The Chocolate Puppy Puzzle Read online

  Becoming Maia Michaelson had changed Mae Ensminger drastically. Mae Ensminger was at least fifty. Maia Michaelson claimed to be only forty. Mae used to wear jeans and T-shirts, like the rest of us. Maia affected solid black from top-to-toe and wore big, clunky jewelry. Mae used to wear her mousy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, not unlike mine. Maia had coal black hair that hung down her back and was heavily teased on top of her head. Mae never wore makeup. But Maia wore lots of it. Mae used to stand with her back against the wall, observing, but not saying a lot. Maia talked all the time, in a voice that varied between too soft to understand and too piercing to bear. Maia theatrically gestured all the time. She hadn’t gone as far as placing the back of her hand against her forehead and sighing, “Ah, me,” but I wasn’t going to be surprised when she did.

  Maia—it definitely wasn’t Mae—linked her arm through the gray-haired man’s arm. “I see you’ve met Lee and Joe, Warner Pier’s most glam young couple,” she said.

  “I don’t know that we’re particularly grim,” I said. “I mean, glam! We’re not very glamorous, and maybe not too young, but I’m Lee McKinney, and this is Joe Woodyard.”

  The gray-haired man shook hands with each of us. He’d hidden the wallet away someplace before I’d had a chance to ask him where he got the big bills.

  He spoke. “I’m Aubrey Andrews Armstrong.”

  Sure you are, I thought. That name was as bogus as Maia Michaelson’s. I spoke quickly to hide my thoughts—too quickly, I guess, because I pulled one of the malapropisms that make me sound like an idiot. “What brings you to Warner Pier, Mr. Strongarm? I mean, Mr. Armstrong!”

  He blinked. Then he patted the hand Maia had placed on his arm and started to answer. But Maia spoke before he could. “No, Aubrey! You’re not to tell a soul why you’re here.”

  A frown flitted over Armstrong’s face. “But, Maia, I know we haven’t signed . . .”

  “You can tell in a minute. But there’s another person I want to hear the news first. That’s why I insisted we come to the picnic. Lee, have you seen Maggie?”

  Maggie McNutt? That was a surprise. Maia was about the only person in Warner Pier who didn’t like Maggie.

  “She’s helping behind the serving table,” Joe said. “I guess we’d better get in line, Lee.”

  We did so, followed by Maia and her new pal Aubrey. And behind them, I finally noticed, was Maia’s husband—actually Mae’s husband—Vernon Ensminger. “St. Vernon the Patient,” Joe called him. Vernon was a big, bald guy—no implants on Vernon’s scalp—who operated a successful fruit farm. His workboots and plaid shirt were so authentic that they made Aubrey Andrews Armstrong look more bogus than ever.

  Joe stopped to speak to Vernon, which is typical of Joe. People tended to ignore Vernon, now that he was merely an adjunct to the colorful Maia Michaelson, but Joe had always liked him. I liked him, too. If you had a flat on a lonely road, Vernon Ensminger was the kind of guy who would drop by with a jack.

  Maia, Aubrey, and Vernon stepped into line behind us. The puppy frisked up to me again, jumping on the back of my slacks this time. I was beginning to wonder if Aubrey Andrews Armstrong would be good for the dry cleaning bill.

  Maia was craning her neck around, talking shrilly. “I do want you to meet Maggie. She’s simply delightful. And so talented. This whole event was her idea. Oh, there’s her husband. Ken! Ken!”

  Ken McNutt had been heading for the parking lot, but he could hardly ignore her summons. He came over, looking as thin as usual. Thin was the word for Ken—thin build, thin hair, thin voice. Like Vernon, he stayed in the background and let his wife star.

  Ken nodded to Vernon, then spoke. “Hello, Mae.”

  Maia didn’t introduce Aubrey. “Where is your charming wife?”

  “If you stay in line, you’ll see her. She’s in charge.” He moved toward the parking lot again. “Sorry to run, but I have to be back for fifth period.”

  “Such a lovely young couple,” Maia said, dripping condescension. “What my father called ‘a teaching couple.’ ”

  Joe seized the opportunity to speak quietly to me. “Why does Mae have it in for Maggie?”

  I lowered my voice, too. “They both entered the Historical Society’s competition for a dramatic sketch on the founding of Warner Pier. Maggie won.”

