14 The Chocolate Clown Corpse Page 4

  “Joe has to speak for himself, but this is the United States, Chuck. Even the guilty are entitled to a defense. And that means some lawyer has to provide it.”

  It was time to change the subject. I turned to the refreshments table behind me. It included a tray filled with TenHuis bonbons and truffles. “I brought some chocolates. What would you like?”

  I can always distract upset people with chocolate.

  Chuck halfheartedly declined, but I talked him into an Amaretto truffle (“milk chocolate filling flavored with almond liqueur, in a milk chocolate shell, and embellished with chopped almonds”). He almost rolled his eyes in ecstasy as he bit into it.

  As soon as he had his mouth full, I spoke. “My concern in all this is the Clowning Around building. Would you still consider TenHuis as a buyer?”

  Chuck savored his truffle, then spoke. “I’d have to talk to Lorraine and to Emma. But I see no reason not to. I just wanted to apologize for the emotional scene, and I guess I ought to commiserate with your husband because he got stuck with a hopeless case.”

  I smiled. “Joe always wants to see justice done. He’ll handle the situation.”

  I left then and drove back to the office. Because it was nearly quitting time, I parked on the street instead of in my reserved spot in the alley. As I walked toward the entrance of our shop, I saw something interesting.

  Tilda VanAust was coming out of Clowning Around. And she wasn’t alone. With her was a tall man. He wore a good-looking jacket and a fur hat and in general had a prosperous appearance. The two of them were pointing and gesturing, obviously talking about the Clowning Around building.

  My competitive juices started to flow. If he was a potential buyer, I wanted to know.

  Chocolate Chat

  The early growers of cacao were, of course, those exotic Central American peoples. In fact, their names and cultures are so exotic that those among us who are not experts on history or anthropology find them quite confusing: Olmec, Maya, Aztec, Toltec.

  Scientists claim to have at least partially analyzed the Olmec vocabulary, and they say it contains the first use of the word “cacao.”

  The Olmecs lived three thousand years ago. Their domain (south of today’s Veracruz, Mexico) was ideal for wild cacao trees, providing lots of hot, humid, and shady places for them to grow. Since the Olmecs were an agricultural people, they may well have been capable of domesticating the plant, but some scientists believe the Aztecs achieved that feat.

  Today the Olmecs are remembered mainly for creating gigantic, and beautiful, stone heads.

  Chapter 4

  It certainly looked as if Tilda was showing the building— “showing” in the real-estate sense.

  Tilda had been “too busy” to show me the building. But she had found time to show it to some other person.

  Fleetingly, my feelings were hurt. Then I decided to laugh it off. Just because Tilda had a conflict at three o’clock didn’t mean she wouldn’t be free at four. I was being silly. Besides, the man might not be thinking of buying the building. He could be bidding on repairs. Or inspecting the plumbing.

  Or he could be an agent from Holland or Kalamazoo who was looking for a suitable building for a potential client. In fact, a white van with a magnetic sign on its side was parked at the curb. The sign read P.M. DEVELOPMENT.

  Hmmm. Maybe Tilda hadn’t been jazzing me when she said there was a lot of interest in the building.

  Whatever was going on, I was going to play it cool. I walked by, giving Tilda a casual wave, and went into TenHuis Chocolade. I hung up my coat and went directly into my office. If Tilda looked in my window, I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing that I was taking any interest in the man who had visited Clowning Around.

  But as the man moved toward his van, I could hardly resist peeking at him. He had parked directly in front of our show window, and I could see him from my desk. Not that I could see much. I got a glimpse of bushy black eyebrows, but the hair around the edges of his brown fur hat seemed to be silver gray.

  I ducked my head and concentrated on my computer. At least I could look as if I were working.

  But I had barely booted up the computer when the front door opened, and a woman I had never seen before came in. I put on my greeting-a-customer face and moved to the retail counter.

  The newcomer was a woman of forty or so. She was wearing a camelhair coat with a mink ascot—I’d call it a bib—tucked inside the neckline. Her hair and makeup were perfect. In fact, she looked almost too perfect. I wondered if she’d “had work done,” as they say.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “I hope so. I was told that I might find a Joe Woodyard here.”

  “Joe is my husband, and he did drop by earlier. But he went on to his office.”

  “His office? And where is his office?”

  “In Holland.” I gave her the address.

  She sighed. “Oh, I hoped I could find him before it got too late. I haven’t checked in anywhere yet.”

  “I can try to call and tell him you want to see him. It takes about half an hour or forty-five minutes to get there. But if you are planning to stay in Warner Pier, Joe might meet you down here.”

  “I hate to trouble him.”

  “We live in Warner Pier, so he’ll be coming home.”

  She sighed. “It’s rude of me to expect him to meet me so I can fire him.”

  “Fire him?” I said the words out loud, then waved a hand dismissively. Lawyers’ wives have to learn not to ask questions. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. I’m Royal Hollis’ daughter. I just found out that your husband has been appointed to defend him.” She dropped her eyes. Evidently she was finding this conversation unpleasant. “Now that I’ve found out about my father’s problems . . . Well, I can afford to hire a real attorney for him.”

