The Chocolate Cat Caper Read online

  The house might be highly visible from the lake, but it was not inviting. Signs warning boaters and swimmers to keep away were posted along the shore. Guards and a high brick wall kept Clementine Ripley private and protected from the land side.

  Clementine might well need protection, and from more than prying eyes. Her office was in Chicago, but she had a national practice in criminal law. As one of the nation’s toughest defense lawyers, she’d kept a series of high-profile clients out of prison on charges that ranged from fraud to murder. Not a few people—witnesses she’d shredded on the stand, prosecutors she’d made look like circus clowns, former clients and their victims, plus the tabloid press—had it in for Clementine Ripley. Even sainted Aunt Nettie, who loved everybody else in the world, didn’t like her. She hadn’t told me why, but her feelings seemed to be deeper than a payment problem.

  So Clementine Ripley might need her guards, I told myself as I drove up to the metal security gate. The gate was probably eight feet high, and its grill seemed to snarl. I wouldn’t have touched it on a bet; the thing looked as if it would carry thousands of volts of electricity. I stopped by the intercom mounted on a post and punched a button on its face, feeling as if I was about to order a hamburger and fries.

  A disembodied voice answered, “Yes?”

  “Lee McKinney, with a delivery from TenHuis Chocolade.”

  “Just follow the drive up to the house,” the voice said.

  The gate slid sideways, and I drove on in, almost frightened of what might happen once I was behind the brick wall and in the area controlled by Clementine Ripley.

  There was nothing scary in there, of course, unless you find deep woods threatening. But the undergrowth in these particular woods was largely cleared out, and ahead I could see the long stone house, its tower leaning like a drunken troll. I drove on slowly—still remembering my fragile cargo—and I coasted around the circular drive and came to a halt in front of the wide flagstone steps.

  On the steps was a hulking man—broad and tall. He had a shaved head and a thick upper lip that curled into a snarl. He wore a gray uniform, and the patch above his shirt pocket read GRAND VALLEY SECURITY SERVICE. He motioned for me to lower my window.

  When he spoke, his voice surprised me by being a high-pitched squeak. “Ms. McKinney? I’ll unload the delivery here.”

  I told myself not to say anything stupid. Then I took a deep breath and spoke. “Do you have my check?”

  He spoke curtly. “Check? No, payment is handled by Ms. Ripley’s personal assistant, Ms. McCoy.”

  “I told Ms. McCoy we had to have payment before we delivered the chocolates.”

  “It will be taken care of.” The gray-uniformed man went to the back of the minivan.

  I jumped out, leaving the motor running, and went after him. Keep calm and speak carefully, I thought.

  “I can’t allow the chocolates to be unloaded until we are paid.”

  Gray Uniform reached for the handle to the back door. “You’ll be paid,” he squeaked, but he still sounded curt.

  I stepped between him and the door. I was taller, but that didn’t give me any real edge, since he was broader. “I’m sure we will be paid, but I need the password today.”

  Rats! I’d done it. Said something stupid.

  The security guard looked puzzled. “Password?”

  “Payment,” I said. There was nothing to do but go on. “I need payment. I explained to Ms. McCandy.”

  That ripped it. Now Gray Uniform was grinning, obviously amused. Darn! If I’m going to have a speech impediment, why can’t I lisp? People recognize a lisp as a problem. This saying the wrong word business simply makes me sound like an idiot.

  I tried again, speaking slowly and carefully. My insides were twisting up to match my tongue. “I can’t unload the chocolates until I receipt the check. I mean, receive! Receive the check.”

  Gray Uniform’s grin became patronizing, and he gave a clumsy wave, as if he were going to brush me out of the way. “Now listen, young lady . . .” Then his eyes widened, and he looked behind me, obviously surprised.

  Could it be the famous Clementine Ripley? I whirled to see.

  It wasn’t. It was a tall man—at least two inches taller than I am. He had dark hair and was wearing navy-blue pants and a matching shirt. Sunglasses seemed to cover his face from hairline to upper lip.

  “What’s the problem, Hugh?” His voice boomed. Definitely a basso.

  The guard squeaked in reply. “Joe! How did you get here?”

