The Chocolate Book Bandit (11 page)

“I guess I forgot to. But I didn’t know what she was worried about, so it didn’t seem to matter.”

Tim opened the refrigerator and bent over. “I think there’s some cream in here. Oh no!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Hart and I asked the maid to clean out the refrigerator—you know, get rid of the perishable stuff. She hasn’t touched a thing, and she went home an hour ago.”

“I can do that,” I said. “I already told Hart I’d be glad to help out. Do you want the things taken to your house?”

“No, I’m going to Grand Rapids tomorrow, probably for at least a week. I hoped the maid would just take them away with her.”

“Lee and I will be glad to clear it out,” Aunt Nettie said. “We’ll leave the mustard and mayonnaise, but we’ll take anything that might spoil.”

“I hate to ask you to do something like that.”

Aunt Nettie and I assured Tim we were just being neighborly, and the three of us sat at the table and talked. Aunt Nettie encouraged Tim to reminisce about his childhood, and I was glad to see that Tim felt he could be informal with us.

Abby, he said, had always been the curious child in the family. “Once she got in trouble for going through our mother’s checkbook. She said she wanted to know how much the grocery bill was.”

After about twenty minutes the phone rang. As Tim went to answer it, Aunt Nettie and I found a grocery sack in a holder in the broom closet. Then we began to pack up the refrigerator.

Of course, with only one person living in the house, it wasn’t exactly full anyway. We left the condiments and canned fruit alone and put the lunch meat in the freezer. We put half a dozen eggs, a quart of milk, and half a carton of cottage cheese in our sack. Then I opened the hydrator and began to hand out vegetables.

“It looks as if Abigail was quite a salad eater,” I said. “Here’s an unopened bag of romaine.”

“We’d better take that,” Aunt Nettie said. “It spoils so quickly.”

I gave her tomatoes, green onions, and half a jicama. Then I reached for a head of iceberg lettuce. It was at the back of the drawer and had been stuffed into a plastic bag. The bag had been closed with a twist tie.

As soon as I picked it up, I realized it felt funny.

“Huh?” I stood up. “This is odd.”

“Lettuce?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. I placed the head of lettuce on the counter, untwisted the wire holding its sack closed, and dumped out the contents.

The head of iceberg was made of plastic.

“Aunt Nettie,” I said, “this is one of those hiding places. It’s hollow. I’ve seen them in catalogs. You know, ‘Hide your jewelry; fox the burglars.’”

Now that we had the fake lettuce out of the bag, we could see how it opened. We left it closed.

“We’ll give this to Tim,” Aunt Nettie said firmly.

Luckily, Tim joined us within a minute, and we showed him the plastic lettuce head.

“We’d better open it,” Tim said. “It’s probably my grandmother’s wedding ring.”

Tim’s guess was right. A small velvet drawstring bag popped out of the lettuce. It held three rings, each with colored stones, and a brooch in the shape of a rose. The brooch was centered with what appeared to be a nice diamond.

“That’s what I thought,” Tim said. “Abby occasionally wore these, but I’m sure any other jewelry she owned is in her safety-deposit box. We found the bank box information in her desk, but we haven’t had time to go down there. Wait a minute. There’s something else in here.”

He turned the little velvet bag upside down and shook out one final item.

A key clanked onto the granite countertop.

It was a pretty key, just about three inches long. Gold in color and delicate-looking, it might have been hung in a nook as a decorative accent, or pictured on the cover of a book with a title like “The Key to Her Heart.”

When Joe and I took over the TenHuis family house, we found a half dozen keys like these—same shape, but larger—in a box in the basement. Aunt Nettie said they had been the house’s original 1904 door keys.

But why on earth was this key hidden with Abigail’s jewelry?

“It can’t be for this house,” Tim said.

Aunt Nettie agreed with him. “It’s a key to a much older lock than this house would have,” she said. “This house isn’t more than forty years old. In fact, I’d expect this key to open a cedar chest or some sort of cabinet, not a door.”

“I can’t think of anything like that around here,” Tim said. “Hart and I haven’t taken any kind of inventory yet, but we looked around.”

I picked the key up and looked closely at it. Again, I was impressed by what a delicate little piece of equipment it was. The part that hung down, the tab that actually would trip the workings of a lock, was intricately cut. It looked as if it ought to be antique, but it was shiny and new.

“Tim,” I said, “your house is older than this house.”

“More than a hundred years old.”

“Could this key be for some lock at your house?”

“Nothing much locks at my house.” Tim produced a modern door key from his pocket. “No, Abigail rekeyed this whole house when she moved back from California, and I got new locks and keys at the same time. I don’t have keys anything like this one, and I never have.”

We considered several other possibilities. Tim said that a key for the big storage shed, where the family’s sports and garden equipment was stored, was hung on a nail in Abby’s pantry. He pulled it out, and, again, that was a modern key. Plus, Tim said he was sure that Abby had had no key to the older house, the Craftsman style their grandparents had built. “Nobody’s used it since our parents died,” he said. “There are two keys for it in a cupboard in my kitchen. They’re nothing like this little thing.”

