JoAnna Carl

by The Chocolate Bear Burglary (lit)

  "I'd seen her. Across the street. Mrs. TenHuis told me who she was."

  "But you still ran when she called out."

  "She scared me! It was the middle of the night. I'd just found a dead body."

  "Okay, it made sense for you to be scared when somebody yelled at you. So, why did you come back?"

  "Huh?"

  "First you thought Mrs. Woodyard might be the killer, returning to get you, too. So you ran. Then you saw Mrs. Woodyard and you changed your mind and came back. Why?"

  "Her coat was wrong."

  "Her coat?" <

  "Yeah. The guy I saw earlier—" Jeff stopped abruptly.

  "There was someone there earlier?"

  Long silence. "Well, I drove by once, and I saw somebody outside the shop. That's why I came back to check."

  "So you found Gail the second time you came by the shop?"

  "Yes."

  "And when was the first time, Jeff?"

  "A little while earlier."

  "How long is 'a little while' in Texas?"

  Another long silence. "Maybe fifteen minutes."

  "Then you did more than just drive around the block." No answer. "So you saw a guy there, and you were sure he wasn't Mrs. Woodyard. Were you sure it was a man?"

  "No. It could have been a woman."

  "Did you see the person's face?"

  "No. It was just a shape. But it wasn't Mrs. Woodyard. Her coat was wrong."

  "Wrong? What's wrong with her coat?"

  "It's a coat—you know, long. And it's smooth. Some kind of wool. The other guy had a bushy jacket on. Shorter than Mrs. Woodyard's coat. And a bushy hat."

  And that, basically, was all Chief Jones got out of Jeff. He'd been driving around Warner Pier in the middle of the night, and he'd seen somebody in front of the shop. He drove on. But about fifteen minutes later he got curious and came down to see what was going on. And he found Gail Hess dead.

  "What does he mean by 'bushy'? What kind of a coat is 'bushy'?" I asked.

  "He's a bit vague," Chief Jones said. "It was bulky, and it wasn't smooth. Not like Mercy's coat."

  "Flannel," I said. "Mercy's coat is flannel."

  "This guy's coat wasn't flannel. And it wasn't slick and bulky, like that down jacket you're wearing. It could have been a blanket-type fabric, I guess."

  "Or a fake fur," I said. I steeled myself and tried a finesse. "Now you've heard Jeff's exploration—I mean, you've heard his explanation. So, can I take him home?"

  " 'Fraid not, Lee. A little more information is required."

  "Chief, his story makes sense."

  "Yes, as far as it goes. But he doesn't have any explanation for one important thing."

  "What's that?"

  "The baseball bat we found poked into the snow­drift at the end of the block. Right there at the corner Jeff ran up to."

  "A baseball bat?"

  "Yep. We haven't tested it yet, of course, but it sure looks as if it could be the murder weapon."

  "Where would Jeff get a baseball bat?"

  "In Gail's shop. It's an antique, endorsed by Jackie Robinson. Quite a collector's item, I expect. Gail's assistant tells us it was part of a display of toys and sporting equipment at the back of the store. And the door to Gail's shop was standing open. We figure Gail and her killer had some kind of confrontation in her shop. She was chased across the street and killed. Or Gail might have seen someone across the street and stepped outside to hail them. Maybe she took the baseball bat as some sort of protection."

  "Why did she have her jacket on?"

  Chief Jones shrugged. "Who knows? She might have simply put the jacket on because the heat was turned down in the store, and she was cold."

  The chief let me say good-bye to Jeff, and I assured him that I'd get him a lawyer first thing the next morn­ing. He nodded dully. His tough exterior had worn pretty thin.

  When I reached the outer office, Joe was standing there, staring at a map of Warner Pier.

  "They're going to hold him," I said. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs they keep for visitors and cried.

  For a minute I thought Joe was going to put his arms around me, but instead he pulled a chair around facing me. He took one of my hands.

  "I've got to find him a lawyer," I said.

  "I'll call Webb Bartlett in Grand Rapids just as soon as his office opens. He's good."

  I felt grateful. "Tell him Jeff's dad has plenty of money. Tell him he'll pay any kind of a fee."

  Joe squeezed my hand. "If I tell him that, he'll charge any kind of a fee."

  "I don't care! I can't believe Jeff did this. He's just a kid!"

