The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (20 page)

“Ol’ Tom or his pal, whoever that is.”

“You still think he’s acting for someone else?”

“Oh, yeah. But I guess that’s not my concern. I’m getting the money I wanted for it. I haven’t had a chance to check with the other property owners along there, to see if they’ve had offers.”

“You could still back out.”

“I’d owe him some interest on his earnest money, but I guess Clem’s estate could find the bucks somewhere. I’ll ask around before we close the deal. And I know a few guys in Grand Rapids. I’ll try to find out if he has any connection with some other developer.”

“I was wondering if he had any connection with somebody who owns a black panel truck.”

“I’ll leave that one up to Chief Jones. But I’d sure hate to queer the sale of that property merely because of my suspicious nature. And speaking of that property—how’d you like to go by there tonight? After you get off work.”

“I won’t be off until nine-thirty or ten.”

“I know. The moon is just visible over the trees now. Nine-thirty or ten ought to be a good time for a boat ride.”

“Well . . .”

“And the lake’s supposed to be calm. Wind five miles per hour from the southwest.”

I laughed. “In that case, I’ll meet you at the dock.”

Joe had known the prospect of a calm lake would be the final enticement. I love being out on Lake Michigan—particularly in the moonlight—but rough water gives my tummy trouble. A moonlight cruise isn’t romantic if one party is leaning over the side of the boat. It’s lucky Joe’s love of boats emphasizes working on them and admiring them. If he wanted to go places in them all the time, he’d ditch me and my queasy innards in a hurry.

Anyway, I called home and warned Aunt Nettie that I’d be late. Joe appeared at the door of TenHuis Chocolade at 9:31 P.M. He swept the floor while I balanced the cash register and Tracy and Stacy alternately giggled and cleaned the counter and the showcases. I got my jacket and scarf out of the van, and we were all out of the shop by 9:50 P.M.

The temperature was brisk—mid-50s. But Joe was right about the moon; it was full and gorgeous. He had brought the Shepherd Sedan, and the motor gurgled soothingly as we puttered down the river channel through the no-wake zone that led clear out to the lake. The motor meant there was no conversation, but what did we need to say? We were alone. Everything was beautiful, and I don’t mean just the moonlight, the lights of the houses and businesses along the shore, the ranks of boats in the marinas. Then we passed the jetty that protected the river channel as it emptied into the lake, and the water unfolded before us, stretching to the horizon to the south, to the north, and to the west. The moon had moved into the western sky, and its reflection created a path to infinity. I felt as if we could turn the boat onto that path and follow it right up into the stratosphere. We did not need a rocket ship; we had the Shepherd Sedan.

Joe didn’t turn into the moon’s path, of course. He turned right, swinging out beyond the sand bar that parallels the shore, and we headed north, about a quarter of a mile offshore. We passed Warner Point and the elegant mansion which was giving Joe such fits as he tried to settle his ex-wife’s estate. Neither of us even pointed at it. Then we saw the trees and the houses along North Lake Shore Drive, with rolling, tree-covered dunes behind them. In the moonlight, the private stairways leading down to the beach were clearly visible, as was the one block of condominiums that had been built on the lakeshore. Far ahead, miles away, we could see the warning beacon from the lighthouse at Holland. It was all like a dream, and we both were in a sort of reverie as the boat gurgled along in the brilliant moonlight.

We weren’t completely alone out there. There were other boats. Most of them were farther out. Many were big—some people would be sleeping out there, others would be fishing, there might be a party going on aboard one of the yachts. But none of them was close to us; no one seemed to be interested in us as we moved up the lake.

After the block of condominiums, the shoreline was marked by a section of trees. When we were opposite that spot, Joe cut the engine. His required running lights and his anchor lights were on, but the brilliant moonlight almost hid them. The boat swayed gently. Calm is a relative term when it comes to a giant body of water like Lake Michigan. The lake isn’t like an ocean, but it’s never really still. Warm water was rippling gently up from Chicago, a hundred miles away.

I gave a huge sigh. “If you could bottle the peace and quiet out here and sell it, we could retire tomorrow.”

