The Chocolate Moose Motive: A Chocoholic Mystery (20 page)

“I should have. But by the time she approached me, Sheriff Ramsey and I weren’t speaking.”

“Did the investigators search your car?”

“I gave them permission to search it. Whether they did or not, I don’t know. I was in such a daze then…”

She stood up. “Guess I’ll try to do a little work. And a little is all I seem to get done around here. Sorry.”

I checked the time on my computer screen. So much had happened that afternoon that I felt as if it were quitting time, but it was only three o’clock. I tried to get to work, too.

Of course, I kept eyeing the front door. But Hogan didn’t come by to pick up Sissy.

In fact, the main thing that happened that afternoon was rain. About four thirty, it began to pour. There’s nothing unexpected about that, of course. Michigan gets rain, even in July. That’s okay with us merchants, because when the tourists can’t go to the beach, they hit Warner Pier’s quaint downtown, looking for clothes, food, and souvenirs.

The only problem with rain is that at five o’clock, when the ladies who make our chocolate and the two of us who handle
the money—Sissy and I—leave, we have to do so in the rain. And that day had started out sunny and beautiful, so no one had brought a raincoat or umbrella. Plus, most workers in downtown businesses park in that special lot several blocks away where they can use a reserved section. So the downpour caused cries of consternation from people who thought they were going to have to walk several blocks in a driving rain with no rain gear.

I could hear what was going on, so I went back to the shop. “Hey! My van’s in the back alley. I can get at least six in, and I’ll give y’all lifts to the parking lot. I can make two trips—or even three.”

My offer was accepted. The crew decided who should have the rides. It finally boiled down to two loads of women who needed lifts to the parking lot.

Sissy said she’d take the second trip and try to finish up one project before she left. “As long as I pick Johnny up by five thirty, I’m okay,” she said.

When I honked in the alley and the second six ran out for their ride, Sissy came out holding several file folders wrapped in a plastic bag. “I can’t stay because I have to pick Johnny up,” she said, “but I can finish this tonight.”

“Well, okay. But keep track of your hours.”

I dropped everybody off in the parking lot with the rain still teeming down. Sissy was last, and I pulled up in front of her old blue Volkswagen. She’d already jumped into her car when I realized she’d left her package in the van.

“Wait!” I yelled, but I knew she couldn’t hear me, so I honked. I reached for the package from the backseat and waved it at her. Then I jumped out of my van, splashed over to the passenger side of Sissy’s car, and opened the door.

“If I’m going to exploit the help, you’d better have this.”

I slammed the door. Maybe I slammed it too hard, because the door to her glove compartment flew open.

And an automatic pistol fell out and landed on the floor.

I stared at it in shocked silence. It was Sissy who spoke. I could hear her even with the window rolled up.

“What the heck is Buzz’s pistol doing there?”

Chocolate Chat

The veterinary clinic in our neighborhood had the following sign on its message board before Christmas:

CHOCOLATE IS FOR YOUR VET, NOT YOUR PET.

Yes, chocolate can be poison to dogs.

Keep it away from them. And if they get into it, call the vet. He or she may advise you to induce vomiting or to bring them to the clinic.

A lot depends on the size of the dog and, of course, on how much chocolate the animal eats, as well as on the type of chocolate. A large dog may gobble up a large amount and not be injured, but a small dog may find a small amount fatal. Dark chocolate is more dangerous than milk chocolate.

Symptoms of chocolate poisoning include hyperactivity, muscle twitching, increased urination, and excessive panting. Seizures could follow. Effects should go away in less than two days.

Cats are generally affected less severely, but chocolate is still poisonous to them.

Chapter 19

I stood there, with the rain running down my face, and the memory that flashed through my mind was Rosy Reagan saying that Wildflower refused to have a gun around Moose Lodge.

But now Sissy said this was Buzz’s pistol. How did she know? Where had it come from? Why was it in Sissy’s car?

And, most important, was it the weapon that killed Buzz?

Sissy closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel of the VW. I reopened the door.

“You seem surprised by the pistol, Sissy. Did you know it was in the glove box?”

“I have no idea how it got in my car. The cops are going to go nuts over this.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. But they need to know.”

She spoke dully. “I knew you’d say that.”

I stood there, wondering what she meant. Did she mean I was right? Or did she mean my remark demonstrated my character and personality? Did she agree with me? Or did she think I was bossing her around?

Or did she mean she could have quietly disposed of the pistol if I hadn’t witnessed its appearance?

Sissy didn’t explain what she’d meant, but she sat up
straight and gave a deep sigh. “This isn’t real convenient,” she said. “It sure would have been better to find the gun around noon, when I wasn’t in a rush to pick Johnny up. I’ll call and get my grandmother to take care of that.”

Then she gave me a glance that was awfully close to a dirty look. “You can call your pal Hogan. And for goodness’ sake, Lee, get out of the rain!”

I got back in the van and called Hogan. He gave a low whistle at the news. “I’ll be right over,” he said.

“I sure hope you won’t have to get that sheriff involved,” I said.

“I’ll call the state detectives who were involved in the investigation of Buzz’s death. They can handle him. Just stay there until I come.”

