The Chocolate Mouse Trap (22 page)

“I’ve also got several boxes of clothes and household goods in the van,” I said. “If you’ll lend me the key to the storage shed, I’ll take ’em over.”

“Super,” Zelda said. She took the key from the center drawer of her desk and handed it to me. “If we’ve left when you come back, just put the key in through the mail drop.”

I turned to Barry. “Great car out there. Is it new?”

Barry’s grin broadened. “Got it last week.”

“It’ll be awful nice for carryin’ clichés—I mean, clients! Nice for taking folks around to look at property. A couple of hours in that dude, and they’ll feel obligated to buy.”

Barry chuckled. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at my twisted tongue or at the compliment to his car. “Keep ’em comfortable, I always say.”

I leaned a little closer to him. “Say, did ah see you carryin’ Martin Schrader down Peach Street a coupl’a days ago? What’s he up to?”

Barry’s grin became a bit forced-looking. “Oh, Martin’s got lots of irons in the fire.”

I smiled so widely I developed two new wrinkles at the corners of my eyes. “It’s no secret that Mike Herrera is keeping a close eye on what the Schraders plan for their property south of town.”

Barry looked away and rattled the keys in his pants pocket. “I guess the answer to that depends on just what happens when Rachel Schrader is gone.”

“Martin didn’t give you a hint?”

“Martin may not have much to say about the deal.”

“Now, Brad, his nephew—he’s such a tree hugger. I guess he’d want the property to go to that ecology group he works with. Maybe Martin would go for that, too.”

Barry shook his head slowly. “The Lake Michigan Conservation Society hasn’t got any money to buy property. They expect it to be donated. I don’t think Martin can afford to go that route.”

Zelda jumped in then. “How can that be? Schrader Labs simply can’t be in trouble. They just got a new government contract. There was a big story on the business page of the Grand Rapids paper last week.”

“Schrader Labs ought to be in tiptop condition,” Barry said. “But Martin doesn’t own Schrader Labs. He’s just a stockholder. His personal finances are another matter.”

“Golly!” I said. “If he buys some chocolate, should I take a check?”

Barry laughed. “Oh, I’m sure his personal checks would be good. He’s far from broke. You know how it is, Lee. Financial problems for the very rich are different from financial problems for people like you and me.”

“I guess Martin’s down to his last Mercedes,” I said.

“Cadillac,” Barry said. “He’s a Michigan businessman, remember. We’ve all got to buy homegrown products.”

We all laughed. I took the key to the storage shed and left.

So Martin might need money. Very interesting. Schrader Labs was in good shape, according to Barry, but Martin’s personal finances needed a boost.

And the Schrader property at Warner Pier, or so Martin had said, was owned by his mother. There would be no financial benefit to Martin as long as she was living.

But so what? As Barry had said, financial problems for a person like Martin Schrader were different from the problems I might have. Where I might have to let my insurance drop if things got tight, a financial bind for Martin might mean he’d have to ski in Iron Mountain rather than Vail or cash in some stock he had intended to hold another year.

All this was interesting, but it didn’t have any connection with my current problem. Should I believe Brad’s tale about Julie being frightened of Jason? Should I report the yarn to Hogan? Should I call Brad and tell him I wasn’t getting involved? Should I tell him to do his own dirty work?

I dropped the boxes for the women’s shelter in their special storage unit, returned the key to the chamber office, and drove on to TenHuis Chocolade without reaching a conclusion. I went in, took my six breaths of chocolate aroma, and saw Dolly Jolly behind the counter. Seeing her there gave me an attack of conscience.

“Dolly, you’re supposed to be learning how to handle chocolate, not working a cash register. I promise I’ll stick around more.”

“I don’t mind, Lee!” Dolly’s voice boomed as loudly as ever. “We’ve had hardly any customers! Guess they don’t expect us to be open on Sunday. Nettie has me learning to tie those fancy bows! Packaging! That’s part of the chocolate business, too!”

“Any messages?”

“Joe called!”

Joe answered at the first ring. The conversation didn’t take long.

