The Chocolate Bear Burglary (23 page)

He pulled me closer and kissed my forehead. “It’s going to end, and it’s going to end happily. And happy or unhappy, you’re going to handle it.”

Then he kissed me. On the mouth this time.

As I said, Joe and I had mostly had a telephone relationship. Until our necking party a few days earlier, he’d only kissed me a few times, and those kisses had been—well, exploratory.

This one was the real thing. He was kissing me, and I was kissing him, and neither of us wanted to stop. If the phone hadn’t rung, I don’t know what would have happened next.

But it did ring, and it distracted both of us enough that Joe relaxed his grip and quit kissing me, and I moved away slightly. So we were looking fairly decent when Joe’s mom rapped on the door, then opened it and looked in.

“It’s for you, Lee,” she said. “It’s your aunt.”

I took a deep breath, thanked her, and went to the extension phone on her private desk.

“Lee!” Aunt Nettie sounded excited. “A woman called from Dallas. She said she works for Richard Godfrey Associates.”

“Alicia Richardson?”

“Yes, that was the name. She said to tell you she finally got hold of Jeff’s mom and dad.”

“Wonderful! Where are they?”

“I don’t know that, but she said to tell you they are on their way to Michigan. They’re flying into Chicago this afternoon.”

M
y first reaction of relief at the prospect of handing over the responsibility for Jeff quickly turned to dread. I hadn’t seen Rich in two years; I didn’t want to face him when he’d just learned that his son might be accused of murder. I had a feeling that he was going to think the whole thing was my fault.

I saw only one flimsy hope. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” I said, “if this case is solved and the right person is under arrest by the time Rich and Dina get here?”

“That doesn’t look likely,” Joe said. “We haven’t even figured out what was really behind all this, and I don’t think Hogan Jones knows either.”

I sat down again. “That’s right, I guess. Though obviously the burglary—the one Jeff stopped Tuesday night—had something to do with those molds. After all, the molds were at TenHuis Chocolade Tuesday night and at Gail’s Wednesday, when she was attacked.”

I’d almost forgotten Mercy Woodyard was standing in the doorway. “I haven’t figured out why anybody would want to steal those molds,” she said. “They look pretty ordinary to me.”

“They’re worth quite a bit,” I said. “And they made a nice decoration for the shop.” Then I realized something. “Mercy, you were never in the shop while the molds were on display. When did you see them?”

“They’re over in Gail’s storeroom in a box. I looked at a few of them when I was over there this morning.”

“Is the shop no longer considered a crime scene?”

Mercy shrugged. “The tape’s still up out front, but the chief told Nancy Warren she could have access to her sister’s property. Nancy gave me a key, so I could keep an eye on things until she gets through the funeral and gets a lawyer to settle the estate. I let Celia Carmichael in and checked the place over earlier.”

I sat up straight. “Do you think the chief would mind if I took a look?”

“Apparently not. I’ll get the key and take you over.”

Joe went with us, and we ducked under the yellow tape and went in Gail’s front door. Going into the shop felt spooky, but there was actually nothing gruesome about the scene. The state police crime lab had taken anything gory away—if there’d been anything. After all, the chief thought Gail confronted her killer in the shop, because that’s where the baseball bat had been, but he believed she was chased across the street before the deathblows were struck. Or maybe Gail saw someone at TenHuis Chocolade, decided to confront them, and took the baseball bat with her.

“The molds are in the back room,” Mercy said.

Joe and I followed her through the shop, which was the junky type of antique store. Everything was jumbled together and nothing looked too valuable. In Jeff’s mom’s shop in Dallas only a few pieces were out, and each one was carefully displayed, often with accent lighting and carefully draped backdrops. Gail’s shop was set up to make the buyer think each piece was a bargain; Dina’s shop was designed to make buyers think they were getting something rare and worth the prices she charged. I guess I prefer the more carefully arranged shops; the clutter in shops like Gail’s makes me feel as if I’m about to bump into something or step on something or break things in some other way.