Joe chuckled. “And people think I was stupid to quit practicing law so I could fool around with boats.” He pointed at the shore. “Can you see the Root Beer Barrel site?”

“What is there to see, now that it’s collapsed?”

“I always find it by the old DeBoer house.”

“I can’t see a thing.”

“Here.” Joe took my hand and pulled me to my feet. We went to the back of the boat, out from under the sedan’s roof. He put his arm around me, took my right hand in his and used my finger to point toward the shore. “Now do you see it?”

“Yes. If it’s that tall sucker with all the turrets.”

“Right. It’s a huge place. Three stories high, plus attics. After that section of Lake Shore Drive went commercial—back in the 30s, I guess—they tried every kind of business in that house. Boarding house, tourist home, restaurant. The ambulance service was there for a while. It’s been empty for ten years now, and it’s in bad shape.”

“But still on the historic list.”

“All of Warner Pier is a historic district, remember.”

I nodded. “I’d never even noticed the—what did you call it?”

“The DeBoer house. No relation to the diamond people. The house sits to the north of the Root Beer Barrel property, but it’s back from the street and those trees you dislike so much hide it. You can’t see anything of it except the roof, and you can only see that from the water.” He swung my pointing finger to the south. “On the right-hand side of the Barrel is the Old English Motel.”

“That I’ve noticed. In fact, it always seems familiar to me.”

“I think there were a lot of motels built on that pattern at one time, fake English cottages, tiny motel rooms with pointed tile roofs. You’ve probably seen one somewhere else.”

“I guess that’s it. There’s one very similar to it in my home town.”

“Dallas?”

“My real home town. Prairie Creek, Texas. Home to cowboys for 150 years.”

“You gotta take me down there some day.”

I turned around and put my arms around Joe. He put his arms around me. The moment became quite romantic.

Until the spotlight hit us.

We jumped apart. The boat rocked madly, and I grabbed the roof to keep my balance.

“Dadgum!” I said. “Is one of those boats court-busting?”

“Court-busting? What’s that?”

“That’s what my dad calls driving up and down country roads shining a bright light into parked cars.”

“I don’t think that’s what these people have in mind,” Joe said. “They’re coming right at us.”

The light was growing closer, and the boat’s motor was getting louder. I had the impression that it was a big boat, too, at least twice as long as the sedan. I couldn’t see clearly because of the light.

I realized Joe had ducked back under the sedan’s roof and slid behind the wheel. He looked back at me and yelled. “Get down!”

I ducked back under the roof and into the seat on the passenger’s side. The sedan’s motor burbled into life, and we began to move forward. I was dying to ask Joe if he thought we were about to be boarded by pirates, but I couldn’t. The boat was too noisy. But the situation seemed ridiculous.

Joe gunned the motor, and we jumped forward. The sedan isn’t the fastest boat on the lake, but it can move pretty well. And Joe moved it. We headed up the lake, parallel to the shore, at top speed.

Joe used his thumb to gesture over his shoulder. I deduced that he wanted me to keep an eye on the bigger boat.

It was easy to see. It had that spotlight aimed right at us. And the spotlight kept coming closer. It was following us.

“
C
loser! It’s closer!” I screamed the words, but I knew Joe couldn’t hear me.

He seemed to understand. At least he began what I would consider evasive action. He cut the sedan’s lights, all of them, even the safety lights. He swung hard left. The searchlight lost us, then found us again. He swung right. The same thing happened. The light lost us, then found us again. Then Joe repeated the maneuver—left out of the spotlight, then—after it focused on us again—right, into the dark.

All the time he was doing this, the big boat was getting closer. The sedan is a great boat, but it isn’t particularly fast. I knew that eventually the larger, more powerful boat would be able to catch us. Dodging in and out of its searchlight wasn’t going to be a useful escape technique in the end.

And it could well be the end. If the bigger boat hit us—I pushed the mental picture of flying debris and flying bodies out of my mind.

I crawled back to the rear seating area and lifted the seat, revealing the hatch where the life jackets were stored. Right at the moment, a life jacket seemed like a really good idea.

