The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Also by JoAnna Carl

  Praise for the Chocoholic Mysteries

  The Chocolate Bridal Bash

  “Entertaining and stylish.... Reading this on an empty stomach is hazardous to the waistline because the chocolate descriptions are . . . sensuously enticing. Lee is very likable without being too sweet.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The sixth delicious mix of chocolate and crime.”

  —Writerspace

  “JoAnna Carl’s books are delicious treats, from the characters to the snippets of chocolate trivia . . . fantastic characters who have come to feel like good friends. The Chocolate Bridal Bash stands alone, but once you’ve read it, you’ll be craving the other books in this series.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  The Chocolate Mouse Trap

  “A fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “I’ve been a huge fan of the Chocoholic Mystery series from the start. I adore the mix of romance, mystery, and trivia . . . satisfying.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle

  “The pacing is perfect for the small-town setting, and the various secondary characters add variety and interest. Readers may find themselves craving chocolate, yearning to make their own.... An interesting mystery, fun characters, and, of course, chocolate make this a fun read for fans of mysteries and chocolates alike.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up

  “A JoAnna Carl mystery will be a winner. The trivia and vivid descriptions of the luscious confections are enough to make you hunger for more!”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A fast-paced, light read, full of chocolate facts and delectable treats. Lee is an endearing heroine.... Readers will enjoy the time they spend with Lee and Joe in Warner Pier, and will look forward to returning for more murder dipped in chocolate.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  The Chocolate Bear Burglary

  Descriptions of exotic chocolate will have you running out to buy gourmet sweets.... A delectable treat.”

  —The Best Reviews

  The Chocolate Cat Caper

  “A mouthwatering debut and a delicious new series! Feisty young heroine Lee McKinney is a delight in this chocolate treat. A real page-turner, and I got chocolate on every one! I can’t wait for the next.”

  —Tamar Myers

  “As delectable as a rich chocolate truffle, and the mystery filling satisfies to the last prized morsel. Lee McKinney sells chocolates and solves crimes with panache and good humor. More, please. And I’ll take one of those dark chocolate oval bonbons. . . .”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “One will gain weight just from reading [this].... Delicious . . . the beginning of what looks like a terrific new cozy series.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Enjoyable . . . entertaining . . . a fast-paced whodunit with lots of suspects and plenty of surprises . . . satisfies a passion for anything chocolate. In the fine tradition of Diane Mott Davidson.”

  —The Commercial Record (MI)

  Also by JoAnna Carl

  The Chocolate Cat Caper

  The Chocolate Bear Burglary

  The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up

  The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle

  The Chocolate Mouse Trap

  The Chocolate Bridal Bash

  Crime de Cocoa

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August 2007

  Copyright © Eve K. Sandstrom, 2007

  ISBN : 978-1-101-56494-3

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Janet McGee,

  without whom I can’t cook anything,

  sew anything, or watch a bird.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to friends, relatives, and complete strangers who generously helped me as I tried to get it right. They include Elizabeth Garber and Betsy Peters, who provided information on chocolate; Tracy Paquin, Susan McDermott, and Dick Trull, Michiganders who answered questions about their native state; Dwight Sto-dola, Helen Jones, and Alice Mayer, who helped me learn about antique jewelry; Jeff Smith, who gave me tips on property insurance; Kim Kimbrell, who described the process of remodeling; Louisa Halfaker, who suggested stealing antiques; and Jim Avance, a font of knowledge on law enforcement.

  Chapter 1

  Just when I finally found fifteen minutes f
or myself, the dead man came to the door.

  Not that he looked dead.

  In fact, he was lively-looking, tall and thin, with dark hair shot with gray. He was nicely dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt. Only the scar on his cheek kept him from looking distinguished. Instead it made him look rakish—like a James Bond wannabe who might be a good guy to have on your side in a bar fight. And he was smiling widely enough to display canine teeth, which gave him a wolfish look.

