JoAnna Carl Read online

  Joe looked even more uncomfortable than his mother, but he managed to shake Nancy Warren's hand and mumble something sympathetic.

  Mrs. Warren looked miserable. "It was outside here?"

  "Yes," Joe said. "She was lying on the sidewalk."

  He walked outside with Mrs. Warren. I got my jacket, then went out as well. They were standing si­lently, looking at the spot where Gail's body had been.

  "Did you talk to Gail often?" I said.

  Nancy Warren shook her head. "No. We'd almost lost touch. It's my fault, I guess. Anyway, we didn't talk more than a couple of times a year."

  "So you hadn't talked to her recently?"

  "A couple of months ago. At Christmas. She was all excited about the possibility of handling some big estate sale." Then she gestured at the sidewalk. "I thought . . . Don't the police draw a chalk outline?"

  "That's only on television," Joe said. "In real life they usually take photographs."

  Mrs. Warren turned to me. "Mrs. Woodyard said your stepson was found standing over her."

  I tried not to sound too defensive. "Jeff says he had just driven by and saw her body on the sidewalk. He stopped to see if he could help her. The police are holding him, but we hope to get him released quickly."

  "This stepson . . . ?" She stopped talking.

  "He's actually an ex-stepson," I said. "My ex-husband's son. Jeff has never been in trouble before. He'd only been in town two days." I left out any refer­ence to the earlobe eyelets.

  "Then he didn't know Gail?"

  "They may have met briefly, when she came by about the Teddy Bear Getaway."

  "Teddy Bear Getaway?"

  "Yes. Gail was chairing the Merchants' Association midwinter promotion."

  "Oh!" Mrs. Warren's voice rose to a wail. "Gail wasn't handling money, was she?"

  CHOCOLATE CHAT

  THE SWEET AND LOW DOWN

  It takes John Putnam Thatcher, the urbane banker cre­ated by Emma Lathen, to solve a case involving machi­nations on New York's Cocoa Exchange.

  In Sweet and Low, published in 1974, Thatcher— senior vice president and trust officer of The Sloan, third largest bank in the world—is named a trustee of the Leonard Dreyer Trust, a charitable foundation es­tablished by the world's largest chocolate company. The Dreyer Trust is a major stockholder in the Dreyer Chocolate Company, manufacturer of the most famous chocolate bar in the world. Thatcher gets involved when one of Dreyer's cocoa buyers is murdered on the eve of a meeting of the trust and the company's chief cocoa futures trader is killed on an elevator in the Cocoa Exchange itself.

  The book is typical Lathen, giving an inside look at a particular corner of the financial world, in this case the commodities market. It's a painless way to get a whiff of economics. For many mystery fans, John Put­nam Thatcher—whose deductions rival Hercule Poirot's and whose witty observations are often hilarious com­ments on America and American business—is one of the finest detectives.

  Chapter 14

  That was a strange reaction. I'm sure I gaped before JL I replied. "Gail had a lot to say about how the promotional budget was spent. But there's a board that approves everything."

  Nancy Warren seemed to be struggling to contain herself. "I'm sure it's all right," she said. She bent over, once again examining the sidewalk she'd already looked over carefully.

  I thought about Jeff sitting in the Warner Pier lockup and I decided she needed to explain. Did Gail have some secret in her past? Something to do with money? Would knowing whatever it was help Jeff?

  "Why did you ask that?" I said. "About handling money?"

  "Oh, no reason."

  "That's hard to believe, Mrs. Warren. Had Gail had trouble over finances before?"

  "No. Well, it seems she was always complaining about not making enough money. ... I mean, if she was worried about her own finances, I'm just surprised that she took on other people's money." She laughed, but it sounded forced. "You know, the shoemaker's children run barefoot."

  "Is there some reason that Gail should not have been handling money?"

  "Oh, no! No. Gail had a business degree. She had operated her own business since she was thirty. I'm sure it would be perfectly all right." She produced a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eye. "And now, I guess I'd better get over to the bed-and-breakfast."