The boat swerved again, and I was thrown sideways. But this time Joe didn’t straighten out. We kept traveling in a circle. Centrifugal force almost glued me where I’d landed, against the side of the boat. But we were out of that damn searchlight.

I struggled to get up, at least to my knees, and I finally made it. The sedan was bouncing over the waves—I was just grateful that they weren’t very big waves. I looked up and saw the bigger boat going by—I could see oblong portholes, chrome railings, and a big area of smooth and shiny white fiberglass.

The sedan straightened out then, and I looked around Joe to see where we were going. There was nothing but lake ahead; the big boat was behind us. Joe had made a U-turn, and we were headed in the opposite direction, south instead of north, toward the Warner Pier channel.

I allowed myself to hope that we’d make it.

But the big boat was turning, too. Already it was broadside to us. As I realized that, Joe suddenly cut the sedan’s speed drastically. The boat settled back in the water like a duck landing on a pond, and we were moving at no-wake zone speed.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “We were getting away.”

Now Joe turned the boat again, heading it directly toward the shore, which was about a quarter of a mile away. He inched along, the motor gurgling gently.

I put my lips close to his ear. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to hit the channel!”

I looked ahead. The only channel I knew of was the channel of the Warner River, the channel we’d come out of. It was marked with lights. I could see it—still far south of us.

I stayed on my knees. Maybe prayer would help. I sure didn’t understand what Joe was doing.

But I understood what the big boat was doing. It was turning in circles, casting its searchlight all around, trying to find us. When it did, it was going to come at us like gangbusters. And instead of racing down the lake while we had the chance, we were moseying along. A kid with an inflated sea serpent and a good flutter kick could have passed us.

Just then the sedan shuddered, and Joe threw the motor into reverse. We inched backward. Then he changed gears again and we inched forward. We moved a few feet, then the boat shuddered again. Joe threw the motor into reverse again. We inched backward, but this time the boat shuddered and stopped moving almost immediately.

Joe turned the motor off. He turned sideways in his seat and began to pull his shoes off.

“We’re aground,” he said. “Shuck your shoes and your jacket. And those slacks. We’re gonna have to swim for it.”

“Swim! He’ll run us down in the water!”

“We’ll be inside the sandbar, and he’ll be outside. I think it’s our best chance.”

I reached for the locker that held the lifejackets.

“We better leave the life jackets,” Joe said. “Or better still . . .”

He snatched two life jackets from me, stood up, and hurled them out into the lake, away from the shore.

“Maybe those’ll distract him for a minute. And if he does know how to get around the sandbar—and there is a way—they’d make us too easy to spot.” He planted a quick kiss on the top of my head. “I think I remember enough about being a life guard that I can get us ashore.”

“I can swim,” I said.

“That’ll be a help.”

I pulled my jacket off. Then I yanked off my tennis shoes without untying the laces. I looked up to see a pair of blue boxer shorts in my face—Joe and I were undressing in close quarters and he’d just dropped his jeans.

“Keep that scarf on,” Joe said. “That blond hair would be easy to spot in the water.”

“I’m keeping my shirt, too. If I drown, I don’t want my body to be found in nothing but a padded bra.”

Joe was climbing over the side by that time, and he just stood there, with his head and shoulders visible. I peeled my khaki slacks down. “Is it that shallow?”

“We’re on the sandbar. Come on!”

Right at that moment the search light hit the water about thirty feet from us, and if I had any tendency to hesitate, I lost it. I tumbled over the side like a skin diver, with my slacks still around my ankles.

The west Michigan theory is that a southwest wind brings warm but dirty water to the beaches. A north wind brings cold but clean water. Or so swimmers are told. After that night, I’ll never believe that again. The wind and waves might have been moving in from the southwest, but the water was so cold that Lake Michigan might as well have the Antarctic Ocean. My tumble over the side paralyzed me.

Joe grabbed me and got me to my feet. I gasped and regained the ability to move. We both ducked down behind the boat. I finished stepping out of my slacks.