  A blue Ford pickup truck was parked behind him in our sandy lane. It was pointed toward Lake Shore Drive, which showed he’d come around from Eighty-eighth Street, driving into our semirural neighborhood by the back road and coming past our neighbors’ house. Despite this hint that he knew the territory, the man had proved he was a stranger by coming to the front door; all our friends and relations come in through the kitchen.

  He showed up about eleven o’clock on a miserably hot Monday in the second week of July. I wasn’t at all happy to hear a knock. For once our five houseguests were all occupied elsewhere at the same time, and I wasn’t due at TenHuis Chocolade—where a major chocolate crisis was under way—until one. I had been enjoying having a moment alone.

  I peeked through the screen door cautiously. We rarely get salesmen, but I didn’t know of anyone else who might come by without phoning ahead. “Yes?”

  The man’s grin seemed familiar, though I was sure I didn’t know him. “Hi. Are you Mrs. Woodyard? Mrs. Joe Woodyard?”

  “Yes,” I answered confidently, though I’d had that title for less than three months.

  “I don’t suppose your husband is home.”

  “I expect him shortly.” By that I meant in an hour, but I wasn’t going to tell a stranger too much.

  “Oh? Should I wait? Or I can come back.”

  “His schedule is indelicate.” Yikes! I’d twisted my tongue in a knot. As usual. “I mean indefinite!” I said. “His schedule is indefinite. Can I give him a message?”

  “Well . . .” The stranger sighed deeply, then smiled again, showing those wolfish eyeteeth. “I guess you could tell him his father came by,” he said.

  I remember staring at him for at least thirty seconds before I answered.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said.

  Then I slammed the door. The real, solid door, not the screen door. And I turned the dead bolt above the handle.

  I moved away from the door, but the man on the porch was still clearly visible through the window. I knew he could see me too, if he glanced inside. I didn’t like that idea, so I went around the fireplace and stood at the bottom of the stairs. This seemed more subtle than slamming our antique casement windows shut and yanking the curtains closed.

  Now the stranger couldn’t see me lurking behind the fireplace, but I couldn’t see him either. And I found that I wanted to keep an eye on him. Where could I hide and watch him?

  Hide? Why did I have the impulse to hide? The idea was absurd. Why should the idea of someone claiming to be Joe’s father make me look for a closet to duck into?

  So I moved out into the living room. I didn’t hide, but I did stay near the fireplace, away from the windows, where a person walking casually through the yard wouldn’t be able to easily see me. If the man looked in through a window, I decided, I’d call the police.

  Of course, if he wanted to get into the house, I had no way of stopping him short of hitting him with the fireplace poker. I had locked the front door, but our house—built in 1904—has no air-conditioning. With the temperature and the humidity both in the nineties, all the windows and doors were open. I might lock the front door, but an intruder could come in any other door or any window without trouble.

  The man didn’t look into the house. I heard his footsteps leaving the porch, and I heard the door of the pickup open. He was going away. I wondered what Joe would make of the visit when I told him about it.

  He might know who the man was, I realized. He might even want to contact the guy.

  I grabbed a pen and a piece of junk mail that happened to be lying on the coffee table, rushed to the front door, unlocked it, and ran outside. The truck was just pulling away, and I waved the man down. He opened the right-hand window and leaned across the truck’s seat.

  I tried to keep my voice noncommittal. “Can you leave a phone number?”

  A faint smile crossed the man’s face. Again, he seemed familiar, and suddenly I knew why. That grin—the corners of his mouth went up just like Joe’s. And his eyes were the same bright blue.

  I caught my breath, but I didn’t speak.

  The stranger put the truck in gear. “I’m not sure where I’ll be,” he said. “I’ll call later.”

  He drove away, and I stood there gaping after him.

  He simply could not be Joe’s dad.

  Only a few weeks earlier, I had laid a wreath of plastic carnations on Andrew Joseph Woodyard’s grave. Joe’s dad had been dead for nearly thirty years.