When I motioned for Sissy to join me in my van, she shook her head, so the two of us sat there, each isolated in her own vehicle in the driving rain. Not that either of us had anything to say to the other.

The Warner Pier cops arrived in five minutes. Then Hogan moved Sissy to a patrol car and had her driven to the police department. He told me to follow. I had called Joe by then, and he met us at the station.

Bless Joe’s heart; he brought us two cups of hot chocolate from the Warner Pier Coffeehouse.

We sat in the PD’s reception area and said nothing. I felt as low as I’d ever felt in my life, and Sissy seemed to feel even lower. Even hot chocolate wasn’t any real comfort.

Joe didn’t ask Sissy any questions, and she volunteered only one remark to him.

“Joe, if I had known that pistol was in the glove box, it wouldn’t have been there very long. Between Moose Lodge and Warner Pier there are a million bushes I could have tossed
it behind. Plus, I would never have hidden it there in the first place. The glove compartment door is broken. It falls open at the slightest excuse.”

“I didn’t think you knew about it, Sissy. You’re not stupid.”

The three of us sat there in silence for forty-five minutes. Waiting. And—in my case at least—worrying.

All sorts of wild suspicions were charging around in my head. Had Sissy known the gun was in the glove box? She said she hadn’t, but if I hadn’t been there when the gun fell out, it would have been very simple for her to make it disappear again. Would she have done that?

Heaven knows that in her place I would have been tempted to do exactly that.

On the other hand, the glove box was—as Joe had said—a really stupid place to hide the gun. It wasn’t really hidden at all. Anyone might look in there. And I hadn’t done anything unusual to make the door fall open and the gun fall out. That made it seem more like a plant.

Supposing that someone—Buzz’s killer?—had planted the gun in Sissy’s car, when had the person done it? Of course, her car had been sitting in the parking lot all day. There was an attendant at the lot, but his main function was to guide the tourists to parking slots. People walked around the lot all day and all evening: tourists, employees of Warner Pier businesses, deliverymen—everybody.

And I’d driven enough old cars to know they’re easy to break into. The traditional Slim Jim won’t open a new-model car, but it works like a charm on an older one.

I gave a gasp. “Sissy! When I came up to the passenger side of your car, did you unlock the door for me?”

“No. I reached over to roll the window down, but you opened the door before I could do it.”

“Then that door was already unlocked.”

Sissy sat forward. “It shouldn’t have been. I’m sure I left the car locked this morning.”

After a moment she spoke again. “Not that it really matters.”

What did she mean by that?

The three of us settled back into our brown studies.

It looked as if somebody had unlocked the door to Sissy’s car sometime during the day. At least that was one point on her side.

But why did I feel that Sissy needed a point on her side? Was I doubting her innocence?

Hogan came in then, and I quickly made a statement, explaining why I had driven Sissy to her car, why I had opened the passenger door, and what I had seen. Then Hogan—and Joe—instructed me to go home.

Instead, I went over to Aunt Nettie’s and told her all about it.

She listened patiently, because that’s what she does. Then I sat back and waited for reassurance. Aunt Nettie would surely erase all my doubts about Sissy. She would tell me that Sissy was innocent as the proverbial driven snow on the convent roof and that Hogan would prove it. Sissy would be back home in time to put little Johnny to bed.

And, sure enough, Aunt Nettie spoke calmly. “Well, Lee, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

That wasn’t the reassuring answer I’d been waiting for.

“But I feel as if I should do something!” I said.

“I don’t think there’s anything to be done. Hogan is a fair investigator. He’ll do his best to find out how the gun got there.”

“I know.”

“In the meantime, you need to distance yourself from the situation a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’ve supervised a group of women for more than thirty years, and it’s hard not to lose your objectivity about them—particularly about ones you like. Or about ones you don’t like. I think it’s called ‘emotional investment.’”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Sissy is a very appealing young woman. She has a knack for making people want to take care of her.”

“Helen Ferguson’s daughter says she’s always gotten away with things because she’s cute.”

“Yes, even Hogan has noticed it. He told me he had to guard against wanting to prove Sissy innocent, instead of wanting to discover the facts. And Hogan can be pretty cynical about people involved in murder cases.”

Aunt Nettie smiled. “So, Joe will see that Sissy has proper legal representation. And Hogan will see that her situation is investigated fairly.”

She shook her finger at me. “And you and I will keep out of it.”

I laughed a little. “Yes, Aunt Nettie.”

“Now, I put some spaghetti sauce in the slow cooker this morning. How about we all plan to have dinner together?”

“Assuming that Joe and Hogan ever get away from the police station. I’ll make salad.”

I was still worried. Aunt Nettie had offered practical advice, but she had missed the point of my concern about Sissy. I wasn’t concerned because I thought Sissy was being treated unjustly. I was worried because for the first time I recognized the possibility that she was guilty.

Maybe Sissy could actually have killed her husband. Maybe
she could have killed Helen Ferguson. Neither action seemed likely, but, for the first time, neither seemed impossible.

Aunt Nettie and I concerned ourselves with dinner, and in about an hour Joe called, asking if I could go along while he gave Sissy a ride home. So they hadn’t arrested her. But the lab guys wanted to keep her car overnight.