  I resisted the temptation to snap at her, Joe is a real attorney, witch!

  Maybe I wouldn’t have used the word “witch.” I might have used one that rhymes with it. Just who the heck did she think she was, anyway?

  But instead of spouting off I remembered my business manners, smiled slightly, and spoke. “I’ll try Joe’s cell. Since Mr. Hollis’ case won’t be handled by the Holland agency Joe usually works for, he might prefer to meet with you down here in Warner Pier.”

  “What do you mean it won’t be handled by the agency?”

  “Joe works for an organization that offers legal services to low-income individuals and families. They don’t do criminal cases.”

  She looked wary. “What kind of legal problems do poor people have?”

  “The same kinds the rest of us do. Divorces, custody disputes, even wills and deeds. Please have a seat, and I’ll try to reach Joe.”

  She sat in one of the two chairs we keep for customers, and I went into my office and called Joe. He said he was just about to leave his office.

  “There’s a new development with Royal Hollis,” I said.

  Joe listened while I described Hollis’ daughter and reported what she had said.

  Then he laughed, sort of. “Tell her I’ll head right back and meet her about six o’clock. Find out where she’ll be.” Then he hung up.

  I reported to Hollis’ daughter.

  “Where were you planning to stay?” I asked.

  “I suppose there are hotels in this town.”

  “What!” I laughed, or pretended to. “Warner Pier is the tourism capital of Southwest Michigan! We have motels and B and Bs on every corner. And at least half of them are open at the moment for our annual winter promotion. Of course, you might find someplace less expensive if you went into Holland.”

  “I don’t care about the cost. What’s the most comfortable place?”

  I suggested either the Inn on the Pier, a motel that’s n
ear the downtown, or the Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast, run by Sarajane Harding, one of Aunt Nettie’s best friends. I even found a map of Warner Pier to give her; what’s the use of being on the Chamber of Commerce tourism committee if you don’t have some materials to hand out?

  She looked a bit worried. “I guess I can find the B and B,” she said.

  “Would you like me to call and make sure they have a vacancy?”

  “Oh, would you?”

  “Sure. What’s your name?”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. My name is Belle Montgomery.”

  I called Sarajane and learned that she had a room for that night and the next three. For a price. But the price didn’t seem to bother Belle Montgomery. She waved it away calmly. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.” Then she frowned at the map. “Which way do I turn when I leave here?”

  I guess that was the remark that made me offer to show her the way. Or maybe it was my Texas upbringing. We’re taught to be kind and helpful—even to someone who said she intended to fire my husband. Besides, it was after five o’clock, and I was ready to leave the office anyway.

  Or maybe I was just being nosy. I’m afraid that’s been known to inspire my actions.

  Anyway, I wound up leading the way to the Peach Street Bed-and-Breakfast with Belle Montgomery driving behind me in a Cadillac sedan.

  Mrs. Montgomery found the room she was offered up to her standards, so I helped get her hand-sewn leather luggage inside, then called Joe to tell him where she was. As soon as she’d had time to freshen up I escorted her to a small study off the main parlor. Sarajane had said she could use that to meet with Joe.

  I was ready to leave, but Belle—by then we were on a first-name basis—kept asking me questions about Joe.

  Where had he gone to law school? Answer: University of Michigan.

  How long had he practiced criminal law? Answer: Three years. That was before I knew him. But recently he’d been at the poverty law agency.

  Why did he change? Answer: Ask him yourself. The real answer is that Joe was once married to a well-known defense attorney. He didn’t like the way she operated professionally, and that was a factor in why they split up. He was so disgusted he dropped out of law completely for a while. Which introduces the boat shop. There’s no secret about any of this, but Joe doesn’t always want to explain it all.

  As we talked, Belle’s eyes got bigger and bigger and her hands shook. If Belle wasn’t a woman who was upset and scared to death, she was doing a good imitation of one. Despite her obnoxiousness when we first met, I felt sorry for her.

  When we heard Joe come into Sarajane’s living room, Belle jumped to her feet. When he came into the study, she wrung her hands.

  I was almost surprised to see Joe looking quite spiffy. He had apparently dropped by the house to change his shirt and tie, and had even picked up his dressy overcoat, a gorgeous garment his mother had given him for Christmas, saying, “Every lawyer should be prepared to face the Supreme Court.” As far as I knew it was the first time Joe had ever worn it. A heavy ski jacket is usually more practical in our area. He wears any kind of an overcoat only if he’s going to court; a poverty lawyer doesn’t want to look too much wealthier than his clients.

  I recognized the feeling that inspired the overcoat. Joe didn’t want Belle Montgomery to think he was some hick backwoods lawyer. Joe can play games with the best of them.

  So I hid a smile as I spoke. “I’ll say good-bye.”

  “Oh no! Please stay.” Belle was still sounding panicky.

  “Joe may prefer to speak privately.”

  Joe took off the overcoat and tossed it casually over the back of a chair. “It doesn’t matter. Mrs. Montgomery isn’t a client.”