But I got through the shop without demolishing the Depression glass, upending an urn, or tripping over a table. As Mercy entered the storage room, she pointed to a huge cardboard box. Bold letters on the side, made with a black marking pen, identified its contents: “Hart-VanHorn collection.”

Inside the box, a lot of bits and pieces were tumbled together.

“What a mess,” I said. “This is obviously junk from the cellar. If getting a box like this on consignment made Gail think she was going to get to run a sale for an estate like the Hart-VanHorn compound, she was the most optimistic person I ever ran into.”

“This stuff may have been tossed in the box like junk,” Joe said, “but apparently the molds were in the lot.” He pulled a couple of the molds out of the top of the box. “Here, lay these out on that worktable, and we’ll look at them.”

Mercy went back to her office, and Joe handed the molds to me. They’d been wrapped in tissue paper, and I unwrapped them and laid them in rows on Gail’s table. Joe heaped the other items from the box on the floor.

I examined each mold as I put it out. The bears we’d had in the shop were on top, of course. There were seated bears and standing bears and a walking bear and an acrobatic bear who wore a funny hat and was apparently about to do a cartwheel. But there was no mean-looking bear with a harness on its snout. That one was still missing.

“It was the rusty mold, too,” I said. “And Gail said it wasn’t the most valuable bear in the collection. That really mystifies me.”

“Huh?” Joe said.

“Just thinking out loud.”

Next Joe handed me other animals. There were dogs—a funny little Scottie, a dachshund, a comical bulldog. There were elephants doing tricks, elephants trumpeting, stylized elephants and realistic elephants. Then came birds—storks, ducks, even a peacock. These were followed by dozens of molds of children—Kewpie dolls, children dressed as brides and bridegrooms, a New Year’s baby.

“I seem to be down to the Santas and Easter bunnies now,” Joe said.

“I had no idea how extensive the collection was,” I said. “I guess it nearly filled up that big box.”

“There was a lot of old kitchen stuff in there, too. I guess it’s worth something, because I saw similar things out in the shop as we walked through. And there are a few pieces of wood at the bottom. And some broken glass.”

Joe handed the rest of the molds up to me, and I kept laying them out in rows and examining them. They were fascinating.

And they were all in perfect condition, though some had traces of chocolate, as Aunt Nettie had said they should. Even after being stuck in a basement—ever since Congressman VanHorn died, according to Timothy—there was no sign of rust on any of them.

“That’s so weird,” I said.

“What is?” Joe was bent over, with his head down in the box. His voice was muffled, though I heard the occasional thump, and I decided he must be digging the pieces of wood out of the bottom of the box.

“All these molds are in perfect condition,” I said. “Or I think they are.”

“So?”

“The one the burglar took wasn’t. In perfect condition, I mean. It was rusted.”

“What are they made of? Tin?”

“They’re tin-plated. I think the basic metals varied, according to the time they were made. But the outer surfaces were tin.”

“Tin will rust. Or a tin can will.”

“Yes, but this was a valuable collection. And judging by the condition of these molds, it had been carefully preserved. But that one mold was rusted. That particular one had been treated carelessly.”

“So had this. Look.”

I turned around. Joe was still kneeling on the bare wooden floor of Gail’s storeroom, but he had laid some bits of wood out on the floor in front of him. He had arranged them into some sort of order, but they were still just scraps of wood with hunks of broken glass sticking out here and there. In the center were two small brass knobs.

“They were doors!” I said.

“Right,” Joe said. “The stuff in the bottom of the box seems to be the glass doors of a china cupboard.”

I knelt beside Joe and gently touched the glass. “It was a nice piece, too. That glass was curved. I don’t know too much about old furniture, but I think china cupboards with curved glass are often considered quite valuable. Lots of people want them.”

“Well, somebody didn’t want this one.” He fingered a two-inch gouge. “I’d guess that this had been broken up with an ax.”

“That’s impossible! Even if you wanted to get rid of something like this, you wouldn’t break it up with an ax.”

Joe shrugged. “The rest of it probably is in some Hart-VanHorn basement. The doors were in a dozen pieces.”

We stared at the doors. Then I stood up. “Well, I’ve looked at all the molds, and you’ve assembled the doors. And I’m more mystified than ever.”

