The Chocolate Bear Burglary (8 page)

Aunt Nettie frowned, sliding her spatula over the top of the mold. Then she flipped it, and before Mike could get set, she whammed it onto the table.

Mike jumped again. “Why are you doing that, Nettie?” He’s a foodie, after all. Curious about cooking.

“I’m sorry to be so noisy, Mike, but whacking it that way keeps the bonbon shell thin and gives it an even edge. Plus, it gets rid of air bubbles.” She moved the mold over to the cooling tunnel. A dozen other bakje molds were already making their five-minute trip through the tunnel’s sixty-five-degree air.

Aunt Nettie took several bakje molds from the opposite end of the cooling tunnel. She moved to a second table, flipped the molds over and popped the little square chocolate shells out onto more parchment paper. She was already refilling one of those molds with dark chocolate, and while she worked—tappity tappity tap; swish-swish with spatula; flip mold—she talked. “You know, Mike, I don’t care what the burglar was after, but I want those molds out of here. Lee is going to call Gail and ask her to come and get them. And I’m not going to ask Olivia VanHorn’s permission to take them down.”

Wham! She whacked the bakje mold onto the table, as if emphasizing her determination.

That time Mike didn’t jump. “Mrs. VanHorn is just another Warner Pier absentee property owner. I don’t care what she thinks. But you’re still going to take part in the Teddy Bear Getaway, aren’t you?” Mike Herrera is not only Warner Pier’s political chief, he’s our biggest tourism promoter. He’d pushed hard to make sure all the merchants took part in the special winter tourism campaign.

Aunt Nettie’s magic hands kept working. “My ladies have made and hand-decorated hundreds of teddy bears. We certainly hope to sell them.” She whacked another tray onto the parchment paper.

“They’ll have to do double duty as decorations in the shop,” I said.

I guess I sounded impatient, because Mike spoke soothingly. “Oh, chocolate teddy bears will be fine decorations! I’m sorry if I sound worried, but I am. It’s just so odd—why break in here? If there’s any place in town that’s not likely to leave cash in the register, it’s y’all.” Mike is another transplanted Texan, raised near Dallas, and his accent is an interesting mix of Southern and Hispanic.

He looked at me. “And I know, Lee, that you can swear that this stepson of yours didn’t break the glass. But he is driving a Texas car.”

“That’s hardly incriminating,” I said.

“I know, I know—it’s that I’m concerned about that car they found over at the Superette.”

“What car?”

“Greg Glossop . . .”

I groaned. Greg Glossop operates the Superette’s pharmacy and he’s notorious as the biggest gossip in Warner Pier. Joe suspected Glossop was the pipeline to the tabloids.

Mike Herrera made a calming gesture. “I know, I know, Greg’s not the most popular man in Warner Pier, but he doesn’t miss much. He noticed a car with a Texas tag in the parking lot this morning. It had apparently been there overnight. Some kind of a small Ford, several years old. The chief says the gas tank was empty.”

I immediately thought of the car seen by Joe’s buddy who worked at the station out on the highway. It was likely the mayor had also heard the truck stop gossip and was thinking the same thing.

“Jeff wasn’t doing anything illegal last night,” Aunt Nettie said. “I’m not going to let anybody gossip about him. He kept the burglar from taking anything.” She gave Mike a firm look, then whammed another mold onto the stainless-steel table for emphasis.

Mike left, still frowning, and I called Gail Hess to ask her to come and get the molds. I got her answering machine.

I left a message, then hung up, wondering where Gail was. I also wondered why she hadn’t been over first thing in the morning, or even in the middle of the night. Everybody else in Warner Pier knew about our break-in.

Then I called Mercy Woodyard, Joe’s mother, because she handled our insurance. I got her answering machine, too, and left another message.

And I called the two Dallas numbers for Jeff’s parents. More answering machines. Was there a human being left near any telephone in the universe?

I got a packing box from the back room. I took all the antique molds down and heaped them on the counter. Then I wrapped each of them in tissue paper and packed them in the box. That made me feel better. If Gail didn’t show up to take them away, I’d take them home with me that night. Or put them in the bank. Or something.