  Chapter 2

  As soon as the truck had turned onto Lake Shore Drive, I dashed for the phone to call Joe. But my plan followed the pattern our whole summer was taking—it didn’t work out. The line at Joe’s boat shop was busy on my first try, and before I could hit redial, three of our houseguests showed up.

  First the white pickup with the camper pulled in and parked beside the garage. Darrell Davis got out, studiously ignoring me as I waved at him through the kitchen window. He walked around to the back of the truck, shoulders slumped in his usual sullen posture, and climbed into the camper. At least Darrell had his own bed. He didn’t sleep in the house, and he had a portable potty. He dumped the potty and showered at the boat shop, although he ate with us. So he wasn’t exactly a houseguest. A yard guest, I suppose. He got power for his lamp and his fan from our garage.

  Darrell was Joe’s guest, if we had to choose sides. Joe had dropped out of the full-time practice of law five years earlier to restore antique motorboats and work part-time as Warner Pier City Attorney. But for several years just after law school, he’d been with a Legal Aid–type agency in Detroit. Darrell, back when he was eighteen, had been one of Joe’s clients. He’d been accused of a home invasion—one that resulted in the death of a notorious drug dealer. Joe had been convinced Darrell was innocent of the killing, but Darrell had been convicted anyway. He’d gone to prison. Joe and some of his investigator pals had hung in there, and five years later another guy had confessed to the crime. Darrell was released without a stain on his character. Unless you count the trauma of five years in prison.

  Joe had heard that Darrell had completed a carpentry course but couldn’t get a job. The next thing I knew, Darrell had been hired for the summer to help Joe with a remodeling project at our house and to be an extra pair of hands at the boat shop. I’d also come up with some work we needed for TenHuis Chocolade, installing shelves in a storeroom, and Darrell had promised to work that in. Joe couldn’t afford to pay Darrell much, so meals and a parking place for his camper were part of the deal.

  Did I trust Joe’s belief in Darrell? Yes. Did I like having a guy who had spent five years behind bars living in my backyard? No.

  The five-year-old Ford driven by Brenda, my stepsister, pulled in and parked in the drive. Her passenger was Tracy Roderick, who had morphed into a houseguest a few days earlier. Both of them were working the retail counter at TenHuis Chocolade that summer, and Brenda was staying with us. Tracy was a guest for the rest of July, while her parents drove across Canada.

  The two girls got out of the car carrying shopping bags, their eighteen-year-old jaws spewing conversation.

  When I’d first met Tracy, she’d barely turned sixteen, and she was mainly identified by stringy, dirty blond hair. But during the past two years Tracy had grown up. She was much more poised, and she had developed a nice figure. A good haircut and a few highlights had made her hair a shiny, tawny blond. If Tracy had a character flaw, it was one that most of us have: She loved to gossip. But all in all, she had become an attractive and responsibl
e young woman.

  I was counting on that responsibility to rein in Brenda. I’d been seventeen when I acquired a stepmother and a five-year-old stepsister. Now, thirteen years later, Brenda and I had never lived in the same household for more than three months, so we barely knew each other. We’d never had any opportunity—or any particular reason—to become more than acquaintances.

  But Brenda, along with my dad and her mom, had come to Warner Pier when Joe and I got married three months earlier, and Brenda guarded the guest book at the reception. Tracy was serving cake, so the two of them met, and Tracy introduced Brenda to the college-age crowd of Warner Pier. The first result was a long-distance romance for Brenda with a guy named Will VanKlompen. The second result was Brenda’s application for a summer job at TenHuis Chocolade. It’s hard to turn your stepsister down. Brenda would be staying with us until mid-August.

  Although Brenda used my maiden name, McKinney, no one would take us for sisters. Brenda was around five-four—not a nearly six-foot giraffe like me. And she had dark hair and eyes and a smooth olive complexion, again contrasting with the blond hair I owe to the TenHuis genes my mother passed on and the greenish hazel eyes I got from the Texas side of my family. Her figure was curvy and cute, and she had dimples. I could see why a guy like Will, who had grown up taking west Michigan’s tall Dutch blondes for granted, would be bowled over by her.