The Chocolate Bear Burglary (21 page)

Greg Glossop bustled out from behind his high, glassed-off area, as I had thought he would. I knew he’d expect me to trade information, to give him the lowdown on Gail’s death. I’d figured out a few harmless tidbits to use as bait, and I turned them over in my mind as he approached, almost rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the gossip goodies he was about to reap.

Glossop’s comb-over failed to cover his scalp, and his lashes and brows were thin and colorless. This, added to his broad face and plump body, seemed to give him an abnormal amount of skin. As he greeted me, his round belly bounced with what could be excitement.

“Good morning, Lee. How are you coping with the current emergency?”

“Trying to hang in there, Mr. Glossop.” I decided to get my licks in early. “I’m entirely convinced of my stepson’s innocence, and I think Chief Jones is, too. I hope Jeff will be released today.”

Glossop danced on his toes. “But if the chief doesn’t think he did anything, why is he holding him at all?”

“Because Jeff found Gail’s body. He stopped to try to help her, and now he’s being held as a witness. It doesn’t always pay to be a good Samaritan.”

“Tsk, tsk.” Greg Glossop was the only person I knew who actually clicked his tongue that way. “Then these wild stories about your stepson breaking into the shop . . .”

“Absolutely untrue,” I said. “He could have taken a key from Aunt Nettie or me if he wanted to get into the shop. Besides, Jeff knew there was nothing valuable there.”

Glossop’s eyes sparkled. “What about the Hart-VanHorn chocolate molds—weren’t they supposed to be quite valuable?”

“They were taken back to Gail’s shop after the burglary. And Jeff knew that. As far as I know, they’re still over there. I hope they’re returned to the VanHorns soon. Mrs. VanHorn has been very gracious. I certainly don’t want to cause her more problems.”

There. I’d introduced the VanHorns into the conversation. “Apparently she’s had more than her share of problems in the past,” I said.

“Ah, yes. The tragic death of her husband.”

“Yes. And her brother seems to be a worry.”

“Timothy Hart? Oh, yes. He’s been in treatment several times.”

“Treatment?” It didn’t take much encouragement to keep Greg Glossop talking.

“Yes.” Glossop lowered his voice. “Alcoholism. But he always falls off the wagon as soon as he’s on his own. In recent years, I believe the family has simply given up.”

“He’s a pleasant person. Does he have a profession?”

“Luckily, he has a trust fund—or so I’m told. Actually, I’ve heard he graduated from college with high honors.” Glossop leaned forward and dropped his voice even lower. “Perhaps he is a belated casualty of Vietnam. He served there with Congressman VanHorn.”

“I didn’t know either of them had served in Vietnam.”

“The congressman had quite a record—not the Congressional Medal, but some very high honors. He and Timothy were in the same unit, or that’s the story.”

“So Timothy introduced his sister to her husband?”

“Oh, yes! Congressman VanHorn came from a working-class background. He went to law school on his military benefits. Of course, I gather he was always ambitious.”

I didn’t want to talk about Congressman VanHorn. I wanted to talk about his brother-in-law. “So the congressman had remained friends with Timothy?”

Glossop raised his eyebrows. “Drinking buddies.”

“Oh!” I tried to sound startled.

Glossop nodded and winked. “Both of them were steady customers for the Superette’s liquor department.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “Mrs. VanHorn
has
had problems.” Back to Timothy, I reminded myself. Drunk or sober, Congressman VanHorn had been dead fifteen years. “Where does Timothy live in the winter?”

“He lives here year-round.”

“At the Hart compound? But they’re talking about selling it!”

Glossop’s eyes sparkled. Apparently we’d reached the juicy bit. “Yes. I think there are three year-round houses and the summer cottage in the Hart-VanHorn compound, plus several garages, barns, and such. Timothy Hart has always lived in what they call the “little house.” Now Olivia VanHorn is apparently planning to sell her brother’s home to finance her son’s political career.”

“Perhaps Mr. Hart wants to leave. It must be lonely there in the winter.”

“Oh, Timothy has lots of friends. He entertains a lot.” In Glossop’s mouth the word “entertains” took on a sinister meaning, hinting at drunken revels. I decided to ignore his implication.

“It can’t be easy to live out there. It’s almost outside the city limits, and Mr. Hart told me he no longer drives.”

“Did he, now?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I know he says he doesn’t have a driver’s license.” Glossop chuckled.

Now we were down to what I really wanted to know. I decided it was time to be overtly nosy. “Does he drive? Even without a license?”

“I don’t know that he ever leaves the property,” Glossop said. “But there are fifteen or twenty acres down there, you know. Lots of drives and paths. I delivered a prescription to him last spring, and when I arrived he met me at the gate in that old sports car of his.”

It was all I could do not to grab his arm and blurt out a question: Did it have a broken taillight? But even if Timothy’s old car hadn’t had a broken taillight last spring—nearly a year earlier—it might have one now. Besides, the last thing I wanted to do was alert Greg Gossip to the importance of what he had told me. He would spread the word all over town within minutes, and Timothy Hart’s old sports car might disappear before Chief Jones could check on it.

So I did my best not to react to this news. Instead, I paid for Aunt Nettie’s vitamins, discouraged Glossop from telling me a tidbit about someone I’d never heard of, told him the two pieces of news that I’d previously prepared, and left the Superette headed for the police station and ready to solve the murder of Gail Hess.

After all, we all knew Timothy Hart was an unstable character. He had given the molds to Gail for sale without telling his sister what he had done. Olivia had probably scolded him. He must have broken into TenHuis Chocolade to get them back, though I had no explanation of why he would have taken only one hard-to-reach mold unless Jeff had interrupted him from taking them all.

