The Chocolate Falcon Fraud (17 page)

I took time to nibble a key lime truffle (“white chocolate filling flavored with key lime, enrobed with dark chocolate, and embellished with a green dot”). I felt unneeded.

I turned to the mail. Even that looked routine. I sorted the orders into one pile and the bills into another. Then I looked over the orders that had come in by computer, but going through those didn't seem appealing.

All this made me really feel let down. I had to face facts. Despite my moment of truth on the way back from Holland, I didn't
want
to do my regular work and live my regular life. I wanted to know what was going on, why all these crazy things had happened to me and Joe, to Jeff, and to Tess. I was ashamed of myself, but there it was. I wanted to find the villains, to solve the crimes.

When I looked up, I saw that Aunt Nettie had finished her spouting demonstration and was coming toward my office. I
knew she'd want a full report on our adventure with Tess. And I didn't want to talk about that. I wanted to do something about it.

So when Aunt Nettie walked into my office, I spoke before she could. “Let's go deliver chocolates,” I said.

“Where do we need to deliver them?”

“To
La Paloma
. I promised to take Mr. Grossman a box of the chocolate falcons, and I haven't done it.”

It was, or so Aunt Nettie and I were told later, a stupid thing to do. But we weren't completely dumb about it.

First, Aunt Nettie was as eager to go as I was. She and I might not be blood relatives, but we somehow had identical curiosity genes. So we were sticking together.

Second, we called Hogan and left a message on his cell phone, telling him what we were doing. We also told Dolly Jolly—and Dolly could get results.

We drove to the yacht club, gambling that we'd find a parking space. Some of the handicapped slots there were usually open, at least when there wasn't a big party going on, and I had a handicapped permit. Besides, we probably wouldn't be going onto the yacht. We'd just send our chocolates over by rowboat.

The parking worked out as planned. And, unexpectedly, there was no need for a rowboat to get aboard
La Paloma
. She had been moved.

The yacht club marina had found a dockside berth for her. No longer did we have to climb down a ladder, climb into a rowboat, be rowed out into the river, and then climb onto the
swim platform to get onto the yacht. Now we merely crossed to the main deck by the gangway.

Everything was simple as pie, except one thing. I didn't have any idea why we had come, and Aunt Nettie was only there because I'd asked her to come with me. Why did I want to pay a call on the Grossman yacht? What did I think I might learn there? Would I hand over the chocolate falcons and leave?

Noel Kayro greeted us. He was wearing his 1930s outfit, a dark suit complete with vest, plus spats. He waved us onto the yacht.

“How is Jeff?” he asked.

“He's improving,” I said. “I'll tell him you're in the area as soon as the doctors okay it. But look at you! You're all dressed for the big event this evening.” The showing of
The Maltese Falcon
was scheduled for eight o'clock.

“Yes. Ready for business,” Kayro said. “The business of my hobby.”

A big bass voice boomed behind us. “Ah, Mrs. Woodyard.”

I turned and greeted Grossman. He was also wearing his role-playing outfit, the 1930s yachting togs.

“And this is my aunt,” I said, “Nettie TenHuis Jones. She is the chocolatier deluxe for TenHuis Chocolade.” I held out the box of chocolate falcons I had brought along. “And here are the falcons I promised you.”

Grossman's face lit up. He eagerly took the box of chocolates, slipped off the blue ribbon, and opened it. I had the feeling he was going to devour the whole box without even offering it around. That action would have been strictly out of character for Kasper Gutman, the character he was portraying. Gutman was always suave and polite, even when he was ordering a murder.

Grossman restrained himself, however, and politely offered falcons to the rest of us. Aunt Nettie and I declined, but Kayro took one. Then Grossman helped himself. His “Delicious!” was extremely enthusiastic. The falcons, of course, were solid chocolate, not filled with exotically flavored ganache. But their smooth creaminess was worth a few slobbers.

I did come up with at least one question. “I had another motive for coming,” I said. “Naturally I'm shocked by the death of Captain Jacobs. And I'm sure the police have questioned everybody on
La Paloma
. I wondered if you had been told anything about the crime.”

