JoAnna Carl Read online

  Apparently Joe had thought so, too, because when Timothy reappeared in a heavy red Pendleton jacket, Joe commented on the compound. "The property is in top-notch shape. Do you take care of all this?"

  Timothy gave a tipsy laugh. "I'm not what you'd call handy. But I'm in charge of making sure the key's in its usual hiding place when the handyman and land-scapers come."

  Joe followed Timothy's red jacket across the snow. They seemed to be breaking a trail around the end of the tennis court that centered the compound. In a few minutes they reached the second part of the drive— the exit, I guess you'd call it—coming out on the blacktop near the big storage building that resembled a red barn.

  "This hasn't been opened this winter," Timothy said. "We may find a squirrel's nest."

  "Don't Hart and Mrs. VanHorn park over here?"

  "No, there's a garage in the basement of the stone house. The barn door is around at the side."

  Timothy fumbled with a lock and opened a small door. The video went dark as Joe entered the build­ing, then brightened as Timothy turned on a glaring overhead light and the camera's automatic lens ad­justed. I leaned forward, eager to see what was inside the barn.

  For a moment it looked like a morgue. Then I real­ized that everything inside was shrouded in canvas dust covers. Timothy led the way past a couple of hulking objects; one obviously was a boat, and the other might have been anything. Then he pulled the canvas back to reveal a mahogany prow.

  "This was Dad's boat," he said. "It's a Chris-Craft. He was very proud of it. It was 'postwar,' if that means anything to you. He got it when he came back from World War Two."

  Joe evidently laid the camera down on the lumpy item next to the Chris-Craft, because I could see him and Tim folding the cover back. "It's a beauty," Joe said. "A seventeen-footer, I think. One of the first ones made after the war."

  At that point the conversation deteriorated to a dis­cussion of boats. Joe raved about the Chris-Craft. Timothy preened. They moved away from the camera, and I couldn't hear much and got only intermittent looks at the two of them.

  "The Chris-Craft is the only wooden motor boat here," Timothy said. "Of course, there's our moth­er's canoe."

  Joe gasped. "Where is it?"

  He did remember to pick up the camera then, and he swung it around the barn, which seemed to be about the size of a four-car garage.

  The canoe was up in the rafters, upside down. "A bit hard to get it down, I'm afraid," Timothy said.

  "No need," Joe said. He aimed his camera up at the canoe.

  Then a new voice was heard on the tape. It was muffled, but I understood the words. "What are you two doing?"

  Joe swung around, or at least the video camera did, and a figure appeared silhouetted in the open door. It was just a fuzzy outline for a moment, as it moved inside and closed the door. Then it became Olivia VanHorn.

  She looked as much the grand dame as ever, wear­ing her casual mink jacket and a wool scarf—I was willing to bet it was cashmere—draped around her head. She approached the camera, smiling graciously. "Tim? What are you doing out here in the cold?"

  "Just showing Joe here Dad's old boat," Tim said. "I didn't think you'd mind." Suddenly he seemed to lack confidence.

  "It's a honey," Joe said. "I'm Joe Woodyard, Mrs. VanHorn. I was in law school with Hart. But now I'm restoring antique power boats."

  "Oh, yes. Your mother has an insurance agency."

  The social chitchat went on between Joe and Olivia VanHorn for several minutes. Neither of them made any reference to Joe's ex-wife, though Olivia obviously knew who Joe was. Joe kept his attention on the post­war Chris-Craft, enthusiastically telling Olivia and Timothy what a nice boat it was.

  "If you decided to put it on the market," he said, "I'd definitely want to make an offer."

  He had tucked the camera under his arm again, so I couldn't see Olivia as she replied. But her voice sounded slightly sardonic. "If you really want to make an offer, Joe, shouldn't you be telling us it isn't worth very much?"

  Joe laughed. "Oh, I think you're smart enough to get an appraisal before you sell it, Mrs. VanHorn. I don't think you'd be easy to cheat. Are there other old boats around? Mr. Hart showed me the canoe."

  "No, there's the ski boat, but it's less than twenty years old."

