The Chocolate Cupid Killings Read online

  “Fine? Joe should be financially amazing!”

  “Once I had a husband who was financially amazing. Once was enough.”

  Marty looked surprised, and Joe laughed. “Give it up, Marty. Lee and I have both tried the high life. We’re happy in our rut. We like Warner Pier.”

  “Okay! I give up. You’re not coming back to the old firm.” Marty sipped his coffee, put down his cup, and leaned toward Joe. “So, how about a little consulting work?”

  Joe didn’t hesitate before he spoke.

  “No,” he said.

  “Not even providing a little local knowledge?”

  “Nope.”

  Marty chuckled and got to his feet. He held out his large hand to me again. “Lee, you make great coffee, and your company makes great chocolates. Thanks for both. And, Joe, it’s been super seeing you.”

  After he had put on his coat, Marty gave Joe a handshake and one of those combined stomach bumps and back pats that men substitute for a kiss on the cheek. I decided I didn’t have to follow the two of them out to Marty’s car. Surely Joe’s instruction not to leave them alone didn’t mean I had to tramp outside in the snow. I did stand on the back porch and watch until Marty drove off. He didn’t dawdle. If he told Joe any unwitnessed secrets, he did it fast.

  Joe waved at the retreating car, then came back up the walk. As soon as he was inside the kitchen, I turned out the porch light and locked the door.

  “And now,” I said, “what the heck was that all about?”

  “Just a friendly call from an old business associate.”

  “Oh, sure. An old friend you’ve never mentioned before. A friendly visit I was instructed not to ask questions about.”

  Joe was looking slightly amused. “You’re pretty good at deductions, Lee. What have you figured out?”

  “First, you knew why he was here, and you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Got it.”

  “And he wanted to influence you about whatever it was. So he offered you a little consulting work.”

  Joe reacted by going into the living room and beginning to load mugs onto the tray. I followed him and picked up the carafe.

  “So it’s something that affects the Village of Warner Pier.”

  Joe didn’t respond.

  I went on. “But I don’t see how it can be, unless the council is planning to sue somebody.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’m assuming Marty Ludlum is a defense attorney. A high-priced defense attorney. I can’t even think of anybody who would be in Warner Pier in the wintertime who could afford him.”

  Then I gasped.

  Joe looked at me sharply. “What?”

  “Is he representing Marson Endicott?”

  Joe lost his poker face. His eyes widened. Then he rolled them. He laughed, but the laughter had a hollow sound.

  “How’d you come up with Marson Endicott?” he said.

  “Lindy mentioned him when she called earlier. I guess the Dome Home has been opened—right in the middle of winter. She seemed to think that was more interesting than Aunt Nettie finding a body in our alley.”

  Joe picked up the tray. He’d regained control of his face and was once more Mr. Deadpan. “I guess Marson Endicott could afford a legal team that would include Marty Ludlum,” he said.

  Then he walked to the kitchen, with me trailing along carrying the carafe. “If I were Marty Ludlum I’d want my money up front,” I said. “Judging by what I read in Time magazine.”

  “I assure you Marty knows how to get his fees paid.”

  “But why would you care?”

  “When I was doing my miserable time at Clementine’s firm, Marty was one of the few people who were nice to me. I wouldn’t like to see him lose a legitimate fee.”

  “I mean why would you care about the Endicott case? Whatever happens to Endicott—or to Marty Ludlum—would it be any skin off your nose?”

  “Nope.” Joe put the tray down on the kitchen counter. “We’ve missed the eleven o’clock news. I think I’ll get ready for bed.”

  “Joe!”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t told me why you didn’t want to be alone with Marty Ludlum.”

  “No, I haven’t, have I? So if anybody asks, you don’t know a thing.”

  He kissed my cheek. Then he went into the bedroom.

  I stood in the kitchen and seethed.

  Joe and I didn’t usually have secrets from each other. And now—twice in the same evening—he had refused to tell me what was going on. First he wouldn’t tell me about the big guys who had been in Hogan’s office. And now he wouldn’t explain what was going on with Marty Ludlum.