“Are you still planning to go to the preview of Jason’s new place?” he said.

“I’d forgotten that was tonight. Do you want to go?”

“Since I’m almost the landlord, I guess it would be polite to show up.”

“If you don’t want to . . .” I knew going back to the house his ex-wife had built—where she and Joe had lived and where she had died—wasn’t going to be easy for Joe.

“I can’t let Warner Point become a hang-up. I want it to be a popular restaurant with loads of big dinners and receptions held there. So I’d better show. Lindy and Tony are going. And Mom and Mike will be there. Is seven o’clock okay?”

“Sounds great.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

I hung up feeling a little warmer, despite the snow outside. It ought to be a pleasant evening. We don’t see enough of Lindy and Tony. And I like Joe’s mom. She doesn’t hover, but she always seems concerned, unlike mine, who never seems to give a darn what I do. And Mike is good company, too, especially since he’s almost quit trying to entice Tony into the restaurant business.

I really admire Mike, who worked himself up from a job as a dishwasher in Denton, Texas, to owning three restaurants and a catering service in a fancy Michigan resort. In fact, I often rely on Mike’s advice, and now it occurred to me that he might help me solve the puzzle of what Brad had said about Julie being afraid of Jason. If anybody knew Jason, it was Mike. Jason had worked for him for years. Maybe Mike would know more about Jason and Julie’s relationship than I did.

It was, I decided, worth a try. So I called Mike. I caught him at the Sidewalk Café. He agreed to drop by my office after his lunch rush was over.

He came in the door at two o’clock, looking a bit harassed, and plunked himself into the one chair in my little office. “What can I do for a fellow Texan?”

I’d decided to be deliberately vague. “I had it on good authority that a gal I know is afraid of Jason,” I said. “But I’ve always thought he’s a pussycat. Can you think of anything that might have caused that kind of a reaction to him?”

Mike rolled his eyes, and when he spoke his Tex-Mex accent suddenly appeared. “I thought that ol’ affair had deesappeared. Won’t people ever let nothin’ be forgot?”

I
’m sure my jaw dropped, but it didn’t take me too long to recover. “Okay, Mike. Spill it,” I said. “There’s no way for me to learn the local gossip but to ask. What are you talking about?”

“Eet was jus’ a misunderstanding.”

“Who misunderstood?”

“One of the waitresses.” He rolled his eyes again. “She was new, and she didn’ get it. Jason, he’s a good-looking guy, and he doesn’t act like he’s . . .”

Words failed him, so I completed his sentence. “Jason doesn’t swish, and the waitress didn’t realize he’s gay.”

“Yes. She made eyes at him. I don’t think Jason caught on. But she thought . . .” Mike’s vocabulary failed him again.

“She thought he understood her overtures?”

“Yes. So she waited for him in the parking lot after closing—one thirty in the morning. When he went to his car, she tiptoed up behind him, and she . . .” He ran out of words again.

“She put her arms around him, or something like that. How did Jason react?” I chuckled.

Mike looked pained. “Eet wasn’t funny! He was startled, you see. So he threw his elbow . . . she got pushed to the ground. She broke her arm.”

“That’s awful! I can see it wasn’t funny at all.”

“Jason called an ambulance. He tried to apologize. But . . . she was embarrassed. She filed charges.”

“What happened?”

“I talked her into dropping them. The chief understood it was jus’ an accident. Jason paid her doctor bills. She moved to South Haven. I helped her get a job down there.”

“But it caused a lot of gossip.”

Mike looked miserable. “I hoped the gossip had gone away. Who’s telling it now?”

“Nobody really, Mike.” I sighed. “Brad Schrader—you know, the cousin of Julie Singletree . . .” Mike nodded, and I went on. “Brad told me Julie was afraid of Jason. He said he didn’t know why. I suppose Julie could have heard something about that incident. But I think the idea of her being afraid of Jason is nonsense.”

“Jason and Julie worked together a lot. I thought they were friends.”

“So did I. Jason introduced me to Julie. But Julie did find things out. She had an uncanny knack for picking up gossip. I guess she could have heard this story, or a garbled version of it, someplace.”

