The Chocolate Bear Burglary (22 page)

So I breathed deeply a couple of times, but I didn’t object out loud.

“Okay,” I said. “As long as you understand what you’re really looking for.”

“A 1968 MGB with a broken taillight.”

I had to be content with that. I hung up, reminding myself that Joe might not even get on the property. There was no real reason any member of the Hart-VanHorn clan should allow an unauthorized visitor.

So until noon I stared at the computer screen, pretending to work, and chewed my nails. The hands of the clock on the workroom wall had just reached the twelve when the phone rang.

It was Joe. “You want to see a movie?” he said.

“A movie?”

“A video. I took Mom’s camera along when I went boat scouting.”

“Where are you?”

“Mom’s office. Come on over.”

I picked up a couple of papers, hoping to look as if I had business with Mercy Woodyard, put on my jacket, and jaywalked across the street. Joe beckoned me into his mother’s private office, then closed the door.

“Did you have any trouble getting on the property?” I said.

“No. Poor old Timothy was glad to see a friendly face.” Joe took my jacket and pointed me toward a leather couch. After we’d both taken a seat, he gestured at the television set with a remote and punched the button to start the VCR. Immediately an overall view of the Hart-VanHorn compound appeared on the screen.

I’d driven past the compound dozens of times, of course. I’d walked past it on the lake side, for that matter, so I’d probably seen the Hart-VanHorn houses from the beach. If you have lakeshore property—which is worth a small fortune per square foot around Warner Pier—the normal thing to do is build a house overlooking the beach, a house with picture windows and a deck or porch designed for keeping an eye on the kids as they build sand castles, and for watching the sunset, or for simply sitting and looking at the water, the trees, and the sand. If you have enough land for garages, boathouses, and storage sheds, those can go up near the road, where they won’t obstruct the view of the water.

The Hart-VanHorn property followed this pattern. A big barnlike building was near the road, and this, plus some huge trees, meant the houses were largely hidden from passersby. Also, this was the first winter I’d spent in Michigan, so I’d never seen the property with no leaves on the trees. Now, with Joe’s video, I had a clearer idea of the layout.

The compound had two sets of stone gates, one where the blacktop drive went in and one where it came out, and the video showed that a snowplow had cleared the drive. The blacktop looped through the property, passing each of the four houses.

Easiest to spot was the “little house,” the one Greg Glossop had said was the permanent home of Timothy Hart. It was too close to the road to have a view of the lake, and it was an L-shaped white clapboard 1890s farmhouse—a smaller version of the one Aunt Nettie and I live in. It probably had a kitchen, living room, and a dining room downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. One room, which I was willing to bet was the living room, stuck out as a one-story wing, and the house was sure to have a Michigan basement, which has stone or concrete walls and a sand floor. It must have central heating, or Timothy wouldn’t be likely to live in it year-round, but it didn’t look as if it had been modernized in any other way. It was probably the first house the Hart family had built on the property. It might well have already been there when they acquired the land.

Behind it, closer to the lake, was a low bungalow of stone and shingled siding, a prime example of the Arts and Crafts style and a generation younger than the farmhouse. Its front door faced the drive, so its side was toward the lake. The video showed glimpses of a large porch on that side, a porch that was now shuttered for the winter. Beyond the porch there seemed to be a deck or a patio, and I thought I saw a chimney out there, evidence of a built-in barbecue pit. This house must be the one Greg Glossop said was not winterized. It must have been the cat’s meow in the twenties and thirties.

Beside it, and squarely facing the camera, were two houses designed to present blank walls to the road. I was sure, however, that their back walls would be entirely of glass.

One house was brick and one stone, and both had nearly solid front walls—only one or two windows—centered with heavy, grandiose doors that wouldn’t have been out of place on medieval castles. In fact, the front door of the stone house was approached over an ornamental bridge that crossed a miniature moat, almost like a drawbridge. The house looked as if it could have been held against an army. But both houses were huge, twice the size of the bungalow and four or five times the size of the farmhouse. They both had a 1970s look.

It was a very impressive layout.

“Wow!” I said. “Have all those houses been sitting empty for fifteen years?”

“Except for Timothy’s.”

