had been called from the TenHuis telephone.

If a company, such as a detective agency, signed up for several phone numbers to be used by employees, it would be logical for the numbers to be consecutive. So I thought it likely that the call from our phone had been to PDQ Investigations.

“Who would have called them?” Joe said.

“I have a vague idea,” I said. “Let me think about it.”

The truth was, PDQ Investigations had undoubtedly already told the Michigan State Police who hired them to come to Warner Pier. Underwood or Hogan would know if it were likely that Pamela had called PDQ.

I stood up. “I'm going to bed. I can't think about this anymore tonight. It's too weird.”

But of course I did think about it. I went to bed, and I slept. But Derrick Valentine and PDQ Investigations haunted me. The last time I woke up, the lighted dial on my bedside clock said four forty-nine.

“Groan,” I said. Then I turned over and went back to sleep until seven, when I realized that Joe was on his feet and dressed. “I'm meeting a guy for breakfast,” he said. “See you tonight.”

He gave me a kiss, but by the time I was awake enough to realize he was leaving, it was too late to ask where he was going.

I turned off the alarm and lay there, trying to wake up and anticipating what the day was to bring.

The first thing, of course, was the confession session with Hogan, when Aunt Nettie, Sarajane, and I would have to admit we'd helped Pamela flee Warner Pier before she could be questioned about the death of the private detective who had come looking for her.

And how about the mysterious phone call to Atlanta? All I could think to do about the situation was to add it to the list of things to discuss with Hogan. At seven thirty I had him on the phone, arranging to meet with him, Aunt Nettie, and Sarajane at nine at the Peach Street B&B. If Sarajane's guests were going out to the Dome Home for breakfast, she should be free by that time. I called her, but I didn't ask if we could come. I simply said we'd be there.

Thinking of Pamela brought another question to mind. And that was the identity of the big ugly man who had rattled the TenHuis Chocolade door the previous evening. Was he, as I suspected, Harold “the Butcher” Belcher? But if so, how had he known that his ex-wife had any connection with TenHuis Chocolade?

Unless he was the one who'd hired PDQ Investigations—

But then why had his ex-wife called PDQ Investigations?
If
she was the one who had made the phone calls.

And if Pamela had called the private detective agency, why hadn't she said so? When Aunt Nettie, Sarajane, and I carefully shielded her from being seen by Derrick Valentine, why hadn't she said, “Oh, I hired him myself?” Or, “He's my uncle.” Or something.

I was more confused than ever as I headed for the Peach Street B&B. This wasn't going to be a pleasant morning.

My expectation was confirmed when I saw a car turn into the B&B's driveway ahead of me. It might not have an official insignia on it, but the black buzz cut behind the steering wheel told me it was driven by State Police Lieutenant Larry Underwood. I'd run into him before. He was a conscientious officer, but no Mr. Personality. Underwood must be the State Police officer in charge of the investigation into Derrick Valentine's death.

Hogan had apparently asked him to join our confession session. Talking to the two of them was going to be a lot harder than talking to Hogan on his own.

But we managed. Hogan and Aunt Nettie arrived just after I did. We all went into Sarajane's kitchen, where she furnished us with coffee, and Sarajane, Aunt Nettie, and I told our story. I was only glad that they didn't separate us and go for serious interrogations.

Sarajane was the star storyteller, of course. She came clean about Pamela Thompson's true identity as Christina Meachum and explained that Aunt Nettie and I had agreed to help the fugitive ex–Mrs. Belcher earn a little money during the two or three weeks she was to be forced to stay in Warner Pier. Sarajane went on about how she got out of the shower to find Pamela in a panic because someone had phoned the house and called her by name. Pamela, she said, had answered the phone thinking it was a call from Aunt Nettie. Sarajane doesn't use caller ID.

Aunt Nettie told about picking up Pamela—who was really Christina—at the Shell station and stashing her at our house. I described how Myrl Sawyer came for her at five in the morning. Sarajane reported the phone call she'd had from Pamela later, saying that she and Myrl had reached a safe place.

Underwood carefully took Sarajane over the evening of Valentine's death, making sure Sarajane could vouch for Pamela's whereabouts for the whole evening. Sarajane said she had met Pamela around five forty-five, after Pamela parked George Jenkins' van in the alley behind his art gallery. They had waited in Sarajane's van until Aunt Nettie dropped George off and gave Pamela her coat. Then they had driven straight back to the B&B. Sarajane had started preparing dinner.

But at six fifteen Rhett Spivey showed up. “I had to quit cooking and go over things with him,” Sarajane said. “I was housing three of the Prodigal executives beginning the next night.”

Underwood was taking notes of everything she said. “Did Pamela Thompson talk with Spivey?”

“No, when he rang the doorbell she made herself scarce. We were careful about her meeting people. We'd already arranged that if the doorbell rang, she was to go into her room.”

“Where was her room?”

“On the ground floor. Down the hall off the kitchen. It's part of my apartment. We wanted to keep her separate from any guests.”

Underwood nodded. “So she didn't participate in the meeting with Spivey?”

“No. I think she spent the time packing; we knew she'd have to leave. Her television set was on, the way it always was.” Sarajane sighed. “Pamela was one of these people who can't stand silence. She always wanted the TV on, even if it was just the Styles Channel or something like that. I think she did a load of laundry, too. She couldn't have gone anywhere. She didn't have a car.”

“Where was your car?”

“In the garage. I had the car keys in my pocket. I keep them attached to my house keys.”

“How long was Spivey there?”

“Oh, I thought he'd never leave! He went over every little detail—what kind of towels those men liked, what sort of bedtime snacks, what blend of coffee. You'd think he was the only person in the world who knew how to handle guests. It was helpful, I suppose, but I wasn't in the mood.”

Yes, that sounded like Rhett, the Butler. He was a freak on details. I felt sorry for Sarajane. She'd had a crisis going on with Pamela, and she'd been forced to stop and deal with Rhett. He was lucky she wasn't the murdering kind. I would have been tempted to shove him down the stairs.

After Underwood had quizzed Sarajane thoroughly, establishing that there was no way Pamela could have left the B&B, I brought up the mysterious phone calls made from the TenHuis phone. I repeated all my questions about them. Yes, I agreed, Pamela was probably physically present at the time they were made. But why? What connection would she have had with PDQ Investigations? If they were helping her ex-husband, PDQ representatives would be the last people she'd want to contact.