  Joe and I gave her directions, and since it's impossi­ble to get lost in Warner Pier, we waved her off satis­fied that she would get there.

  As her car disappeared down the street, Joe gave a sort of grunt. "What did you think of that?"

  "She makes me wonder why Gail left Indiana."

  "Right. Maybe Chief Jones knows somebody in Indianapolis."

  "And maybe Aunt Nettie or your mom could sug­gest that the Merchants' Association audit the festi­val accounts."

  Joe and I went inside and reported our conversation with Nancy Warren to Webb, Aunt Nettie, and Mercy. Webb was noncommittal. Mercy lifted her eyebrows and admitted that Gail's insurance had nearly been cancelled a year earlier because of a late payment. Aunt Nettie clucked and assured all of us that Gail's reputation had been fine. Then she went to the phone to call the vice president of the chamber of commerce to suggest that the accounts be checked. Joe promised to call Chief Jones and ask him to check the Indiana situation.

  Mercy Woodyard left, saying she'd walked out with­out closing up her office. Webb shook hands, asked me to thank Aunt Nettie for his chocolate teddy bear and left. Aunt Nettie was still on the phone in the office.

  Joe and I were alone in the shop. There was a mo­ment of stiff silence. Then we spoke at the same time.

  I said, "I loved the chocolates." He said, "I can help you find out about the downtown apartments."

  We both looked at the floor. I felt awkward, and Joe looked as if he felt awkward. Then we did our unison speech act again.

  He said, "It was kind of a dumb thing to get you." I said, "I can call everybody."

  We both laughed. Joe opened his mouth, but I held up my hand like a traffic signal. Then I put my elbows on the counter and leaned over. "I'll go first," I said. "It was very nice to have a box of chocolates all my own. How did you know my two favorite flavors?"

  "Then they were right? I try to listen, but some­times I forget and talk." Joe took my hand and held it gently. "Now, how about letting me help you call the downtown property owners?"

  "It'll only be this block. I can do it."

  "I'll be glad to help. You take the river side, and I'll take the Orchard side."

  In Texas everything is north, south, east, and west, but that doesn't work in Warner Pier. Because it's laid out parallel to the Warner River, which runs south­west into Lake Michigan, you would have to say "It's a block northeast," or "I live on the west corner." So Warner Pier's directions are divided into lake, high­way, river, and Orchard, as in Orchard Street. It sounds silly, but it works.

  Joe gave my hand a final squeeze, and we left it that way, with me to call property owners or merchants on the river side of the street, the side where TenHuis Chocolade was located, and Joe to call those on the Orchard side, the side where his mom's office was. We didn't need a list; we knew everybody on both sides of the block. Besides, about a third of the shops weren't open in the wintertime.

  Aunt Nettie called out, saying she and Tess were leaving by the back door. Joe said good-bye and went across the street to his truck, which was parked in front of his mother's office, then drove off. I picked up some paperwork to take home. I hadn't done a stroke of work that day. I left by the street door, since I'd parked in front of the shop.

  The picturesque streetlights of downtown Warner Pier don't exactly shine like spotlights, so the block was fairly dark, as well as deserted. I was locking the door to the shop when I heard a banging noise.

  This was followed by someone calling out, "Gail! Gail! I'm here! Let me in!"

  I whirled toward the sound. Someone was standing in front of Gail Hess's antique shop—inside the crime scene t
ape. All I could make out was a bulky coat, but I could tell the voice belonged to a woman.

  A dim light shone in Gail's window, but nothing stirred behind the curtain. Or behind any other win­dow on the block. The streetlights puddled on the slushy snow along the curb. When the woman stopped knocking and yelling, the whole street was silent.

  The woman called out again. "Gail! I'm freezing!"

  Someone was trying to rouse Gail Hess, to rouse the dead.

  It was spooky. A rabbit ran over my grave, making me shudder, and I fought an impulse to jump into my van and tear out of there.

  But that wouldn't do. I sternly curbed my imagina­tion, and called out, "Hello! Can I help you?"