“No, we've been given no news,” Grossman said. “Except that he died on your veranda. I deeply regret that you had such a horrifying experience.”

“I had not had the pleasure of meeting the captain, unfortunately.” I was beginning to talk like Grossman myself. “Joe, my husband, was horrified; he had had a chance to become slightly acquainted with Captain Jacobs. And for those of you who knew him well, the blow must have been much worse.”

Grossman frowned. “I have to admit that I barely knew Jacobs myself.” He stopped talking and glanced at Kayro.

There was a brief silence. Then Kayro spoke. “The captain was employed through an agency. He had just joined the crew on this trip.”

“Oh! So he wasn't a close associate,” I said.

“Not an associate at all,” Grossman said. He puffed himself up slightly, seeming to regain confidence. “I flew out to meet
La Paloma
here in Warner Pier. The captain and I met for the first time then. We had barely spoken before that.”

“If Captain Jacobs didn't know anyone in the Warner Pier
area, or even on
La Paloma
, it seems really strange that anyone would harm him here.”

“Like you, I fail to understand how this could happen,” Grossman said.

Aunt Nettie gave her face a sweet-little-old-lady expression. “So the police have no idea who might have killed him?” She made it a question.

“They have not shared any information with us,” Grossman said.

“I haven't been able to get a word out of Hogan either,” Aunt Nettie said.

Grossman and Kayro both looked mystified, so I explained, “My aunt is married to our chief of police, Hogan Jones.”

Grossman's eyes widened, making him look almost frightened, and Kayro chuckled nervously. “I hope you haven't come as your husband's emissary,” he said.

“Oh no. I'm just a regular Warner Pier person,” Aunt Nettie said. “Everyone here is crazy about boats.”

After that strong hint, of course we got a tour. This time, despite my crutch, I climbed all over the yacht. I saw the master stateroom and the three guest staterooms, the crew quarters, the bridge, the exercise room, the upper and lower decks, and the kitchen.

The kitchen was occupied by the only crew member we saw. This was a plain young woman wearing a large white jacket and with a large white cap covering her hair. She was chopping onions, and all we could see of her was red eyes and a runny nose. She glared as we came in, and answered Aunt Nettie's questions about cooking on a boat gruffly. Apparently she found it annoying to stop and be pleasant to visitors while doing a
chore that made her feel unattractive. Or maybe she was unpleasant all the time.

Grossman introduced her as Rae, the cook.

I smiled. “But, Mr. Grossman, Rae should be your daughter.”

“My daughter? I'm afraid I am childless, Mrs. Woodyard.”

“Ah, but in
The Maltese Falcon
novel, Gutman's daughter, Rhea, entices Sam Spade away from the main scene of the action at the crucial time. But perhaps her name is pronounced Ree-ah, rather than Ray-ah.”

Grossman smiled. “We're not complete purists,” he said.

This evidence of the existence of crew members made me turn to Grossman. “Will you sail the yacht back to Buffalo yourself?”

He gave me that wide-eyed, almost frightened look again. “Oh no! We have contacted the agency asking for a temporary captain. The crew will take the boat back. I must return more rapidly. By air. Though I knew Captain Jacobs only slightly, I feel that I must speak with his family. In fact, I'm leaving early tomorrow.”

I resisted making a comment, but I did wonder why he owned a multimillion-dollar yacht when he apparently never sailed in it.

We left the yacht then, with Aunt Nettie effusively thanking Grossman for the tour, and Grossman effusively thanking her for the truffles. I hope I was polite, but I mainly concentrated on limping back across the gangway.

I was getting tired, and I still had to cross the park. But I made it to the van and climbed behind the steering wheel.

Once we were settled, I turned to Aunt Nettie. “Well, that little tour provided quite a bit of fodder for questions.”

“It certainly did,” she said. “Especially the cook.”

“Why her in particular?”

“Lee! Didn't you recognize her?”

“I guess not. Who was she?”

“She was the same girl we talked to out at Valk's!”

