The Chocolate Bear Burglary 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

  About the Author

  Also by JoAnna Carl

  Don’t miss Lee McKinney’s other Chocoholic investigations

  In the series premiere

  The Chocolate Cat Caper

  “A mouthwatering debut!

  Feisty young heroine Lee McKinney is a delight in this chocolate treat.... Can’t wait for the next.”

  —Tamar Myers

  And in the short story collection

  And the Dying Is Easy

  “The Chocolate Kidnapping Clue”

  “This satisfying appetizer will leave fans hungering for the main course.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Also by JoAnna Carl

  The Chocolate Cat Caper

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

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  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, November 2002

  Copyright © Eve K. Sandstrom, 2002

  ISBN : 978-1-101-56379-3

  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.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Claire, Clay, and Eric—the best grandchildren

  who ever were

  Acknowledgments

  As ever, I relied on many friends and relatives to research this book. The great people at Morgen Chocolate, Dallas, were invaluable—particularly my daughter, Betsy Peters; her boss, Rex Morgan; and the supervisor of production, Andrea Pedraza. Michigan friends Tracy Paquin, Susan McDermott, and Judy and Phil Hallisy were always patient and full of information. I also wish to thank Jim Avance, for information on law enforcement; Bob Bigham, sports car enthusiast; Marv Lachman, authority on classic mysteries; and Earlene Fowler, a generous mystery writer.

  Chapter 1

  The bear wasn’t cuddly or cute. His eyes were squinty and mean, and his face was grimy. A harness—or was it a muzzle?—was around his snout, and he looked as if he resented it. In fact, he looked like he might take a bite out of anybody who tried to take a bite out of him.

  “I don’t care how much milk chocolate you load into that mold,” I said. “That bear’s never going to be a teddy.”

  The other bear molds looked dirty, too. The metal clamps that held the backs and fronts together were all askew, and their silver-colored metal seemed to be tarnished. All of them looked as if they needed to be soaked in soapy water and scrubbed with a brush. I wasn’t impressed with the cleanliness of the dozen antique chocolate molds Aunt Nettie was arranging on the shelves of TenHuis Chocolade.

  “I’d be glad to wash all these,” I said.

  “Wash them!” Aunt Nettie teetered on the top step of her kitchen step stool. “You don’t wash them!”

  “But they’re dirty-looking.”

  “Those are chocolate stains.”

  “Naturally, since they’re chocolate molds. But you don’t let the modern-day molds sit around dirty. Wouldn’t the antiques look better if they were cleaned up?”

  Aunt Nettie clasped the mean-looking bear to the bib of the apron that covered her solid bosom. She looked so horrified that I could tell my suggestion was making her wavy white hair stand on end, right up through the holes in the white food-service hairnet she wore.

  But she spoke patiently. “Lee, the plastic molds we use today won’t rust. These antique ones are tin-plated, and they can rust. So the normal way to maintain them—back when they were in general use—was to put them away without washing them. The coating of chocolate was like oiling them. It kept them from rusting. When the old-time chocolatiers started on their next batch of chocolates—maybe a year later—then they’d wash them.”

  “But since we don’t plan to use these, but just to display them . . .”

  “No, Lee. The chocolate traces show that the molds are authentic.” She held out the mold of the mean-looking bear. “This one has been washed, and it wasn’t dried properly. It’s rusted already. I pointed that out to Gail Hess when she brought the molds by, so she’d know we didn’t do it. Washing them would be like putting a coat of acrylic on a genuine Chippendale table.”

  I didn’t argue.

  My aunt, Jeanette TenHuis, is the expert on chocolate and is the boss of TenHuis Chocolade. I’d had to be told that lots of chocolate people use the European spelling—“mould” with a “u”—for the forms they use for shaping chocolates, and reserve the American “mold” to refer to that stuff along the hem of the shower curtain. No, I’m just the bookkeeper—business manager, if you want to sound fancy. I pay the bills for the butter, cream, chocolate, and flavorings Aunt Nettie uses to make the most delicious bonbons, truffles, and molded chocolates ever placed into a human mouth, but I don’t take any part in how she assembles the ingredients.

  “Anyway, I think the molds will get us into the teddy bear spirit,” Aunt Nettie said.

  “The chamber of commerce committee ought to approve,” I said. “They’re going to look nice, even if they are a bit dingy.”