“Seems as if they’d rent them out or something. Who built the stone and the brick ones?”

“I’d guess that the VanHorns built the stone one when Hart’s dad began to have political ambitions. Anyway, that seems to be the one Mrs. VanHorn and Hart are staying in. Mom says the brick house was built by Olivia VanHorn’s sister, but she moved to California and quit using it a long time back. I don’t know who used the bungalow. Olivia and Timothy’s parents, probably.”

“Are there boathouses?”

“Nothing down on the lake. There’s a big storage shed near the road. See, the red barn at the left.”

“The red barn? Did you get a look inside?”

“Sort of.”

We continued to watch the video. Now the scene shifted. Timothy was opening his front door.

“How did you hide the camera?” I said.

“I just tucked it under my arm and left it running.”

On the video Timothy was greeting Joe effusively and inviting him in. Joe answered, telling Timothy he bought and restored wooden speedboats, and that he was scouting for likely projects.

“Well, there’s my dad’s old boat, over in the barn,” Timothy said. “I don’t know if Olivia wants to sell it. It hasn’t been in the water in twenty years.”

“Could I take a look at it? Maybe get some pictures? Then if you and Mrs. VanHorn put it on the market later, I’ll know what we’re talking about.”

“I’ll go back to the kitchen and get the keys and my jacket.”

Joe turned around while he waited, and the video camera swept around the compound. I found myself admiring the landscaping. The snow might have covered the flower beds, but it couldn’t hide the hedges, the trees, the stone walls, the tennis court. It was a beautiful property.

Apparently Joe had thought so, too, because when Timothy reappeared in a heavy red Pendleton jacket, Joe commented on the compound. “The property is in top-notch shape. Do you take care of all this?”

Timothy gave a tipsy laugh. “I’m not what you’d call handy. But I’m in charge of making sure the key’s in its usual hiding place when the handyman and landscapers come.”

Joe followed Timothy’s red jacket across the snow. They seemed to be breaking a trail around the end of the tennis court that centered the compound. In a few minutes they reached the second part of the drive—the exit, I guess you’d call it—coming out on the blacktop near the big storage building that resembled a red barn.

“This hasn’t been opened this winter,” Timothy said. “We may find a squirrel’s nest.”

“Don’t Hart and Mrs. VanHorn park over here?”

“No, there’s a garage in the basement of the stone house. The barn door is around at the side.”

Timothy fumbled with a lock and opened a small door. The video went dark as Joe entered the building, then brightened as Timothy turned on a glaring overhead light and the camera’s automatic lens adjusted. I leaned forward, eager to see what was inside the barn.

For a moment it looked like a morgue. Then I realized that everything inside was shrouded in canvas dust covers. Timothy led the way past a couple of hulking objects; one obviously was a boat, and the other might have been anything. Then he pulled the canvas back to reveal a mahogany prow.

“This was Dad’s boat,” he said. “It’s a Chris-Craft. He was very proud of it. It was ‘postwar,’ if that means anything to you. He got it when he came back from World War Two.”

Joe evidently laid the camera down on the lumpy item next to the Chris-Craft, because I could see him and Tim folding the cover back. “It’s a beauty,” Joe said. “A seventeen-footer, I think. One of the first ones made after the war.”

At that point the conversation deteriorated to a discussion of boats. Joe raved about the Chris-Craft. Timothy preened. They moved away from the camera, and I couldn’t hear much and got only intermittent looks at the two of them.

“The Chris-Craft is the only wooden motor boat here,” Timothy said. “Of course, there’s our mother’s canoe.”

Joe gasped. “Where is it?”

He did remember to pick up the camera then, and he swung it around the barn, which seemed to be about the size of a four-car garage.

The canoe was up in the rafters, upside down. “A bit hard to get it down, I’m afraid,” Timothy said.

“No need,” Joe said. He aimed his camera up at the canoe.

Then a new voice was heard on the tape. It was muffled, but I understood the words. “What are you two doing?”

Joe swung around, or at least the video camera did, and a figure appeared silhouetted in the open door. It was just a fuzzy outline for a moment, as it moved inside and closed the door. Then it became Olivia VanHorn.