“Oh no!” I stared at Aunt Nettie, completely stunned. “That can't be!”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I'm sure she was the same girl.”

“Oshawna Bridges? Are you sure?”

“Well, I was when we were on board,” Aunt Nettie said. “The onions were a nice touch. There's nothing like crying to make you look different. It changes the expression.”

“Yes, and the cap helped, now that I think about it. Her black ringlets were the most distinctive thing about her out at Valk's. I was mesmerized by them. But that cap she's wearing now covers every curl. And it's quicker than a dye job. Or the ringlets could have been a wig in the first place.”

I pictured the cook again, then thought about the Valk girl. “Aunt Nettie, I think you're right. It
was
her.”

“We must tell Hogan. She may be in danger.”

“Oh. Then you think she's being held on the yacht against her will.”

“It seems like a strong possibility to me, Lee. Remember how cowed she seemed when we met her out at Valk's?”

“I guess that's possible. At any rate, we also need to watch the yacht. If Grossman or Kayro realized or if she realized herself that we've figured out who she is . . . well, she could really be in danger. Or she could take off. Neither situation is good.”

“Do you have your cell phone? Do you want to call Hogan? Or shall I?”

“We shouldn't be too obvious. They may be watching us. So? How about a drink?”

“A drink?”

“The main film festival action tonight is over at the theater. So Kayro and Grossman, and maybe Oshawna Bridges as well, should be hanging around the yacht, getting ready to go to the movies. The yacht club bar shouldn't be crowded, and we can still see the yacht from the window. We could make a phone call from there. If one of them leaves, we should see them.”

“I think that's a good plan, Lee.”

So we got back out of the van and walked—I hobbled—across the park to the yacht club. We went in, sat down in a corner, and ordered coffee. I called Hogan. It took three full minutes and a lot of dramatic whispering using words like “vital” and “he must know” and “imperative that we reach him” before his assistant agreed to find him for us. We were still drinking our coffee when Hogan called us back.

Then, of course, he wasn't sure he should believe us. I handed the phone to Aunt Nettie, and she was able to convince him.

She punched the
OFF
button. “He told me we should leave here and go back to the shop,” she said.

I nodded, climbed aboard my crutch, and limped back to the van. As in most vans, in mine the front row of seating had two separate seats with a console between them. I got into the driver's seat, keeping my mouth shut as Aunt Nettie climbed into the passenger's seat. But as soon as the doors were closed and my seat belt was fastened, I spoke.

“I hope Hogan gets Miss Bridges settled quickly, because I want to talk to him about the whole atmosphere out there.”

Aunt Nettie clicked her seat belt. “You mentioned that earlier,” she said. “I wasn't sure what you meant.”

I inserted the key in the ignition and went on talking. “It's
just an odd situation. That's supposed to be Grossman's yacht, but Kayro almost seems to be in charge.”

“Oh!” Aunt Nettie yelped loudly, and I whirled to look at her. “What's wrong?” Then I gave a loud “Oh!” of my own.

A huge automatic pistol had materialized between us.

And now a head appeared. A head wearing a straw fedora.

I wanted to laugh. The whole thing seemed to be a joke, some sort of prank dealing with
The Maltese Falcon.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Just start the van and back out.” The command came in a tinny little voice.

“Who are you?” I asked. “And what do you want?”

“Forget the questions. Just back out and drive where I tell you. Or your aunt gets it!”

I stared at the person between us, but all I could see was the top and brim of a fedora. I kept trying to take in the situation. I couldn't.

Aunt Nettie spoke. “Young man, I suggest you get out of the van and go your way,” she said. “I cannot believe you would actually fire a pistol here, on the busiest street in a busy resort, thronged with people. That would be silly.”

“Try me!” The man's voice sounded desperate.

Aunt Nettie gave a deep sigh and unhooked her seat belt. “I refuse to cooperate with such a foolish business,” she said.

“Really, Aunt Nettie,” I said. “We got so worried about Gutman, Cairo, and Bridget that we forgot about Wilmer.”

Then I pulled the keys out of the ignition and hit the alarm attached to my key chain.

All hell broke loose.