We all stared at the key. Inspiration did not strike any of us.

“Maybe it’s to Abigail’s jewelry box,” Aunt Nettie said.

Tim shook his head. “The jewelry box was unlocked, and the key was inside. Abigail didn’t have much good jewelry.” He gestured at the items we’d found in the fake lettuce. “This may be the whole collection. As I said, anything else would be in her safety-deposit box.”

“One of life’s little mysteries,” I said. “The key is probably for something in Mrs. Montgomery’s house in California, and she was keeping it as a souvenir.”

“But why did she keep it with Grandma’s jewelry?” Tim put the rings, the brooch, and the key back into the fake lettuce. “I’ll take all this up to my house.”

At that Aunt Nettie and I left, carting along the eggs and the vegetables. I was glad to go. By then it was six thirty, and I knew Joe was likely to be home. I was eager to see him. I always am.

But when Aunt Nettie and I pulled into our drive—she’d left her car there—there was no truck sitting in Joe’s parking place. I felt disappointed, but not too surprised. Joe had gone to his office in Holland that afternoon, and he often runs late.

Aunt Nettie insisted that I keep the food we’d brought from Abigail’s house. As she drove away, she lowered her car window and called out to me. “Hogan sent you a message, and I forgot to give it to you.”

“What was it?”

“He said he’s relying on you for the inside poop. I don’t know what he meant.”

Unfortunately, I did. I went in the house, feeling like a failure. I’d merely stumbled around, trying to figure out the personal dynamics of the library board. My questions had been useless. I hadn’t learned a thing.

Joe. Maybe Joe would encourage me.

But when I got inside the telephone answering machine was flashing, and the message was from Joe. “Sorry, Lee, but I have to stay in Holland for dinner. I should be home by nine. Or ten.”

Another kick in the stomach.

Joe didn’t say why he had to have dinner in Holland. No excuses. No explanations. What was I to think but the worst?

Mechanically, I began to put the things I’d brought from Abigail’s house into my refrigerator. I looked at Abigail’s eggs and wondered if I should scramble a couple, put on my pajamas, and turn on HGTV. An evening to veg out and feel sorry for myself sounded good.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as blue in my life. My Texas grandma would have said I was ready to cut my suspenders and go straight up.

Instead I went out and picked up two single guys.

Not that I did that deliberately. But Abigail’s eggs didn’t look appealing. Eggs are better with English muffins, and I didn’t have any in the house. That was enough justification for going out to eat.

So there, Joe Woodyard.

After all, I reminded myself, I lived in a community that had good restaurants, even when the tourist season was over. I combed my hair, redid my makeup, and headed for Herrera’s. It was pure coincidence that I ran into Butch Cassidy and Corny Cornwall having dinner together there.

When I came in they were still at the martini stage and hadn’t ordered dinner yet. Mr. Cornwall invited me to join them.

I assured myself that I wasn’t sneaking around. After all, Herrera’s belongs to my husband’s stepfather, and even if Mike isn’t there, he hears about who comes in. So the word would get back to Joe, even if I didn’t tell him about it. Which I planned to do. I spread my napkin over my lap and ordered a glass of pinot noir.

Of course, simmering right under my consciousness was the knowledge that I was having dinner with a man to whom I was strongly attracted and that he’d shown some signs that he was attracted to me.

Or was that my imagination?

“Cheers,” Butch said. He lifted his martini toward me, and our eyes met.

No, it wasn’t my imagination. We both looked away quickly.

I focused my attention on the older man. “Dr. Cornwall . . . oh, I’m sorry! I haven’t forgotten that you prefer to be called mister.”

“I wish you could bring yourself to call an old man Corny,” he said.

“Of course, if that’s what you prefer, Corny.”

“I wasn’t very polite about my title this afternoon, and I’d like to explain. It’s all Abigail’s fault.”

“How?”

“At the college where I taught for most of my academic career, somehow I got grandfathered in. I was the only faculty member in the history department who never received a doctorate. It’s unbelievable by today’s standards.” He leaned closer and smiled. “All I have is an ABD.”

I grinned back. “All but Dissertation?”

“Right. I finished off all the requirements for my doctorate and I wrote the dissertation, but I never got it through the idiotic committee. Which changed four times.”

“You mean the committee changed?”

“Yes. The personnel on the committee. Of course, each group wanted a different approach to the material. New research. After five years, I told the dean he’d just have to fire me. I wasn’t going to fool with it anymore, even if I had to teach in high school again.”

“Apparently the dean didn’t take you at your word.”

“No. He kept me on semester to semester for a while. Then I became one of the only permanent faculty members without a doctorate. A couple of new administrations tried to oust me. But none of them succeeded.” He smiled wickedly. “The alumni loved me. They got together and endowed a chair to be held only by me. I even received an honorary doctorate when I retired.”