  The woman turned toward me. Now I saw an oval of white face, topped by dark hair. "I hope you can," she said. She stepped across the yellow crime scene tape and moved toward me. "Gail Hess invited me to stay with her. She knew when I was to arrive. But she's apparently not there. Has something happened? I didn't understand all this yellow tape."

  Great. I was going to get to tell one of Gail's friends that she was dead. I decided I'd better not yell it out. I jaywalked across the empty street, meeting the woman near the opposite curb.

  "I'm sorry," I said, "I'm afraid I have bad news."

  "Bad news? Has something happened to Gail?"

  We stood there in the slush, and I told her about Gail. As far as I could see in the faint light, the woman looked shocked, but she didn't burst into tears.

  "Good heavens!" she said. "Do they know who did it?"

  That was a trickier question. I decided to level with her. "No," I said. "They're holding my stepson as a witness, but I'm convinced he didn't have anything to do with it."

  The woman lifted her eyebrows. "And you are?"

  I introduced myself and pointed out TenHuis Chocolade. "Are you an old friend of Gail's?" I asked.

  "Not really. My name is Celia Carmichael. I'm the author of a book on chocolate molds."

  "Oh, yes. Gail mentioned that a well-known expert on antique molds was coming to take a look at the Hart collection. But she hadn't said when she ex­pected you."

  "Are the molds in her shop?"

  "I suppose so."

  "I'd still like to get a look at them."

  "That would be up to the police." It occurred to me that Celia Carmichael might be worth questioning. She hadn't been in Warner Pier the night Gail was killed, true, but she knew a lot about chocolate molds—if that was what our burglar had been after— and she had obviously talked to Gail recently.

  Celia Carmichael sighed deeply. "I suppose I might as well drive on to Chicago. There's probably no place to stay here. Gail said most of the inns and motels were closed."

  "A few are open, and they're certainly not crowded. Besides, Chief Jones might want to talk to you."

  The woman's eyes narrowed. "The police chief? Why would he be interested in me?"

  "I expect he's interested in anybody who talked to Gail during the past few days," I said. "Come into the shop and I'll call him."

  "I don't know anything about this. I barely knew Gail. I'll just drive on. I only came to see the molds."

  "The molds may be involved in Gail's death."

  "How could that be?"

  "She had displayed some of them in our shop, and someone broke in there two nights ago. One of them was stolen."

  "One was stolen? Only one?"

  "My stepson apparently interrupted the burglar, and he ran out the back way."

  "What would this have to do with the attack on Gail?"

  "I consider it a strong possibility that the burglar came back for the rest of the molds, not knowing my aunt had insisted that Gail take them back to her shop. If Gail came out and confronted him, he might have killed her. Please wait while I call the chief."

  Ms. Carmichael frowned. "It's late, and it will still take me more than three hours to get to Chicago. I'd better go on."

  I was becoming more and more convinced that she should talk to the chief. "It will take you even longer if he asks you to drive back tomorrow. After I tell him you were here."

  She moved toward her car. "Look, I hardly knew Gail."

  "Then why were you coming to stay with her?"

  "I wanted to see the molds."

  "Well, apparently the molds are still there. Stick around and maybe the chief would let you in to look at them. Maybe he'd even want you to look at them. Give him an expert opinion."

  "I get paid for that sort of work."

  "Not if you're subpoenaed." I tried to say that con­fidently. I had no idea whether or not it was true. I wasn't even sure if you could subpoena a witness for questioning, or just to testify in court.

  "I'll leave my card. If the chief wants to talk to me, he can call." She pulled off one of her gloves and started scrabbling through her purse.

  I didn't want her to leave without talking to the chief, but I was beginning to be afraid I was going to have to wrestle her into TenHuis Chocolade like a rodeo cowboy with a steer. "This is a. small town," I said. "The chief can be here within a few minutes."

  She handed me a card. "I don't want to wait."

  I took the card, but I decided to try one final, des­perate bit of arm-twisting. "I don't understand. You say you drove all this way to see the molds, but you won't wait ten minutes to ask the chief if he'd let you see them."

  "Examining them would take longer than ten min­utes. I was going to combine seeing the molds with a visit to Gail."