  Joe's lips tightened. I remembered then that he'd been on the defense team for the Medichino case—a case in which two Detroit brothers admitted to killing their parents. He knew that kids can kill.

  But he didn't say anything about the Medichino boys. He just pulled me to my feet. "Come over here and look at what I found," he said. He led me to a giant map of Warner Pier. "Now where did you first find Jeff last night? I mean, night before last, the night of the burglary?"

  "At the Stop and Shop."

  "Didn't you say his car was parked outside, but you couldn't see him inside?"

  "Yes."

  "And then he came out from the back of the store?"

  "Right. So what?"

  "Look at the map." Joe pointed to the top of the map. "Here's the Stop and Shop. And look at what's behind it, over on the next block."

  "The Lake Michigan Inn. Again, so what?"

  "Do you feel up to taking a ride out that way?"

  "I don't think I could sleep."

  I put on my jacket, and Joe and I went out to his truck. "Why are we doing this?" I asked.

  "Maybe for no reason at all."

  Despite its picturesque name, the Lake Michigan Inn is a fairly standard motel. It looks like the 1950s to me; cars with big tail fins would look right at home in the parking lot. That morning the parking lot was almost empty. An SUV was parked in a shed at the back of the lot, and all the rooms were dark. The only lights came from the motel's sign and from a light over the office door.

  Joe parked under the office light—the winter sun was nowhere near the horizon, but the sky was grow­ing light in the east—and we got out. Joe knocked on the office door. He knocked again. And again.

  Finally the door opened and a bleary-eyed older man peered out. "Joe? What's going on?" He looked at me, then grinned slyly. "Don't tell me you want to rent a room?"

  "Nope. But I've got an important question."

  "It better be damn important and not hard to an­swer." When he spoke I saw that he didn't have his lower plate in. He motioned us inside.

  "Lee, this is Tuttle Ewing," Joe said. "Tuttle, Lee McKinney."

  Tuttle Ewing was a short bald guy. "How'ja do," he said. "You're Nettie TenHuis's niece." I nodded, and he turned back to Joe. "Wha'ja need to know?"

  "Lee's stepson came to Warner Pier day before yes­terday, and I wondered if he checked in here."

  I almost gasped. Jeff hadn't checked in anyplace.

  "Young guy? Kinda skinny? Glasses? Stud in his lip? Crazy earlobes?"

  "Right. Driving a Lexus RX300 with a Texas tag."

  "Yeah, he came by."

  "Did you rent him a room?"

  "Yeah. He paid for three nights. Off-season rate. Funny thing though. I haven't seen the SUV since."

  "Is there somebody in the room?"

  "I dunno. The Do Not Disturb sign has been on the door ever since he checked in. So Maria—I've only got one maid, part-time, in the winter—she and I haven't disturbed him."

  Joe and I exchanged looks. "I think we'd better disturb him now," Joe said. I nodded.

  "I can't let you in the room."

  "Just tell us which room it is."

  "Twenty-three. Out back."

  Tuttle Ewing let us out, and Joe and I walked along the covered sidewalk, toward the back of the motel.

  "This makes perfect sens
e!" I said. "Plus, it explains the second car with the Texas tag. I should have real­ized that Jeff wouldn't have left college and come up here alone. He had some buddy with him, and he's been sneaking into town to see him."

  "You knock at the door," Joe said. "Whoever's in there, a woman will seem less threatening. I'll wait down here." He positioned himself ten or twelve feet away, flat against the wall.

  I had to knock several times before I even heard a movement inside. The door still didn't open. I pictured a scared kid standing on the other side.

  "Hey!" I said loudly. "Jeffs in trouble. He needs help!"

  Finally, the door opened a crack and one eye looked out.

  "What is it?" The voice was a whisper.

  "I'm Jeff's stepmom. Jeffs in trouble. I need to talk to you."

  "Did he tell you about me?"

  "It's a long story, and I'm freezing out here. Let me in, okay?"

  The door closed, and I heard the clicking of the chain. When the door opened again, Joe suddenly ap­peared beside me. He pushed the door open wide, and we both were inside.

  My impression was that we had started a bird from its nest. Something white flitted around the room.

  "It's all right," I said. "We won't hurt you. We're just trying to help Jeff."

