The Chocolate Cupid Killings (12 page)

He and Hogan were eating grilled cheese sandwiches. Hogan, who couldn't have had more than two or three hours of sleep, looked more like Abraham Lincoln than usual. In fact, he looked like Abraham Lincoln at a time the great man must have been extremely worried about the progress of the Civil War.

“I'll bet Joe will make one of his extra-special grilled cheese sandwiches for you, too, Lee,” he said.

“I'm meeting Lindy for lunch at one,” I said. “I just dropped by to double-check with Joe about our second try at dinner with Mercy and Mike. Now it's set for tomorrow night.”

Joe sighed. “I know. I promise I'll make it this time.”

I pulled up a chair. “Incidentally, I just ran into that guy you two had cornered yesterday.”

“What guy we had cornered?” Hogan sounded surprised.

“The bald guy who was in your office yesterday.”

Hogan laughed. “We didn't have him cornered.”

Joe looked at me sharply. “You didn't say anything to him?”

“No, darling.” I let the slightest tone of sarcasm creep into my voice. “You said not to. Besides, it wasn't a face-to-face meeting. He was in Marson Endicott's living room, swearing up a storm, and I was in the front hall.”

They spoke at the same time. “What were you doing in Marson Endicott's front hall?”

I explained about the chocolate, but I left my brief conversation with Marty Ludlum out of the report. I'd tell Joe about that privately.

“Anyway, as I left I saw that bald guy,” I said. “He was concentrating on the television set. Patricia Youngman was on CNN, and he was cursing her until I was surprised that the TV set didn't slap his face.”

Neither of them offered more information. They just exchanged meaningful glances and chewed.

I turned to Hogan. “Anything new on Derrick Valentine?”

“Not that I know about. Thanks to Nettie, I've been tossed out of a local investigation—and out of my own office.”

“Yeah. When the police chief's wife falls over a body, it makes it look as if you might not be able to be a nonprejudiced investigator. Have they questioned Valentine's partner?”

“They're not telling me.” Hogan grinned. “Joe says you sent him on the run.”

“My previous experiences with private eyes were not good. I wasn't pleased to meet him. Or Valentine, for that matter.” Both Hogan and Joe knew that when I left my ex-husband, Rich Godfrey, in Dallas, he decided that I wouldn't be dumping one wealthy man unless I already had another one on the string. He hired detectives to prove it. For a couple of weeks I couldn't go anywhere without seeing a nondescript vehicle in my rearview mirror. I wasn't dating anyone else—rich or poor—so all the detectives did was waste Rich's money. But the whole experience was distasteful, to say the least. It would have been terrifying if the wife of one of Rich's friends hadn't given me a broad hint about why strange men were following me.

“I don't suppose you're willing to tell me who sent Valentine and O'Sullivan to Warner Pier,” I said.

“Nope.” Hogan's voice was firm.

I was being stonewalled. I hate when that happens. So I got a bit outrageous.

“I guess the mob wouldn't hire private eyes,” I said.

Joe rolled his eyes and laughed. Hogan gulped hard and nearly choked on his sandwich.

“Mob!” he said. “Where'd you get an idea the mob is involved?”

“Internet,” I said. “Valentine was looking for a woman named Christina Meachum. I Googled her.”

“And you discovered . . .?”

“Christina Meachum was the maiden name of Christina Belcher. As in wife of Belcher the Butcher. Detroit mob.”

Hogan snorted. “To the Detroit mob Christina Belcher is small potatoes.”

“You don't think she's a mob target?”

“No. The people she implicated were low level. Disposable. I admit the mob might be after some of
those
guys. I'm sure the FBI flipped some of them—got them to turn state's evidence. But Christina knew very little about her husband's operation. The feds only used Christina as a crowbar to try to open a minor door to the mob.”

“But if Christina Belcher isn't a mob target, why was she in the Federal Witness Protection Program?”

“I didn't know that she was.”

I thought about that. “The newspaper articles I saw—”

Hogan cut in. “I never heard of the feds telling the news media that they were putting someone into the Federal Witness Protection Program. If that was in a newspaper, it was simply a guess. And it might be wrong. It also might be right. But Christina may have disappeared on her own. There's no way of telling.”

Hogan suddenly threw his head up like a deer who had sniffed a hunter with a great big rifle. He looked at me sharply. “Lee, you haven't mentioned this mob idea around town, I hope.”

“I just got around to Googling Christina this morning. No, I hadn't mentioned it to anyone.”

“Don't! I have enough trouble dealing with rumors in Warner Pier without the populace deciding we're being invaded by the Detroit mob.”

Joe and I both laughed, and I promised I wouldn't mention the possibility of mob involvement in Warner Pier's crime scene. Then I left to meet Lindy for lunch. But before I went out the door I casually asked Hogan where he planned to be that afternoon. I didn't tell Hogan why I wanted to know, but I was hoping Sarajane and I would need to talk to him in a couple of hours.

I drove toward the Sidewalk Café. I was looking forward to a visit with Lindy, even if I had to guard my tongue, because she always cheers me up. So it was disheartening when—as soon as we'd slid into a booth and ordered sandwiches—she opened the conversation by saying, “Lee, I'm almost at the end of my rope.”

