The Chocolate Castle Clue

by JoAnna Carl

  I stopped in the hall and took several deep breaths. Margo Street had closed the bedroom door behind me, but it hadn’t caught just right, and I could hear her voice.

  “Come, Kathy, you’d better get some clothes on.”

  “I don’t want to, Margo!”

  “You’ll feel better if you do, Kathy. You don’t want to call attention to yourself by being the only Pier-O-Ette who doesn’t talk to Shep and Charlie.”

  “Are you sure that I should?”

  “Yes, sweetie. Come on, and we’ll find your clothes. You can wear your pretty blue outfit.”

  I dashed on down the hall before they caught me eavesdropping. But the situation was mystifying.

  I went back into the living room and handed Aunt Nettie her sweater, resolving to find an excuse to get her alone and try to get some answers to my questions.

  The chair I’d been sitting in earlier was now occupied by Ruby Westfield, and Ruby was giving Shep her full concentration. The pheromones, or whatever her attraction was, were broadcasting like mad, and they were aimed at him.

  I found that interesting. Some people in Warner Pier believed Ruby was a gold digger, but if she had been interested in money, I would have expected her to go for Charlie rather than Shep. After all, Charlie was a successful used-car dealer, and Shep was a retired photographer. Shep, of course, was much more attractive than Charlie. And I knew very little about the financial side of photography. Shep might well be loaded.

  As Ruby talked, Shep raised his camera and snapped several pictures of her. I found another chair, sat quietly, and listened while Ruby gave Shep the treatment. It was easy for me to do this; when Ruby was around, no other woman got any masculine attention.

  However, it was soon obvious that, while Ruby might be concentrating on Shep, Charlie was determined not to be ignored. The two men were vying for her attention.

  Charlie was trotting out his ghastly puns. “You heard about the guy from Indiana who applied for a job in a grocery store,” he said. “But he didn’t get it. The manager said, ‘Bag-gers can’t be Hoosiers.’ ”

  I rolled my eyes, but Ruby smiled. “You always had a lot of jokes, Charlie. Shep was always more serious. Quiet. We all thought he was mysterious.”

  “I just didn’t have anything to say,” Shep said. “As the old saying goes, it’s better to shut up and let people think you’re stupid than to speak up and remove all doubt.”

  “We were all stupid back then,” Ruby said. “Remember how we teased poor Mr. Rice? We probably nearly ruined his marriage.”

  “His marriage wasn’t much anyway,” Shep said. “Mrs. Rice was a real pain, and he knew it.”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “Dan would have loosened the Castle up, made it more attractive to the younger crowd. At least he could have hired rock musicians. It was Verna Rice who kept harping on ‘family-oriented’ entertainment. I always thought she was the reason the place went under.”

  “She was the most unpopular teacher at WPHS,” Ruby said. “I had her for typing and for bookkeeping.”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Were you girls responsible for the hang-up phone calls that Verna Rice complained about?”

  Ruby and Aunt Nettie looked at each other. Both smiled, and Aunt Nettie spoke. “What phone calls?” Her voice was unbelievably innocent.

  “We were pretty rotten kids,” Ruby said. “I wonder if the calls started after graduation.”

  Shep grinned. “I gather that Verna Rice has been known as the biggest oddball in Warner Pier for years. But there was nothing new about that. She was already peculiar forty-five years ago. And believe me, Dan Rice knew it. They were definitely not the happiest couple I ever knew.”

  I found that interesting. According to Joe, Mrs. Rice had spent more than forty years devoted to her husband’s memory and working to prove he didn’t kill himself. Yet Aunt Nettie, Ruby, and Shep all felt that her marriage hadn’t been happy. Had Mrs. Rice been acting out of love for her husband ? Or out of guilt?

  Ruby again became the center of the conversation, and I seized the moment to speak to Aunt Nettie. “I think there’s a problem in the kitchen. May I take you away for a moment?”

  She nodded—she may have looked slightly relieved—and the two of us left the room.

  She spoke as soon as we were out of the room. “What’s wrong in the kitchen?”

  “Nothing that I know of. I lied. I just wanted to talk to you. Where can we go?”