  "Then it's probably fiberglass. Not my thing. How­ever—"Joe gave a boyish chuckle"—Mr. Hart, you may not know it, but you had a piece of fiberglass that caused me to commit the sin of envy in a big way, back when I was in high school."

  Timothy Hart gave a snort. "I can't believe I ever aroused envy in anyone."

  "I assure you that every guy at Warner Pier High School envied you that sports car you had. An MGB with a fiberglass top."

  Joe moved the camera, and now I could see Timo­thy's face cloud up. He looked stricken. But I couldn't tell if he was feeling sorrowful or angry.

  He spoke. "The MGB. . . ." Then he stopped and glanced at his sister. "I l-l-lost the MGB. . . ."

  Olivia VanHorn jumped in to smooth over an awk­ward situation. "Tim doesn't drive these days," she said. "In fact, Tim, I was making a grocery list, and I wondered if you wanted anything."

  Joe was being dismissed. He and Timothy replaced the canvas cover on the Chris-Craft. He swung the video camera around as he was escorted out, but the chitchat became innocuous. I was barely listening as Olivia herded the two men back toward the door.

  Then I saw it.

  It was the lumpy thing that had been next to the Chris-Craft. Compared to the boats, it was small, maybe ten feet long and four feet high. Its canvas cover shrouded it completely—except for one corner.

  Joe probably didn't see it himself, but the camera, now held down at his side, picked up the key detail.

  A ski. A ski just a few feet long. And above it, a shiny purple surface.

  "Joe! Stop the tape!" I shrieked the words.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Look! Look under that cover. It's purple!"

  Joe nodded. "Yeah. I see it."

  "Joe, it could be that snowmobile. The one that chased me."

  Joe and I looked at the flickering video. "It's hard to believe," he said. "I can see Timothy arguing with Gail. But why would he chase you with a snowmobile?"

  My heart was pounding. Suddenly I covered my eyes. "Turn it off. That snowmobile—it was horrible! I don't want to think about it."

  The next thing I knew Joe had taken me in his arms. "It's okay," he said. "I'm not going to let any­thing hurt you."

  I got a big handful of his flannel shirt, and I hung on for dear life. I didn't say anything. I buried my head in Joe's shoulder, and I just sat there and trembled.

  It was wonderful to have Joe hold me, to have him act as if he cared about what I was going through. It didn't matter if he wouldn't take me out in public. I didn't care if he was mixed-up and didn't know what he wanted, even if he ran for cover every time he saw someone who looked like a tabloid reporter. His arms were so comforting that I could have sat there all day.

  I don't know why I didn't cry. I think I simply didn't dare—if I'd started I wouldn't have stopped for days.

  In a few minutes I sort of pulled away and said, "I guess that I've been so worried about Jeff that I just haven't reacted to being chased by that snowmobile. I can't break down yet, Joe. But I'm beginning to think this mess will never end."

  He pulled me closer and kissed my forehead. "It's going to end, and it's going to end happily. And happy or unhappy, you're going to handle it."

  Then he kissed me. On the mouth this time.

  As I said, Joe and I had mostly had a telephone relationship. Until our necking party a few days earlier, he'd only kissed me a few times, and those kisses had been—well, exploratory.

  This one was the real thing. He was kissing me, and I was kissing him, and neither of us wanted to stop. If the phone hadn't rung, I don't know what would have happened next.

  But it did ring, and it distracted both of us enough that Joe r
elaxed his grip and quit kissing me, and I moved away slightly. So we were looking fairly decent when Joe's mom rapped on the door, then opened it and looked in.

  "It's for you, Lee," she said. "It's your aunt."

  I took a deep breath, thanked her, and went to the extension phone on her private desk.

  "Lee!" Aunt Nettie sounded excited. "A woman called from Dallas. She said she works for Richard Godfrey Associates."

  "Alicia Richardson?"

  "Yes, that was the name. She said to tell you she finally got hold of Jeffs mom and dad."

  "Wonderful! Where are they?"

  "I don't know that, but she said to tell you they are on their way to Michigan. They're flying into Chicago this afternoon."

