The Chocolate Bear Burglary (2 page)

There were no peppermints or hard candies here. TenHuis makes only fine, European-style chocolates—bonbons, truffles, and molded treats.

I had just put the final red velvet swag on the counter when the door opened and Gail blew in.

It wasn’t really a pun. Gail Hess walked and talked so fast that a conversation with her was like standing out in a high wind. She was fiftyish, maybe twenty years older than I was, and she wore her frankly fake red hair cut short and tousled—as if it had been styled by a hurricane. She always left me feeling as if I were back in my hometown on the Texas plains, facing into one of our thirty-mile-an-hour breezes.

Gail began talking as rapidly as usual. “IsOliviahereyet?”

My Texas ears didn’t understand a word she said. Aunt Nettie seemed to, though she looked surprised. “Olivia VanHorn?” she asked.

“Yes. I invited her to come by.”

“I didn’t even know she was back in town.”

“She’s clearing out her mother’s house. I was afraid she would be here before me. Nettie, the molds look lovely!”

Aunt Nettie gave an antique teddy a final tweak, then climbed down from her step stool. She seemed puzzled. I wondered what was bothering her. It couldn’t be the arrangement of the chocolate molds. Gail had just admired them, anyway. It must be the mention of this Olivia person.

“Who is Olivia VanHorn,” I said, “and why does she want to see the display of molds?”

Gail looked at me. “Oh, Lee, I keep forgetting you’re almost a stranger in Warner Pier. Being Nettie’s niece and all. Though I will say you two don’t look as if you’re related.”

“We’re not blood relations,” Aunt Nettie said. “Phil was Lee’s mother’s brother. Lee has the TenHuis head for business. I bless the day she agreed to help me out.”

“And I bless the day she agreed to help me get out of Dallas,” I said.

We both laughed. The secret, of course, is that Aunt Nettie and I just love each other. And we respect our differences. So we’re able to work together all day and share a house at night without getting on each other’s nerves too often.

“Phil always handled the business side, so I was lost after he died,” Aunt Nettie said. “Lee’s got me back on my feet.”

I gritted my teeth at that one. Aunt Nettie’s business was still teetering, and we had an obnoxious banker leaning over our shoulders to prove it. But I didn’t want to tell the other Warner Pier merchants that, so I changed the subject. “Now, back to my question. Who is Olivia VanHorn?”

“Oh! Olivia’s a Hart,” Gail said.

“I thought you said her name was VanHorn?”

“It is. Her maiden name was Hart.”

“The Harts have always summered here,” Aunt Nettie said. “Olivia’s great-grandfather was one of the original group of Chicago people who built cottages in the 1890s.”

Warner Pier society has three castes—I’d found that out a dozen years earlier, when I was sixteen and worked for Aunt Nettie during summer vacation. First, there are the “locals,” divided into subcastes such as natives, newcomers, retirees, commuters, and so forth. Then there are the “tourists,” who make brief visits to Warner Pier and who count only as contributors to the community’s economic kitty. And then there are the “summer people,” who spend the warm-weather months in cottages or houses they own in Warner Pier or along the shore of Lake Michigan. A lot of the summer people are wealthy—some are socially prominent or others even famous—and a lot of the families have been coming to the area for seventy-five or a hundred years. They are taxpayers, but rarely vote in Warner Pier. They get special treatment even though they aren’t considered “locals.” It’s a complicated system, but knowing that the Harts had “always” summered in Warner Pier assigned Olivia Hart VanHorn to her proper station in life.

“I thought she’d never be back,” Aunt Nettie said.

“She hasn’t been since her husband died—more than fifteen years. And I guess she won’t be back again. She and her brother are putting the cottages on the market.” Gail leaned close to Aunt Nettie and lowered her voice. “The gossip is that she wants the money for Hart’s campaign.”

It took me a second to place “Hart.” Then I remembered that Hart VanHorn was a state legislator who was being talked up as a candidate for Congress. This Olivia VanHorn must be his mother.

Aunt Nettie raised her eyebrows. “Then he’s definitely running?”

“That’s the way Olivia talks.”

“Are they going to sell the whole compound as one piece of property?”

“I think they’d like to.” Gail used both hands to muss her hair up even more. “Three year-round houses, plus the bungalow. I’m hoping to handle the estate sale.”

“Good for you,” Aunt Nettie said. “The contents of all the houses?”