  “The kitchen ought to be empty.” She led the way in that direction.

  But the kitchen wasn’t empty. Hazel was there. She was cleaning the stove top, industriously scrubbing it down with spray cleaner.

  “Hazel!” Aunt Nettie sounded annoyed. “What are you doing?”

  Hazel jumped guiltily. “Just neatening up a little.”

  “I tried to plan meals that didn’t need any work.”

  I saw a tray on the kitchen counter. It held a half dozen cinnamon rolls but had obviously held more of them earlier. Beside it were two pitchers, one filled with orange juice and the other with tomato. A thirty-cup coffeepot—I recognized it from the TenHuis Chocolade break room—was plugged in and giving off a nice aroma. Paper plates, coffee mugs, and juice glasses completed the picture of a serve-yourself continental breakfast.

  Hazel had the grace to look embarrassed. Aunt Nettie just looked annoyed.

  “Hazel, I thought people could put their own dishes in the dishwasher. I’d hoped no one would have to hang around in the kitchen.”

  “I know, Nettie. It’s just that—well, it gives me something to do.”

  “How about talking to the others? You’re a guest, not the hired girl.”

  “It’s just—Oh, I never fit in with this bunch. Not when we were kids. Not now. I was the tall, gawky one.”

  I put my arm around Hazel’s shoulder. Hazel is around five-eight, and I tower over her by several inches. “Should I take that personally?”

  “Oh, Lee, you can carry off your—stature. But when it came to the Pier-O-Ettes, they were all short. All but me. I was the one the director was always telling to stand in the middle. Just look at that picture of us all at sixteen. There are five cute little girls and an ugly giant.”

  “Hazel!” Aunt Nettie sounded horrified. “I never knew you felt that way.”

  Hazel hung her head. “And after high school—everyone else had a successful career. Julie has her own company. You do, too. Even Ruby has a business. She’s been tremendously successful at what she does. And, of course, Margo—she’s rich and famous. I was only a cook.”

  “Only a cook! There’s nothing ‘only’ about what you did! TenHuis Chocolade would not be what it is without you, Hazel. I had hoped that I’d told you how much I appreciated everything you did, how the whole company relied on you.”

  “You did tell me, Nettie! You did!”

  Aunt Nettie and Hazel fell on each other’s necks, both sniffling.

  I edged out of the kitchen. I still had a lot of questions about Mrs. Rice and about the personal dynamics of the Pier-O-Ettes. But right at that moment, Hazel’s crisis was more important to Aunt Nettie than my questions were.

  I wandered back to the living room. Margo and Kathy hadn’t appeared yet, and Ruby was still the target of the masculine attention. But Julie Hensley had come in. She was rearranging the mantelpiece.

  I stopped, wondering if Aunt Nettie was going to be annoyed with Julie for changing her décor. Then I saw what Julie was doing. She was arranging a series of small paintings, each of them showing a group of young girls.

  I stepped close. They were paintings of the Pier-O-Ettes as they had appeared in the group photo I’d found in the old filing cabinet. But the pose was different. The picture I’d found had shown the young singers in a formal, rather stilted pose. This showed them in an informal snapshot. All of them were laughing and clowning for the camera. They were wearing their Pier-O-Ette dresses.

  The pictures were perfectly delightful. And I realized th
at each one was an original watercolor.

  “These are wonderful,” I said to Julie.

  “Shep took the original picture,” she said. We both looked at Shep, and he tried to look modest. “He’s a great photographer.”

  “He certainly is. And turning the photograph into watercolors was a fabulous idea!”

  “Margo had them done by an artist here in Warner Pier,” she said. “Aren’t they great souvenirs? I ran out and got some plate stands so we could display them together this weekend.”

  As we stood there, oohing and aahing, the doorbell rang.

  Charlie yelled, “I’ll get it,” but I waved him aside, gesturing as firmly as I knew how, and went to the door myself. But when I opened it, I wished that I’d let him answer.

  Standing on the porch was a tall, lanky guy with thin, colorless hair combed flat against his head. His eyes were an icy blue. He extended a hand, but it wasn’t for a handshake. In his hand was a badge.