  Chapter 18

  My first reaction of relief at the prospect of hand­ing over the responsibility for Jeff quickly turned to dread. I hadn't seen Rich in two years; I didn't want to face him when he'd just learned that his son might be accused of murder. I had a feeling that he was going to think the whole thing was my fault.

  I saw only one flimsy hope. "Wouldn't it be wonder­ful," I said, "if this case is solved and the right person is under arrest by the time Rich and Dina get here?"

  "That doesn't look likely," Joe said. "We haven't even figured out what was really behind all this, and I don't think Hogan Jones knows either."

  I sat down again. "That's right, I guess. Though obviously the burglary—the one Jeff stopped Tuesday night—had something to do with those molds. After all, the molds were at TenHuis Chocolade Tuesday night and at Gail's Wednesday, when she was attacked."

  I'd almost forgotten Mercy Woodyard was standing in the doorway. "I haven't figured out why anybody would want to steal those molds," she said. "They look pretty ordinary to me."

  "They're worth quite a bit," I said. "And they made a nice decoration for the shop." Then I realized something. "Mercy, you were never in the shop while the molds were on display. When did you see them?"

  "They're over in Gail's storeroom in a box. I looked at a few of them when I was over there this morning."

  "Is the shop no longer considered a crime scene?"

  Mercy shrugged. "The tape's still up out front, but the chief told Nancy Warren she could have access to her sister's property. Nancy gave me a key, so I could keep an eye on things until she gets through the fu­neral and gets a lawyer to settle the estate. I let Celia Carmichael in and checked the place over earlier."

  I sat up straight. "Do you think the chief would mind if I took a look?"

  "Apparently not. I'll get the key and take you over."

  Joe went with us, and we ducked under the yellow tape and went in Gail's front door. Going into the shop felt spooky, but there was actually nothing grue­some about the scene. The state police crime lab had taken anything gory away—if there'd been anything. After all, the chief thought Gail confronted her killer in the shop, because that's where the baseball bat had been, but he believed she was chased across the street before the deathblows were struck. Or maybe Gail saw someone at TenHuis Chocolade, decided to con­front them, and took the baseball bat with her.

  "The molds are in the back room," Mercy said.

  Joe and I followed her through the shop, which was the junky type of antique store. Everything was jum­bled together and nothing looked too valuable. In Jeffs mom's shop in Dallas only a few pieces were out, and each one was carefully displayed, often with accent lighting and carefully draped backdrops. Gail's shop was set up to make the buyer think each piece was a bargain; Dina's shop was designed to make buy­ers think they were getting something rare and worth the prices she charged. I guess I prefer the more care­fully arranged shops; the clutter in shops like Gail's makes me feel as if I'm about to bump into something or step on something or break things in some other way.

  But I got through the shop without demolishing the Depression glass, upending an urn, or tripping over a table. As Mercy entered the storage room, she pointed to a huge cardboard box. Bold letters on the side, made with a black marking pen, identified its contents: "Hart-VanHorn collection."

  Inside the box, a lot of bits and pieces were tum­bled together.

  "What a mess," I said. "This is obviously junk from the cellar. If getting a box like this on consignment made Gail think she was going to get to run a sale for an estate like the Hart-VanHorn compound, she was the most optimistic person I ever ran into."

  "This stuff may have been tossed in the box like junk," Joe said, "but apparently the molds were in the lot." He pulled a couple of the molds out of the top of the box. "Here, lay these out on that worktable, and we'll look at them."

  Mercy went back to her office, and Joe handed the molds to me. They'd been wrapped in tissue paper, and I unwrapped them and laid them in rows on Gail's table. Joe heaped the other items from the box on the floor.

  I examined each mold as I put it out. The bears we'd had in the shop were on top, of course. There were seated bears and standing bears and a walking bear and an acrobatic bear who wore a funny hat and was apparently about to do a cartwheel. But there was no mean-looking bear with a harness on its snout. That one was still missing.

  "It was the rusty mold, too," I said. "And Gail said it wasn't the most valuable bear in the collection. That really mystifies me."

  "Huh?" Joe said.

  "Just thinking out loud."