  The little retail area of TenHuis Chocolade was looking quite festive. Warner Pier, already tourism central for western Michigan in the summer, was making a special push to draw winter visitors, and the chamber of commerce had decided on “A Teddy Bear Getaway” as the theme for a late-winter promotion. The amateur theater group was putting on a production of Teddy and His Bear, a comic look at the hunting exploits of Teddy Roosevelt. The Warner Pier Sewing Society had costumed the high school choir as toys, and the kids were going to present a concert with “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” as a theme. The twelve blocks of the Warner Pier business district a
nd dozens of the town’s authentic Victorian houses were festooned with bear banners, and cuddly bears shinned up the pseudo-gaslights on each corner. The Warner Pier restaurants—the ones that are open off-season—were serving honey cakes and Turkey à la Teddy. There’s a bed-and-breakfast on nearly every corner in Warner Pier, and the ones that were taking part in the promotion were so full of teddy bears there was hardly room for the guests. Their special Getaway rates had been advertised as far away as St. Louis and New York. The weather seemed to be cooperating, providing picturesque snow that made us look as if we were decorated with stiffly starched antimacassars, but didn’t block the roads. The snowmobile rental places were gearing up, and volunteers were checking the cross-country ski trails. Even the Warner Pier bars were offering specials—bear beer and teddy tonics. The official Warner Pier greeting was a bear hug.

  We were cuddly as all get out.

  TenHuis Chocolade, one of the specialty shops catering to the town’s wealthy visitors and part-time residents, was getting into the spirit by displaying antique chocolate molds, loaned to us by Gail Hess, who ran the antique shop across the street and who was chairman of the promotion.

  “I want to have these up by the time Gail comes back,” Aunt Nettie said.

  I left Aunt Nettie to arrange the molds and got down on my knees to festoon swags of red velvet ribbon along the edge of the glass showcase. Since I’m close to six feet tall, I would have had to bend way over to do it standing up, but kneeling put the counter almost at eye level for me. Of course, it also meant that the glass front of the showcase reflected my face in a frightening close-up. I’m not used to seeing every strand of my Michigan Dutch blond hair—pulled back George Washington style—and every speckle in my Texas hazel eyes jump at me in such detail.

  The showcase was already filled with an artfully arranged selection of TenHuis teddy bear specialties. We had a milk chocolate teddy who was much more jovial than that cranky-looking antique one, tiny teddy bears in milk or white chocolate, a twelve-inch-high teddy with a white chocolate grin and dark chocolate eyes. Interspersed among the large molded items were miniature gift boxes of gold and silver, each stuffed with yummy TenHuis truffles and bonbons and molded bears. Tins painted with teddy bears beating toy drums held larger amounts of truffles, bonbons, and bears. Best of all, I thought, were the gift certificates—beautiful parchment scrolls peeking out of backpacks worn by eight-inch chocolate teddy bears or held in the paws of cunning six-inch cubs.

  There were no peppermints or hard candies here. TenHuis makes only fine, European-style chocolates—bonbons, truffles, and molded treats.

  I had just put the final red velvet swag on the counter when the door opened and Gail blew in.

  It wasn’t really a pun. Gail Hess walked and talked so fast that a conversation with her was like standing out in a high wind. She was fiftyish, maybe twenty years older than I was, and she wore her frankly fake red hair cut short and tousled—as if it had been styled by a hurricane. She always left me feeling as if I were back in my hometown on the Texas plains, facing into one of our thirty-mile-an-hour breezes.

  Gail began talking as rapidly as usual. “IsOliviahereyet?”

  My Texas ears didn’t understand a word she said. Aunt Nettie seemed to, though she looked surprised. “Olivia VanHorn?” she asked.

  “Yes. I invited her to come by.”

  “I didn’t even know she was back in town.”

  “She’s clearing out her mother’s house. I was afraid she would be here before me. Nettie, the molds look lovely!”

  Aunt Nettie gave an antique teddy a final tweak, then climbed down from her step stool. She seemed puzzled. I wondered what was bothering her. It couldn’t be the arrangement of the chocolate molds. Gail had just admired them, anyway. It must be the mention of this Olivia person.

  “Who is Olivia VanHorn,” I said, “and why does she want to see the display of molds?”

  Gail looked at me. “Oh, Lee, I keep forgetting you’re almost a stranger in Warner Pier. Being Nettie’s niece and all. Though I will say you two don’t look as if you’re related.”

  “We’re not blood relations,” Aunt Nettie said. “Phil was Lee’s mother’s brother. Lee has the TenHuis head for business. I bless the day she agreed to help me out.”

  “And I bless the day she agreed to help me get out of Dallas,” I said.

  We both laughed. The secret, of course, is that Aunt Nettie and I just love each other. And we respect our differences. So we’re able to work together all day and share a house at night without getting on each other’s nerves too often.

  “Phil always handled the business side, so I was lost after he died,” Aunt Nettie said. “Lee’s got me back on my feet.”

