The Chocolate Book Bandit (4 page)

I turned to Miss Vanderklomp. “Tim has a lot of problems,” I said, “but he’s a nice person, and he’s been a good neighbor to us.” Then I looked all around the room, making sure Carol got part of the look. “Joe said he and Tim will be here within five minutes.”

Carol had the grace to look embarrassed.

And, sure enough, almost immediately I heard Joe’s voice, and when I looked out the door of the meeting room, I saw a cop escorting Tim and Joe toward us. “You’ll have to wait until the chief can get loose,” the cop told them.

I greeted Tim with a big hug. He looked as if he was about to cry. “Lee, is it true? Is Abby really dead?”

“I’m afraid so, Tim.”

Tears did well up in his eyes then. He shook his head sadly and spoke.

“Now I’ll never know what she was so worried about.”

A
bigail Montgomery had been worried, but she hadn’t told her brother what she had been worried about.

Darn! That information could well have been the number-one clue to who killed her. But the silly woman hadn’t shared her secret.

I wanted to quiz Tim, but I kept my mouth shut. After all, it was Hogan who would ask the official questions, and he was an expert. No matter how nosy I was, I should keep out of it. I confined my activities to taking Tim by the arm and leading him into the room where we were all waiting. Apparently that was the place where the investigators wanted to corral noninvestigators. The tiny room was getting crowded.

Several of the waiting board members made consoling remarks to Tim. Rhonda Ringer-Riley gave him a hug. Butch found two more of the uncomfortable chairs for Tim and for Joe, and we all sat down to wait.

It was Carol who offered to make coffee. She’s always full of surprises. After her unkind remarks about Tim’s driving, she gave him a particularly sweet greeting. She seemed genuinely interested in trying to comfort him.

Our guardian cop allowed her to go back to the workroom, where library employees took their breaks. After ten minutes or so she brought back a carafe of coffee and some Styrofoam cups, and Butch found a sack of bargain chocolate chip cookies someplace. I hadn’t felt particularly hungry, but never have Hills Bros. coffee and store-bought cookies tasted so good. I guess we were all in need of comfort.

Even Tim had some coffee, though he refused a cookie. The coffee seemed to help him. His talk grew less confused, and his eyes almost focused.

The aroma of coffee may have reminded Hogan that we were there, because he almost immediately came upstairs. He took Tim away.

I could hear Tim talking as they walked off. “I’m afraid the Harts have become a doomed family,” he said. “This is the third violent death for my generation. Now I’m the only one left.”

“You’ve sure had a run of bad luck,” Hogan said kindly. “Have you called Hart to tell him about his aunt?” Then they were out of earshot.

Back in the meeting room, Rhonda seemed to reassume her job as chair. “Tim’s right,” she said. “A lot has happened to the Hart family in the past few years. But I never expected the bad luck to move on to Abigail. She was always the quiet one.”

“Had you known her for a long time?” I asked.

“Our mothers were friends. Abby was a nice little girl—docile. Not assertive. Nothing like her sister.”

Miss Vanderklomp cleared her throat, adjusted her bra straps, and spoke. “These people—these Harts—they didn’t go to school in Warner Pier, did they?”

“No,” Rhonda said. “They were from Chicago. All three of the children went to private school there.”

“Then how did you meet them?”

“Their cottage was near our house. Their mother was very nice. She and my mother had known each other when they played on the beach as kids.”

“I see.” Miss Vanderklomp picked up her water—or was it Pepsi?—bottle and pulled on the straw. Her body language spoke volumes. If this Hart family hadn’t gone to Warner Pier High School, they hadn’t existed for Miss Vanderklomp.

I turned to Rhonda. “Then you knew them well.”

Rhonda nodded. “Olivia was the bossy one. Hart’s mother.”

She and I exchanged looks. I could testify to how bossy Olivia was. But I didn’t say anything about Olivia. I wanted to keep the focus on Abigail. “Who did Abigail marry?”

“Bill Montgomery. He was from another summer family. He was in Vietnam when they got married—I mean, he was just back. They built a house on the Hart property, but they didn’t use it for years. Bill went to work for the family bank. In Chicago. Then he went to work for a bank in California.” Rhonda shrugged, and I had the feeling Bill had never progressed much as a banker.