  The white figure fluttered to a stop behind the bed. A high-pitched voice spoke. "What's happened? Where's Jeff? Did he tell you about me?"

  The words came from a little bit of a girl. Her hair was tousled and her eyes swollen, but there was no missing one thing about her. She was a beauty.

  CHOCOLATE CHAT

  EYES LIKE CHOCOLATE

  Although Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum books are not culinary crimes, they rely on food for atmosphere.

  Early in the first book, when she describes Joe Morelli, one of the major series characters, we know im­mediately that he's a sexy guy.

  "He'd grown up big and bad, with eyes like black fire one minute and melt-in-your-mouth chocolate the next," she writes.

  Somehow we're not surprised a few paragraphs later, when Joe wanders into the Tasty Pastry Bakery, where the sixteen-year-old Stephanie worked, and buys—what else?—a chocolate chip cannoli. Later, "on the floor of the Tasty Pastry, behind the case filled with chocolate eclairs ..."

  Ah, that Joe, with those irresistible melt-in-your-mouth chocolate eyes. A girl doesn't have a chance.

  Chapter 10

  The girl was standing on the floor, of course, but she was so fluttery that she almost gave the im­pression she was perched on the headboard of the bed.

  "Who are y'all?" she said in a chirpy little voice.

  "We don't intend to hurt you," I said. "We're trying to help Jeff."

  "He promised he wouldn't tell anybody I was here."

  "He didn't. We figured it out. Who are you?"

  The question seemed to be too hard for her to an­swer. She twisted her wings—I mean her hands—stood on one foot and lowered her lashes. Maybe it was just her tousled hair that made her look so birdlike, I decided. That and her size. She was tiny, with small, delicate features. She was wearing a white T-shirt, and the effect was of a cute little bird, maybe one of those Easter chickies. Then she moved, and I amended the impression. She looked like a cute little chickie with a cute little bosom.

  Her short, spiky hair and the lashes against her cheeks were almost black. She had that fine-grained, pink and ivory skin that I personally would kill for. In fact, when I was sixteen and felt like a giraffe, I'd have killed to look exactly like her.

  Finally the girl spoke. "I'm Tess Riley."

  "You came up here with Jeff?"

  "Well, sort of. Jeff met me in Chicago." She flut­tered her eyelashes, then looked at us with bright black eyes. "Where is Jeff?"

  I looked at Joe, wondering what I should tell her.

  Joe didn't hesitate. "Jeffs in jail," he said.

  "In jail!"

  "Yeah. He may be charged with murder."

  "Murder! Jeff would never kill anyone." Then the dark eyes grew wide. "Oh, no! He didn't!" She pressed her hands over her mouth.

  "We're hoping you can alibi him," Joe said.

  "Oh, yes! Anything I can do. Jeff was with me."

  "Oh?" Joe said. "He was with you about eight p.m. last night?"

  I drew a breath and looked at him. Joe touched my arm in what was obviously a signal for me to keep quiet.

  Tess didn't hesitate. "Eight o'clock? Oh, yes! Jeff was here then."

  I almost groaned. She not only looked like a bird, she apparently thought like one. Just what we needed. A dippy little cuckoo who was willing to lie for Jeff.

  She was warming to her theme now. "Right. Jeff came here a little before eight, and he brought me something to eat."

  She gestured, and I saw one of Aunt Nettie's refrig­erator dishes on the desk. Jeff had brought her the leftover sloppy joe. Joe and I looked at each other, but neither of us spoke.

  Tess went on. "We watched television, and then we went out for a drive. Then we came back here. Jeff stayed until after midnight."

  "But he came before eight o'clock?" Joe said.

  "Oh, yes! I'm sure he was here by then."

  "That's really funny," I said. "Since at my house Jeff was helping me with the dinner dishes at eight o'clock."

  "Oh!"

  "Why don't we all sit down," Joe said. "Tess, are you hungry? Lee? We could go out to breakfast. Maybe we could get acquainted a little. Then Tess might trust us enough to tell the truth."

  "Oh, I wouldn't lie."

  "You just did," Joe said.

  "You tricked me!" Tess perched on the edge of the bed and did the eyelash thing again. "When does Jeff need an alibi for?"

  "I don't think we'd better tell you, Tess. If you feel sure that Jeff would never kill anyone ..."

