JoAnna Carl Read online

  "Ah, yes. The tragic death of her husband."

  "Yes. And her brother seems to be a worry."

  "Timothy Hart? Oh, yes. He's been in treatment several times."

  "Treatment?" It didn't take much encouragement to keep Greg Glossop talking.

  "Yes." Glossop lowered his voice. "Alcoholism. But he always falls off the wagon as soon as he's on his own. In recent years, I believe the family has simply given up."

  "He's a pleasant person. Does he have a pro­fession?"

  "Luckily, he has a trust fund—or so I'm told. Actu­ally, I've heard he graduated from college with high hon­ors." Glossop leaned forward and dropped his voice even lower. "Perhaps he is a belated casualty of Viet­nam. He served there with Congressman VanHorn."

  "I didn't know either of them had served in Vietnam."

  "The congressman had quite a record—not the Congressional Medal, but some very high honors. He and Timothy were in the same unit, or that's the story."

  "So Timothy introduced his sister to her husband?"

  "Oh, yes! Congressman VanHorn came from a working-class background. He went to law school on his military benefits. Of course, I gather he was al­ways ambitious."

  I didn't want to talk about Congressman VanHorn. I wanted to talk about his brother-in-law. "So the con­gressman had remained friends with Timothy?"

  Glossop raised his eyebrows. "Drinking buddies."

  "Oh!" I tried to sound startled.

  Glossop nodded and winked. "Both of them were steady customers for the Superette's liquor de­partment."

  "Oh, my," I said. "Mrs. VanHorn has had prob­lems." Back to Timothy, I reminded myself. Drunk or sober, Congressman VanHorn had been dead fifteen years. "Where does Timothy live in the winter?"

  "He lives here year-round."

  "At the Hart compound? But they're talking about selling it!"

  Glossop's eyes sparkled. Apparently we'd reached the juicy bit. "Yes. I think there are three year-round houses and the summer cottage in the Hart-VanHorn compound, plus several garages, barns, and such. Tim­othy Hart has always lived in what they call the "little house." Now Olivia VanHorn is apparently planning to sell her brother's home to finance her son's politi­cal career."

  "Perhaps Mr. Hart wants to leave. It must be lonely there in the winter."

  "Oh, Timothy has lots of friends. He entertains a lot." In Glossop's mouth the word "entertains" took on a sinister meaning, hinting at drunken revels. I de­cided to ignore his implication.

  "It can't be easy to live out there. It's almost outside the city limits, and Mr. Hart told me he no longer drives."

  "Did he, now?"

  "That's what he said."

  "I know he says he doesn't have a driver's license." Glossop chuckled.

  Now we were down to what I really wanted to know. I decided it was time to be overtly nosy. "Does he drive? Even without a license?"

  "I don't know that he ever leaves the property," Glossop said. "But there are fifteen or twenty acres down there, you know. Lots of drives and paths. I delivered a prescription to him last spring, and when I arrived he met me at the gate in that old sports car of his."

  It was all I could do not to grab his arm and blurt out a question: Did it have a broken taillight? But even if Timothy's old car hadn't had a broken taillight last spring—nearly a year earlier—it might have one now. Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was alert Greg Gossip to the importance of what he had told me. He would spread the word all over town within minutes, and Timothy Hart's old sports car might dis­appear before Chief Jones could check on it.

  So I did my best not to react to this news. Instead, I paid for Aunt Nettie's vitamins, discouraged Glossop from telling me a tidbit about someone I'd never heard of, told him the two pieces of news that I'd previously prepared, and left the Superette headed for the police station and ready to solve the murder of Gail Hess.

  After all, we all knew Timothy Hart was an unstable character. He had given the molds to Gail for sale without telling his sister what he had done. Olivia had probably scolded him. He must have broken into Ten-Huis Chocolade to get them back, though I had no explanation of why he would have taken only one hard-to-reach mold unless Jeff had interrupted him from taking them all.

  But Gail must have suspected Timothy. Perhaps he even tried to break into her shop and get the molds back. Timothy must have quarreled with her, lost his temper, picked up the baseball bat from the display in her shop, chased her down the street—and killed her. I felt sure I was right. I went straight to the po­lice station.

