The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (22 page)

But there were intermediate steps. First, we still didn’t know who the guy in the black panel truck was, and we didn’t know how he had found out we were on the road back from Grand Rapids so that he could lie in wait for us. I resolved to ask the chief if he’d been able to find out if Tom Johnson had phoned anybody in Warner Pier after we left him Wednesday night.

Second, how had the creep in the boat known we were going to be out on the lake?

Now, that was a real stumper. He could have followed us, but it didn’t seem likely. Following people is not all that easy in a town the size of Warner Pier—especially around Joe’s shop, which was almost in a rural area. A tail would be hard to miss. He would have had to hide some place, see Joe leave in the sedan, guess that he was picking me up, steal the Sheldons’ key, steal the Sheldons’ boat, and beat us out into the lake.

It would have been a lot easier if he’d known where we were going and waited for us. But we’d only decided to go an hour before we left. I hadn’t told anybody where we were going, and I was sure Joe hadn’t either. We’d made all our plans on the telephone.

I sat up, even if it did hurt. Well, duh! The answer was as plain as a Hershey bar without almonds. Joe’s phone was tapped.

I tried to jump out of bed, and every muscle rebelled. This made me slow down in my rush for the telephone, and I realized I couldn’t call Joe to tell him his phone was tapped. In fact, it might be that my phone was tapped, too, so I didn’t want to try his cell phone. I threw on some clothes—my own, not Joe’s—and headed for the boat shop.

I was let down to see the Michigan State Police mobile crime lab van outside.

I jumped out of my van and limped into the shop. Joe met me at the office door. “Have they found the bug?” I said.

He nodded. “You figured that out, huh? Have you figured out who put it there?”

“No. Have you?”

“Nope.”

“There’s no way to tell by looking?”

“Today’s taps don’t have to use wires. They have little transmitters. You can order them on the Internet. Guy wants to check on his tap, he parks a mile away and dials it up.”

“Anyway, that tap absolutely proves that somebody’s been trying to frame you. Though I don’t understand why he also cut the phone line.”

“All I can figure out is that he wanted me to be unreachable at that specific time. So he cut the line. But once the line was repaired, he wanted to listen in.”

“And then he tried to kill you.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Lee. Seems as if every time somebody tries to hurt me, you’re along.”

I stared. “That’s silly! No one would want to kill me.”

“Why would they want to kill me?”

“I don’t have a specific reason, but it’s got to be something to do with the old Root Beer Barrel. Mixed in with hate. Malice. Envy. Avarice. One of those seven deadly sin deals.”

“Why would none of those apply to you?”

I found a chair and sat down. “I’m just too darn lovable, I guess.” Then I looked up at Joe. “I don’t think I’m important enough for anybody to dislike that much. But I don’t see why anybody would dislike you either.”

Joe pulled up a second office chair and sat down beside me. He took my hand. “You are darn lovable, Lee. And you try to get along with people. I don’t see why anybody would want to kill you. But all this has got to link up with Hershel’s death. Is there anything you haven’t told the chief about what Hershel said? When he came up to the truck?”

“No! The chief asked me about that in detail yesterday, and I went over the whole conversation. I did not hold back a thing. Besides, no one else was there to hear what Hershel had to say. If he told me who killed him—right out loud—what’s the difference? The murderer has no way of knowing. Unless your pickup is bugged.”

We sighed and stared for at least a full minute. Then Joe spoke. “I’m sure of one thing. The guy is working alone.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because if there’d been two people in Sheldon’s boat last night, we wouldn’t be here now. If there’d been one guy to operate the light, and a second one to handle the boat—well, we’d never have been able to get away. They would have run us down.”

That vision of shattered mahogany planks flying through the air—and Joe and me flying with them—bounced through my mind. I resolutely shoved it back into my subconscious. “He—or she—may also have been operating an unfamiliar boat,” I said, “since it was stolen.”

Joe nodded. “In fact, I don’t think he—or she—was used to a boat that size at all. Something about the way it swerved. But I can tell you another thing. Whoever chased us gets around Warner Pier a lot.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He—or she—knew about the old chapel and that Hershel hung out there. He—or she—knew where to get the keys to Sheldon’s boat. He—or she—knew how to disappear down Haven Road. He knew where to find a black panel truck.”

“You don’t think the guy owns a black panel truck?”

Joe shook his head. “No. This baby is too smart to use his own boat or his own vehicle when he’s up to no good.”

“It’s got to be somebody close to Hershel, Joe.”

We both thought. I spoke first. “My money’s on Frank.”

“Why?”

I sketched what I’d learned from Barbara and from Greg Glossop.

“Hardly conclusive,” Joe said. “And Frank hasn’t lived in Warner Pier very long.”

“Five years!”

“Has it been that long?”

“Long enough for a lot of Sunday drives. He’s a neighbor to the Sheldons. And he and Patsy are sure better off without Hershel.”

“To an outsider it seems that way. But Patsy doesn’t seem to think so. Speaking of the Waterloos—are you going to the funeral?”

“When is it?”

“This afternoon. I guess I’d better stay away. The chief thinks Patsy might hit me with a spray of chrysanthemums.”

“I’ll check with Aunt Nettie and find out the proper Warner Pier etiquette.”

I reached for Joe’s phone, but he pushed my hand aside. “Use my cell phone.”

I could feel my eyes getting round. “Is the phone still bugged?”

“The chief is considering leaving it that way. So don’t say anything about it, okay?”

I didn’t have time to think about that. I called Aunt Nettie and was instructed to be ready for Hershel Perkins’ funeral at one p.m. “Your light blue dress will be fine,” she said. “Or something similar.”

“I remember,” I said. “Don’t wear more black than the widow. In this case, the sister.”

