The Chocolate Cupid Killings (10 page)

I had loaded the number for the police station into the phone to tease Aunt Nettie when she first began to see Hogan socially. Now I hit speed dial.

“This could be a valuable clue,” I said. “The police need to know. Derrick Valentine was your partner! How could you not tell them?”

As the phone was answered at the police station, the bell on the shop's front door tinkled. When I looked around, Tom O'Sullivan was outside and disappearing fast. And he wasn't disappearing in the direction of the police station.

He had taken to his heels. And he'd gone without a sample chocolate. That was some satisfaction, even though I'd thrown the Jamaican rum truffle in the floor. As a matter of fact, O'Sullivan had stepped on it as he went out.

Hogan wasn't at the station, of course, but I talked to one of the State Policemen who was there, reporting my whole conversation with the detective.

By the time I was through, I'd worked myself into a state of complete indignation. “I did not call Valentine and arrange to meet him in the alley,” I said. “I'm furious at that report. And I want to make sure y'all are investigating why this Tom O'Sullivan would say such a thing.”

The officer—I was so mad I didn't even get his name—made calming noises and said he'd tell “the lead investigators.”

I hung up feeling quite triumphant. O'Sullivan was just trying it on, I told myself. Probably nobody had called Valentine. But I was scared, too, because I had to admit it made sense.

There had to be some reason Derrick Valentine had gone into the alley behind our shop. That alley wasn't exactly a tourist attraction.

And the alley wasn't on Valentine's way anywhere. I assumed that Valentine and O'Sullivan would have had rooms in the one Warner Pier motel that was open that winter, since it was cheaper and more anonymous than the few B&Bs that were open.

Even if Valentine was a fresh air and exercise fiend who was walking the half mile from there to the nearest restaurant, he would have had no reason to go down that alley in the normal way of things.

So what had he been doing in the alley behind our shop?

Of course, his killer could have forced him to walk there or killed him elsewhere and dragged the body down the alley, but it would have been a lot easier to entice Valentine to go there under his own power. So the murderer might have called him and claimed to be me.

But why would the murderer do that?

Valentine knew hardly anybody in Warner Pier. I would be one of the few people who could have called him. I was also one of the few people in Warner Pier with a Texas accent. Any dolt could have called him, talked through his or her nose, and y'all'ed a few times. Valentine probably would have trotted right over.

Right to his death.

I needed legal advice. I called Joe.

Joe was reassuring. I'd done the right thing, he told me, though O'Sullivan had probably made up the story about a phone call luring Valentine to the TenHuis alley.

“But, Joe, it does make sense,” I said. “Why else would Valentine have gone there?”

“Because somebody had a gun in his back? Or maybe Valentine was planning to break into the shop. A lot of things could have happened. Don't worry.”

I hung up reassured. Besides, who could have gotten the idea to impersonate me to Derrick Valentine? Almost nobody in Warner Pier knew that he and I had had contact.

Yes, the list was small. Sarajane, Aunt Nettie, Pamela, George Jenkins—though I don't think he actually knew the private detective's name. Those were the only people I'd told. I hadn't even mentioned it to Joe until after Valentine's body was found.

Of course, I had no idea whom Valentine might have told. His partner, O'Sullivan, obviously. Maybe his supervisor, down in Atlanta. Heck, he might have put it on the Internet. At any rate, I simply couldn't picture George, Aunt Nettie, or Sarajane luring Valentine to the alley and killing him. And Pamela certainly would have been determined to avoid him.

No, I decided, O'Sullivan had been lying about why Valentine had gone to the alley. I'd ratted him out to the State Police. I'd let them handle it. In fact, I'd let Hogan and the State Police handle everything. I cleaned the squished bonbon off the floor, feeling smug.

Except that I did have to make sure Sarajane told the detectives about Pamela being a passenger on the underground railway. And about Pamela and Myrl disappearing between Warner Pier and Kalamazoo. No, I couldn't simply forget what was going on, as much as I'd like to.