“Abigail came back here after he died,” she said. “I called and asked her to go out to lunch several times, but she wasn’t very social. I mostly saw her here at the board meetings.”

Rhonda blinked, looking almost as if she were going to burst into tears. “She was such a mild-mannered person.”

A loud grunting noise sounded, and I jumped all over. I wondered if we had a hog or some other kind of animal in the room. But when I turned toward the noise, it was Dr. Cornwall.

His eyes were wide open, and he was glaring at Rhonda. “You make Abigail sound like a sort of angel,” he said in a gruff voice. “She wasn’t.”

“Corny!” Rhonda sounded scandalized.

“You’re trying to observe the conventions, avoid speaking ill of the dead. But we all know your description of Abigail isn’t the whole picture. We were all here when she let Carol have it at last month’s meeting. And we heard the discussion when she and Gwen bumped heads over the air-conditioning in the new building. And when those things happened, Abigail held up her end of the argument! People didn’t trample Abigail Montgomery into the ground. No, they didn’t! Abigail had that Hart spirit! She could stare down her nose with the best of them!”

Carol made a noise. I expected her to follow Dr. Cornwall’s comments by saying something. I guess everybody else did, too, because we all turned and looked at her. But she didn’t say anything more. She simply sank into her chair, looking crushed.

We sat quietly and sipped our coffee. Even Rhonda didn’t argue with the opposing view of Abigail Montgomery.

It was then I noticed that Gwen was gone. Rhonda said that Hogan had let her go home, since she had all three of her children with her. “I really don’t see why any of us have to stay,” she said. “I mean, just because of an accident. None of us even saw it.”

I glanced at Butch and discovered he was looking at me. I moved nervously and even felt my face grow warm. But neither of us said anything about Abigail’s death not being an accident.

We didn’t have to stay too long after that. Hogan escorted Tim back and took quick statements from each of us—basically asking what time we arrived and whether we’d seen Abigail Montgomery before we went in for the meeting. Then he said we could leave. He also told Tim he could go. The older man left with Joe and me. I almost got into Joe’s truck before I realized I had come in my own van.

By then I was feeling a new concern for Tim. “Tim, have you had anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Joe and I exchanged looks. We were both reared with the belief that missing a meal might ruin our health forever. Plus, food might counteract the amount of alcohol Tim had taken in earlier.

“Lee and I were planning to stop at Herrera’s for a quick bite,” Joe said. “Would you mind coming along?”

There was no way Tim could refuse, of course, since he was riding with Joe.

Herrera’s is one of two restaurants owned by Joe’s stepfather, Mike Herrera. It’s the fanciest one, which might not make it suitable for a grieving brother, but it’s also the quietest. Plus, it was open. There are dozens of restaurants in Warner Pier, as befits a resort community, but a large proportion of them close from Labor Day until Memorial Day.

So Joe, Tim, and I went to Herrera’s. Luckily, Mike Herrera himself was on duty, and I was able to explain the situation to him. He gave us his most secluded table. I twisted Tim’s arm until he ordered a bowl of chicken and noodles and a small salad. Tim was sobering up fast, but getting some food down him could only help.

Tim didn’t have a cell phone—“Can’t seem to hang on to them,” he said—but he had Hart’s business card, and Joe was able to reach Hart halfway between Grand Rapids and Warner Pier. Joe assured him we would take his uncle home. Hart said he’d stop by the library to check in with the authorities, then meet all of us at Tim’s house.

We were just finishing our meal when Butch Cassidy walked in. He looked harassed, but still I noticed how attractive he was. We all waved, and he took a table across the room. In a few minutes the waitress placed a large martini in front of him.

Joe looked at it, then grinned at me. I grinned back. Both of us would have loved a drink, but we were not going to touch a drop in front of Tim.

Joe and Tim soon left, leaving me behind to sign the credit card slip. To my surprise, as soon as they were out the door Butch came over to the table.

“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Woodyard?”

“Of course. Sit down. And please call me Lee.”

My words, I hoped, sounded routine. What weren’t routine were the internal flutters I was feeling. I firmly reminded myself that I was a married woman—a happily married woman—and tried to put on a friendly expression. “How can I do you?” Yikes! “I mean, how can I help you?”

