The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle (8 page)

“It’s a compelling story,” he said.

“Around Warner Pier, I’m afraid
Love Leads the Way
isn’t considered great literature.”

Aubrey laughed. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be considered great literature anyplace. But that’s not the point. The point is that it could make a great movie.”

“Why?”

“It’s got everything: sex, violence, star-crossed lovers fighting obstacles to be together. An upbeat ending when Julia Snow leads Dennis Grundy away from a life of crime. And it’s based on a true story.”

“Is that important?” Joe said. “There are dozens of different versions of the Julia Snow–Dennis Grundy romance around here. Everything from ‘It never happened’ to ‘Julia was no better than she should be before she ever met Dennis Grundy.’ How do you know Maia’s version is true?”

Aubrey thought a moment before he spoke. “Let’s be frank. The script we finally come up with may not have much to do with Maia’s book, and Maia’s book may not have a lot to do with the real story. But to shoot this ‘legendary’ ”—he traced quotation marks with his hands—“love story in the place where it actually occurred and to base it on a book by a niece of the heroine gives us a publicity hook that’s hard to beat.”

He gestured at the big bills and the wallet. “So if the treasure we found is just stage dressing, so what? I’m not going to look at it too closely.”

“Does Maia understand that?” I asked.

“I think so. I hope so.”

“She’s sure caught up in the Hollywood grammar,” I said.

Aunt Nettie, Aubrey, and Joe all stared at me blankly, and I finally realized what I’d said. “Glamour! I mean, she’s caught up in the Hollywood glamour!”

We all laughed, and Aubrey said he needed to be getting back to his B&B. Joe and I cleared away the coffee cups while Aunt Nettie waved good-bye to him, then tactfully went to her room. Not that Joe and I needed privacy. I certainly wasn’t feeling romantic, and Joe didn’t indicate he was either. I did walk out to his truck with him, and he gave me a good-night kiss before he left.

It was right in midsmooch, of course, that the headlights hit us.

We moved apart, and I looked toward the car that had pulled into the drive behind Joe’s truck. The headlights blinded me for a moment, but the driver cut them off almost immediately, and I saw that it was a Warner Pier police car. Chief Jones got out and walked toward us.

“Lee, didn’t see anybody around Snow’s fruit stand when you pulled in there, did you?”

“No. I didn’t look for anybody, Chief. But it was spooky and there were no lights at the stand, only back at the house. Why?”

“Well, I guess we’re going to have to get a complete statement from you tomorrow.”

Joe gripped my arm. “What’s wrong, Hogan?”

The chief scratched his head and looked more craggy than usual. “When we finally got those pumpkins off Silas . . . well, there was a big bash on the back of his head. And a bloody shovel lying beside the body.”

I gasped.

“Yep,” the chief said. “Looks like somebody killed old Silas.”

I
t wasn’t hard to get up the next morning, since I’d never closed an eye the night before. Besides, I knew I’d have to make a statement early in the day. Sure enough, Chief Jones was on the phone before I’d washed the breakfast dishes, asking me to come by his office.

The Warner County Sheriff had called in the Michigan State Police, I learned, and they were using the Warner Pier Police Department as headquarters for their investigation into Silas Snow’s death. The detective in charge was Detective Lieutenant Alec VanDam. Lieutenant VanDam and I had crossed paths more than a year earlier, when another killing happened in Warner Pier. I’d met Joe because of that crime, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. I’d just as soon have met Joe at a church social.

I headed down to meet Lt. VanDam. He still had a face like a peasant in a van Gogh painting, and he still had that straight, bright yellow hair that reminded me of a souvenir Dutch doll. He also still displayed that cool politeness that made me nervous. There’s no way of telling what’s going on behind a polite façade like that. It’s more chilling than yelling, snarling, or sarcasm.

I made my statement with only a few verbal faux pas. I did offer the information that I’d seen no sign of a “showman,” when I meant a “shovel.” But VanDam didn’t keep me long; Chief Hogan Jones, who was still hanging around his own police station, was escorting me out the door by nine thirty.