  "Oh, I do. Jeff would never commit murder."

  "In that case, all Jeff needs is the truth. He's obvi­ously trying to keep you out of the situation. Why?"

  "Because he's really a nice guy."

  I was beginning to get a little impatient with Chicky Tess. "Jeff may be a nice guy," I said, "but most nice girls don't hide out in motels. Why is Jeff trying to keep you out of sight? Why didn't he just bring you out to my aunt's house?"

  "He wanted to."

  "Why didn't he?"

  "I was afraid."

  "Of us?"

  "Oh, no! Not of you. Of ... of ., ." She wasn't a very good liar. I could see the improvisation flitting around in her head. "I was afraid of . . ."

  "Forget it!" Joe's voice was harsh. "We'll just call the police to come and get you."

  "No! Then he'll find me!"

  "Who?"

  "My family! And if they find me, then , . ."

  "Then what? What would happen?"

  "If t^ey find me, my dad's boss will find out, and then the police will think they know why Jeff might want to kill a guy!"

  Kill a guy? That stopped me, and it seemed to stop Joe, too. Neither of us said anything, but we looked at each other.

  It was beginning to sound as if Tess thought Jeff really might have killed someone. But she expected it to be a male person—a "guy." And you could call Gail Hess a lot of things, but no Texas girl would ever call her a guy.

  Joe rephrased the question a couple of times, but Tess quit talking. Finally he sighed. "Look. Tess. You obviously don't know anything about the crime Jeff is suspected of committing. If you'll just talk to the po­lice chief, then you may be able to straighten every­thing out. But you've got to tell the truth. You can help Jeff the most if you tell the truth."

  "But I can't. ..."

  Joe went on. "Frankly, you're not a very good liar, and you'll get tripped up right away. So get dressed, and we'll take you over to the police station."

  "The police station!"

  "Yes. If you tell a straight story, maybe we'll get to take Jeff home."

  "Yes. Come on," I said. "If you really want to help Jeff—"

  "Oh, I do!"


  "Then get dressed."

  Joe moved toward the door. "I'll wait outside."

  Tess gathered up an armful of clothes and disap­peared into the bathroom. I sat down in the one chair. Obviously Joe was right not to question Tess further. She was willing to say anything, and she wasn't bright enough to tell a good lie. She'd sound coached if we talked to her too much before Chief Jones did.

  I laid my head back in the chair and realized that I was tired right through to the bone. I had almost dozed off when I heard Tess give a yelp. Then I heard a sliding noise. In two leaps I was at the bathroom door.

  "What's wrong?" I said.

  "Nothing! Nothing!" Tess sounded like something had happened, but she didn't explain. I heard the slid­ing noise again. Then the door opened. Tess came out, pouting. Behind her I saw a window, the kind with clouded glass to keep people from looking in. It had been raised about an inch.

  I almost laughed. The temperature in west Michigan that February morning was about fifteen. Nobody in their right mind was going to be opening a bathroom window for a little ventilation. Tess had obviously tried to open it with the idea of crawling out. I went into the bathroom and looked out through the crack. There was a storm window, of course, and the light outside was dim, but I could plainly see Joe standing about twenty feet away, with his back to the window. He'd been way ahead of me in anticipating that our birdbrained little Tess might try to flit.

  Tess had put on an SMU sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that couldn't have been bigger than size three. She was wearing socks and tennis shoes.

  "Why don't you pack up your stuff, Tess," I said. "You can move out to the house."

  "I don't want to impose on you."

  "Do you have any money?"

  "Not a lot."

  "Jeff says he doesn't have any either. And I can't afford motel rooms. If you don't want to contact your parents, I don't think you have a lot of choices. I assure you my aunt is perfectly respectable, and now that we know you exist, she'll worry a lot more about you being in a motel than being in her spare bedroom."

  Tess didn't look convinced, but she put her few be­longings into a backpack—she obviously hadn't been any more prepared for a long trip than Jeff had—and gathered makeup and toothbrush out of the bathroom. When she got to the stage of putting on her jacket, I went to the bathroom window, pushed it up, and looked out. Joe was still there. I rapped on the storm window, and he turned around. I waved, and he made a circular motion, pantomiming coming around the building. He was there by the time Tess and I got her stuff into the floor of the truck's cab.