The Chocolate Cupid Killings (9 page)

She left for the workroom. I turned on the computer and Googled Harold Belcher.

A few newspaper files informed me of the background. I won't go into all the details; Harold's nickname, “Belcher the Butcher,” says enough.

Harold ran a car theft ring and processed stolen cars in a Detroit chop shop. Supposedly the operation was mob-connected, though this was never proved in court. Bad things happened to some of Harold's associates, but again no link to Harold himself had ever been proven.

Whenever Harold got frustrated with his job he apparently took his unhappiness out on his wife, Christina. This proved his undoing. After a beating landed Christina Belcher in the hospital with a broken jaw and other injuries, she was approached by law enforcement. The FBI was involved because the car theft ring had been moving cars across state lines. Desperate to escape her miserable life, Christina agreed to testify not only against Harold, but against his associates. Several people went to prison, Harold among them, and Christina got a divorce, then disappeared. Gossip was that she had entered the federal Witness Protection Program, although she had not fingered any major mob figures.

The trials had been held five years earlier. Now Harold's prison sentence was over—he'd been convicted only on minor charges, not for the heinous crimes the public was convinced he'd committed—and he had recently faced a second trial for his assaults on Christina. Christina had been brought back to Detroit to testify against him. Harold was convicted, but he was appealing the verdict.

Christina was supposedly guarded closely until she could be tucked back into the federal Witness Protection Program. No one had figured out how she had managed to disappear.

Her bodyguards had gotten up one morning to find her gone. Harold's involvement was suspected, but law enforcement had found no evidence against him. Christina was simply not around anymore.

I snorted knowingly. If Christina had turned to Myrl, and Myrl was as competent as she looked and as Sarajane thought, I could understand how Christina managed to get away from both the authorities and her ex-husband.

I printed out a picture of Harold, just so I'd have it for reference. He was a heavyset guy with dark, thinning hair. At least his hair had been thinning when the picture was taken six years earlier. His most eye-catching feature was a large, crooked nose, but he had a certain animal magnetism—I could see why he would be attractive to some women.

I found a few pictures of Christina as well. The first was identical to the one Derrick Valentine had flopped onto our counter. “Meachum,” I learned from the
Detroit Free Press
files, was Christina's maiden name.

In another photo she looked young and pretty. Taken at some fancy party, the picture was a profile shot, showing Christina with her dark hair swept up onto the crown of her head. Her brown eyes sparkled, and in the lobe of her small, beautifully shaped ear was a pearl drop earring. A companion, head-on shot showed her sweet, heart-shaped face with a deep widow's peak, pouty lips, and pointed chin.

That pretty young Christina had turned into the haggard, haunted Pamela I knew, her face misshapen, her teeth missing, her makeup too heavy, her eyes red and watery. Harold Belcher should be sent up for life, I decided.

But at the present, Harold was out on bond, and Christina was the prisoner.

I printed out a couple of photos of Christina, and I had barely tucked them away in a file folder when the phone rang. It was Lindy.

“Hi,” she said. “This is a quick business call. Though it might mean some fun, too.”

“I love mixing business and pleasure. What's up?”

“You remember my mentioning that the Dome Home was being opened?”

“I remember. You thought that the infamous Marson Endicott was coming to town.”

“Apparently he has arrived. I just got a call asking Herrera Catering to deliver sandwiches and soup for a dozen people at noon today.”

“Make 'em pay cash.”

Lindy laughed. “I will. If half the stuff I read in the paper is true, I'm not extending credit. But, Lee, I thought we might have some fun with it. I have to take the food out there. Why don't you come with me?”

I didn't answer immediately. Lindy spoke again. “Wouldn't you like to see the inside of that house?”

“Umm.” I thought about it. The Endicott house was an amazing structure from the outside, and, yes, I'd like to see what was inside.

Then I thought about Marty Ludlum. Joe had refused to confirm that he was on the Endicott team, and Marty hadn't mentioned it either. But I couldn't figure out any other reason that a high-powered defense attorney like Marty would show up in Warner Pier in the dead of winter.

I needed more information. “Lindy, are you serving this lunch yourself?”

“No. Endicott has someone called a ‘household manager.' He'll serve and clean up, but I'm going to go out about eleven thirty to set up. I wanted to see the layout and make sure everything's right. I think I'll be through by twelve fifteen or so. Then you and I could go by the Sidewalk Café and have lunch ourselves. We haven't had a good gossip session lately, and I need to talk to you.”

I guess it was the “gossip session” part that made me say no to going out to the Dome Home ahead of time. Right at that moment, there were too many things going on in my life that I couldn't tell Lindy about—the strange men in the police station, the unexpected visit of Marty Ludlum, the disappearance of Pamela-Christina and Myrl Sawyer. I could probably keep quiet for the forty-five minutes it took to eat lunch, but not touching on the wrong subject for two hours might tax my tongue.

“I could meet you for lunch,” I said, “but I just don't have time to go out to the Dome Home ahead of time. Even if it would make us the envy of Warner Pier.” Yes, Warner Pier was really curious about the Endicott house. It loomed over our downtown—right across the river from our quaint business district, looking like three Monticellos.

“Aw, com'on, Lee.”

I was tempted, but I kept to my plan. I agreed to meet Lindy at the Sidewalk Café after she had the Endicott luncheon under way.

After I hung up, I did one more thing before I started work. I called Sarajane and gave her a deadline.