  “Hugh Jackson,” he said. His voice was as cold as his eyes. “Michigan State Police.”

  Between the icy eyes and the chilling voice, I felt as if he had thrown cold water over me.

  “Come in,” I said. “My aunt said you were cooling. I mean, coming! Mrs. Jones said you were coming for their staterooms. I mean, statements!”

  Jackson didn’t laugh. He didn’t frown. He didn’t react at all to my idiotic remarks. He might not be “cooling,” but he was a cool customer, I decided. I stepped aside and motioned for him to come in.

  I’d met several of the state police detectives before, but Jackson was strange to me. Quite strange.

  I called Aunt Nettie from the kitchen and introduced her to Jackson.

  She smiled. “What’s the news on Mrs. Rice?” she said.

  “It looks as if someone hit Mrs. Rice in the head.”

  “Oh dear!” Aunt Nettie pressed her hand over her mouth. “Not murder!”

  “We don’t know yet. Since you and your friends were among the last people to see her, I’m going to have to ask each of you for a statement.”

  “A statement?”

  “Yes. About the accident when Mrs. Rice apparently ran into Mrs. Hensley’s limo. And about your activities later.”

  “I’m sure all of us will be glad to talk to you, Lieutenant.”

  “Ooooh!” A squeal sounded behind me. It wasn’t as piercing as the shriek I’d heard the day before, but I still jumped. When I whirled around, I saw that it was—who else?—Kathy Street.

  “Oh goodness!” she said. “It’s hard to believe Mrs. Rice is finally dead. I wanted her to die long ago, but she wouldn’t do it. And now someone has killed her.”

  I automatically looked for Margo, but she was nowhere in sight. Someone had to shut Kathy up, so I moved to her side. “It’s all right, Kathy. We don’t know who harmed Mrs. Rice, but all the Pier-O-Ettes were together at the time she was killed.”

  Kathy nodded solemnly. “Oh yes. We were all together. At the football game.”

  Chocolate Chat

  Chocolate Places: Oklahoma

  If you’re driving between Oklahoma City and Dallas on I-35, be sure to stop at Bedré

  Fine Chocolate. It’s in Pauls Valley, Oklahoma, exit 70, and it may be the only chocolate company in the world owned by an American Indian tribe.

  Bedré is part of the Chickasaw Nation’s economic development program. American Indian economic development is associated with gaming, and the Chickasaws do own casinos. But the tribe is a national leader in diversified activities. It acquired Bedré in 2000. Between forty and one hundred people are employed at the showplace plant, depending on the time of year.

  The Bedré plant and its retail outlet are well worth a stop. The kitchens are state-of-the-art, with giant vats to melt chocolate and a cooling tunnel five times as long as Aunt Nettie would need at TenHuis Chocolade. The chocolate-making operation is open to public view, and special tours can be arranged.

  The plant supplies retailers all across the country. They specialize in chocolate-covered chips and pretzels and candy bars, with lots of other goodies available. And, yes, they offer Oklahoma souvenirs, including chocolate cowboy hats and boots.

  Their Web site is bedrechocolates.com.

  Chapter 9

  Kathy’s remark was provocative. Anybody who’s ever been to a small-town football game will understand why. A small-town football game is total chaos. There’s confused milling around, tackling, signaling, throwing things, yelling, and screaming—and that’s just in the stands.

  Being at the football game is no alibi at all, unless you’re on the team.

  I’m joking, sort of. In Warner Pier, just as in my Texas hometown of Prairie Creek, lots of people go to the Friday night high school football game. After all, we all know someone who attends Warner Pier High School. We’re likely to know someone who plays on the football team, or marches with the band, or performs with the flag corps—or even someone who sells concessions for some high school club—and we want to see them strut their stuff.

  The bleachers at the WPHS stadium hold about five hundred people, and on nearly any Friday night in the fall every seat will be filled. Between three hundred and four hundred of those people will be from Warner Pier, with the rest of the spectators supporting the visiting team. Besides the people lining the bleachers, there are the ones walking around talking. Some people never sit down. They may never even look at the field.