I hung up. “Gotta go. My hair’s still full of Lake Michigan ick.” I started for the door, then turned back. “I didn’t ask about the sedan. Was it damaged?”

“No. Harry and I got it off the sandbar before the waves pushed it around enough to do any damage. Oh, I’ve got your clothes.” Joe brought a bundle out of his room. “At least, here are your shoes and your jacket.”

“I guess we can write off my socks and khakis. Darn it! Those pants were new.”

Joe looked stricken. “I’ll walk that stretch of beach. Maybe they’ll wash ashore.”

“Never mind. I’m not sure I’d want to wear them again.”

By one o’clock I had clean hair and was wearing a longish black and white print skirt, a short-sleeved white cotton sweater, and flat-heeled black pumps. Patsy and Frank had decided on a graveside service for Hershel. About twenty-five people gathered in the Warner Pier Cemetery—I recognized the corps of high school teachers, plus some people Aunt Nettie said lived up Inland Road near the Waterloos. Then there were those of us somehow connected with the investigation into Hershel’s death—Trey, Meg, Aunt Nettie, me, and Chief Jones.

Trey, like the other men, wore Warner Pier dressup—khakis and a sports shirt—but Meg hadn’t followed the “less black than the widow” rule. She had on a sleeveless black linen dress and was wearing a short strand of what I was sure were real pearls. There were no chairs, and she kept shifting from foot to foot. I guessed she was trying to keep her high heels from sinking into the turf and thanked my lucky stars I’d thought to wear flats.

Patsy was in navy blue and had regained her composure since the afternoon she’d almost accused Joe of murdering her brother. The minister was mercifully generic, relying on Bible verses and standard platitudes. Which is sad in itself—I mean, when no one can dredge up any happy memories of the deceased, it’s a sign of a wasted life.

Afterward, we shook hands and murmured at Patsy and Frank and a cousin who had materialized from Kalamazoo for the occasion. Then Aunt Nettie and I started for her car. We were nearly there when I heard rapid footsteps behind us. Trey called out, “Lee!”

I turned to see both Trey and Meg approaching. Meg bore down on Aunt Nettie, neatly cutting her off, and Trey took me aside. “Were you serious about seeing Gray Gables?”

“I’d love to, Trey.”

“It looks as if tonight would be a good time for a tour.”

“Tonight?”

“I know that’s pretty short notice. But my cousins are the actual owners, you know. They’ll be coming this weekend and may stay the rest of the summer.”

“Trey, I can see it another time. Next fall, next year.”

“No, I have to be over there tonight anyway. I want to change the lock on the kitchen door. I’d be delighted to show you and Joe around.” He leaned closer. “Please don’t tell anyone. My cousins don’t mind me showing people like you through, but they don’t want—you know, public tours.”

“Fine. As soon as I get back to the shop I’ll call Joe and see if he can come.”

“Just leave a message on my answering machine.”

I told Trey nine-thirty was the earliest time I’d be able to take a tour, and I caught up with Meg and Aunt Nettie. Meg was talking hard about the Junior League of Grand Rapids, a topic which I knew did not interest Aunt Nettie in the slightest. Unless the group voted to buy chocolate.

Meg then began to ask me about the chase on the lake; apparently word was getting around town. Aunt Nettie and I extricated ourselves as quickly as possible. I again told Trey I’d call him, then we went back to the office. As soon as I was there, I went to the phone to call Joe to pass on Trey’s invitation.

But Stacy headed me off. “Joe called,” she said. She looked at a note she was holding. “He said he would be tied up all afternoon and evening. He said to tell you . . .” She referred to her note. “He said, ‘Tell her not to do anything risky. Tell her to keep safe.’ ” She looked up. “What did he mean?”

I tried to smile. “I expect he wants me to stay home, to avoid highways and lakes,” I said.

“Will you do what he says?”

I could tell my reputation as a feminist was on the line. “It seems to be a reasonable request,” I said, “considering the events of the past two evenings. Besides, I don’t really have any particular place to go. I won’t let his instructions keep me from anything I think is important.”

We left it at that. I called Trey and left a message that Joe and I could not make a tour of Gray Gables that evening. I stayed in the office until nearly seven p.m.

Then I took my dinner break and went out and solved Hershel Perkins’ murder.

I
didn’t solve the murder on purpose. It was an accidental process that began when I stood up and realized my pantyhose were drooping.

The sagging pantyhose were uncomfortable, of course, and that discomfort made me aware that I wasn’t wearing one of my five pairs of comfy khaki slacks, and being aware that I wasn’t wearing one of them reminded me that the newest pair had sunk in Lake Michigan the previous evening. Then I remembered that Joe had mentioned walking up and down the beach over by the old Root Beer Barrel to see if the slacks had washed ashore.

Joe had apparently not been able to do that. But, I decided, I could. Even though the chance of the slacks washing ashore was remote.

Walking up and down the beach was not at all risky, I assured myself. I could park at the Root Beer Barrel site, cross Lake Shore Drive, climb down the bank, and walk up and down the Lake Michigan beach as far as I wanted to. Or as far as I had time to, because I needed to get back to the shop and be there until closing time.

So, shortly before seven o’clock, the time Tracy was due back from her break, I phoned Mike’s Sidewalk Café and ordered a sandwich to go. I put on the jacket I keep in the office. I found a pair of flip-flop rubber sandals in the van, then slipped out of my pumps and droopy pantyhose. I even grabbed a garbage bag big enough to hold the slacks. I was thinking positively. I might actually find them.

I picked up the sandwich—roast beef on rye with a side of slaw—and drove over to the former location of the Root Beer Barrel. This would be a private beach picnic. Quite a nice dinner break, whether I found the slacks or not.