  Next Joe handed me other animals. There were dogs—a funny little Scottie, a dachshund, a comical bulldog. There were elephants doing tricks, elephants trumpeting, stylized elephants and realistic elephants. Then came birds—storks, ducks, even a peacock. These were followed by dozens of molds of children— Kewpie dolls, children dressed as brides and bride­grooms, a New Year's baby.

  "I seem to be down to the Santas and Easter bun­nies now," Joe said.

  "I had no idea how extensive the collection was," I said. "I guess it nearly filled up that big box."

  "There was a lot of old kitchen stuff in there, too. I guess it's worth something, because I saw similar things out in the shop as we walked through. And there are a few pieces of wood at the bottom. And some broken glass."

  Joe handed the rest of the molds up to me, and I kept laying them out in rows and examining them. They were fascinating.

  And they were all in perfect condition, though some had traces of chocolate, as Aunt Nettie had said they should. Even after being stuck in a basement—ever since Congressman VanHorn died, according to Timo­thy—there was no sign of rust on any of them.

  "That's so weird," I said.

  "What is?" Joe was bent over, with his head down in the box. His voice was muffled, though I heard the occasional thump, and I decided he must be digging the pieces of wood out of the bottom of the box.

  "All these molds are in perfect condition," I said. "Or I think they are."

  "So?"

  "The one the burglar took wasn't. In perfect condi­tion, I mean. It was rusted."

  "What are they made of? Tin?"

  "They're tin-plated. I think the basic metals varied, according to the time they were made. But the outer surfaces were tin."

  "Tin will rust. Or a tin can will."

  "Yes, but this was a valuable collection. And judging by the condition of these molds, it had been care­fully preserved. But that one mold was rusted. That particular one had been treated carelessly."

  "So had this. Look."

  I turned around. Joe was still kneeling on the bare wooden floor of Gail's storeroom, but he had laid some bits of wood out on the floor in front of him. He had arranged them into some sort of order, but they were still just scraps of wood with hunks of bro­ken glass sticking out here and there. In the center were two small brass knobs.

  "They were doors!" I said.

  "Right," Joe said. "The stuff in the bottom of the box seems to be the glass doors of a china cupboard."

  I knelt beside Joe and gently touched the glass. "It was a nice piece, too. That glass was curved. I don't know too much about old furniture, bu
t I think china cupboards with curved glass are often considered quite valuable. Lots of people want them."

  "Well, somebody didn't want this one." He fingered a two-inch gouge. "I'd guess that this had been broken up with an ax."

  "That's impossible! Even if you wanted to get rid of something like this, you wouldn't break it up with an ax."

  Joe shrugged. "The rest of it probably is in some Hart-VanHorn basement. The doors were in a dozen pieces."

  We stared at the doors. Then I stood up. "Well, I've looked at all the molds, and you've assembled the doors. And I'm more mystified than ever."

  Joe began to put the pieces of wood back in the box. "I left the broken glass in the box," he said. "I wonder what Gail made of it."

  "Do you think she saw it?"

  "She must have, if she dug all the molds out."

  "I wonder what happened to the china cupboard?"

  "If you have a live-in alcoholic, Lee, anything can happen to your furniture."

  "You think Timothy got drunk and broke up the furniture?"

  "Something sure happened to that china cupboard. And I don't think it was hit by a car."

  "I guess we could ask the chief if there's any record of a police call out there."

  Joe looked at me. He didn't need to say a word.

  "Okay," I said. "I admit that Olivia would let Timo­thy smash up the entire house before she'd call the cops."

  We looked through the rest of the shop, but we saw nothing worth getting excited about. It would have taken an army of technicians to do a complete search.

  A smashed china cabinet and a rusty mold. What significance could they possibly have?

  I started for the door, then turned to Joe. "Has Timothy always lived at Warner Pier?"

  "I don't think so, but Mom will know. Why?"

  "I agree that Olivia VanHorn would never have called the cops on him. If he lived in Grand Rapids or Ann Arbor or someplace, though, and if he has a history of breaking up furniture or doing other violent things, somebody else might have called the cops about him sometime."

  "You could ask the chief to check."