  The mouth of the tall guy shaped into a sardonic grin. Somehow that grin seemed familiar. “I tied up at the boathouse and walked. Why? Have you got orders to run me off?”

  “No, no!” Gray Uniform sputtered, but the newcomer cut off his excuses.

  “What’s your problem here?”

  Gray Uniform stumbled through an explanation, while the dark-haired man and I eyed each other warily. Or I think he eyed me behind his sunglasses. I kept trying to place him. Who was he? I was sure I’d met him, but I couldn’t figure out where or when.

  Gray Uniform’s mouth began to run down, and the tall man scowled. “Sounds like Clemmie hasn’t been paying her bills. Where’s Marion?”

  “Out on the terrace, but—”

  The man’s head turned toward me. “I’ll take you around.”

  “Let me get the invoice.” I opened the driver’s door and retrieved my purse and the small box of sample chocolates Aunt Nettie had sent. I checked to see that I had my extra car keys; then I locked the door and slammed it.

  The tall guy spoke again. “You left the motor running.”

  “Air-conditioning,” I said. “I can’t let the chocolates melt.”

  “Oh.” He turned and led the way along a flagstone walk that circled the house. I tried to keep up.

  “I do appreciate this,” I said. “The security man seemed determined to unload the chocolates, and I promised my aunt—”

  He stopped and turned toward me. “Your aunt? Are you Jeanette TenHuis’s niece?”

  “Lee McKinney.” I put out my hand.

  He took the hand. Then he took off the sunglasses and hung them on his shirt pocket.

  I gave a gasp. “You’re Joe Woodyard! I thought you looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize you with clothes on.”

  I’d really done it this time. Joe’s smile almost turned into a glare. I spoke quickly. “I used to hang out at Warner Pier bitch when you were a lifeguard.” I decided to ignore turning “beach” into “bitch” and kept talking. “I always saw you looking down from that high chair.”

  “Yeah, Joe Lifeguard, lording it over the beach.” He started walking again. I trailed him. “I remember you.”

  Joe Woodyard had been the head lifeguard at the Warner Pier beach the year I was sixteen, the year my parents divorced and I was packed off to work for Aunt Nettie and Uncle Phil in the chocolate shop. I’d made a few friends among the local girls who had summer jobs in the downtown businesses, and we’d spent our off hours at the beach, flirting with the Warner Pier guys (dating a summer visitor could ruin your rep) and drooling over Joe Woodyard. He’d been the best-looking guy in Warner Pier in those days—dark curly hair, dark brows, long lashes, and vivid blue eyes, not to mention great shoulders. He was three or four years older than we were, and he had an air of dangerous arrogance. To the sixteen-year-old mind he had been the epitome of cool, but intimidating.

  He had been a sharp dresser, too. But now I recognized his matching shirt and slacks as “work clothes,” the kind you buy at Kmart. And he wasn’t as good-looking now. Or maybe he was good-looking in a different way. At twenty he’d been almost too handsome; now he looked tougher, more rugged, sadder—as if he’d had a few rocky nights and rough days.

  Joe spoke again. “What are you doing back in Warner Pier?”

  “Working for Aunt Nettie. I’m planning to commute to Grand Rapids and take the CPA review course. What are you doing now?”

  Joe’s smile twisted
into its sardonic version, but before he could speak, a new voice sounded from in front of us. It was a deep, throaty voice, a voice with vibrato that could make a stone shudder—or at least sway a jury.

  “Don’t you know?” the voice said. “Joe is the former Mr. Clementine Ripley.”

  Chapter 2

  I recognized her, of course. Sixty Minutes, the Today show, Dallas Times-Herald, Time magazine—Clementine Ripley and her photograph had been everywhere during the prominent cases she had worked on. After Thomas Montgomery’s estranged wife was found beaten to death, for example, nobody had believed even the Montgomery millions could keep him off death row. But Clementine Ripley had done it. When rock star Shane Q. was accused of burning down his record producer’s house, the evidence looked damning. But Clementine Ripley kept him out of jail. And the fee from either case—or from any of a dozen others she had handled—could have paid for the house in Warner Pier.

  Clementine Ripley would have drawn attention even if her photo hadn’t been plastered over the world’s news media. She was an attractive woman, but there was nothing showy about her looks. She simply looked competent. If I’d had a small country I’d needed running, I’d have hired Clementine Ripley for the job on sight, never mind the references.

