The Chocolate Book Bandit

by JoAnna Carl

  “That hasn’t worked out very well. I think you ought to stay away from the library board crowd.”

  I didn’t reply, so Hogan spoke again. “Lee? Can we shake on that?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Lee. Your aunt and I love you, you know. We don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I appreciate that, Hogan, and believe me, I don’t want anything to happen to me either. I can’t promise that I will ignore anything that falls in front of me, but I won’t take any silly risks either. But I can’t just say I’ll avoid the library crowd.”

  I admit that avoiding Butch Cassidy didn’t appeal to me.

  He and Aunt Nettie left, and I took another hot shower. The hot water sluicing over my sore muscles did seem to help them feel less sore.

  It also encouraged thought. I analyzed my situation.

  First, I had been among the first people on the scenes of two murders.

  Second, someone had tried to kill me.

  Third, the killer must believe I was a threat to him or her. I didn’t see how I could be—I had no evidence I hadn’t given the investigators—but the bad guy or gal evidently thought I knew more than I really did.

  What could I do about it? I couldn’t sit at home, being guarded by my husband for the rest of my life.

  And speaking of my husband, were my problems with that husband doing better?

  Twenty-four hours earlier Joe had been staying late in Holland. I had had no idea where he was, but I had suspected he was seeing Meg Corbett. I hadn’t specifically feared that they were getting cozy in a motel; I was more fearful of Meg’s emotional appeal to Joe than of her physical attraction.

  Let’s face it: Meg wasn’t the kind of woman to hand out sexual favors without expecting to get something out of it. I wasn’t sure Joe had anything to give her that she would be interested in trading for. But she’d been Joe’s first serious girlfriend. She still attracted him the same way she had when he was sixteen. That was what scared me. It wasn’t that Meg wanted Joe; it was that Joe had never gotten over wanting Meg.

  But for the past twenty-four hours Joe seemed to have lost all interest in her. He had saved my life by finding me in my wrecked van. He had held my hand until the wrecker, police, and ambulance came. He had insisted I see a doctor. He had gone to the hospital with me. He had tenderly put me to bed and given me a pain pill. He had waited on me hand and foot all day long. He had served visitors coffee. He had fixed my dinner—well, he hadn’t had to cook it, but he made sure I ate. He had been nice to my callers—even Brian and Carol Turley.

  I had absolutely no complaints about Joe’s actions or behavior. He had been the perfect husband.

  Gosh! I guess he loved me. He’d certainly acted as if he did.

  When I turned off the shower I felt warm all over, and it wasn’t just from the scalding hot water. Joe’s concern and love were so wonderful that I didn’t feel at all frightened of the mysterious person who had shoved me off the road and down the bluff. It was as if I were surrounded by a wall of love that simply wouldn’t let anything harm me. And “anything” included Meg. I didn’t understand just what was going on there, but I was sure it was something innocent. Because I was obviously the one Joe cared about, big time. We were forever.

  When I turned off the exhaust fan and opened the bathroom door I could hear Joe in the living room, talking.

  That’s typical of our house, built in 1904. There are no secrets in it. Whatever you say upstairs can be heard downstairs. Whatever is said in the kitchen is audible in the bedroom. And conversation in the living room broadcasts everywhere under the roof.

  “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” That was all Joe said.

  When I went into the bedroom, he was coming in from the living room. “Are you out of the bathroom?” he asked.

  “Yep. It’s all yours. Who called?”

  “One of the women from the shop. I confess that I didn’t get her name.”

  I put my arms around him. “You’ve been a wonderful husband today—as usual! You’ve made me feel petted and cared for. And I do appreciate it. Thank you.”

  Joe returned my embrace and murmured in my ear. “It’s easy to pet you, Lee. Believe me. When I think . . . Well, I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He backed away slightly and looked at me. “Are you getting in bed already?”

  “I might read for a few minutes.”

  “You ought to take a pain pill again tonight. Just to make sure you sleep really well.”

  “I’d rather not unless I really need one.”

  “We never did get to talk. Maybe before you doze off.” Joe emptied his pockets onto the dresser and went into the bathroom for his own shower. Meanwhile, I decided I’d better double-check to be sure all that food had been put away, and I wandered into the kitchen. I made a few adjustments—putting the squash casserole in a smaller dish and stashing half the leftover ham in the freezer.

  When I had everything arranged I picked up the phone and asked it who had called recently. I did wonder who Joe had been talking to. The phone indicated no one had called the house in the past hour.

  Well, Joe had been talking to someone. They must have called on his cell phone. That was an odd thing for one of the ladies from the shop to do. How would a person Joe didn’t know all that well get his cell number?

  I went into the bedroom and picked up Joe’s phone from the dresser. I checked recent incoming calls. No one had called him either. Had he been talking to himself?

  Obviously not. Plainly Joe had called someone. I checked outgoing calls.

  And the name Meg Corbett popped up on the tiny screen.

  I didn’t bawl or pitch a fit. I needed to think about this. But I didn’t want to talk about it.

  I took a pain pill and got in bed.