“If you don't hear from Myrl by two o'clock,” I told her, “I'm going to tell Hogan this whole story and take his advice on how to handle it.”

She objected, but only halfheartedly. Even Sarajane knew the situation couldn't go on.

Then I got busy. I was in the back room, checking how much fondant we had in stock, when one of the ladies poked her head in and told me there was someone at the counter.

“Do you want me to wait on him?” she said.

“I'll do it.”

The man standing at the front counter was a stranger, but something about him was familiar. I was saying, “May I help you?” before I realized what it was.

He was wearing Derrick Valentine's jacket.

It wasn't the same jacket, of course. That one, with its blood-soaked polyester fur, would be in a State Police evidence room someplace. But this one looked as if it had come off the same rack.

Except for size. Derrick Valentine had been tall and skinny. This guy was short, round, and cuddly, with wispy blond hair that almost curled. The two men had been named wrong. Valentine had been nothing like his name, but the guy wearing the identical jacket was a real live cupid.

“You Mrs. Woodyard?” His voice squeaked.

“Yes. And I'm terribly sorry about what happened to your partner.”

His eyes popped just a little. “My partner?”

“I was guessing that you were working with Derrick Valentine. I'm sorry if I was wrong.”

“No, you're not wrong. But how'd you know that?”

“The jackets. They're almost identical.”

He fingered his jacket. “Oh. We bought jackets on our way here, just to last a week or so. But how did you know Derrick even had a partner?”

“Strangers in Warner Pier are easy to pick out in wintertime. And the PDQ offices are in Atlanta, and I saw a Georgia car parked around on Peach Street yesterday afternoon. Someone was sitting in it. Was it you? I jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Valentine wasn't working alone.”

“Guess that marks me for a sucker. I thought I looked like a salesman.”

“You did. I wouldn't have noticed you if it hadn't been for the license tag. But I am terribly sorry about Mr. Valentine. Had you worked together long?”

“No. Well, actually . . . we weren't close.”

“How's Mrs. Valentine doing?”

“The boss had to tell her about Rick. Not me. How'd you know he had a wife?”

“He bought chocolates and said they were for her. Do they have children?”

“Nope.” The man frowned. “Look, I'm supposed to be questioning you. How'd you turn the conversation around?”

“I'm from Texas. We're friendly and nosy. What did you want to ask me?”

“You found the body, right?”

“My aunt and I did. But we talked to the police. I'm not supposed to say anything about it.”

“Maybe we ought to start from the beginning.” The cupidlike man produced a card like the one Derrick Valentine had carried. It gave his name as Tom O'Sullivan.

“Rick Valentine came in looking for a woman we'd traced to this area of Michigan,” he said.

“Christina Meachum. I told Mr. Valentine we didn't have anyone by that name working here, and no one by that name had applied for a job.”

I wasn't lying. No one had applied for a job under the name of Christina Meachum. And we hadn't hired anyone to work under that name.

O'Sullivan stared into space without replying, so I spoke again. “What he didn't tell me was why you thought this woman would be at TenHuis Chocolade.”

“Foe . . .” He seemed to realize he was saying something he shouldn't, and he stopped abruptly. “Confidential information,” he said self-importantly.

He leaned an elbow on the counter with studied casualness. “Rick thought you were lying, you know.”

“Why did he think that?”

“Because our information was good. We were sure she'd been here.”

“How could you be sure?”

He smiled. I guess he tried to make it a knowing smile, but he missed the mark. Don't ask me how I knew, but I was sure he was bluffing.

I guess he expected me to start stammering from embarrassment at being accused of lying or to be angry because my truthfulness had been challenged. Instead I was fighting the impulse to laugh. He was a silly little man.

This was one time that being a giant among women was an advantage. I stood up to my full height, which was about eight inches taller than Tom O'Sullivan. I looked down at him.

“Sorry, Mr. O'Sullivan. I would need some facts before I believe that tale. Now—at TenHuis Chocolade, everyone who comes in gets a sample chocolate. What looks good to you?”

I moved along the counter, pointing to the various chocolates. “How about a raspberry cream? That's the round dark chocolate bonbon with one white dot. The interior is a soft pink, so it's popular around Valentine's Day. Or there's the Jamaican rum truffle. It's dark chocolate inside and out. Or lots of men like a coffee truffle—milk chocolate all the way through and flavored, of course, with coffee. That's the one decorated with white stripes.”

I looked at him, smiling. Anytime I want to change the subject, chocolate gives me a great new topic. I used a little pair of tongs to pick up a Jamaican rum truffle and lift it out of the show case. I held it out enticingly.

Tom O'Sullivan didn't take it. He had lost his smirk and was glaring. “Look,” he said. “I need that information.”

“I've told you everything I can tell you,” I said.

“But Rick said—”

I cut him off. “I'm not responsible for any conclusions poor Mr. Valentine drew. I couldn't tell him anything.”

“But you called later and asked him to meet you! At the back door of this shop!”

I stared at the detective. Then I lost my grip. On the Jamaican rum truffle, that is. The inch-tall pyramid of chocolate bounced off the showcase, flew onto the floor, and skidded toward the doorway.

Only then did I find my voice and deny his accusation. “I did not call Derrick Valentine! Did he tell you I had?”

“Yes.”

“He lied! Or else he was completely mistaken. Have you told the police this?”

O'Sullivan's smirk was back. “Not yet. If you play ball . . .”

I reached for the telephone behind the cash register. “You must tell the investigating officers right away.”