  Then she came out of the house, down a step, and I was surprised to see that she wasn’t very tall. She had a full figure—no skinny lightweight could look as reliable as Clementine Ripley looked—but she wasn’t plump. She wore casual pants in light blue denim with a matching man-tailored shirt, but the embroidered trim showed that the outfit hadn’t come off the rack at Penney’s. Her hair was blond—bottled, but not brassy—her features symmetrical, her makeup subtle. Her skin was outstanding—finetextured and smooth, but with lines around the eyes.

  She was at least fifteen years older than Joe Woodyard, I realized.

  “Meow.” The comment made me jump guiltily, for my cattiness. Had Clementine Ripley read my mind?

  Then Ms. Ripley emerged from behind a bush that had partially hidden her, and I saw that she was holding a cat, an enormous ball of white and minkybrown fur.

  The cat spoke again. “Meow.”

  “Oh!” I said. “Is this Yonkers?”

  Ms. Ripley caressed the cat with a gesture as sensuous as Aunt Nettie’s chocolate cream. “Yes.”

  “He’s beautiful!”

  Champion Myanmar Chocolate Yonkers accepted my admiration as his due, and Ms. Ripley ignored it. She looked at Joe Woodyard. “Joe, are you going to introduce me to your attractive friend?”

  She managed to make the last word almost objectionable, and I spoke quickly, before Joe could react. “I’m Lee McKinney, from TenHuis Chocolade. Mr. Woodyard showed me the way back here. I’m here to deliver your order.”

  Ms. Ripley’s eyes narrowed like the cat’s. “I’m sure that the security guard can help you unload the chocolates. You can go back the way you came.”

  She was beginning to unnerve me, and that always had a bad effect on my tongue. “I was told I could find your personal assailant here.” Oops! I went back and tried the remark over. “I need to talk to your personal assistant.”

  The catlike eyes blinked twice, and Ms. Ripley called out. “Marion!” She turned and looked into the room behind her. “Someone wants to talk to you!”

  She turned around and put the cat inside the house, then slid a screen door shut, imprisoning him. Champion Yonkers immediately leaped onto the screen and climbed, using his claws as pitons and grumbling deep in his throat. The screen was speckled with enlarged holes; apparently the cat made this climb frequently. At any rate, both Joe Woodyard and Clementine Ripley ignored his stunt.

  The real cat reminded me of the candy one. I lifted the white box and thrust it toward Ms. Ripley. “My aunt sent these.”

  She eyed the box suspiciously. “Your aunt?”

  “Jeanette TenHuis. She’s the chocolate expert. She wanted you to see one of the special order cats. She sent several Amaretto truffles as well.”

  I kept the chocolates extended, and Ms. Ripley took them. She slid the blue ribbon off the box, opened it, and pulled out the white chocolate cat. She smiled. It was impossible not to smile at the chocolate version of Champion Yonkers.

  “Delightful!” She held the cat up for Joe Woodyard to see. “Isn’t it lovely, Joe?” She sounded slightly sarcastic when she spoke to him.

  “Just dandy,” Joe said. “I need to talk to you. Where’s Marion?”

  “I’m coming,” a woman’s voice answered. “I was upstairs.”

  The woman who came toward us, sliding the door open only a few inches and making sure the cat didn’t get out, was frankly middle-aged. Or maybe she was much the same age as Clementine Ripley, but not as well kept. Her hair had been allowed to stay its natural gray, and she didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. She had on polyester pants and a loose, sloppy T-shirt. She was almost as tall as I am, and she was thin. Not slender, not svelte, not slim, but something close to skinny. Her skin had been weathered by the sun.

  She stopped a few feet away from Clementine Ripley and stared at Joe Woodyard. “What’s he doing here?” she said.

  Ms. Ripley ignored her remark. “It’s the chocolate delivery,” she said. “This woman says she needs to talk to you.”

  Marion McCoy glared at me. “The security man could have called me to the door.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “But you promised to have a check—”

  She cut me off before I could finish the sentence. “Just come this way.” Still glaring, she brushed past her employer.