  Chapter 18

  I know it would have been smarter to wait until Joe was out of the shower, then simply say, “Joe, what’s going on with you and Meg?”

  I think he would have explained things. And even if he had given me the worst possible answer, I would have known what was going on. Not understanding the situation was part of what was driving me crazy.

  But I didn’t do the smart thing. Joe and I had had one fight about Meg. I didn’t want to have another. All of a sudden I hurt all over, and I was tired. I gulped that pill down and climbed in bed. I had a vague memory of Joe coming in and saying, “Lee?” I think I muttered something about taking his advice about the pain pill. I was dimly aware that he wandered around in the bedroom for a while. Then I was out.

  The next morning I woke up while it was still dark. The memory of Joe’s call to Meg woke with me, and I lay there and planned how to deal with it. With the energy that came from a night’s sleep, I wasn’t so eager to avoid a confrontation. I planned just what I was going to say. “Hey, Joe, what’s going on with Meg? Last night I checked to see who had called while I was in the shower, and I figured out you’d been talking to her.”

  There. That was simple. It didn’t include anything accusatory, like, “Why the heck did you call Meg?”

  I could say my piece at the breakfast table.

  Then I turned over and saw that Joe wasn’t in bed. I sat up and realized the house was quiet. Joe wasn’t there at all.

  The silence made me feel a little panicky, so I quickly jumped up and turned on the light. To my relief, Joe had left a note on the mirror. “I’ve got to be at the office in Holland early today. Hogan said he’d put a patrol car in our drive, and Jerry can take you to work if you decide to go in.”

  At least the note was signed “Love, Joe.” I didn’t quite clutch the message to my bosom, but I did hang on to that phrase with emotional desperation.

  I was still sore all over, but I felt much better, so I got myself ready for the office. The phone rang once, but I didn’t recognize the number, so I let the machine
pick it up. I was surprised to hear the voice of Miss Ann Vanderklomp.

  “Mrs. Woodyard, I have no wish to bother you, but we do need to have a short discussion. May I drop by about noon? I promise not to take much of your time.”

  I rolled my eyes and picked up the phone. “Miss Vanderklomp? I’m sorry I didn’t get to the phone before the answering machine picked up. I’ll be glad to talk to you at any time. I’m planning to go to the office today. Can you come by TenHuis Chocolade?”

  “That would be entirely convenient. Is noon a good time?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “Can you tell me what it is you wish to discus? I mean, discuss?” She had me talking like a nineteenth-century novel, one with a tongue-tied heroine.

  Miss Vanderklomp gave a titter. “It is a matter of some delicacy. I’ll see you at noon.”

  I put on the same brown slacks and cream-colored sweater I’d worn the previous evening. Next I made a pot of coffee and waved at Jerry Cherry, the patrolman stationed in our driveway. He came in for coffee and toast. Then he drove me to the office.

  “I don’t deserve all this personal service,” I said.

  “Hogan’s really worried about this attack on you, Lee. He wants to make sure nothing else happens. Besides, your car is not drivable.”

  “I forgot that! But having a personal chauffeur seems a bit much.”

  “Once you’re at the shop, you’re on your own. Just don’t go off by yourself. Okay?”

  “Can I go to the post office?”

  Jerry grinned. “If you look both ways before you cross the street.”

  It took me a while to get to the bank and the post office, of course. The detectives in books usually don’t have to fool with friends, relatives, and coworkers. I had to thank everyone for the food, assure Aunt Nettie I had slept well and felt better, and answer four phone calls from friends checking on how I was doing after my terrible experience. And, no, you can’t tell them to hang up and get out of your hair.

  So it was ten o’clock before I started out the door with my bank deposit in one hand and the key to the PO box in the other. Yes, I looked up and down the street carefully before I stepped out the door. I didn’t see anybody with a gun, a knife, or a bottle of poison, so I started up the street, and I made it to the bank before I was waylaid.

  “Lee! Lee!” I immediately recognized Butch’s voice. I turned to see him coming toward me at a swift walk. “You look as if you’re okay! I heard the worst stories about you being in a wreck.”

  “I look a lot better than my van does.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “How’s the library dealing with the latest crisis?”

  “We closed yesterday, but today we’re back to what passes for normal. Chief Jones is even letting us use the basement.”

  “Have they set the services for Betty?”

  “Tuesday, I think. Two o’clock at her church. The library board members sent a ham to the house.”

  “Betty’s going to be hard to replace.” I remembered that Betty had wanted Butch’s job. I wondered if he knew. I wasn’t going to mention it.

  Butch gave a deep sigh, as if he were steeling himself. “Listen, Lee. I told Chief Jones about that letter.”

  “You did? He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “No! No! I didn’t tell him about how it got in your purse. I mean, I told him about where it came from and why I was touchy about it.”

  “Oh.”

  Butch looked up at the trees. He might have explained the letter to Hogan, but I could see he wasn’t going to tell me about it. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m glad you’re back on your feet.”

  We exchanged a long look. Then he turned abruptly and walked away.

  Had that look been meaningful? Darned if I knew. I had that sinking feeling in my innards again.

  Darn! He was sexy. And how could I be mad at Joe for seeing an old girlfriend while I was having serious flutters over Butch Cassidy? Crazy!