“Yes. Of course, it’s the usual story. The family’s taking the good stuff. But Timothy gave me the chocolate molds on consignment.”

I spoke up. “Then the antique molds belong to this Olivia VanHorn and her brother?”

“Yes. Her grandfather started out in the chocolate business—some of the molds were actually used in his original shop in Chicago. Then he invented some special machine used in making chocolate. He sold out to Hershey in 1910.”

“I’m surprised that no one in the family wants to keep the molds,” I said.

Before Gail could answer, the door opened again, and I knew that the woman who entered had to be Olivia Hart VanHorn. She simply had the look of a woman whose family had a “compound” on the shore of Lake Michigan, whose grandfather had sold out to Hershey in 1910, and whose son was running for Congress. Think American duchess, and you’ve got it.

She wasn’t beautiful. But when I’m sixty, I’ll settle for flawless skin, a slender figure, erect carriage, dark brown eyes, and white hair arching back from a patrician forehead. If I can have all that, I won’t complain about the big hooked nose and the thin neck. They might prevent conventional beauty, but they definitely added character.

Olivia VanHorn smiled with complete graciousness and an air of command. “I hope I’m not late.”

If this gal was ever late, the clock would back up and wait for her. I almost curtsied.

Instead, Gail introduced us, and Mrs. VanHorn and I shook hands. Aunt Nettie greeted her as “Olivia,” and she spoke back to “Nettie.” They exchanged How-are-yous and You-haven’t-changed-a-bits. Olivia VanHorn was friendly, but not effusive.

Gail gestured toward the shelves behind the cash register. “What do you think of the display?” She and Aunt Nettie turned toward the molds.

Olivia VanHorn looked at the molds, too, and slowly, very slowly, the life drained out of her face.

She stood as still as death, not even breathing. Her stillness was frightening. And she was beginning to sway. I realized she was going to faint.

I grabbed a chair, one of two we keep in the shop for people who have to wait for their orders, and I scooted the chair behind Olivia VanHorn. “Here,” I said. “Sit.”

I don’t know if Mrs. VanHorn sat or if her knees simply buckled. But she wound up in the chair.

“Head between the knees,” I said.

Instead, she leaned back in the chair. “It’s all right,” she said. She took a deep, sobbing breath.

All this had happened in about two seconds, and Gail and Aunt Nettie had spent those seconds staring at the chocolate molds. Now they turned around, and both of them gaped at me and Olivia VanHorn.

Mrs. VanHorn was getting her color back. “I’m fine,” she said.

Gail Hess began to fuss around. “Goodness, Olivia, what happened?”

“Oh, it’s nothing! I have these turns. I’m sorry if I frightened everyone. They go away quickly.”

She was looking much better. “My doctor assures me it’s nothing serious.”

“I hope not! Shall we call a doctor?”

“Oh, no! Hart drove me in. He went down to the bank to speak to George Palmer. George chairs the party for Warner County, you know, so Hart needs to keep in contact with him. But I’m fine now.”

She might be fine, but the mention of George Palmer had nearly made
me
faint. George was the local bank manager and Aunt Nettie’s loan officer, and I found him annoying. Plus I’d had a real friendship with his predecessor, Barbara, so every time I had to deal with George, I missed her.

Mrs. VanHorn looked at me and smiled graciously. “Your niece reacted quickly, Nettie.”

The smile froze me. It was gracious as all get out, true. But the dark eyes stabbed right through me. I had punctured the dignity of a great lady by noticing that she was about to fall down in a dead faint. Embarrassed, I moved back behind the counter.

But Olivia VanHorn wasn’t through. “Thank you very much for the first aid, Lee.”

I had to respond. “We have lots of practice,” I said. “Everybody swans over Aunt Nettie’s chocolates.”

I’d done it again. Gotten my tongue tangled and used the wrong word. Gail and Olivia VanHorn stared at me and even Aunt Nettie looked puzzled.

“I’ll try that one again,” I said. “All our customers swoon over Aunt Nettie’s chocolates.”

Everybody smiled, and I went on. “Sparklin’ reparty ain’t my fort-tay,” I said. “I git my tang tongueled.”

Aunt Nettie laughed, so Gail decided I’d done it on purpose that time, and she smiled. Olivia VanHorn gave a perfunctory chuckle. I gestured at the shelves. “If you’re feeling better, I hope you are pleased with the display of chocolate molds.”