I actually got some work done in the next thirty minutes, despite a call from the obnoxious George Palmer, our banker, reminding me we had an appointment at four o’clock. I’d just assured him that I’d be there when the bell on the street door chimed. I hung up on George to go out to the counter to wait on a customer, a great-looking guy.

He seemed familiar, but how did I know him?

His face was young, but his beautiful head of dark hair was beginning to be shot with silver. It looked soft and silky. I found myself wanting to rub my cheek against the top of his head. He would have had to sit down for that, because he was at least my height. His eyes were a dark brown, with black lashes. Then I recognized him, and I knew we had never met.

“I’m Hart VanHorn,” he said. “You must be Mrs. TenHuis’s niece.”

He was Olivia VanHorn’s son. The state senator who was rumored to be running for the U.S. House. Of course he looked familiar. Not only did he have his mother’s eyes, but I’d also seen him on the evening news and in the
Grand Rapids Press
. Neither medium had shown how sexy he was, however.

He smiled, giving me lots of eye contact. Aware that I was standing there gawking at him, I quickly extended my hand in shaking position. “I’m Lee McKinney.”

“Oh. It’s not TenHuis?” He took my hand.

“My mother was a TenHuis. My father is a Texan.”

“I see. Uncle Tim said you had a charming Southern accent.”

“I don’t know how charming it is, but I can legally y’all.” I realized I was still holding his hand. Yikes! I was about to drool on his snow boots. I dropped his hand and stepped back behind the counter. “I enjoyed meeting your uncle yesterday. He’s a charmer.”

Hart VanHorn grinned. “Uncle Tim is one of my favorite people. He has his problems, but ordinary human meanness was simply left out of his character.”

Also sobriety. Time to change the subject. “Did you come in to see the mules? I mean the molds.” Curses! My tongue was tangled up again. “I already packed them up.”

“Oh? You’re not going to display them?”

“After the break-in, I didn’t want to take the chance.”

“Mother wouldn’t mind, but I understand how you must feel. I wanted to make sure that you and your aunt weren’t upset by the excitement last night.”

“We were just grateful that the burglars didn’t take anything. Particularly the molds.”

“Down at the post office I heard that your stepson scared the burglars off.”

“My former stepson. Yes. He saw someone moving around in the shop as he drove by, so he stopped. Then he saw that the glass in the door was broken.”

“I’d like to give him a reward.”

“That’s not necessary, but it’s very nice of you.”

“May I meet the young man?”

“Not right now. We all slept late, and Jeff isn’t here yet. I’ll tell him you came in.”

That seemed to bring the conversation to a halt, and I expected Hart VanHorn to smile his beautiful smile and say good-bye. But he lingered. “I also need some candy.”

“That I can take care of!”

I didn’t correct his terminology directly. In the chocolate business, the word “candy” means hard candy—lemon drops and jawbreakers. Our product is “chocolate.”

“We have lots of chocolate,” I said, “and it’s all for sale. What do you need?”

“Well, the board members from a Grand Rapids shelter for battered women helped push a bill I’m sponsoring in the legislature. They worked really hard, and I’d like to give them all something in recognition. It should be versions of the same gift—you know, not singling any one person out. So, my mother suggested a box of candy for each of the twelve board members.”

“Of course. I think they’d all be delighted. We have four-ounce, eight-ounce, and one-pound boxes.”

“Oh, I think at least a pound.”

“That would make a very nice gift. The one-pound boxes are thirty dollars. If you want tins, it’s a dollar more.” I always work the prices in early in the conversation. Not everybody is pleased to pay thirty dollars for a pound of chocolates—even chocolates as delicious as TenHuis’s. A purchase of twelve boxes could run him three hundred sixty dollars, plus tax. That would make some people decide on a thank-you note instead.

But Hart VanHorn didn’t turn a hair of that beautiful head. “Fine,” he said. “And the boxes are okay. But—well, could you put one of those chocolate teddy bears in each? They’re collecting teddy bears for the children who come to the shelter. And could you wrap each box a little differently? I mean, different-colored ribbon or something?”

“I’m sure I can come up with something. And for an order that size I can give you a fifteen percent discount. When do you need them?”

