The Chocolate Book Bandit (10 page)

“No!” And the male voice was Butch Cassidy. “I’m responsible, Miss Vanderklomp. And you may not break the crime-scene tape and go into the basement.”

Gwe
n, Corny Cornwall, and I all jumped up and rushed out of the meeting room. Butch Cassidy sounded as if he needed all the help he could get.

The door to the back hall and basement was only a few steps away, and he and Miss Vanderklomp were nose to nose outside it. They ignored us newcomers completely.

“Mr. Cassidy,” Miss Vanderklomp said. “I wish to remind you that this is the Vanderklomp Memorial Library. My family donated this building to Warner Pier, and I am accustomed to having a small say in how the institution is run.”

“And I’m accustomed to staying out of jail,” Butch said.

“Jail? I beg your pardon! Why would you be threatened with jail?”

“Because the authorities sealed that door, and they want it left that way. I am in charge of the library operations, so it’s my responsibility to see that the door remains sealed.”

“But some of my personal belongings are stored there. I must access the area.”

Butch frowned. “You are a private individual. You can’t use library space for personal uses.”

Miss Vanderklomp took a deep breath. She seemed to fill up like a parade balloon. With her gray bob, tall stature, and blocky build, all she needed was a pair of wooden shoes to look like a giant representation of the proverbial boy who stuck his finger in the dike. I almost looked for her mooring ropes, hoping we could keep her from floating away. Or maybe cut them and let her go.

But as she expanded, she turned slightly. And she saw her audience. Apparently she hadn’t noticed we were there earlier. And we deflated her.

She stepped back and seemed to become smaller. She smiled her most gracious smile and adjusted her bra straps.

“Mr. Cassidy,” she said, “I do apologize. I’ve been making a scene about nothing. Please forgive me.”

She nodded regally to Butch, then to the rest of us. And she walked into the meeting room, her head held high, clutching her water bottle.

We all followed. Mr. Cornwall raised his eyebrows, but he came along, just the same way I did. None of us asked a question or made a comment. We just went back to the meeting room.

But I sure did wonder what was in that basement. Miss Vanderklomp had already come by my office to quiz me about getting in there. Now she had apparently made a frontal attack on the underground section of the library, and Butch had barely stopped her from tearing off the crime-scene tape and invading the area.

What was down there?

As we filed in I realized that Carol had rejoined us, and Rhonda had also arrived. We all took our seats like ladies and gentlemen, and Rhonda called the meeting to order. The only new agenda item, she said, was to review the effect the investigation into Abigail Montgomery’s death would have on the library operations. She brought up two or three items the board had failed to consider on Monday, when the meeting ended rather dramatically.

Throughout the meeting I was self-consciously aware of Hogan’s request that I watch how everyone interacted. I watched them all suspiciously. And I didn’t notice a thing out of the ordinary.

I was relieved when Rhonda called on Butch for a report on the current situation at the library.

The investigation was having very little effect on actual operations, Butch said. “The library remained closed yesterday, but we opened on schedule this morning. Of course, we’ve had a busy day today. I believe Betty has issued a dozen new cards.”

“The common garden-variety sensation seeker,” Cornwall said.

Butch nodded. “I’m sure the curiosity effect will wear off soon. I’m also sure everyone here has been interviewed by the investigators.”

Carol gave an angry sniff. “I certainly knew nothing to tell them. And I owe Corny, Gwen, and Lee an apology. I shouldn’t have lost my temper when I first came in.”

The three of us made “never mind” motions. Gwen was the only one who spoke. “We’re all in an emotional uproar,” she said. “I didn’t like that detective upsetting my kids.”

“I’m sure we were all cooperative,” Rhonda said soothingly.

“I haven’t talked to the investigators,” Miss Vanderklomp said. “And I don’t intend to do so.”

“I’m afraid you must, if they request an interview,” Rhonda said. “After all, to them we’re all witnesses.”