Butch Cassidy didn’t laugh, but he blinked a couple of times.

I spoke again. “I’m the Mrs. Malaprop of Warner Pier. Just ignore my tongue.” Oh, Lordy, I’d done it again! Everything I said seemed to have a double meaning. I put on a smile that I’m sure looked as twisted as my words. Then I shut up.

“When we were downstairs, after we found Mrs. Montgomery,” Butch said, “did you say something about being related to the police chief?”

“We’re what Texans call shirttail relations. My mother’s brother was Chief Jones’ wife’s first husband.” Butch looked suitably confused, so I went on. “In other words, my aunt is married to him.”

“Then he’s your uncle by marriage?”

“Actually, he’s the second husband of my aunt by marriage. I recommend that you settle for ‘shirttail relative.’ Or I can draw you a family tree. But since I work for that aunt and we’re all pals, it’s a closer relationship than it might sound like. But we’re not blood kin, as my Texas grandma would have said.”

“You’re talking about Chief Jones, the one I met tonight?”

“Right. Hogan Jones.”

“He seems like a—well, a competent person.”

“Oh, he is. Warner Pier is lucky to have him.” I quickly sketched Hogan’s career—more than twenty years with the Cincinnati Police Department, ending as chief of detectives. Then retirement to Warner Pier. Losing his first wife to cancer. Deciding to take on a new job as police chief in a small—very small—town where he had to handle everything from dealing with the city council to investigating major crimes. Hogan never commented on which activity was more difficult.

Butch nodded seriously. “I could tell he really knows what he’s doing. But more detectives came in after you left.”

“Probably the Michigan State Police. Part of their function is assisting small communities with major investigations. They do the lab work, for one thing.”

Butch had brought his martini along, and now he sipped it, looking serious. “Sounds as if they’re planning a full-scale investigation.”

“I doubt they’ll commit until a doctor gets a look at Mrs. Montgomery.”

Butch stood up. “Thanks, Mrs. . . . Lee. It’s good to know what to expect.”

“I think you can expect to have the library full of investigators for several days.”

“Yep. None of us will have a secret left. No matter how insignificant.”

“Please don’t worry about it, Butch. I’m sure you’ll find Hogan—and the state police detectives—very easy to work with. They’re always polite and businesslike.”

He went back to his own table, leaving me to wonder why he looked as if he were facing a dire fate. Dadgum! He was one sexy dude. I couldn’t help thinking it, and it made me ashamed of myself, even though I had tried to act as if I didn’t notice his attraction.

I was taking a final sip of my coffee, waiting to sign the credit card slip, when my cell phone rang. I looked to see who it was before I answered.

“Hogan?”

“Lee, where are you?”

“I’m at Herrera’s. We stopped for dinner, trying to get some food down Timothy Hart.”

“I need to talk to you again.”

“Sure. I was going home.”

“Just come on back to the library. And I don’t suppose you know where that Cassidy guy is.”

“As a matter of fact, he’s here, too.”

“With you?”

“No, but he’s right across the room. He hasn’t had his dinner yet.”

“I need both of you back here, Lee. Now.”

Chocolate may improve the memories of snails. According to news reports, researchers at the Hotchkiss Brain Institute at the University of Calgary discovered this when they tested the effects of a flavonoid called epicatechin on the creatures. They tested red wine and green tea, as well as chocolate.

The snails were placed in tanks that contained either normal water or water containing a small amount of chocolate. Some of the oxygen was removed from the water. This makes the snails extend their breathing tubes more often.

Each time the snails extended their breathing tubes, the researchers poked them with a stick. (I’m sure they gave the snails a gentle, loving tap.) After half an hour the snails were removed from the chocolate-flavored water.

Later the snails were placed back in the water and the scientists measured how often they extended their breathing tubes. The assumption: If the snails popped the tubes out less often than they had earlier, they were “remembering” that they might get a tap with a stick if they did so.

The snails that had been in the normal water remembered to hold their breath for only three hours. The snails from the chocolate water remembered for twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

The researchers concluded that the epicatechin improved the snails’ memories. This might—might—mean that I could find my car keys if I ate a few Hershey’s Kisses. Maybe.