  I gritted my teeth at that one. Aunt Nettie’s business was still teetering, and we had an obnoxious banker leaning over our shoulders to prove it. But I didn’t want to tell the other Warner Pier merchants that, so I changed the subject. “Now, back to my question. Who is Olivia VanHorn?”

  “Oh! Olivia’s a Hart,” Gail said.

  “I thought you said her name was VanHorn?”

  “It is. Her maiden name was Hart.”

  “The Harts have always summered here,” Aunt Nettie said. “Olivia’s great-grandfather was one of the original group of Chicago people who built cottages in the 1890s.”

  Warner Pier society has three castes—I’d found that out a dozen years earlier, when I was sixteen and worked for Aunt Nettie during summer vacation. First, there are the “locals,” divided into subcastes such as natives, newcomers, retirees, commuters, and so forth. Then there are the “tourists,” who make brief visits to Warner Pier and who count only as contributors to the community’s economic kitty. And then there are the “summer people,” who spend the warm-weather months in cottages or houses they own in Warner Pier or along the shore of Lake Michigan. A lot of the summer people are wealthy—some are socially prominent or others even famous—and a lot of the families have been coming to the area for seventy-five or a hundred years. They are taxpayers, but rarely vote in Warner Pier. They get special treatment even though they aren’t considered “locals.” It’s a complicated system, but knowing that the Harts had “always” summered in Warner Pier assigned Olivia Hart VanHorn to her proper station in life.

  “I thought she’d never be back,” Aunt Nettie said.

  “She hasn’t been since her husband died—more than fifteen years. And I guess she won’t be back again. She and her brother are putting the cottages on the market.” Gail leaned close to Aunt Nettie and lowered her voice. “The gossip is that she wants the money for Hart’s campaign.”

  It took me a second to place “Hart.” Then I remembered that Hart VanHorn was a state legislator who was being talked up as a candidate for Congress. This Olivia VanHorn must be his mother.

  Aunt Nettie raised her eyebrows. “Then he’s definitely running?”

  “That’s the way Olivia talks.”

  “Are they going to sell the whole compound as one piece of property?”

  “I think they’d like to.” Gail used both hands to muss her hair up even more. “Three year-round houses, plus the bungalow. I’m hoping to handle the estate sale.”

  “Good for you,” Aunt Nettie said. “The contents of all the houses?”

  “Yes. Of course, it’s the usual story. The family’s taking the good stuff. But Timothy gave me the chocolate molds on consignment.”

  I spoke up. “Then the antique molds belong to this Olivia VanHorn and her brother?”

  “Yes. Her grandfather started out in the chocolate business—some of the molds were actually used in his original shop in Chicago. Then he invented some special machine used in making chocolate. He sold out to Hershey in 1910.”

  “I’m surprised that no one in the family wants to keep the molds,” I said.

  Before Gail could answer, the door opened again, and I knew that the woman who entered had to be Olivia Hart VanHorn. She simply had the look of
a woman whose family had a “compound” on the shore of Lake Michigan, whose grandfather had sold out to Hershey in 1910, and whose son was running for Congress. Think American duchess, and you’ve got it.

  She wasn’t beautiful. But when I’m sixty, I’ll settle for flawless skin, a slender figure, erect carriage, dark brown eyes, and white hair arching back from a patrician forehead. If I can have all that, I won’t complain about the big hooked nose and the thin neck. They might prevent conventional beauty, but they definitely added character.

  Olivia VanHorn smiled with complete graciousness and an air of command. “I hope I’m not late.”

  If this gal was ever late, the clock would back up and wait for her. I almost curtsied.

  Instead, Gail introduced us, and Mrs. VanHorn and I shook hands. Aunt Nettie greeted her as “Olivia,” and she spoke back to “Nettie.” They exchanged How-are-yous and You-haven’t-changed-a-bits. Olivia VanHorn was friendly, but not effusive.

  Gail gestured toward the shelves behind the cash register. “What do you think of the display?” She and Aunt Nettie turned toward the molds.

  Olivia VanHorn looked at the molds, too, and slowly, very slowly, the life drained out of her face.

  She stood as still as death, not even breathing. Her stillness was frightening. And she was beginning to sway. I realized she was going to faint.

  I grabbed a chair, one of two we keep in the shop for people who have to wait for their orders, and I scooted the chair behind Olivia VanHorn. “Here,” I said. “Sit.”

  I don’t know if Mrs. VanHorn sat or if her knees simply buckled. But she wound up in the chair.

  “Head between the knees,” I said.

  Instead, she leaned back in the chair. “It’s all right,” she said. She took a deep, sobbing breath.