  "But you said you and Gail weren't close friends."

  "We weren't! I was only coming because . . . well, because she talked me into it."

  I'd hit a nerve. "Was Gail paying you for an ex­pert opinion?"

  "No."

  "Then why were you coming? And coming to spend the night? If your home base is Chicago, you could drive up, spend several hours checking the molds, then drive back the same day."

  Celia Carmichael stood silently for a long moment before she spoke again. "Look, apparently you knew Gail fairly well. Did she ever try to talk you into doing something you didn't want to do?"

  "Well, she wanted my aunt to display the antique molds in her shop, and Aunt Nettie wasn't crazy about the idea."

  "Did Gail give up?"

  "No. She kept coming around. She brought the molds over. She was pushy."

  "Well, that's the way she was about my coming by here. She found out I was going to a sale in Saginaw, and she became convinced I should drive back—way out of my way—and stop to see the molds. She just pushed and pushed until it was easier to come than to argue anymore."

  "You seem like a fairly strong-minded person, Ms. Carmichael. It's surprising that Gail could push you around like that."

  "She must have taken lessons from you! Is every­body in this town this aggressive?"

  "If we need to be. Look, just walk across the street with me and wait—in our nice warm office—while I call the chief."

  She glared.

  I made one final push. "It will be even more annoying if I call the chief and he asks the state police to pick you up ten miles outside of town."

  She gave an exasperated growl. But she walked across the street, toward TenHuis Chocolade.

  I let us into the shop, then went into the office and called the police station. The dispatcher said she'd find the chief and send him over. Then I turned around and got my first good look at Ms. Carmichael.

  She looked just like Gail Hess. That rabbit ran over my grave again.

  Chapter 15

  As soon as my shuddering had stopped I realized that my first impression wasn't really right. The resemblance between Gail and Celia Carmichael was superficial. But it was certainly startling.

  Celia Carmichael was probably fifteen years older than Gail. But like Gail, her most striking characteris­tic was frankly fake red hair, cut short and tousled. Her features were nothing like Gail's, but the two women were much the same height. The down coat Celia wore was bright green. Gail's coat had been al�
�most exactly like it.

  I decided I'd better act like a hostess. "You must be frozen. Can I Gail you something?" I bit my lip. "I mean get you something?"

  Ms. Carmichael was scowling. "I don't look like Gail," she said angrily. "She looked like me. She used to imitate everything I did."

  "What's the saying? The sincerest form of flattery?"

  "It may have been sincere, but it was extremely annoying. Every time I wore something to an antique event where Gail was, the next time I saw her, she'd have something like it. When I decided to become a redhead, I thought that would stop her. But, no! She got the same haircut and colored her hair exactly the same shade."

  "I can see it would be embarrassing. How long had you known her?"

  "Too long!" Celia Carmichael clamped her jaw shut. She sat down in one of our straight chairs, folded her arms and glared. She declined a chocolate and refused to take her coat off. She just sat there. I called Aunt Nettie to fell her I'd be home a little late. Then Celia Carmichael and I waited silently until Chief Jones came to the door.

  I'd expected the chief to ask her to go down to the station, but he merely pulled up our second chair and talked to her in his casual way. I guess it worked. He did get a bit more information out of her.

  I went into the office and pretended to work, but neither Chief Jones nor Celia Carmichael lowered their voices, so I could hear every word. The tale she told the chief was the same one she'd told me, and the chief responded with the same question I'd asked her.

  "If you and Gail weren't friends, why did you agree to come here and spend the night with her?"

  "Gail simply nagged me until I agreed to stay over. Plus, I did want to see the molds. She wanted me to advise her about selling them. They're quite famous, you know."

  "No, I wasn't really aware of that."

  "Oh, yes! Matilda Hart—I guess that this Olivia VanHorn is her daughter—was one of the earliest col­lectors of Americana. The chocolate molds were only a part of her collection. She snapped up butter tubs, pie safes, wonderful furniture—lots of real treasures— back in the thirties and forties, when most people thought that sort of thing was just junk. Some of her collection is on permanent loan to the Smithsonian."