She looked as much the grand dame as ever, wearing her casual mink jacket and a wool scarf—I was willing to bet it was cashmere—draped around her head. She approached the camera, smiling graciously. “Tim? What are you doing out here in the cold?”

“Just showing Joe here Dad’s old boat,” Tim said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” Suddenly he seemed to lack confidence.

“It’s a honey,” Joe said. “I’m Joe Woodyard, Mrs. VanHorn. I was in law school with Hart. But now I’m restoring antique power boats.”

“Oh, yes. Your mother has an insurance agency.”

The social chitchat went on between Joe and Olivia VanHorn for several minutes. Neither of them made any reference to Joe’s ex-wife, though Olivia obviously knew who Joe was. Joe kept his attention on the postwar Chris-Craft, enthusiastically telling Olivia and Timothy what a nice boat it was.

“If you decided to put it on the market,” he said, “I’d definitely want to make an offer.”

He had tucked the camera under his arm again, so I couldn’t see Olivia as she replied. But her voice sounded slightly sardonic. “If you really want to make an offer, Joe, shouldn’t you be telling us it isn’t worth very much?”

Joe laughed. “Oh, I think you’re smart enough to get an appraisal before you sell it, Mrs. VanHorn. I don’t think you’d be easy to cheat. Are there other old boats around? Mr. Hart showed me the canoe.”

“No, there’s the ski boat, but it’s less than twenty years old.”

“Then it’s probably fiberglass. Not my thing. However—”Joe gave a boyish chuckle”—Mr. Hart, you may not know it, but you had a piece of fiberglass that caused me to commit the sin of envy in a big way, back when I was in high school.”

Timothy Hart gave a snort. “I can’t believe I ever aroused envy in anyone.”

“I assure you that every guy at Warner Pier High School envied you that sports car you had. An MGB with a fiberglass top.”

Joe moved the camera, and now I could see Timothy’s face cloud up. He looked stricken. But I couldn’t tell if he was feeling sorrowful or angry.

He spoke. “The MGB. . . .” Then he stopped and glanced at his sister. “I l-l-lost the MGB. . . .”

Olivia VanHorn jumped in to smooth over an awkward situation. “Tim doesn’t drive these days,” she said. “In fact, Tim, I was making a grocery list, and I wondered if you wanted anything.”

Joe was being dismissed. He and Timothy replaced the canvas cover on the Chris-Craft. He swung the video camera around as he was escorted out, but the chitchat became innocuous. I was barely listening as Olivia herded the two men back toward the door.

Then I saw it.

It was the lumpy thing that had been next to the Chris-Craft. Compared to the boats, it was small, maybe ten feet long and four feet high. Its canvas cover shrouded it completely—except for one corner.

Joe probably didn’t see it himself, but the camera, now held down at his side, picked up the key detail.

A ski. A ski just a few feet long. And above it, a shiny purple surface.

“Joe! Stop the tape!” I shrieked the words.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look! Look under that cover. It’s purple!”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. I see it.”

“Joe, it could be that snowmobile. The one that chased me.”

Joe and I looked at the flickering video. “It’s hard to believe,” he said. “I can see Timothy arguing with Gail. But why would he chase you with a snowmobile?”

My heart was pounding. Suddenly I covered my eyes. “Turn it off. That snowmobile—it was horrible! I don’t want to think about it.”

The next thing I knew Joe had taken me in his arms. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

I got a big handful of his flannel shirt, and I hung on for dear life. I didn’t say anything. I buried my head in Joe’s shoulder, and I just sat there and trembled.

It was wonderful to have Joe hold me, to have him act as if he cared about what I was going through. It didn’t matter if he wouldn’t take me out in public. I didn’t care if he was mixed-up and didn’t know what he wanted, even if he ran for cover every time he saw someone who looked like a tabloid reporter. His arms were so comforting that I could have sat there all day.

I don’t know why I didn’t cry. I think I simply didn’t dare—if I’d started I wouldn’t have stopped for days.

In a few minutes I sort of pulled away and said, “I guess that I’ve been so worried about Jeff that I just haven’t reacted to being chased by that snowmobile. I can’t break down yet, Joe. But I’m beginning to think this mess will never end.”