  I was rather let down when Chief Jones didn't see the situation quite the way I did.

  "Now, Lee," he said, leaning back in his desk chair and stretching his long legs across the office. "Let's not let our imaginations run away from the facts.”

  “Has Mike Herrera been in here?”

  “Yep. Mike was here early this morning. He told me about seeing some sort of sports car in the alley behind Gail's shop."

  "And now we discover that Timothy VanHorn still has a sports car, or at least he still had it last spring. You've got to admit there's a possibility that he's involved.”

  “I'd have to see the car first.”

  “You're the law! Go look at it.”

  “I'd need permission from the property owners.”

  “I'd hate to give Timothy that much warning.”

  “It's either that or a warrant. And I think it very unlikely that any judge would issue a warrant based on a story from Greg Glossop."

  I growled. Then I sat down and glared at the chief. Neither action seemed likely to change the situation. What could I do? An idea appeared in the back of my mind.

  But before I could focus on it, the chief spoke. "I was going to tell you what I found out about Gail's problems in Indiana."

  "What? Was she wanted?"

  "Hardly. Apparently there was some discrepancy in the accounts of a big antique show she helped orga­nize. But the Indiana antique dealers decided it would be too embarrassing to have a full investigation. Gail 'found' the missing money, and no charges were filed.”

  “Then she moved to Michigan. Does this tell you anything?"

  The chief shrugged. "It tells me that I might not want to elect Gail treasurer of anything."

  "It tells me she might have a very unusual and cre­ative idea of right and wrong."

  "True. But Gail's not a suspect. She was the victim."

  I thought about that for a minute. "How about that antique dealer who showed up last night?"

  "Celia Carmichael? She's still here. The lab people didn't want anybody in Gail's shop until this after­noon, and Ms. Carmichael decided to wait and take a look at the chocolate molds." I got up. "Well, what about Jeff?”

  “Webb Bartlett has already called me," the chief said. "This is the day I've got to charge him or let him go."

  "Can I see him?"

  "Sure. He's bored out of his skull." Neither of us mentioned that Jeff was lucky to, be sitting in the holding cell at the Warner Pier Police Department, instead of the Warner County Jail.

  Jeff didn't see it that way, of course. When the chief opened his cell and waved me inside, Jeff greeted me with a glare. "I've just got to get out of here," he said. "I didn't do anything!"

  I sat down next to him on the bunk. "Unfortunately, we can't prove that, Jeff. But Webb Bartlett is work­ing on it. And so am I. Plus, I'm trying to get hold of your mom and dad."

  For the first time Jeff didn't snarl at me when I mentioned his parents. He looked down and blinked. Darn! He was just a kid. He needed his mother, for heaven's sake. I wanted to hug him.

  So I did. I put my arm around his shoulder in a half hug, and Jeff didn't pull away. He dropped his head and stared at his feet.

  "We're all doing our best for you, Jeff. Alicia Rich­ardson is on the job. If anybody can find your folks, she will."

  Jeff nodded. One or two wet drops appeared on the floor beside his feet. In a minute, I eased off on t
he hug, and Jeff took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. "I guess I'd really like to see my folks," he said. His voice broke on the last word.

  I promised him they would be there soon. "And maybe you'll already be out of here," I said.

  We exchanged good-byes, and I got up and left. It wasn't going to do Jeff any good if I began crying, too. I collected my belongings and made it out of the police station and into the city clerk's office before I bawled like a baby. Pat VanTil gave me a tissue and the same kind of hug I'd given Jeff.

  In a minute I pulled myself together. "I've got to get to work. Thanks for the emotional first aid, Pat."

  Pat waved her hand. "Bring me a chocolate teddy bear next time you come, and I'll let you have a whole box of Kleenex."

  I took a deep breath, walked out into the crisp win­ter sunshine—the temperature was up to twenty-eight— and went down to the shop. On the way I made up my mind about my next step. I was on the phone before I even took my boots and jacket off.