  “Wait a minute,” Ms. Ripley said. She put her hand on Ms. McCoy’s arm and stopped her, but she looked at me. “Did you say you were to receive a check?”

  I nodded unhappily.

  “But I thought I put the chocolates on my Visa card.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Ms. McCoy said firmly.

  “Please wait, Marion. Let this young woman answer me. Didn’t I give you my credit card number?”

  I glanced at Joe Woodyard, standing with his arms folded, and at Marion McCoy, who was glaring. I didn’t want to have to answer that question.

  “Have you stopped taking credit cards?” Ms. Ripley was insistent. “Someone asked for one when I called the order in.”

  “Oh, we still take them! It’s just that—well, there was some discrepancy. The card was dejected.” Oh, I’d done it again. “It was rejected,” I said.

  Ms. Ripley stood there deadpan, then gave her slow, catlike smile again. “Rejected?”

  Joe Woodyard gave a barking laugh. “You’re maxed out, Clem. Is that why you’ve gone back on our deal?”

  Clementine Ripley turned on him, and now she looked like a cat who was ready to claw. I spoke quickly, before she could attack either of us. “There are a lot of possible explanations,” I said. “We may have taken down the wrong number over the phone, for example. But Ms. McCoy assured me—”

  “Yes, I’ll write a check on the personal account,” Marion McCoy said. She shook her employer’s hand off her arm and moved toward me.

  Ms. Ripley was back in control of herself, but her eyes were still narrow. “You do that, Marion,” she said. “And we’ll discuss this later.” Then she reached into the little white box of chocolates, but she didn’t offer to share. She pulled out the chocolate cat and took a bite. She chewed and swallowed, made a satisfied “ummm” sound, and popped the rest of it in her mouth. Then she slid the blue ribbon back around the box, effectively reserving the chocolates for herself.

  “Here, Marion,” she said. “Take these into the house, please. Just put them in my room. I’ll eat them later.”

  Marion snatched the box ungraciously, then walked off without another word. I followed her. Behind me I heard Ms. Ripley speak. “So, Joe—why are you here?”

  “I want my money,” Joe said.

  I didn’t hear any more. I didn’t want to. I didn’t know just where Joe Woodyard and Clementine Ripley stoo
d. Maybe they were in the middle of their divorce. Or maybe they were divorced already. Maybe Joe was asking for alimony. And maybe the credit card “dejection” meant Ms. Ripley had more serious money problems than a bill from TenHuis Chocolade.

  I followed Ms. McCoy along the flagstone terrace, which overlooked a broad lawn dotted with trees trimmed carefully to avoid blocking the view of Lake Michigan. It wasn’t as hot or muggy here on the lakeshore. The sky was blue, the clouds fluffy, a fresh breeze teased the water into rhythmic lines of whitecaps.

  “This is beautiful,” I said.

  Ms. McCoy ignored me. She certainly wasn’t friendly. She led me past a long row of windows, then through a French door and into a paneled office. I stood by while she dug a big flat checkbook out of a drawer in the walnut desk that centered the room. She took the invoice I handed her and wrote the check.

  As she gave it to me, she glared. “There was no need to bother Ms. Ripley about this.”

  “I didn’t intend to. Joe Woodyard happened to pop up as I arrived, and he told the security goon—I mean, he told the security guard that he’d take me out to the terrace to find you.” I could feel myself blushing. Goon! Had I really said that? I went on quickly. “How do I get back to the drive where I left my van?”

  Without a word Ms. McCoy led me across a hall, through a utility room, and out a door. We emerged behind some bushes, turned a corner, and were back on the circular drive. My minivan and the security guard—he did look and act like a goon—were right where I had left them. Another vehicle, a sporty vintage Mercedes convertible, had been parked behind me. Its driver—a tall man with a beautiful head of gray hair—got out, waved at Marion McCoy, and went up the steps to the front door.

  I unlocked the van, and the security man and Ms. McCoy unloaded the chocolates, turning down my offer to help. The security man managed to tip one of the trays, of course, and all the chocolates slid to one side. I offered to rearrange them, but they again refused my offer. So I handed Ms. McCoy the food-service gloves and advised her to use them to rearrange the chocolates. Then I got in the van and drove away.