  Joe and I rarely go. I’m tired on Friday nights, and we both like to catch Washington Week. But Aunt Nettie and Hogan usually are there. Hogan says the police chief has to know what’s going on in his community, and on Friday nights in the fall, that means football.

  But I wouldn’t have expected the Pier-O-Ettes to take in the WPHS football game forty-five years after they graduated.

  I touched Aunt Nettie’s arm. “Why did y’all go to the football game?”

  “Ruby’s grandson is the quarterback. She’s very proud of him. We just saw part of the second half.”

  “Did you all stay together?”

  “Well, we found seats together. But, you know, there’s always a lot of milling around.”

  So probably, I thought, none of them could swear where the others were for the whole game. At least they were all in one car, Julie’s limousine. Even if they couldn’t provide alibis for one another, none of them had any way to get out to our Lake Shore Drive neighborhood, several miles away, where Mrs. Rice had been found.

  But within a second I knew that argument wouldn’t cut any ice. The stadium was only two blocks from Aunt Nettie’s house. In fact, it’s hard to find a place to park in her block on game nights. Any of the Pier-O-Ettes could have left the stadium, walked to Aunt Nettie’s, picked up her own car, and driven off to meet Mrs. Rice. It would have taken only a minute to hit her on the head, and only ten or so to bring the car back to Aunt Nettie’s. That late in the game, parking would not have been a problem. Any Pier-O-Ette could have walked two blocks back to the stadium, shown a ticket stub, and reentered the game.

  As a matter of fact, the ticket takers usually leave their posts after the half, and the box office closes then, too, so the Pier-O-Ettes probably hadn’t even bought tickets.

  As I was thinking about all of this, Jackson was asking Aunt Nettie if she had a private room where he could take statements from each of her guests. The only one to raise an objection was Good-Time Charlie McCoy.

  “But I wasn’t even in Warner Pier last night,” he said.

  Jackson looked at him coolly. “Then we won’t need a statement from you,” he said.

  He allowed Charlie and Shep to leave. Charlie seemed relieved. Shep, a little more chivalrous, offered to stick around for moral support. But Aunt Nettie and the other Pier-O-Ettes made it clear they didn’t require moral support, and Shep followed Charlie out the door. In a moment I heard the motor of the Corvette revving.

  Aunt Nettie offered to give the first statement. I guess the police chief’s wife has to set a
good example.

  That meant I still wasn’t able to ask her the questions I wanted to ask. Maybe I could ask Hazel some of them.

  Hazel had settled on the couch, finally becoming part of the group, just the way Aunt Nettie had urged her to. I was terribly tempted to ask her to go into the kitchen and talk to me, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked up the carafe from the coffee table and took it into the kitchen.

  Hazel immediately followed me.

  Okay, I admit I’d figured she would.

  As soon as we were in there, I turned to her. Since any of the group could have come in at any moment, I kept my voice low.

  “Hazel, what is the deal with Kathy Street?”

  Hazel dodged my gaze. “Deal?”

  “Is she disabled? Mentally ill? Why do she and Margo have such an odd relationship?”

  “They’ve always been that way.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s their mother’s fault, I guess. Kathy . . . Well, I guess you’d say she’s in the lower reaches of normal, mentally. She had some kind of brain damage at birth. Kathy and Margo are twins, you know. Not identical, obviously, but twins. Anyway, their mom always made Margo be responsible for her.”

  “And, of course, Margo is naturally dominant,” I said. “It’s an odd situation.”

  Hazel shrugged. “Margo told us Kathy has been diagnosed with something called dependent personality disorder. I guess it’s none of my business.”

  “Why did the trophy frighten Kathy?”

  “The trophy?”

  “Yes, Hazel. Yesterday I innocently pulled out the trophy y’all won at the Castle Ballroom, and Kathy went—well, I guess the technical term for it is ‘bananas.’ ”

  “I don’t know why the trophy upset her.”

  “How about Shep? And Charlie? What does she have against them?”

  Hazel looked surprised. “I didn’t know she had anything against them. None of us really wanted to see them, but Kathy came out to talk to them like the rest of us.”