“Today, I’m afraid. I have to run up to Grand Rapids, and I wanted to take them along.” He smiled. “Their board meets tomorrow. Is that too soon?”

“Oh, no. I have enough ready. Unless you want them individually packed?” I pulled ready-to-go boxes from a shelf against the wall and showed him the assortments inside. I demonstrated how I could substitute a molded teddy bear for four of the chocolates, and Hart VanHorn approved the plan. Then we discussed the decorations. I found ribbons in different colors—gold, silver, red, green, blue, plaid, peppermint stripe. And the boxes came in white, gold, and silver, so making each one different from the others wasn’t difficult.

I gave Hart VanHorn a dozen gift cards, and he stood at the counter writing them out while I fixed up the boxes of chocolate. He didn’t refer to a list, which I found awe-inspiring. I couldn’t remember the names of my twelve closest relatives without looking them up. He kept writing, but it seemed that whenever I looked at him, he was looking at me. I began to feel as if I should say something.

Finally I thought of a question. “How is your congressional campaign going?”

“It may not go at all.”

“Oh? The newspaper says you’re the front-runner.”

“I suppose I have a good chance, since the incumbent isn’t running and my mother’s pulling in all her chits. But I’m not sure that’s how I want to spend the rest of my life.” He smiled. “That’s one reason we’re down here without any staff. I’m trying to make up my mind.”

His mother had already made hers up, judging from her comments the day before. I didn’t bring that up, just smiled and kept working. And Hart kept writing. And staring at me.

As I worked I reminded myself that Hart VanHorn was a politician, so eye contact would be his standard operating procedure. Though I did remember that the
Grand Rapids Press
had identified him as one of Michigan’s most eligible bachelors.

I was impressed with him. His selection of gifts was tactful—equal, but easy to tell apart. And he didn’t seem embarrassed to credit his mother with the inspiration for the twelve boxes of chocolates. That was interesting, too, though I wasn’t sure of its significance. Was he a mama’s boy? Or simply secure enough to admit her influence? Was she making the decisions on his campaign? Or was he? How long were her apron strings?

I tied up the final box and took out a large white shopping bag with “TenHuis Chocolade” printed near the bottom in the classy sans-serif type Aunt Nettie uses in her logo.

“Anything else?” I said. “Are there any children on your shopping list?”

Hart VanHorn grinned broadly. “Do I want fries with that?”

I laughed. “Retail sales are not my specialty. But I’m trying to learn all the tricks. How about a box for your mother?”

“Your aunt gave Mother a box yesterday.”

“Then how about a free sample for yourself?”

“Sure!” Very few people refuse a sample of TenHuis chocolate. Hart VanHorn picked a double fudge bonbon (“Layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating”) and ate it with eyerolling relish. Then he sighed and leaned his elbows on the counter next to the cash register.

“Ms. McKinney,” he said, “I know I’m being what my mother would call forward. But honestly, I’d love to get out of dinner with her and Uncle Tim one night this week. They’re not going to be good company. And you would be. Would you consider going out to the Dock Street and splitting a pizza with me tomorrow?”

I
almost clasped my hands to my bosom and said, “Sir! This is so sudden.” In spite of the eye contact and chitchat, I had not been expecting Hart VanHorn to ask me out.

Not that I don’t get asked out now and then. But I’ve never accepted too many invitations. When I was in high school, I was a drudge. I knew I’d have to put myself through college without much help from my parents, so I always had a job, plus I was still afraid of serious relationships because of my parents’ divorce. I was too cautious for either commitment or casual sex. It made for a lot of boring Saturday nights.

But during my senior year my mom and dad decided I might be less gawky and lacking in poise if I did something public, so they pushed me into the beauty-pageant circuit. That didn’t help my social life. A little success there, I discovered, meant the guys I met were either awed or thought I must be easy. I never liked either kind—a date who was too scared to say anything or a date I had to fight off before he bought me a Coke.

College didn’t change much. I still lived with my mom—couldn’t afford a dorm or my own place—and the pageant circuit didn’t add glamour, though it meant enough money to pay for a speech coach, once I learned where to buy used evening gowns.