I tried to keep the party light. “You must feel like my Texas grandma used to. She'd say, ‘I'm ready to cut my suspenders and go straight up.' ”

The down-home witticism fell flat. Lindy blinked hard, and I realized she was trying not to cry. She spoke, and her voice sounded frantic. “I can't cry here! Not in front of Herrera employees, not when Mike might walk in any moment!”

“Lean over and pop your contacts out,” I said. “That'll give you an excuse for watery eyes. Here's a Kleenex. And when you get the contacts out, I'll be ready to listen.”

“Thanks.” Her voice croaked.

“You've listened to my problems often enough.” I waited until she got the contacts out and mopped her eyes.

When she spoke again, her voice was close to normal. “It's Tony.”

“What's he done?”

“All of a sudden he's all upset because I make more money than he does.”

“Lots of guys would think that was a good thing. But neither of you has changed jobs lately. Why is that bothering Tony now?”

The waiter brought our drinks, and Lindy stared at her napkin until he had left. “He just figured it out.”

“Tony didn't know how much money you made?”

“Lee, he doesn't even know how much he makes himself! I've always handled the family finances.” Lindy fought back tears again. “You know that Tony always refused to work in one of Mike's restaurants.”

“Really? The first summer I worked here—when we were sixteen—I thought Tony was working at Herrera's.”

“Mike tried to get him to work there. He started him as a busboy. Tony was so rude to the customers that Mike had to fire him. Frankly, Tony has always thought waiting on people—even serving them good food that they pay a lot for—is menial.”

“Tony's like Joe. They're happier working with their hands.”

“Tony is. I've always wanted him to do something he liked doing. So the machine shop was fine with me.”

“Did he mind you working at what he thinks is a menial job?” Lindy started as a waitress, and she'd also worked as a cook.

Lindy laughed ruefully. “I'm only a woman, Lee. Tony has a strong streak of machismo, you know. A menial job was good enough for a woman.”

“But you quit waiting tables five years ago. Now that you're catering manager . . .” I got it. “Oh. You didn't tell Tony that you're making good money now that you're in charge of one of Mike's main business enterprises.”

Lindy shook her head. “I guess I should have gone into the details more. I think Tony had the idea that Mike was paying me as a way to help out his grandchildren. When he realized that I have—well, major responsibilities, that I hire and fire, that I bid on major banquets and weddings and that the business is quite successful . . .”

“I wouldn't want to guess at the annual business Herrera Catering does, but you're in charge of all of it.”

“Yes. But Tony had never realized what my responsibilities and my salary were until this situation with Mercy and Mike came up. I mean, the obvious thing is that they're planning to get married, and it made Tony think about his dad's property.”

“With three restaurants and the catering company . . . Does Mike own his own buildings?”

“He owns this one and the building where Herrera's is. He leases the other restaurant. But see, Tony had always seen Mike's business as just small-town restaurants. This was the first time that he looked at what a successful businessman his dad is.”

“And now he's kicking himself for not sticking it out as a busboy.”

Tears welled up in Lindy's eyes again. “Oh, Lee, Tony would be terrible in the restaurant business!”

“Yes, he would. He'd hate every minute of it, and you'd be his boss.”

“I knew you'd see the problem!”

Lindy dabbed at her eyes again, and I thought before I spoke. “Does Tony feel as if he should start taking an interest?”

“Yes. He sees that he's Mike's main heir. Of course, that may change if Mike and Mercy get married.”

“Mercy has a successful business of her own. Joe and I are certainly not interested in inheriting from Mike.”

“I know—I mean, I thought you'd feel that way. But suddenly Tony feels as if he's failed his dad by never taking any interest in the business. Now he thinks maybe he should try.”

“And he'd rather be shot.”

Lindy finally smiled. “Basically. Plus, he sees that I've been down there learning the ropes for ten years.”

“You'd have to break him in.” I thought a moment, then went on. “Tony's smart enough to learn anything he sets his mind on, of course, but I think he'd be making a mistake if he tried the restaurant business at this point.”

“Yes, he doesn't meet the public easily, and he isn't interested in the business side.” Lindy's voice rose. “He doesn't even like to cook!”

I thought about Lindy's problem and stirred my iced tea. Us Texans, we like iced tea all year round, and Mike's restaurants are the only places in Warner Pier where I can get it in the winter. And it's good tea, too. That's because Mike came to Michigan from Denton, Texas, more than forty years ago. He understands iced tea. I took a big drink from my glass before I went on.

“Listen, Lindy, I can't believe Mike hasn't thought this through. He and Tony get along pretty well these days, don't they?”

“Once Mike gave up trying to force Tony into the restaurant business, things have been fine between them. To be honest, I think Mike would be horrified if Tony tried to come back.”

She leaned across the table and spoke earnestly. “Do you think Joe could talk to Tony?”

“I don't know if that would help, but I'll ask him.”

Our sandwiches came, and we left it at that. For the rest of the lunch I caught up on Lindy's parents and her kids and stayed away from discussing her job.

We were still in the restaurant when my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was the chocolate shop. I answered. “Yes.”

“Lee, Lee!” It was Aunt Nettie, and she was excited. It scared me.

“What's wrong, Aunt Nettie?”

“Nothing's wrong, Lee. Everything's all right. Sarajane got a phone call from Pamela.”