Joe began to put the pieces of wood back in the box. “I left the broken glass in the box,” he said. “I wonder what Gail made of it.”

“Do you think she saw it?”

“She must have, if she dug all the molds out.”

“I wonder what happened to the china cupboard?”

“If you have a live-in alcoholic, Lee, anything can happen to your furniture.”

“You think Timothy got drunk and broke up the furniture?”

“Something sure happened to that china cupboard. And I don’t think it was hit by a car.”

“I guess we could ask the chief if there’s any record of a police call out there.”

Joe looked at me. He didn’t need to say a word.

“Okay,” I said. “I admit that Olivia would let Timothy smash up the entire house before she’d call the cops.”

We looked through the rest of the shop, but we saw nothing worth getting excited about. It would have taken an army of technicians to do a complete search.

A smashed china cabinet and a rusty mold. What significance could they possibly have?

I started for the door, then turned to Joe. “Has Timothy always lived at Warner Pier?”

“I don’t think so, but Mom will know. Why?”

“I agree that Olivia VanHorn would never have called the cops on him. If he lived in Grand Rapids or Ann Arbor or someplace, though, and if he has a history of breaking up furniture or doing other violent things, somebody else might have called the cops about him sometime.”

“You could ask the chief to check.”

I went back to TenHuis Chocolade feeling let down. I finally decided it was because I liked Timothy Hart. I didn’t want him to be guilty. But I felt that the VanHorn collection just had to be connected with the burglary, and hence with Gail’s murder. And Timothy seemed to be the only Hart or VanHorn unstable enough to get into such a mess. Now that his “drinking buddy,” Congressman Vic VanHorn, was gone.

It was a real puzzle.

When I got to the shop, the situation there was even more depressing. Aunt Nettie and Tess were in the office, sitting in my two visitors’ chairs. Tess was crying.

I hovered at the door, wondering if I should stay out, but Aunt Nettie motioned for me to come in.

“Tess is fearful about what may happen after Jeff’s folks get here,” she said.

“I feel so selfish,” Tess said. “I know Jeff needs their help. But I’m so afraid!”

I pulled my chair around the desk, and I sat down beside Tess. Now she had Aunt Nettie on one side and me on the other. She was effectively boxed in.

“Tess, why are you so frightened of Jeff’s parents?” I had a sudden thought. “Tess, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Oh, no!” It was almost a wail. “Jeff and I don’t sleep together. I mean, I’ve never slept with
anyone
!”

Aunt Nettie patted her hand. “It’s hard for us to understand, Tess. Obviously, something very frightening happened to you in Texas. But you and Jeff don’t seem to be involved in any sort of crime.”

Tess shook her head vigorously.

“Your problems seem to be more serious than something like grades.”

Tess nodded.

“Yet you ran away from college, and you seem terrified that someone from Texas will find you. You’re even afraid of Jeff’s parents, whose help he needs very much right now.”

“I know. That’s why I feel so guilty. But I’m so afraid they’ll find me!”

“Jeff’s parents?”

“No! My parents! My dad’s boss.”

Aunt Nettie patted again. “Why are you so frightened of your father’s boss?”

“It’s not him.” She sobbed two more sobs, looked around the office desperately—as I said, we had her boxed in—and finally spoke. “It’s my dad’s boss’s son!”

Tess seemed to feel that she’d explained everything that was necessary, but I was still clueless. Luckily, Aunt Nettie was beginning to get a glimmer.

“Tess,” she said, “did you date your dad’s boss’s son?”

“Only once. Only because I thought my dad wanted me to.”

Now I was beginning to get the picture, too. “He came on a little too strong, huh?”

“Oh, yes. He parked way out in the back of the Wal-Mart parking lot. It was really late. I barely got out of the car. I had to walk home.”

“And then he wouldn’t leave you alone.”

She nodded miserably. “He kept calling. I told him I wouldn’t tell his dad, but he kept calling me anyway. He kept driving past the house. I thought that when I went away to college he’d forget about it, but he didn’t! He came over to Dallas and got a job. He used to cruise around the campus.”