  I could handle it two ways, I decided. I could scream and yell and demand that he tell me. Or I could respect his reticence.

  After all, I wasn’t entirely innocent when it came to keeping secrets. Aunt Nettie and I were keeping mum about Pamela, about her being in the shop when the dead detective, Derrick Valentine, came looking for her. True, Aunt Nettie had promised to tell Hogan tomorrow, but so far she and I were keeping it a secret.

  But our secret was for a good reason, I told myself self-righteously. We had a good reason. We were trying to protect Pamela.

  Maybe Joe had a good reason, too.

  I decided that respecting Joe’s reticence might be the best way to handle the situation. I wouldn’t ask, or even hint that I wanted to know. I wouldn’t sulk or beg.

  Then maybe he’d tell me anyway.

  As I heard Joe go into the bathroom, I felt smug. I had my self-righteousness back.

  I was hugging it to myself and loading coffee mugs into the dishwasher when someone rapped softly at the back door.

  After my heart started beating again, I heard Aunt Nettie’s voice. “Lee! Lee, let us in!”

  At least it sounded like Aunt Nettie. But how could Aunt Nettie be here? If she was coming over—at eleven thirty at night—surely she would call first.

  I guess no one could blame me for being a little cautious. The logical part of my brain told me to fling the back door open for Aunt Nettie. But all I could think of was Derrick Valentine lying dead behind the Dumpster.

  There was a chain on that back door, and I left it hooked when I turned the handle.

  Aunt Nettie stood on the porch. Her blond-white hair was covered with a funny knit cap she wears when it’s really cold; only a few curls were sticking out. Her face was worried.

  “Lee, please let us in.”

  I unhooked the chain and opened the door. “Come in! But who is ‘us’?”

  Aunt Nettie slipped into the kitchen, then turned and looked behind her. “Come on,” she said. “Come on in. This is the safest place I can think of.”

  The light from the kitchen threw of patch of glitter on the snow. All was quiet outside. Then I saw movement. Slowly Pamela walked into the light and up the steps onto the back porch.

  Chocolate Chat Speaking Chocolate

  Like all specialized fields, chocolate growing and production has its own vocabulary. Reading about chocolate means conquering words such as “conching,” “bakjes,” and “bloom.”

  Not to mention “cacao” and “cocoa.”

  “Cacao” is the plant that produces chocolate. The cacao tree originally came from Central and South America, and today is also cultivated in Africa, Southeast Asia, Hawaii, and the West Indies. Its seeds are “cocoa beans,” with thirty or forty beans found inside large seed pods that grow on the trunks of the trees. The beans are surrounded by a sweet pulp that probably originally drew people to the beans.

  After procedures that include fermenting, drying, cleaning, roasting, winnowing, blending, refining, conching, tempering, molding—and others—the beans become cocoa or chocolate.

  “Cocoa” usually refers to that dry powder used to make a hot, yummy chocolate drink or in recipes. It may be either “Dutched” or “natural.” Dutched cocoa has been treated with an alkali to neutralize some of the acidi
ty of chocolate. It is darker in color than natural cocoa, but has a milder flavor. If a recipe specifies one kind or the other, do not substitute.

  Chapter 5

  Pamela looked so sheepish I expected her to bleat. So it was startling when she started her first sentence with “baa.”

  “Baaad penny,” she said. “I keep turning up. You’ll never get rid of me.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get rid of you, except that we want you to be safe.” They came inside, and I closed the door behind the two of them. “What’s happened?”

  Aunt Nettie dropped the duffel bag she was carrying and pulled her funny cap off. “Where’s Joe?”

  “In the shower.”

  “Good!” She turned to Pamela. “The shower in this house hides all other sounds. We can get you upstairs and Joe won’t know you’re here.”

  “Aunt Nettie! We can’t do that!”

  Aunt Nettie gave me a questioning look. “No?”

  “No! For one thing, this is Joe’s home. I’m not going to have things going on here that he doesn’t know about.”