  But the word “seeing” was the key, I decided. Though small-town life meant that I saw Butch—at meetings or just casually at the bank, or even in restaurants—I wasn’t deliberately seeking him out. I thought Joe had been seeking Meg out. Or maybe she was seeking him out.

  At any rate, it was potentially a mess, and I wasn’t about to get into what they call an open marriage. No. That was out.

  I came out of the bank determined to think about something else, and Butch’s comments had given me guidance on what. That letter. The one that had been under Abigail Montgomery’s body. Why was it so important?

  Did it have anything to do with my questions about Butch’s qualifications? I still didn’t understand why he didn’t show up as a University of Michigan alum. That might not be any of my business, but I wanted to know.

  So as soon as I had my bank deposit made and my mailbox emptied, I headed back to my computer. And I looked up the name that had been on the return address of the mysterious letter under Abigail’s body. I typed in “Henry C. Dunlap” and “Michigan.” Since Butch had apparently lived in Michigan except when he was in the army, that seemed a likely connection.

  Of course, nearly all the references were to genealogical sites, but halfway down I found a newspaper story. I clicked on it. And five minutes later I closed it, heartsick.

  The Henry C. Dunlap in the article had been found innocent of murder by reason of insanity.

  Twenty years earlier, in a small town near Detroit, he had shot his wife and daughter dead and had wounded his twenty-two-year-old son. The son, Henry Cassidy Dunlap Jr., nicknamed Butch, had been on leave from the U.S. Army. He had testified that his father’s personality had changed dramatically about three years earlier. “He and I began having trouble,” he had said on the stand. “I felt that if I left home things might improve, so I enlisted in the army. Now I’m afraid I abandoned my mother and sister to a hopeless situation. I should have stayed there to protect them.”

  Tragic. No wonder Butch had decided to change his name. It would be no fun having busybodies like me dig up the family secrets. Feeling ashamed, I closed the file.

  And the name change undoubtedly explained why Butch didn’t turn up in the University of Michigan alumni listings. He’d probably changed his name about the time he graduated.

  Speaking of secrets, Miss Ann Vanderklomp was due in an hour. Until then I would try to get a little work done.

  Miss Vanderklomp was right on time, of course. Since this was a formal call, I met her in the shop and escorted her into my office. I had prepared a small dish of sample truffles and bonbons. She picked the dark chocolate cheesecake truffle (“creamy white chocolate center flavored with cream cheese and encased in dark chocolate”). She then declined coffee, and I said, “What can I do for you?”

  Miss Vanderklomp’s voice sounded more nasal than ever. “I’m afraid it will seem an odd request.”

  “As long as it’s not chocolate-covered ants, we can handle it.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to do with chocolate. It’s about a key.”

  “A key?”

  “Yes. You may know that I had borrowed some space in the current library building. It was excess for library needs, and Mrs. Smith gave me permission to use it.”

  “Oh?”

  “At any rate, there should be only one key for it, but somehow a second one was made.”

  I was mystified. “A second key?”

  “Yes. The key is unusual.” She smiled. “It’s quite old. The lock was installed in my great-grandfather’s day.”

  Of course, I knew immediately that she was talking about the key that Timothy Hart had brought me. But Tim hadn’t left it with me so I could hand it over to Miss Vanderklomp. No, he had given it to me in case it turned out to be linked to his sister’s death. Then I was to give it to Hogan.

  I was not going to hand the key over to Miss Vand
erklomp. Or tell her anything about it.

  I immediately saw that keeping my resolve might not be easy. Miss Vanderklomp smiled what she probably thought was a winning smile. “I understand that you have the key. So I’d appreciate its return.”

  I couldn’t just deny having the key. I had to face her down.

  Well, I knew enough about arguing not to quibble. If you are going to say no, just say no. Don’t let ’em shake you into making a lot of different arguments.

  “Please give me the key,” Miss Vanderklomp said.

  “No,” I said.

  That summed up the rest of our conversation. Miss Vanderklomp cajoled, an action she obviously wasn’t used to. I refused.

  She stayed at least another ten minutes, giving me the reasons she should have the key. It had belonged to her grandfather. She was entitled to have it. The whole question was silly—the key was obviously hers. I was keeping it illegally. Or so she said.

  I said, “No.” I said it repeatedly.

  Miss Vanderklomp’s problem was that she had no authority to back her up. I could have, if I hadn’t gotten by with “no,” said I’d ask Hogan what to do. But she had no fall-back position. She demanded the key, but she didn’t have a convincing reason for me to give it to her.

  Miss Vanderklomp wasn’t used to having her desires opposed. She always got her own way, just with the strength of her personality. But by flatly opposing her—and not discussing it—I carried the day.

  I doubt I could have stood against her if I’d started citing arguments. She did have a powerful personality, and she could probably have destroyed any reason I came up with to deny her the key. But by just saying no, I was sneaky enough to battle her.

  Finally she stood up and thundered at me. “I find your attitude most uncooperative, Mrs. Woodyard.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Vanderklomp, but I must do what I think is right.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this.”