  “I’m not?” She looked surprised. “But I’m willing to finance my father’s defense.”

  “That’s nice, but if I represent your dad, I’ll be working for him, not you. It doesn’t matter who foots the bill.”

  “Oh.”

  “Plus, he has the final say on who his lawyer is.”

  “Oh?” It was more of a squeak than a word. I began to hope Joe wouldn’t be too tough on Belle. Her eyes were the size of Frisbees.

  She sounded plaintive when she spoke. “Do you think my dad has any case at all?”

  “I haven’t looked at the files yet. And if he wants a different lawyer, of course I won’t bother.”

  “Oh.”

  “I plan to interview him in the next few days. You can go along, if you like.”

  “Oh!”

  “If Mr. Hollis accepts your offer and wants a different lawyer, I could suggest some names. But in the meantime I would be happy to file a petition for his release on bail.”

  “Release!” I thought Belle was going to faint. “Release! You mean he might get out of jail?”

  “Maybe. While he’s awaiting trial.”

  “But he can’t get out! He can’t get out!” Belle burst into tears.

  Joe’s big-time lawyer act almost deserted him. He reacted like a typical man faced with a crying woman. A look of panic flashed across his face, and I got a pleading look from him. Then he gathered his wits and sat back in his chair, looking confident.

  I moved to Belle’s side and did all the dumb, ineffectual things we do when people are deeply upset. I patted her hand, found her a tissue, and said, “There, there.” That’s a fat lot of help. But Belle continued to cry, and I began to understand what was going on.

  Belle didn’t want her father to get out of jail. Belle thought he was guilty. She might even have been afraid of him. All this get-him-a-lawyer and spare-no-expense stuff was pure pretense.

  Her whole point was to make herself look good while keeping her dad locked up. When she was told he might be released, she was sorry she had come, sorry she had offered to pay her dad’s expenses.

  It was at least three minutes before she spoke again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have lost control like that. I was just so surprised. But if he got out, where would he go?”

  “We’d have to find a place for him,” Joe said. “But that’s not happening yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Frankly, it’s extremely rare for a person accused of a crime this serious to be released while he’s awaiting trial.”

  “Didn’t he confess?”

  “According to his earlier attorney, Doke Donovan, Mr. Hollis doesn’t always think clearly. Doke believes that your dad said things the sheriff misinterpreted.”

  “But the jury would have to hear them.”

  “He needs to have a proper mental evaluation before he can go to trial.”

  Joe leaned forward and looked at Belle closely. “Mrs. Montgomery, have you visited your dad since he has been in jail?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was he around when you were growing up?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Have you seen him in recent years?”

  Another headshake.

  “Just how well do you know him?”

  This time she ducked her head and looked at her hands, twisting them in her lap. She didn’t shake her head, but it was a long moment before she spoke.

  “I’ve never met him,” she said. “I’ve never even seen him in my whole entire life.”

  Chapter 5

  Neither Joe nor I said anything, but I guess we both looked amazed. I know I was surprised. Here Belle was offering to spend a lot of money to help out her dad, and she had never even met him?

  As the silence grew, Belle stood. She held her head up high, and she spoke calmly. “I think I’d better go up now. I’ll have to explain later.”

  And with great dignity she walked out of the room. Belle had time to reach the stairway before I again heard a noise that sounded like crying. I took a step, starting to follow, but Joe shook
his head.

  “I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Joe followed me home, and after we pulled into the sandy lane that led to our semirural house, I saw his truck stop. I felt sure he was getting the mail, so I drove on.

  We’ve set aside a parking area next to the house, creating four spots—two for us and two for visitors. When my headlights hit the area, I was surprised to see an SUV sitting in one of the extra spots. A Warner County logo was painted on its side, topped with large letters that read SHERIFF.

  My heart sank. I was tired and hungry. I didn’t want to have a session with Warner County’s sheriff, Burt Ramsey. We’d had plenty of run-ins with him in the past.

  My aunt’s husband, Warner Pier’s police chief, didn’t have much use for Ramsey. His main problem, Hogan said, was that he was an elected official. Ramsey felt compelled to get along with the voters, and he seemed to think this meant groveling.

  Hogan had spent his entire adult career in law enforcement. He had a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and a master’s in public administration. He had worked a lot of years for a major police department. He got along with the public, but he relied on acting professional to do that. He never . . . well . . . sucked up to citizens. The only people he needed to suck up to were Warner Pier city council members and, frankly, Hogan had whipped them into line during his first year on the job.

  Ramsey, on the other hand, had never worked in law enforcement before he was elected sheriff. He’d been a small businessman, running a convenience store and gas station. Ramsey had just enough training to gain law enforcement certification, but basically he was a politician.

  Outwardly, Hogan and Ramsey were united in trying to serve the public. They were both pro–good guys and anti–bad guys. However, I believed that inside, Ramsey felt threatened by Hogan’s very existence. And maybe Hogan felt a bit condescending toward the county officer. He was polite, but I always felt he had to keep reminding himself to act nice.