“I am not a witness! I saw nothing. I didn’t even speak to Abigail Monday.”

“But, Miss Vanderklomp, you and Abigail and I met on the front steps. We came in together.”

“That’s not speaking. That’s just greeting each other. We didn’t discuss anything.”

I decided to jump in. “Did Mrs. Montgomery seem normal when you met her? I mean, she wasn’t angry or preoccupied or anything?”

“Certainly not!”

“That’s the sort of thing the detectives need to know,” I said. “If she was calm, fine. But if she’d been upset or angry—”

“I didn’t know her well enough to read her moods by the way she said ‘hello,’” Miss Vanderklomp said. She threw her head back and looked down her nose at me.

“I am not a witness,” she said, “and I am definitely not talking to any detectives. You, Mrs. Woodyard, were the person who declared Mrs. Montgomery dead. You remained with her body until the emergency technicians came. You are the one they should question.”

She made her mouth into a prim little line and gave a firm nod.

I had definitely been put in my place. In fact, the whole board was in its place. And we all accepted our chastisement meekly.

“Is that all the board’s business?” Miss Vanderklomp asked.

Rhonda rolled up her knitting. “I will mention that I talked to the funeral home about services for Abigail.”

“Oh yes,” Miss Vanderklomp said. “We should sit in a group.”

“That won’t be possible. The services are to be private.”

Miss Vanderklomp frowned in a disapproving manner. But she left with no further comment.

But as soon as she was out of the room, Mr. Cornwall gave a rich chuckle. “What a disappointment for Ann,” he said. “There’s nothing she likes better than a juicy funeral.”

And with that comment he followed her out the door.

Gwen spoke. “Totally wacko,” she said. “All of them.”

I was growing to like Gwen more all the time.

Carol gathered her papers. “Since there’s no funeral, I guess we ought to go by the house.”

“It sounds as if the family wants as little attention as possible,” I said. “You can sign the book at the funeral home, even if there’s no visitation. Or a handwritten note is always proper. And if that remark sounded incredibly prissy, it’s because when I was sixteen somebody made me take an etiquette class at the YWCA.”

Gwen chuckled. “Your comment may have been prissy, but the recommendation is good. I think a short note to Timothy Hart will fulfill any obligation I have.”

Carol, Gwen, and I all left, and I went straight to Aunt Nettie. Not for comfort, but for advice. After all, I’m only an adopted citizen of Warner Pier. I needed to consult her about local funeral etiquette. Joe and I knew Tim pretty well. Was a note enough? Should we go to see him? Or was it better to let the family have its privacy?

I was a bit surprised when she came out in favor of a visit to Tim’s home.

“Considering your rather close acquaintance with Tim,” she said, “you probably should drop by.”

“Oh, dear. Should I take food?”

“I don’t think you need to cook anything. I’ll go with you, and we’ll take a box of chocolates. Is now a good time? I need to finish enrobing.”

“Enrobing” always sounds to me as if the chocolatier is dressing up for a ball. Actually, the word describes giving bonbons, and sometimes truffles, a chocolate shower bath. Chocolate makers have special machines to do this.

The first step in making a bonbon is forming a shell, a hard chocolate case of the desired size and shape. These are made in utensils that look a bit like ice-cube trays. Melted chocolate is poured into them, then poured out, so that only the walls and floors are covered.

These shells are filled with fondant in the desired flavor. (My favorite is a soft, gooey Dutch caramel. It has almost no resemblance to those chewy caramels that come wrapped in cellophane.) A solid chocolate lid then is used to close each shell. Ah, but the bonbon is upside down at that point. So after the lid has cooled and become solid, the chocolate maker flips it over, places it on a conveyer belt, then runs it through the enrober. The bonbon moves along a conveyer belt while melted chocolate—either white, milk, or dark—showers gently over it.

Excess chocolate falls into a receptacle underneath and is scooped up to be melted for another use; we don’t waste it.

To complete the process, the bonbon is sent on a trip through the cooling tunnel, then hand decorating is added, and a bonbon has been born.