  Aunt Nettie grimaced. “I guess it would be pretty sneaky.”

  “It certainly would be. Besides, it’s not practical.” Now I turned to Pamela. “We can’t keep the shower going twenty-four hours a day. And this house is like an amplifier. Drop a pin in the kitchen, and people in the bedroom hear it land. If we tried to hide you upstairs—well, we could wrap you up like a mummy, and Joe would still hear the floor creak.”

  “I told Nettie that I’ve caused you both enough trouble,” Pamela said. “I feel simply terrible about this. Isn’t there some way I can simply get a cab and head out of town?”

  “No!” Aunt Nettie was aghast. “I told you, Pamela! There are no cabs in Warner Pier. Not in winter anyway.”

  “I’m all confused,” I said. “Why does Pamela need to leave Sarajane’s?”

  Aunt Nettie and Pamela exchanged looks. Pamela spoke. “I got a threatening phone call.”

  “Oh,” I said. A threatening phone call to Sarajane’s B&B meant that someone had traced Pamela there. And, yes, that meant she had to find a new hiding place.

  “When Sarajane got home from my house,” Aunt Nettie said, “she found Pamela trying to call a cab. Of course, this time of year we’d have to get one from Holland. So Sarajane called me. We arranged to meet at that Gulf station out on the highway. It stays open all night. I got Pamela away out the back door.”

  She took a deep breath. “I thought you might be able to hide her overnight. Where else can I take her?”

  I made a snap decision. “This is as good as anyplace. Come on.” I picked up Pamela’s duffel bag and headed for the stairs.

  “But it’s dangerous to have me around!” Pamela sounded plaintive. “If Harold finds me, he may—blow the house up or something. I don’t want to put anyone else in danger. If I cause you or Nettie or Sarajane to get hurt—I’d never forgive myself.”

  “We won’t let anyone in.”

  “If I only had a car . . . I’d drive off and never stop.” Pamela looked furious.

  “I understand how you feel, but I think our house had better be your stopping place for tonight.”

  “But what about Joe?”

  “I’ll tell him the truth. And that truth is that one of the women who works at the shop is having family problems and needs a place to stay for a couple of days.”

  Pamela gave a derisive snort. “I guess that’s not lying.”

  “It’s quibbling. But we can’t help that.” I led the way up the stairs. “Luckily, Joe put in a bathroom up here last summer, and all the beds are made.”

  Aunt Nettie and I deposited Pamela in the east bedroom, on the side of the house away from the road. At least the neighbors could drive down Lake Shore Drive—which was on the west side of our property—without seeing a light up there and calling to ask if we had company. Besides, the room had light-blocking shades, put up to keep out the morning sun in the summertime, so I hoped that the bedside lamp wouldn’t be visible from outside at all.

  “Actually, Joe doesn’t know your name, so I suppose it won’t matter if he does see you,” I said.

  “No!” Pamela’s answer was sharp. Then she shook her head. “I mean, the fewer people I have contact with, the better.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’d better wait until Joe leaves for work before you come down for breakfast,” I said. “I’ll try to bring some coffee up earlier, if you like.”

  “That sounds wonderful. You’re a perfect hostess.”

  Pamela sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her ever-present M&M Minis out of her jacket pocket. Then she dropped her face to her hands. She looked as if she was hanging on by one torn fingernail. I felt terribly sorry for her.

  “I just can’t believe the way this day has gone,” she said. “It’s like a door slammer.”

  “Buck up. We’re going to make it yet.” That was what I said. What I thought is a different matter. Pamela’s situation looked pretty bleak.

  I checked the towel and soap situation in the bathroom, then followed Aunt Nettie down the narrow stairs. At the bottom she took my arm and whispered, “What did she mean by ‘a door slammer’?”

  “It’s a theater term. Or at least I’ve heard it used to refer to a type of play. The sort where people are running in and out of doors, slamming them, and winding up in the wrong bedrooms. A farce.”

  “I’d call today more of a tragedy.” Aunt Nettie pulled on her woolly hat, and I watched from the door to make sure she got into her car safely.