  Joe snorted. “That’s something Maia will never forgive.”

  I shrugged. “Maggie avoids her. But this time she won’t be able to.”

  Maggie had just come into view. She was standing beside the charcoal cooker where Mike Herrera, our mayor and one of Warner Pier’s leading restaurateurs, was grilling bratwurst. Maia gave her a tremendous greeting, shrieking out her name.

  I had to hand it to Maggie; she didn’t visibly wince. She merely waved and picked up a Styrofoam plate, which she held close to Mike’s elbow. He began to lift browned bratwurst from the grill to the plate. Maia had to wait until the serving line reached them before she could say anything else. But then she said plenty.

  “Maggie! Maggie! Something wonderful has happened, and I want you to be the first to know.”

  As I say, Maggie was usually peppy as all get-out, but she didn’t try to compete with Maia in the energy department. She spoke very quietly. “What is it, Maia?”

  “This wonderful man is a Hollywood producer, Maggie! He’s buying the film rights to my book! And he wants to shoot the movie right here in Warner Pier!”

  Maggie whipped her head in Maia’s direction. Her mouth dropped slightly open, and her eyes grew large. Joe looked amazed, too, and I’m sure my jaw was hanging clear down to my chest. We all thought Maia’s novel was awful. And someone wanted to make a movie of it?

  Maia gave a triumphant crow. “Yes! A Hollywood producer, Maggie! This is Aubrey Andrews Armstrong!”

  Maggie’s eyes shifted to Aubrey Andrews Armstrong and grew even wider. She gave a startled gasp. She moved her right hand from under the Styrofoam plate. The plate broke in half and a dozen bratwurst landed in the grass of the Dock Street Park.

  Chapter 2

  We humans gasped, but Monte knew what to do. He nabbed one of those brats quicker than a flash of lightning out over Lake Michigan.

  “Drop it, Monte!” Aubrey Andrews Armstrong sounded frantic. “It’ll make him sick!”

  It would take Superman to get a bratwurst away from a puppy as big as Monte, but Aubrey managed to get part of it. Joe and I used paper napkins to pick up the brats that had bounced under the serving table and out on our side, and Maggie picked up the ones that had fallen on her side. Mike Herrera muttered some Spanish word I pretended not to understand and reached for uncooked brats. “More brats in a minute, folks,” he said. “If you want chicken, you’re all set.”

  Joe and I decided we’d settle for chicken, though I normally prefer brats, and we moved on down the line. Behind me I could hear Maggie speaking graciously. “I’m delighted for you, Maia. A movie sale is quite a feather in your cap.”

  Maia introduced Aubrey Andrews Armstrong to Maggie. They exchanged how-do-you-dos.

  “Well, well,” Aubrey said. “Warner Pier certainly has a pretty little drama teacher. I’ll bet the boys fight to get in your classes, Mrs. McNutt. Did I get your name right?”

  “McNutt is correct, Mr. Armstrong.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Aubrey’s few words sound not only sexist, but like a taunt? And had Maggie’s reply sounded the same way?

  Joe and I collected the rest of our lunch—rolls, slaw, potato salad, beans—and went to a picnic table. I found some hand cleaner in my purse, squirted some out, then passed the bottle to Joe. The memory of that dog slobber was fresh.

  I was surprised when Armstrong came over. Maia wasn’t with him. “May I join you?” he said. “Maia is table-hopping.” He tied Monte’s leash to the table leg, and told the pup to stay. Monte lay down.

  “Monte seems well-trained for such a young dog,” I said. “How old is he?”

  “Four months. The key is to wor
k with him twice a day, every day.”

  “I see you’re an experienced dog owner.”

  Armstrong laughed. “You know what they say about Washington, D.C.? ‘If you want a friend, get a dog.’ That goes double for Hollywood, and I’ve been around the business all my life. I’ve always had a dog.”

  Joe spoke then. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armstrong, but I didn’t catch the name of your production company.”

  “I don’t think I threw it. It’s Montezuma Movie Productions.”

  “Then I was wrong,” I said. “Monte is named after your company, not after the Aztec emperor.”

  “No, you were right. Monte’s name was inspired by the Aztec connection to chocolate, because he’s a chocolate lab. I’ve always owned a chocolate lab. The company name had the same inspiration.”