Yum.

It took Aunt Nettie about half an hour to get the enrobing process to a stopping place, then change from her white uniform into a casual pantsuit she had hanging in her locker for just such an emergency. It was five thirty when we pulled into Timothy Hart’s driveway.

A uniformed security guard greeted us, so I guess Hart and his uncle were trying to avoid strangers, particularly reporters. Timothy Hart, the guard said, was receiving guests at Mrs. Montgomery’s house. He pointed out where other guests had parked, and told us to join them.

The Hart compound on Lake Shore Drive is a large piece of property overlooking Lake Michigan. Tim told me once that his grandfather picked it up by paying the back taxes during the 1920s. The value of just the land today would be close to a million dollars. The houses and storage buildings would quadruple that figure.

There are four houses and a large storage barn on the land, and they almost provide a history of the property, maybe of Warner Pier as well.

Nearest the road is a small white farmhouse, probably built in the 1890s. Tim lives there. Behind it is a Craftsman bungalow. I’ve always assumed that Tim’s grandparents built that in the twenties, soon after they acquired the property. Overlooking the lake are a brick house and a stone house. Both have low roofs and a 1970s look.

The stone house was built by Olivia VanHorn and her husband. Olivia was, of course, Tim’s sister and Hart VanHorn’s mother. It’s been closed up since Olivia’s death.

The brick house was built as a vacation place by Abigail Montgomery and her husband, and Abigail had lived there year-round since she retired and moved to Warner Pier.

A horseshoe-shaped drive accessed each house, then swung around to pass the storage building. The lane finished by returning to Lake Shore Drive. This provided one-way traffic circling the property. There was a tennis court in the center of the horseshoe.

Aunt Nettie and I went on down to the brick house and parked beside two cars that were already there. Tim greeted us at the front door. I was rather amused to see that the other guests included Warner Pier’s state senator and his wife. They had brought a giant fruit basket. As a former elected official, Hart still has clout in party politics. The other couple was apparently from Grand Rapids. All of them had obviously come to see Hart, not Tim. As soon as we arrived, they got up and said good-bye. They seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave, and Tim seemed glad to see them go.

He gave a big sigh after the door shut behind them. Then he turned to us. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Come on back.”

Abigail’s house was furnished with antique Asian furniture and art. On a large Japanese screen over the couch, cranes pranced and postured among water plants. The screen’s colors were muted by age; when I lived in Dallas I’d seen enough antique Japanese art to recognize this as the real thing. A kimono, its pattern vivid in reds and blues, was suspended on a second wall, and a collection of celadon urns was arranged on a table.

Three walls of a small adjoining room were lined with bookshelves. They actually held books. The fourth wall was of glass and overlooked Lake Michigan. Again, the decorative objects such as vases, candlesticks, and small statues were all Asian antiques.

“This house is beautiful,” I said.

“Abby and her husband traveled in the Orient a lot,” Tim said. “She could tell you the history of every piece of art they had collected.”

He blinked. “I’m going to miss her, you know. We had dinner together nearly every evening.”

Tim led the way into the kitchen, which had a homey feel. A small dining area also overlooked the lake. The chairs were upholstered with fabric featuring poppies. On the granite countertop was a fancy coffeepot that produced one cup at a time, so we each got to select a flavor.

As we were waiting for the gadget to perform, Aunt Nettie spoke. “Tim, are you exhausted?”

“Oh no. Hart has handled most of the callers. But he needed to go into Grand Rapids to arrange for . . . to arrange with the cemetery. Bill’s ashes are already there, so Abby’s will be there, too. I haven’t had to do much except sit around here and wonder. I just can’t understand why something like this could happen to Abby.”

Neither Aunt Nettie nor I had any answer for that question. But I did seize the opportunity to ask a question of my own.

“Tim, that night at the library, you said something about Mrs. Montgomery being worried. Did you tell Hogan about that?”