It's hard to work when you're feeling glum. I carried on until about eleven thirty, when the phone rang. The caller ID told me the call was from Lindy's cell phone.

I picked up the phone. “Hi. Is it time for lunch already?”

“Not yet. I just got a special request. Somebody out here has heard of the fabulous TenHuis chocolates. They want an assortment added to the luncheon buffet.”

I thought about that. “Huh. That confirms my suspicion,” I said.

“Which one?”

“A man named Marty Ludlum is out there, right? Big guy? Distinguished-looking?”

“There's a Mr. Marvin P. Ludlum. That description fits him. Do I need to ask his nickname?”

“No. Ludlum knows Joe. I suspected he was mixed up with Endicott.” I sighed. “I'll bring the chocolates out. How many do you need?”

“We might as well soak 'em for a couple of pounds.”

“I'll drop them off at the back door.”

“The layout out here means you have to come to the front. There are only two parking spaces near the kitchen.”

“Twenty minutes.”

I hung up. Then I snarled. I couldn't refuse a request from Lindy, but I did not want to see Marty Ludlum. I didn't know why Joe wanted to avoid him, so if Marty tried to talk to me, I didn't know which questions to answer and which ones to dodge. There were too many things I couldn't mention that day; it was hard remembering which ones I couldn't mention to which people.

I took two one-pound boxes of assorted chocolates from the shelf. I was darned if the crowd at the Endicott house was going to get anything special. Then I grabbed a plastic caterer's tray—the kind with a fake silver finish—in case Lindy wanted to put them on it. I told Aunt Nettie where I was headed. In fact, I asked her if she didn't want to handle the delivery herself. She said no.

The Endicott house was on the Warner River, almost directly across from the business district. I could see it as I pulled out of my parking slot in front of TenHuis Chocolade, but I had to drive a half mile upstream, cross the bridge, and drive west a half mile to get there.

When I got to the entrance, of course, I was stopped by a wrought-iron gate and a faraway, invisible security guard who communicated electronically. The elaborately landscaped estate probably required security guards because it might as well have had a sign reading, “Fancy house filled with expensive, easy-to-fence items.” But Marson Endicott's legal problems also made a high level of security advisable, if only to keep reporters out. Not that the site would have been hard to get into. The road was lined by iron fencing, true, but that fencing was designed to allow us peons to look in enviously. I speculated that an intruder could get over with the help of a small step stool and a throw rug. After all, people get into the White House grounds now and then, despite the U.S. Secret Service. Marson Endicott's security didn't match that.

The guard's electronic voice told me to drive on to the front door, and the gate slid back magically. There was, naturally, a wide circular drive. It was lined with parked cars, all expensive models. The Herrera Catering van wasn't in view, so I thought Lindy had copped one of the two kitchen parking spaces. It would have looked a bit beat-up compared to the Mercedeses, BMWs, and Lexuses. Or is that Lexi?

I drove up the drive, gawking at the house. Its exterior might have been a Monticello rip-off, but the architect had missed classic revival and settled for nouveau riche. Its bricks were a bit too red, the domes a little too ornate, the outdoor light fixtures a tad too gimcracky to look like genuine class.

I stopped in front of the central door and waited for the security guard, or someone, to come out. No one came. So I moved the van farther down and parked. I gathered up my chocolates and my tray and went to the front door. I rang the bell, hoping that Lindy would be on the watch for me, so I could hand her the chocolates and leave.

But no. The door was opened by a tall man of maybe forty. He had a particularly engaging grin, a turned-up nose, and long arms and legs. His blond hair had been styled by an expensive shop. He wore khakis and a navy blue knit shirt, with a matching navy blue golf sweater over it. His only jewelry was a gold ring worn on his little finger.

“Mrs. Woodyard?”

I nodded.

“Hi. I'm Rhett, the butler.”

He got his laugh. I chortled out loud. It was impossible to look at his friendly, boyish face, to hear his selfeffacing identification, and not feel welcomed.

“Please come in,” Rhett said.