Once we were outside I revealed my deepest wish to Hogan. “I don’t suppose VanDam could arrange to arrest Aubrey Andrews Armstrong for homicide?”

Hogan grinned. “We’d all love for Silas to have been killed by an outsider, wouldn’t we? And he might have been. But I’m afraid there’s not much chance it was Armstrong. He’s got a great alibi.”

“Aunt Nettie?”

“Partly. But Sarajane Harding—you know, at the Peach Street B&B—was making cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins in her kitchen from four p.m. until six forty-five. The kitchen overlooks her parking lot. She’s willing to swear Armstrong’s SUV never moved the whole time. In fact, for about a half hour he and the pup were in her backyard, having a training session.”

“And she could see him all the time?”

“Right. He left at six forty-five, and Nettie says he got to her house at seven, right on the button. Not much time to stop and kill someone on the way.”

I sighed and went to the office. The first thing I did, as usual, was check the e-mail. I was excited when I saw I had a reply from the Michigan State Film Office. I wasn’t so excited after I read it. It was one of those notices that the e-mail recipient was away from her office for several days and would reply when she could.

Then I got a phone call from Tracy, asking about the time of her appointment for a haircut. I fudged on that one. “I wasn’t able to get hold of Angie last night,” I said. I didn’t explain I had forgotten to try. “I’ll phone her right now.”

“I got excused from English to call you,” Tracy said. “I have play practice after school, but I’ll try to call again after sixth hour. Or you could leave a message in the office.”

I promised to do that, because her call reminded me of a bit of business I wanted to do at the high school. I wanted to ask Maggie McNutt why she had come into TenHuis Chocolade the afternoon before, very upset over something to do with Aubrey Andrews Armstrong. But Maia had come in, and I’d never gotten to quiz Maggie about just what upset her. I suspected that she knew something specific about Aubrey. I was curious. So an hour later I parked in the visitor’s slot at Warner Pier High School and Junior High, locked my van, and headed for the front door with two notes in my pocket—one for Maggie and one for Tracy.

Warner Pier is a town of only twenty-five hundred, so our junior high and high school share an auditorium, cafeteria, and gym, with separate wings for the two levels of classes. The building is a standard redbrick, one-story model, with a driveway for buses on the south side. The office, administrative headquarters for both secondary levels, is right at the main door. A student helper took the note I’d written for Tracy—her haircut appointment was at five o’clock—then took the one I’d written for Maggie McNutt.

“I can put Mrs. McNutt’s note in her box,” the student said. “But if you want to talk to her, this is her free period.”

“Good idea,” I said. The student used the intercom to make sure Maggie was in her classroom, then told me which way to go, and I started down the indicated hallway toward the speech and drama classroom. But I’d gone only halfway when a voice behind me called my name. I turned to see Ken McNutt emerging from his classroom. He was as scrawny and colorless as ever, but his thin hair, usually oppressively neat, was ruffled.

He spoke abruptly. “Lee, do you know what’s eating Maggie?”

“No.” I spoke first, thought later. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted I knew anything was bothering Maggie. “She came by the shop yesterday, but we couldn’t talk. Why do you think something’s worrying her?”

“Maggie and I have known each other since we were the age of this freshman algebra class. We don’t usually kid each other. When she begins to use drama techniques on me, I know she’s upset.”

“Have you asked her what’s wrong?”

“Of course I have. She says it’s nothing.”

“Ken, I don’t know a thing.”

He snorted. “And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me.”

“That’s what friends are for. But I might urge Maggie to tell you.”

He kicked a locker. “Maggie has the attitude that she’s going to protect poor old innocent Ken. She hates to give me bad news. But bad news is part of the deal for married people.”

“Ken, I’m not getting in the middle of any communications problems you and Maggie may have.”

“I know, I know. But she’s such a good actress. . . .” Ken shook his head, kicked the locker again, then walked back into his classroom.

I felt sorry for any kid who whispered or passed a note that afternoon. Ken might appear meek and mild, but that day I thought he’d be happy to sentence any freshman who sassed him to a trip to the office and a hundred extra algebra problems.

When I got to Maggie’s classroom, she looked as unhappy as Ken had. A box of tissues was prominently displayed on her desk, and a couple of them had missed the wastebasket.