But Gail must have suspected Timothy. Perhaps he even tried to break into her shop and get the molds back. Timothy must have quarreled with her, lost his temper, picked up the baseball bat from the display in her shop, chased her down the street—and killed her. I felt sure I was right. I went straight to the police station.

I was rather let down when Chief Jones didn’t see the situation quite the way I did.

“Now, Lee,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair and stretching his long legs across the office. “Let’s not let our imaginations run away from the facts.”

“Has Mike Herrera been in here?”

“Yep. Mike was here early this morning. He told me about seeing some sort of sports car in the alley behind Gail’s shop.”

“And now we discover that Timothy VanHorn still has a sports car, or at least he still had it last spring. You’ve got to admit there’s a possibility that he’s involved.”

“I’d have to see the car first.”

“You’re the law! Go look at it.”

“I’d need permission from the property owners.”

“I’d hate to give Timothy that much warning.”

“It’s either that or a warrant. And I think it very unlikely that any judge would issue a warrant based on a story from Greg Glossop.”

I growled. Then I sat down and glared at the chief. Neither action seemed likely to change the situation. What could I do? An idea appeared in the back of my mind.

But before I could focus on it, the chief spoke. “I was going to tell you what I found out about Gail’s problems in Indiana.”

“What? Was she wanted?”

“Hardly. Apparently there was some discrepancy in the accounts of a big antique show she helped organize. But the Indiana antique dealers decided it would be too embarrassing to have a full investigation. Gail ‘found’ the missing money, and no charges were filed.”

“Then she moved to Michigan. Does this tell you anything?”

The chief shrugged. “It tells me that I might not want to elect Gail treasurer of anything.”

“It tells me she might have a very unusual and creative idea of right and wrong.”

“True. But Gail’s not a suspect. She was the victim.”

I thought about that for a minute. “How about that antique dealer who showed up last night?”

“Celia Carmichael? She’s still here. The lab people didn’t want anybody in Gail’s shop until this afternoon, and Ms. Carmichael decided to wait and take a look at the chocolate molds.”

I got up. “Well, what about Jeff?”

“Webb Bartlett has already called me,” the chief said. “This is the day I’ve got to charge him or let him go.”

“Can I see him?”

“Sure. He’s bored out of his skull.”

Neither of us mentioned that Jeff was lucky to be sitting in the holding cell at the Warner Pier Police Department, instead of the Warner County Jail.

Jeff didn’t see it that way, of course. When the chief opened his cell and waved me inside, Jeff greeted me with a glare. “I’ve just got to get out of here,” he said. “I didn’t do anything!”

I sat down next to him on the bunk. “Unfortunately, we can’t prove that, Jeff. But Webb Bartlett is working on it. And so am I. Plus, I’m trying to get hold of your mom and dad.”

For the first time Jeff didn’t snarl at me when I mentioned his parents. He looked down and blinked. Darn! He was just a kid. He needed his mother, for heaven’s sake. I wanted to hug him.

So I did. I put my arm around his shoulder in a half hug, and Jeff didn’t pull away. He dropped his head and stared at his feet.

“We’re all doing our best for you, Jeff. Alicia Richardson is on the job. If anybody can find your folks, she will.”

Jeff nodded. One or two wet drops appeared on the floor beside his feet. In a minute, I eased off on the hug, and Jeff took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. “I guess I’d really like to see my folks,” he said. His voice broke on the last word.

I promised him they would be there soon. “And maybe you’ll already be out of here,” I said.

We exchanged good-byes, and I got up and left. It wasn’t going to do Jeff any good if I began crying, too. I collected my belongings and made it out of the police station and into the city clerk’s office before I bawled like a baby. Pat VanTil gave me a tissue and the same kind of hug I’d given Jeff.

In a minute I pulled myself together. “I’ve got to get to work. Thanks for the emotional first aid, Pat.”

Pat waved her hand. “Bring me a chocolate teddy bear next time you come, and I’ll let you have a whole box of Kleenex.”

I took a deep breath, walked out into the crisp winter sunshine—the temperature was up to twenty-eight—and went down to the shop. On the way I made up my mind about my next step. I was on the phone before I even took my boots and jacket off.

The phone was picked up after the fourth ring. “Vintage Boats.”

“Joe, I hear that there’s a big boat-storage building down at the Hart-VanHorn compound.”

“So?”

“What’ll you bet they’ve got some antique wooden speedboats down there?”

Joe thought a moment before he spoke. “You want to nose around at the Hart-VanHorn place.”

“Yes. Will you help me?”

“I’ll be on my way in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“You can’t go,” Joe said.

I
started to argue, but Joe kept talking.

“First, Lee, you don’t buy boats. Second, Warner Pier—and that includes Timothy Hart—knows about your determination to get Jeff released. There’s no way anybody would believe you’d stop in the middle of that effort to go look at antique boats. Not just out of curiosity. Even Tim’s pickled brain would figure out that you were up to something the minute you got out of the truck.”

Joe shut up then, without mentioning that there were a couple of more reasons I shouldn’t go, but I thought of them. Third, I had accepted a date with Hart VanHorn, even though the date had been cancelled. So if I casually showed up at Hart’s house in the company of Joe Woodyard, it was going to look kind of funny. Rude? Brazen? I wasn’t sure, but it was going to look odd.

Fourth, Joe still didn’t want to be seen in public with me. That reason rankled, but since Joe was doing me a favor I wasn’t in a position to argue about it.