Olivia VanHorn looked at the display and nodded. “They look wonderful, Nettie.”

“I’m going to put one or two in the showcase,” Aunt Nettie said. “I’d like for people to be able to see the detail, but I know they are quite valuable. I don’t want anybody picking one up to look it over.”

“It’s a beautiful collection, Olivia,” Gail said. “I was really surprised when Timothy said you wanted to sell them. I remember the lovely display your mother had in that wonderful oak china cabinet in the bungalow. And they’re highly collectible.”

I’d been around enough antique dealers to know how to translate “highly collectible.” It meant “nice commission for me.”

Olivia VanHorn nodded. “Timothy gave them to you?”

“They were with some other things he brought in on consignment. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No, my idiot brother didn’t tell me. I’m delighted that you’re using them for your display, Nettie. But Gail, I really don’t want them sold.”

“Then we’ll take them down immediately,” Aunt Nettie said.

“No, no! They’re perfect for the Teddy Bear Getaway theme. I’ll pick them up after the promotion is over.” Now Olivia VanHorn gave a rather stilted laugh. “After Timothy has a piece of my mind.”

Gail began to apologize profusely, but Olivia brushed her words aside. “Gail, it’s not your fault in any way. In fact, it’s not Timothy’s fault. I remember he said he was going to take a box of old kitchen things from the basement of the bungalow to an antique dealer, and I assured him it was all right. I didn’t realize the molds were in the box.”

Olivia VanHorn was looking much better. She stood up, and she and Aunt Nettie began to look at the individual molds. “I always remember this one, the acrobat bear wearing a fez,” Mrs. VanHorn said, tapping the shelf in front of that one. “When I was a little girl, I had a book about a circus and a bear who did tricks. I always thought this was a mold of him. Actually, of course, it’s a German mold.”

“Oh, yes,” Gail said. “An Anton Reiche. It dates from around 1929. But it’s not the most valuable in the collection. I have a friend in Chicago, Celia Carmichael, who’s a real expert on chocolate molds. I believe she evaluated them for your mother, Olivia. Celia is coming up this way in the next few days, and she wants to stop by and see them.”

This comment made Olivia blink, and Gail hastily spoke again. “I’ll be sure and tell her they’re not for sale. But she’ll enjoy seeing them.”

The three of them continued talking about the molds, each from her own angle. Aunt Nettie looked at their historical connection to the chocolate business, Gail at their value to collectors, and Olivia VanHorn at her childhood memories.

I stood by and listened. We weren’t exactly swamped with customers that day—in fact, winters are really slow for nearly all Warner Pier retail businesses. The “hairnet ladies,” the women who actually make the chocolates, stay busy with mail orders and commercial accounts, but Aunt Nettie and I don’t bother to keep anybody on duty at the counter in the winter. If customers walk in, one of us runs up to wait on them.

I was considering going back to the paperwork piled up on my desk when the phone rang. I answered the extension behind the counter. “TenHuis Chocolade.”

“Lee? I’m glad it’s you.”

It was Joe Woodyard. Calling me at the office. That was strange. Joe and I were circling around a love affair, but for a lot of complicated reasons we—or maybe just Joe—didn’t want to become an item for Warner Pier gossip. So Joe phoned me several times a week, but we’d agreed that he would always call me at home.

“Hi,” I said.

“Lee, I just caught a kid trying to break into your house.”

“What?”

“I’d have called the cops, but—” Joe stopped talking.

“But what? Joe, if someone tried to break in . . . Who is it?”

“He claims he’s your son.”

M
y son?

I was so astonished I think I hung up without saying another word. I headed for my office. I stepped into my boots, pulled on my ski jacket, and walked past Aunt Nettie, Gail Hess, and Olivia VanHorn without speaking. I went out the street door, leaving them gaping after me. Or Aunt Nettie and Gail gaped; Olivia merely raised a well-bred eyebrow.

I drove off in my van, which had been Michiganized with the proper license plates and three fifty-pound bags of kitty litter, carried as ballast and for emergency traction.

The day was sunny and the streets fairly clear, either covered with hard-packed snow and ice or melted through to the pavement. Snow several feet deep covered the lawns and fields I passed on the way to Aunt Nettie’s house on the outskirts of Warner Pier. I drove cautiously, like a Texan in snowy weather, but I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to the road. I was too upset at the thought of my “son.” My son the burglar.