  The phone was picked up after the fourth ring. "Vintage Boats."

  "Joe, I hear that there's a big boat-storage building down at the Hart-VanHorn compound."

  "So?"

  "What'll you bet they've got some antique wooden speedboats down there?"

  Joe thought a moment before he spoke. "You want to nose around at the Hart-VanHorn place."

  "Yes. Will you help me?"

  "I'll be on my way in fifteen minutes."

  "I'll be ready."

  "You can't go," Joe said.

  CHOCOLATE CHAT

  CHOCOLATE AND ROMANCE

  Many mainstream novels use chocolate as a symbol or a plot device. Two major novels of the 1990s, both of which also became romantic films, were Chocolat,* by Joanne Harris, and Like Water for Chocolate, by Laura Esquivel. Both use elements of magic realism; in them food makes magical things happen.

  In Chocolat a young woman and her daughter come to a small French village just as Lent begins. The young woman, Vianne Rocher, opens a shop offering the most enticing chocolates the villagers have ever seen and plans a chocolate festival for Easter Sunday— much to the annoyance of the puritanical village priest. Vianne's chocolate becomes a symbol of everything pleasurable about human life, contrasting with the nar­row life espoused by the priest, Francis Reynaud.

  Like Water for Chocolate tells the story of the youn­gest sister in a Mexican family, Tita, who is told that she can never marry—despite her great love for her sweetheart, Pedro—but must stay home to cook and take care of her mother. The water of the title refers to a method of melting chocolate, and the hot water needed becomes a metaphor for sexual excitement. The food Tita cooks changes in magical ways the lives of those who eat it.

  Chapter 17

  I started to argue, but Joe kept talking. "First, Lee, you don't buy boats. Second, Warner Pier—and that includes Timothy Hart—knows about your determination to get Jeff released. There's no way anybody would believe you'd stop in the middle of that effort to go look at antique boats. Not just out of curiosity. Even Tim's pickled brain would figure out that you were up to something the minute you got out of the truck."

  Joe shut up then, without mentioning that there were a couple of more reasons I shouldn't go, but I thought of them. Third, I had accepted a date with Hart VanHorn, even though the date had been can­celled. So if I casually showed up at Hart's house in the company of Joe Woodyard, it was going to look kind of funny. Rude? Brazen? I wasn't sure, but it was going to look odd.

  Fourth, Joe still didn't want to be seen in public with me. That reason rankled, but since Joe was doing me a favor I wasn't in a position to argue about it.

  So I breathed deeply a couple of times, but I didn't object out loud.

  "Okay," I said. "As long as you understand what you're really looking for."

  "A 1968 MGB with a broken taillight."

  I had to be content with that. I hung up, reminding myself that Joe might not even get on the property. There was no real reason any member of the Hart-VanHorn clan should allow an unauthorized visitor.

  So until noon I stared at the computer screen, pre­tending to work, and chewed my nails. The hands of the clock on the workroom wall had just reached the twelve when the phone rang.

  It was Joe. "You want to see a movie?" he said.

  "A movie?"

  "A video. I took Mom's camera along when I went boat scouting."

  "Where are you?"

  "Mom's office. Come on over."

  I picked up a couple of papers, hoping to look as if I had business with Mercy Woodyard, put on my jacket, and jaywalked across the street. Joe beckoned me into his mother's private office, then closed the door.

  "Did you have any trouble getting on the prop­erty?" I said.

  "No. Poor old Timothy was glad to see a friendly face." Joe took my jacket and pointed me toward a leather couch. After we'd both taken a seat, he ges­tured at the television set with a remote and punched the button to start the VCR. Immediately an overall view of the Hart-VanHorn compound appeared on the screen.

  I'd driven past the compound dozens of times, of course. I'd walked past it on the lake side, for that matter, so I'd probably seen the Hart-VanHorn houses from the beach. If you have lakeshore property— which is worth a small fortune per square foot around Warner Pier—the normal thing to do is build a house overlooking the beach, a house with picture windows and a deck or porch designed for keeping an eye on the kids as they build sand castles, and for watching the sunset, or for simply sitting and looking at the water, the trees, and the sand. If you have enough land for garages, boathouses, and storage sheds, those can go up near the road, where they won't obstruct the view of the water.