  Joe ignored the chocolate lore. “What films has your company produced, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Call me Aubrey. We’re indies, of course. Our current release is Mimosa Magic. And Appaloosa was a finalist at Sundance.”

  Joe nodded. “I haven’t seen either of those, but I remember the reviews for Mimosa Magic. How long have you been a producer?”

  Aubrey waved his hand. “Now you’re asking a personal question—my age. What’s your profession, Joe?”

  “I’m Warner Pier city attorney.”

  Joe’s answer surprised me. It was true, of course. But Joe’s job advising the city council took him only a few hours a week, and it paid proportionally. His full-time job was restoring antique power boats—a business that was finally looking up financially. He usually identified himself as a boat repairman, ignoring his law degree unless he was doing city business.

  Aubrey’s eyes widened, just slightly, but if he was surprised to be having lunch with the city attorney, it didn’t affect his tongue. He kept right on prattling away about the movies he’d made and the locations he’d used. He dropped names even I had heard—Robert R., Tom H., the C. brothers—and he talked about “the business.”

  After twenty minutes I’d decided Aubrey was as phony as his hairdo. I didn’t make the rounds of the Texas beauty pageant circuit—I mean, scholarship pageant circuit—without learning a few things. When you meet the promoters who are around trying to take advantage of the naivete of the inexperienced girls in those competitions—well, there’s a reason contestants are required to have older women as escorts. And I still fell for one of the jerks, the guy who was now my ex-husband.

  Of course, putting up a phony front didn’t mean Aubrey wasn’t a legitimate movie producer any more than it meant all the guys lurking at the Miss Texas Pageant were crooks. It just meant they might be. And it meant they weren’t the kind of people I wanted to seek out as friends.

  So I was annoyed when Joe announced he needed to talk to the mayor, then got up and disappeared, leaving me stuck with Aubrey and the dog. But his disappearance gave me a chance to ask a question. “Are you a coin collector, Mr. Armstrong?”

  He smiled broadly. “Why, no. Do I look like one?”

  “I expect they come in all sizes and shapes. I just wondered about the big bills Monte brought me.”

  I’ll swear that Aubrey Andrews Armstrong blushed. If he didn’t actually turn red, he squirmed like a little kid, and he laughed weakly before he answered me. “Oh, those were just props,” he said. “I really can’t say more.”

  He launched into another tale about the C. brothers, but I was hardly listening. My question might have been a bit nosy, but it was logical. Since I’d seen the big bills, and Aubrey knew I’d seen them, I was bound to wonder.

  I shrugged mentally and looked around for Maia. I’d had enough of her tame movie producer, and I was hoping she’d rescue me. She wasn’t in view, but I did see Aunt Nettie.

  My dear aunt and employer, Jeannette TenHuis, has beautiful white hair, bright blue eyes, and that solid look I associate with a lifetime spent eating substantial Dutch cooking. She was wearing her usual workday garb—a white food-service uniform—topped by a blue sweater, and was carrying bratwurst and potato salad on a Styrofoam plate. I waved. She smiled her sunny smile and came over. “May I join you?”

  Aubrey jumped to his feet—not an easy trick when you’re sitting at a picnic table—and swept off his outback hat as I introduced them.

  “Aubrey’s thinking of producing a movie of Maia’s novel,” I said. “He might film here in Warner Pier.”

  “How exciting!” Aunt Nettie said. “That would be a real thrill. This is a small town. We don’t get a lot of glamour.”

  Her answer surprised me, since only a few years earlier one of the year’s biggest Hollywood productions, starring Tom H., had used locations within ten miles of Warner Pier. Aubrey Andrews Armstrong was not the first producer to discover the beauty of the Lake Michigan beaches, the charm of our lush farmland, and the quaintness of our villages.

  “Oh, filmmaking isn’t all glamour,” Aubrey said. “Your niece says she works in the shop which made those fabulous chocolates I see over there on the dessert table. Now that’s glamour! Are you connected with chocolate, too?”

  Aunt Nettie dropped her eyes modestly, and I answered his question. “Aunt Nettie is the owner of TenHuis Chocolade.”

  “We ship European-style bonbons, truffles, and molded chocolates nationwide,” Aunt Nettie said. “Lee is our business manager. She keeps our finances in excellent order.”