“Hidey, Maggie,” I said. When I put on my Texas accent, it always makes Maggie smile, if not laugh, but this time that didn’t work. “What’s going on?”

Maggie shook her head and looked sadder than ever. She didn’t say anything.

I pulled a student desk over close to her and squeezed all six feet of me into it. That didn’t make her laugh either. “Okay,” I said. “I want to know why you came in the shop yesterday and asked me if I were on speaking terms with Maia Michaelson.”

Maggie shook her head, but she didn’t say anything. So I asked another question. “And what do you know about Aubrey Andrews Armstrong?

“Oh, no!” Maggie finally spoke. Then she got up and closed the classroom door. “Lee, I’m in terrible trouble.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anybody.”

“Even Ken?”

“Especially not Ken!”

I sighed. “Then I’ll have to help you without knowing why you need help.”

Big tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes. “Lee, I . . .” She quit talking and reached for the tissues.

“What can I do, Maggie? Tell Maia to jump in the deep end of Lake Michigan?”

“I wish. I’ve got to warn Maia—I guess I’ve got to warn everybody—about that so-called Hollywood producer. But I don’t know how to do it.”

“How about saying something direct? ‘Folks, this guy is a stranger. Don’t give him any money until we can check him out.’ ”

Maggie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t need to check him out. I know he’s a crook.”

“Then tell Chief Jones.”

“No! No! If I tell—well, Aubrey will tell.”

I sat back in my desk. “Oh.” Maggie and I stared at each other.

Whoops! So Maggie had some secret in her past, and Aubrey Andrews Armstrong knew what it was. I was speechless with surprise.

On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. The Maggie I knew was efficient and street-smart, the epitome of the gal who knew all the angles. And at thirty-five she’d outgrown the kid stage of her life. But no one is born street-smart. When Maggie was twenty and just as dumb as the rest of us were at that age, she had gone to Hollywood.

Whoops.

Maggie shredded her tissue. “I guess you’ve figured out that I . . . ran into him when I was in California.”

My heart went out to her. And I felt a slight sense of—well, maybe it was pride. Pride that I was the one Maggie turned to when she needed a friend. I couldn’t let her down.

“We were all young and dumb once, pal,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me about those creepy guys who hang around casting offices and beauty pageants. I understand. And, Maggie, I bet Ken would understand, too.”

She shook her head violently. “No! Ken’s good. He thinks I’m good, too. I just can’t tell him I . . .”

A lot of Maggie’s sentences were ending in the middle.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound brisk. “Recrimination time is over. Our problem is that Aubrey Andrews Armstrong is a crook, and we need to warn everybody in general, and Maia Michaelson in particular, about him. But we can’t tell Maia exactly how we know he’s a crook.”

Maggie nodded.

“Well, through the magic of the Internet, I may have already solved this problem.” I quickly outlined my efforts to check up on Aubrey the night before. “Anyway, he simply doesn’t exist on the Internet. And I feel sure that the Michigan Film Office will either know about Aubrey or will know how to check him out. As soon as I can get in touch with the director there.”

“After all the state budget cutbacks, I’m sure that’s a one-person office, Lee. She’s probably scouting locations. Or she could be in New York or California. It may be days before you can reach her.”

“True. But in the meantime, I can hint to Maia that all is not right. And I can do it without mentioning you at all.”

“Maia will never believe you. This is her dream come true.”

I thought another moment. “Vernon! That’s the answer. I can talk to Vernon. And nobody could ever suspect that Vernon will shoot his mouth off.”

I guess Maggie and I might have hashed the matter over further, but the bell rang. Immediately students began to throng the halls and a group of them thronged into Maggie’s classroom. Maggie tossed her tissue in the trash and took a deep breath. I made tracks.

As I paused outside the door, waiting for the crowd to clear, I heard Maggie inside. “Okay, people. Open your speech textbooks to page thirty-two. We’ll start with the structure of the larynx.” Her voice was clear, resonate, and confident. All traces of the fearful, tearful Maggie had disappeared. I thought of Ken describing her as “such a good actress.” He was right.