  The Hart-VanHorn property followed this pattern. A big barnlike building was near the road, and this, plus some huge trees, meant the houses were largely hidden from passersby. Also, this was the first winter I'd spent in Michigan, so I'd never seen the property with no leaves on the trees. Now, with Joe's video, I had a clearer idea of the layout.

  The compound had two sets of stone gates, one where the blacktop drive went in and one where it came out, and the video showed that a snowplow had cleared the drive. The blacktop looped through the property, passing each of the four houses.

  Easiest to spot was the "little house," the one Greg Glossop had said was the permanent home of Timothy Hart. It was too close to the road to have a view of the lake, and it was an L-shaped white clapboard 1890s farmhouse—a smaller version of the one Aunt Nettie and I live in. It probably had a kitchen, living room, and a dining room downstairs and two bedrooms up­stairs. One room, which I was willing to bet was the living room, stuck out as a one-story wing, and the house was sure to have a Michigan basement, which has stone or concrete walls and a sand floor. It must have central heating, or Timothy wouldn't be likely to live in it year-round, but it didn't look as if it had been modernized in any other way. It was probably the first house the Hart family had built on the prop­erty. It might well have already been there when they acquired the land.

  Behind it, closer to the lake, was a low bungalow of stone and shingled siding, a prime example of the Arts and Crafts style and a generation younger than the farmhouse. Its front door faced the drive, so its side was toward the lake. The video showed glimpses of a large porch on that side, a porch that was now shuttered for the winter. Beyond the porch there seemed to be a deck or a patio, and I thought I saw a chimney out there, evidence of a built-in barbecue pit. This house must be the one Greg Glossop said was not winterized. It must have been the cat's meow in the twenties and thirties.

  Beside it, and squarely facing the camera, were two houses designed to present blank walls to the road. I was sure, however, that their back walls would be en­tirely of glass.

  One house was brick and one stone, and both had nearly solid front walls—only one or two windows— centered with heavy, grandiose doors that wouldn't have been out of place on medieval castles. In fact, the front door of
the stone house was approached over an ornamental bridge that crossed a miniature moat, almost like a drawbridge. The house looked as if it could have been held against an army. But both houses were huge, twice the size of the bungalow and four or five times the size of the farmhouse. They both had a 1970s look.

  It was a very impressive layout.

  "Wow!" I said. "Have all those houses been sitting empty for fifteen years?"

  "Except for Timothy's."

  "Seems as if they'd rent them out or something. Who built the stone and the brick ones?"

  "I'd guess that the VanHorns built the stone one when Hart's dad began to have political ambitions. Anyway, that seems to be the one Mrs. VanHorn and Hart are staying in. Mom says the brick house was built by Olivia VanHorn's sister, but she moved to California and quit using it a long time back. I don't know who used the bungalow. Olivia and Timothy's parents, probably."

  "Are there boathouses?"

  "Nothing down on the lake. There's a big storage shed near the road. See, the red barn at the left."

  "The red barn? Did you get a look inside?"

  "Sort of."

  We continued to watch the video. Now the scene shifted. Timothy was opening his front door.

  "How did you hide the camera?" I said.

  "I just tucked it under my arm and left it running."

  On the video Timothy was greeting Joe effusively and inviting him in. Joe answered, telling Timothy he bought and restored wooden speedboats, and that he was scouting for likely projects.

  "Well, there's my dad's old boat, over in the barn," Timothy said. "I don't know if Olivia wants to sell it. It hasn't been in the water in twenty years."

  "Could I take a look at it? Maybe get some pic­tures? Then if you and Mrs. VanHorn put it on the market later, I'll know what we're talking about."

  "I'll go back to the kitchen and get the keys and my jacket."

  Joe turned around while he waited, and the video camera swept around the compound. I found myself admiring the landscaping. The snow might have cov­ered the flower beds, but it couldn't hide the hedges, the trees, the stone walls, the tennis court. It was a beautiful property.