  It was as if a light went on behind Aubrey Andrews Armstrong’s eyes. He turned the full force of his personality on Aunt Nettie. First, he insisted on trying some TenHuis chocolates. (“I’ll be right back. Monte, stay!”) Then he gushed over their quality. (“Do you do gift packages? This is exactly what I need to send Meg for her birthday next week. Few people know that she’s a slave to chocolate. I don’t know how she keeps that great figure.”) Then he did his Hollywood producer act for Aunt Nettie, referring once again to Tom H. and Robert R. and Michael D.

  The weirdest part to me was that Aunt Nettie ate it up, scarfing up his act along with her bratwurst and potato salad. She even cooed at the dog, scratching him under the chin. “You’re as beautiful as the molded pups we have over at the shop,” she said. “But I know you can’t eat one.”

  Aubrey beamed. “Good for you. It’s amazing how many people don’t know chocolate can be poisonous to dogs.”

  I’ll swear Aunt Nettie simpered. “I don’t know much about dogs, but I know a lot about chocolate.”

  I was ready to prick Aubrey Andrews Armstrong with a pin to see if the hot air would rush out by the time Maia finally showed up. But that didn’t really help the situation. A second person showed up at the same time: six feet, three inches of redhead with the poetic name of Dolly Jolly.

  “Can I join you?” she yelled.

  Everything about Dolly is big: her build, which is something like a pro-football lineman; her voice, which could shatter a plate glass window; her hair, which is a vivid natural red; her personality, which is unforgettable. When she sat down at the picnic table I felt as if we’d been struck by a volcanic eruption.

  I’d first met Dolly early in the summer, when she’d rented a remote cottage near Warner Pier while she finished writing a cookbook. In September, Dolly had rented the apartment over TenHuis Chocolade, and two weeks earlier she had begun working for Aunt Nettie, learning the craft of making fine chocolates.

  To my surprise Dolly wasn’t carrying a plate of bratwurst or of chicken. Apparently she wasn’t looking for lunch companions. I wondered why she’d joined us.

  We introduced her to Aubrey Andrews Armstrong, but she merely nodded to him. To my surprise she turned her full attention—which is like being pinned down by a searchlight—to Maia. Apparently Dolly had come to our table because she wanted to know all about Maia’s novel. But because Maia wanted to talk to Aubrey, she didn’t want to discuss her novel. This made the resulting conversation pretty nonsensical.

  “Loved your book!” Dolly shouted. As I said, Dolly always talks at top decibels. “How much i
s based on fact?”

  “Oh, it all is,” Maia said. “Of course, it’s been sifted through the artistic process.” She turned to Aubrey. “I’m sorry I left you so long. Vernon had to catch up with his deer-hunting buddies. Then I ran into Chuck O’Riley, the editor of our little newspaper. He’ll be over to interview you in a few minutes.”

  “Fine, fine,” Armstrong said. “I was just talking to Mrs. TenHuis.”

  Before Maia could acknowledge Aunt Nettie’s presence, Dolly jumped in again. “Julia’s old father! Interesting character! Really crusty! Is he based on the real man?”

  She was too loud for Maia to ignore. “Yes, he is. He was my grandfather, you know. I remember how he terrified me as a child.” She turned back to Aubrey. “Nettie’s one of our leading entrepreneurs.”

  Aunt Nettie shook her head. “Entrepreneur is too grand a word for a cook.”

  Dolly was not to be denied. She was still concentrating on Maia. “The stepmother! Between a rock and a hard place! Felt sorry for her!”

  Maia looked surprised as she pulled her attention away from the movie producer and answered Dolly. “It’s interesting that you should see that. From Julia’s viewpoint, she was a genuine ‘wicked stepmother.’ But she was my grandmother. Of course, she died young, so I didn’t know her.”

  “She was young! She might have been attracted to Dennis Grundy herself!”

  This was apparently a new idea to Maia. She looked a little shocked, but she didn’t reply. Instead she looked around the park. “Where’s Chuck, I wonder?”

  “In Hollywood,” Aubrey said. Or I thought he did. Then I realized that he was answering some question Aunt Nettie had asked. At least three conversations were bouncing around that table, and I’d completely lost track of who was talking about what. I was relieved when Tracy Roderick came over and spoke to me softly.