“You're not really named Rhett Butler?”

“No, but I am named Rhett. Rhett Spivey. My job title is household manager, but my duties aren't too far off from those of an old-fashioned butler. I take care of the mundane details like food and clothing, so Mr. Endicott doesn't have to. But you're the person carrying the silver salver.”

“Am I? I always wondered what a salver was.” I fanned myself with the plastic tray. “This one's not sterling. I brought the picnic ware today.”

“Picnic is pretty close to what we're having for lunch.”

I followed Rhett through a giant room circled by white pillars. It must have been an entry hall, but it seemed as big as a basketball court. Or maybe it just felt like a basketball court because of the expanse of highly polished wood flooring or because of the high ceiling. When I looked up I saw the inside of the main dome.

Through the pillars on the right I could see a living room. The room seemed to be full of men, all of them wearing expensive sports clothes. Cashmere sweaters, camel hair jackets, and loafers with that handmade look were everywhere. A few of the guys glanced at me, but I was obviously wallpaper to the confab.

I ignored them, just the way they were ignoring me, and looked left. On that side was a large, casual dining room. Neither the living room nor the dining room matched the overdone outside of the house; both were comfortable, but not pretentious.

The living room was furnished with sectionals in earth tones—matching the room in scale, but not massive—and the dining room held two large dining tables of light birch. Both rooms had gold-toned walls with lots of texture, the sort of paint job that requires twenty-five coats of glaze, each applied by a highly skilled artisan. I once had a living room with that kind of paint job. I was glad to leave it behind in Dallas.

The kitchen was visible through a door at the back of the dining room as we went in. “I'm impressed,” I said. “Your kitchen looks like a display at the home show.”

Rhett Spivey laughed. “Yeah, except that they shorted the parking for the help.”

I peeked through the window. The Herrera van and a white Cadillac Escalade were parked there. Rhett drove an Escalade? Endicott must pay him pretty well.

Lindy, wearing a white jacket to show she was on duty, was at the back of the dining room, arranging baskets of silverware.

“Mrs. Herrera is a real godsend to me,” Rhett said as we reached Lindy's end of the room. “She's even offered to help me locate some staff to fill in while we're here.”

“We have to lay off bunches of employees when Warner Pier closes up for the winter,” Lindy said. “So I know lots of people who can take on some short-term jobs. I could even find you a cook.”

“It might be safer for Herrera's to continue providing the food,” Rhett said. “I have no idea how long we'll be here. Any or all of these guys may leave on a moment's notice. So it's smarter not to stock up. If I just can find someone to help with the bed making and dishes, and you'll continue to deliver food, we'll manage.”

I took a peek into the living room. “Are all these people staying here?”

“There are only six bedrooms. So five of the guests are at bed-and-breakfasts. But they're all eating here.”

As he talked, Rhett opened one of the TenHuis boxes and took out a double fudge bonbon. (“Layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating.”)

He nibbled it, then opened his eyes in a lively display of pleasure. “Wahhoo! We've got at least three people in this crowd who are going to go for these. You'd better send us two or three more boxes.” He took another bite. “Or maybe four.”

I laughed. “You mean it's possible to be a top exec and a chocoholic at the same time?”

“Oh, they don't deny themselves any of life's little pleasures. And luckily the staff gets to eat the same food the boss does.” Rhett took my faux silver tray and began arranging the chocolates. “How'd Mr. Ludlum find out about TinHouse Chocolates?”

“My husband used to work with him,” I said. “And, just for the record, our company's name rhymes with ‘ice' and we use the Dutch word for chocolate. It's ‘Ten Hice Chocolade.' ”

“Sorry, Mrs. Woodyard!”

“No problem. That's the way I said it when I arrived from Texas. And if I'm calling you Rhett, you should call me Lee.”

“No can do. I make it a policy to use titles for everyone. That way I don't forget them at the wrong time.” Rhett smiled. “Mr. Ludlum's upstairs. I'll find him.”

“Why?”