“Then you are entitled to be called doctor.”

“It would be only a courtesy title. I prefer simply to be Corny. The situation didn’t seem to matter until I retired to Warner Pier. People I met here began to call me doctor. I corrected them for a while, but it called for long explanations. I finally just let it go.”

“How did Abigail Montgomery affect the situation?”

Corny sipped his martini. “The damn woman was a hell of a researcher. I admit that.”

“Oh! She discovered the history of your academic title.”

“Don’t ask me how. Or why she bothered. But all of a sudden I was getting these innuendoes about my academic career. From her.”

“How annoying!”

“That’s a good word. ‘Annoying.’”

“It seems pointless,” I said. “Unless she wanted money or something else valuable to keep quiet.”

“No! She never seemed to want to gain any advantage with her knowledge. It embarrassed me, but not seriously. It didn’t cost me a job or break up a love affair or anything. I found her actions a great mystery.”

At that point the waiter came with our salads. The break in conversation recalled me to my manners. Since the moment I sat down, Corny and I had done all the talking. It was time to include Butch. But I wanted to continue to focus on Abigail.

“Butch, did you ever meet Abigail?”

“Only once.” He nodded to Corny. “At that interview meeting with the board. She gave me the same treatment she gave you, Corny. She’d done more research on my personal life than I was comfortable with. Not my professional life. She was certainly entitled to look that over thoroughly. But she had found out things about my past I didn’t want to discuss. Frankly, I’m a little relieved to hear you say that she treated someone else that way.”

“I noticed she made several people on the library board uncomfortable.” Corny stabbed a piece of tomato. “I finally decided there was nothing malicious in it.”

“I thought perhaps she was trying to gain power,” Butch said. “Emotional power.”

“If she was, she never seemed to use it.”

I waved my own salad fork around. “But people cited examples of when she influenced board action. Halting the payment on parts of the building, for example. Not that that wasn’t a good thing to do.”

“Abigail never seemed to use her nosiness to put pressure on people,” Corny said. “I mean, she was quite open about things she wanted. She cited chapter and verse. Abigail was curious, but she didn’t appear mean.”

Butch leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Corny, do you know of any run-in Abigail had with Betty Blake?”

“Betty? The circulation-desk clerk? No, I don’t.”

“There seems to be bad feeling there.”

“Over what?”

Butch shook his head. “I’ve probably said too much.”

That was interesting. Maybe it was something Hogan ought to know about.

We left the subject then. It seemed to be time to talk about something besides Abigail Montgomery.

So Corny and I described a few of Warner Pier’s traditional events to Butch, starting with the Fall Rinkydink and the midwinter tourism promotion.

The Rinkydink marks the day our one traffic light is turned into a blinking light for the winter. We all get together for a benefit picnic lunch in our waterfront park. Then we cheer the city crew as they switch the light over.

The midwinter promotion has a different theme every year, and that year the theme was to be clowns. Butch liked that idea. He immediately had some great ideas about projects the library could do involving clowns. I was impressed with his imagination.

But I kept thinking about Betty Blake disliking Abigail. If I was checking out a book, Betty seemed to be the most docile person in the world. The idea that she could even get mad—and mad at one of the library board members—was a surprise.

Butch and Corny—I was getting used to calling him that—were good company, and it turned out to be a pleasant evening.

Until we all got up to leave. That’s when those questions about Joe surfaced again in my little brain. Why hadn’t he come home for dinner? And whom was he having dinner with? Should I worry? Or was I simply borrowing trouble?

Corny had had three martinis, so I was glad to learn he lived only a block away from Herrera’s. Butch—he and I had each had only one drink—offered to walk home with him, and the two of them escorted me to my van. This meant Butch and I had no opportunity for private conversation.

Which was a good thing. We were doing well enough with eye contact alone. He did touch my arm as I got in the van. I pretended not to notice.

“Good night,” Corny said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Long for me, too,” I said. “I’m ready for bed.” The parking lot was not well lit. I hoped Butch couldn’t see that my face got hot. And why should a routine remark like that embarrass me?

As I drove home I grew more depressed by the moment. Where was Joe? Had he been with Meg? Were we having a crisis? Was I all excited over nothing?

Joe’s truck was in its proper spot when I pulled into the drive. I didn’t know if I should feel happy or angry or full of dread. I took a deep breath and went in the house.

Joe met me at the kitchen door. We spoke in unison. “Where’ve you been?”

And we answered in unison. “Out to dinner.”

Then the conversation seemed to flag. “Good,” I said finally. “You’ve eaten. Where did you go?”

“Oh, just down the street to Pepe’s. Webb and I had a case we wanted to talk about.”

A load lifted from my shoulders. Webb Bartlett is one of Joe’s fellow lawyers. In fact, he founded the agency where Joe works, though he maintains a private practice and rarely gets involved in their cases. But it certainly wasn’t unusual for Joe and Webb to confer.