The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle (26 page)

The most surprising outcome was revealed after Joe and Hogan left on the night the arrests were made. Aunt Nettie and I stood on the front porch to wave both of them off. Then she turned and gave me a big hug.

“I’m all right now,” I said. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worried! I’m excited!”

“What about?”

“Lee! Hogan asked me to go out to dinner with him!”

I squealed. Aunt Nettie squealed. We hopped around like sixteen-year-olds planning for the junior prom.

“That’s wonderful!” I said. “He’s the catch of Warner Pier. You’ll be the envy of all your friends.”

“Yes.” Aunt Nettie smiled her sweetest smile. “But that’s not why I want to go.”

As for Joe and me—well, I advised him to go with the white tile for the bathroom in his new apartment. Then he could put up a patterned wallpaper. And, yes, I went along to help pick out the wallpaper.

The wedding’s set for May.

 

“
I
’m sick and tired of deleting this stupid inspira tional junk,” I said. “If Julie Singletree doesn’t stop sending it, I’m going to kill her, as well as her messages.”

I’d been talking to myself, but when I raised my eyes from the computer screen, I realized I was also snarling at Aunt Nettie. She had nothing to do with the e-mail that had been driving me crazy, but she had innocently walked into my office, making herself a handy target for a glare.

Aunt Nettie smiled placidly; she’d understood that I was mad at my e-mail, not her. “Are you talking about that silly girl who’s a party planner?”

“Yes. I know she got us that big order for the chocolate mice, but I’m beginning to think the business she could throw our way can’t be worth the nausea brought on by these daily doses of Victorian sentiment.”

Aunt Nettie settled her solid Dutch figure into a chair and adjusted the white food-service hairnet that covered her hair—blond, streaked with gray. I don’t know how she works with chocolate all day long and keeps her white tunic and pants so sparkling clean.

“Victorian sentiment certainly isn’t your style, Lee,” she said.

“Julie is sending five of us half a dozen messages every day, and I am not interested in her childish hearts-and-flowers view of life. She alternates between ain’t-life-grand and ain’t-like-a-bitch, but both versions are coated with silly sugar. She never has anything clever or witty. Just dumb.”

“Why haven’t you asked to be taken off her list?”

I sighed and reached into my top desk drawer to raid my stash of Bailey’s Irish Cream bonbons. (“Classic cream liqueur interior in dark chocolate.”) Nothing soothes the troubled mind like a dose of chocolate.

“I suppose I kept thinking that if I didn’t respond she’d simply drop me from her jokes-and-junk list,” I said.

“You didn’t even want to tell her you don’t want to receive any more spam?”

“Oh, it’s not spam. She’d made up a little list of us—it’s all west Michigan people connected with the fine foods and parties trade. Lindy’s on it, thanks to her new job in catering. There’s Jason Foster—he has a restaurant in Saugatuck. There’s Carolyn Rose at Warner Pier Floral. Margaret Van Meter, the cake decorating gal. And the Denhams at Hideaway Inn.”

I gestured toward the screen. “This message is typical. ‘A Prayer for the Working Woman.’ I haven’t read it, but I already know what it says.”

“What?” Aunt Nettie smiled. “Since I’ve worked all my life, I might benefit from a little prayer.”

“I can make you a printout, if you can stand the grossly lush roses Julie uses as a border.” I punched the appropriate keys as I talked. “I predict it will be about how downtrodden women are today because most of us work.”

“You’ll have to assert yourself, Lee. Tell her you don’t like her e-mails.”

I sighed. “About the time I tell her that, she’ll land a big wedding, and the bride will want enough bonbons and truffles for four hundred people, and we’ll lose out on a couple of thousand dollars in business. Or Schrader Laboratories will plan another banquet and want an additional three hundred souvenir boxes of mice.”

I gestured toward the decorated gift box on the corner of my desk. Aunt Nettie had shipped off the whole order two weeks before, but I’d saved one as a sample. The box contained a dozen one-inch chocolate mice—six replicas of laboratory mice in white chocolate and six tiny versions of a computer mouse, half in milk chocolate and half in dark.

Schrader Laboratories is a Grand Rapids firm that does product testing—sometimes using laboratory mice and sometimes computers. A special item like the souvenir made for their annual dinner meant risk-free profit for TenHuis Chocolade; we know they’re sold before we order the boxes they’ll be packed in.

“That was a nice bit of business Julie threw our way, even if she did get the order from a relative,” I said. “I can put up with a certain amount of gooey sentiment for that amount of money.”

“It might be cheaper to give it up than to hire a psychiatrist. You’ve got plenty to do. Tell Julie your mean old boss has cracked down on nonbusiness e-mail.”

Aunt Nettie smiled her usual sweet smile. “And I really am going to add to your chores. We need Amaretto.”

“I’ll get some on my way home.”

Amaretto is used to flavor a truffle that is extremely popular with our customers. Its mainly white color makes it an ideal accent for boxes of Valentine candy and at that moment we were just two weeks away from Valentine’s Day. I knew Aunt Nettie and the twenty-five ladies who actually make TenHuis chocolates had been using a lot of Amaretto as they got ready for the major chocolate holiday. But liqueurs go a long way when used only for flavoring; one bottle would probably see us through the rush.

I handed Aunt Nettie the printout of Julie’s dumb e-mail, all six pages of it. Julie never cleans the previous messages off the bottom of e-mails she forwards or replies to. Then Aunt Nettie went back to her antiseptically clean workroom.

I wrote “Amaretto” on a Post-it and stuck the note to the side of my handbag before I turned back to my computer. I manipulated my mouse until the arrow was on “Reply All” and clicked it. Then I stared at the screen, trying to figure out how to be tactful and still stop Julie’s daily drivel.

“Dear Group,” I typed. Maybe Julie wouldn’t feel that I’d singled her out. “This is one of the busiest seasons for the chocolate business, and my aunt and I have decided we simply have to crack down on nonbusiness e-mail. As you know, at least half our orders come in by e-mail, so I spend a lot of time clearing it. As great as the jokes and inspirational material that we exchange on this list can be,” I lied, “I just can’t justify the time I spend reading them. So please drop me from the joke/inspiration list. But please continue to include me in the business tips!”

I sent the message to the whole list, feeling smug. I was genuinely hopeful that I’d managed to drop the cornball philosophy without dropping some valuable business associates along with it.

I wasn’t prepared the next day when I got a call from Lindy Herrera, my best friend and a manager for Herrera Catering.

“Lee!” Lindy sounded frantic. “Have you had the television on?”

“No, why?”

“I was watching the early morning news—Oh, Lee, it’s awful!”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Julie Singletree! She’s been murdered!”

JoAnna Carl is the pseudonym of a multipublished mystery writer. She spent more than twenty-five years in the newspaper business, working as a reporter, feature writer, editor, and columnist. She holds a degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma and also studied in the O.U. Professional Writing Program. She lives in Oklahoma, but spends much of each summer at a cottage on Lake Michigan near several communities similar to the fictional town of Warner Pier. She and her husband of fortyplus years have three children and three grandchildren. As a writer, she shamelessly exploits the skills of her children: one daughter who works for a chocolate maker, another daughter who is a CPA, and a son who is a librarian. She may be reached through her Web site at
www.joannacarl.com
.

Also by JoAnna Carl