  I agreed with Aunt Nettie, I decided. We’d had a lot of excitement that day. And, yes, it had involved running from one place to another, disguises, ducking out doors, and hiding in strange places. The excitement had even continued after I got home, with the unexpected appearance of Joe’s former business associate. But I wouldn’t call the day a farce. Anything with a dead man wouldn’t qualify as a farce.

  I spoke aloud. “I’d call it a complete mess.”

  “What is?”

  I jumped. Then I realized that Joe was out of the shower. He’d walked into the kitchen wearing his flannel pajamas, his hair still wet. “What’s a mess?” he said.

  “We’ve got an unexpected visitor, and her life’s a mess.” I gave him an expurgated version of Pamela’s arrival.

  Joe frowned. “Shouldn’t she go to the women’s shelter in Holland?”

  “Probably. But Aunt Nettie thought we could take her in here tonight. She’s sure her husband won’t find her here.”

  “I’ll be careful to lock up.” Joe and I looked at each other wordlessly. Our hundred-year-old house simply wasn’t all that secure. If somebody wanted in badly enough, they could get in.

  “I’m going to bed,” I said.

  “It’s been a long day,” Joe said. “And you and Nettie are going to have to make statements tomorrow.”

  Only one thing was certain, I told myself as I brushed my teeth. Pamela was leaving the next day. Leaving our house, leaving Warner Pier. As far as I was concerned, she was leaving my life forever.

  And if Aunt Nettie was tempted to help Sarajane with her underground railroad again—well, I’d remind her about this “door slammer.”

  I put on my flannel nightgown—that doesn’t sound sexy, but Joe says it’s soft and cuddly when it’s on, and he knows how to take it off. Then I kissed Joe on the forehead—he was already asleep—and crawled into bed. The sight of the bloody polyester fur on Derrick Valentine’s jacket swam briefly into my memory. I heard Pamela’s step upstairs. Then I sank into sleep. It was going to take more than a slamming door to wake me up.

  It took the telephone. Or maybe it was Joe’s convulsive kick after it rang. Anyway, it sounded off, and we were both fighting to wake up by the second ring.

  “What time is it?” Joe didn’t sound happy.

  “It’s three thirty. It’s got to be a wrong number.”

  The phone is on my side of the bed. When I answered I’m sure my �
��Hello” sounded as if it was echoing out of a cavern.

  The voice in the phone was just above a whisper. “Lee Woodyard?”

  I didn’t recognize the caller. “Yes?”

  “This is Myrl.”

  “Um?”

  “I’m Sarajane’s friend.”

  I think there was a long silence before her words sank in. “Sarajane?” Suddenly I woke up. This must be Sarajane’s contact with the underground railroad.

  I was careful to speak cautiously. “Yes?”

  “Is your husband in the room with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sarajane said she brought Pamela to you a few hours ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve come to pick her up.”

  I sat up. “Yes?”

  “I’m at the Warner River bridge. How long will it take to get to your house?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Please get Pamela up. Do you think we can get her out without waking your husband up?”

  “I can try. Do you know how to find the house?”

  “I have a GPS.” The line went dead.

  I got out of bed.

  Joe raised his head. “What is it?”

  “It’s Pamela. One of her friends has come to pick her up.”

  “I still think she should go to the shelter.”

  “I’ll suggest that. Go back to sleep.”

  Joe obeyed. I put on my slippers and robe and headed upstairs.

  When I knocked on Pamela’s door she spoke so quickly that I figured she’d been awakened by the phone. There was an extension upstairs, but it was across the hall from her room.

  Her voice was soft. “Lee?”

  I opened the door a crack and told her about Myrl’s call. “So you’ve got five minutes,” I said.

  Pamela gave such a deep sigh that I pushed the door open a bit more. She’d turned the bedside light on. “Are you okay?”

  She yanked the covers over her head. All I could see of her were her eyes. They looked like a stranger’s eyes. Lighter and a different shape. I realized I hadn’t seen her without eye makeup before.