“It’s been five years. I hoped it had gone away. But I guess it never will. After Julie was killed, the Holland detectives hauled Jason in and questioned him a long time. I thought that was the reason.” Mike got up. “I know you won’t say anything, Lee.”

I put my fingers to my lips and pantomimed turning a key. Then I changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

“Yes, Jason’s new restaurant is going to be very fancy, and we’ll be the first to eat there.”

I knew that Jason wanted his new restaurant, Warner Point, to be an elegant dining experience, so as soon as I got home I examined my closet for something elegant to wear to the opening. I nearly came up empty. My wardrobe was long on casual—khakis, jeans, sweaters, and T-shirts. Elegant was in short supply.

Finally I discovered a white silk shirt and put it on over my good black wool slacks. Then I remembered the big, cold, black-and-white main room in the Warner Point house, and I took the shirt off and put on a black cashmere turtleneck. It had been my Christmas present from Joe and I didn’t get too many chances to wear it. But the solid black outfit made me look as tall and bony as Abraham Lincoln. So I put the white shirt on over the sweater—buttoned, but not tucked in. I dug through my limited stock of scarves and found a long, thin one striped in jewel tones and accented with gold thread. I draped it under the shirt’s collar and tied a knot in each end. I put on my good leather boots.

That was as elegant as I could manage. At least Joe gave a low whistle when I came down the stairs.

Then he grinned broadly. “Jason’s going to want you as a permanent hostess. You’re going to fit right in.”

“What do you mean?”

Joe’s only answer was to shake his head, but when we walked into the main room of Warner Point, I saw exactly what he had meant. I matched the decor so closely it was almost funny.

The Warner Point house, built by famed defense attorney Clementine Ripley in consultation with a famous architect, had not appealed to me on the few occasions I’d visited it. The walls of the main living area were heavily textured and painted a stark white. The finish of the woodwork and floors was dark, almost black. The furniture had been either upholstered in white or else dark and spindly. The artwork had been practically nonexistent. There had been no window treatments—just walls of unadorned French doors. I had thought the room felt like an icebox, even in July. The idea of it in winter, with all that stark white and black, plus views of snow and ice out those French doors, had been bone-chilling.

But Jason had warmed it up. And he’d done it by using jewel tones.

The fireplace, for example, was made of blocks of white stone that were reminiscent of chunks of ice. It had no mantel, and the stone was piled right up the wall, clear to the high ceiling. Now, in the center of that expanse of stone was a wool tapestry in an abstract design and executed in brilliant colors. It hung like a banner above a cheerful fire.

The French doors now were hidden by draperies of deep red velvet. The round tables that had replaced the spindly wooden furniture were covered with stark white linen, true, but each had a centerpiece of a glowing candle surrounded by a heap of shiny metallic starbursts. Colorful paintings and hangings and more candles in wall sconces formed cheerful vignettes for the smaller tables that lined the walls.

But Jason had left the stark white walls and dark, almost black, woodwork and floors. So Joe had been right. My outfit fit right in. My black slacks matched the floors and woodwork, my white shirt matched the walls, and the jewel-toned scarf matched the decorations. I looked as if I worked there.

I exchanged an understanding look with Joe, and we both laughed. Then we greeted Jason, made obligatory—and sincere—sounds of admiration, and accepted glasses of champagne. We circulated.

The room was rapidly filling up. The whole Seventh Major Food Group had apparently been invited. Diane and Ronnie Denham were circling the hors d’oeuvres, both looking rosy and Santa-ish. Margaret Van Meter rushed over to give me a hug. As usual, her hair was straggly, and she wore a dress that was too tight, but her smile was so sweet it didn’t matter. Jim was one of the few guys there without a tie, and both of them were obviously excited to be having a night out. Jim’s parents were baby-sitting, Margaret said. Lindy and Tony weren’t there yet, but I knew they were coming.

Most Warner Pier city officials had come, too. Mayor Mike was there, of course, escorting Joe’s mom, Mercy Woodyard. I spotted the city clerk and all but one of the city council members, and members of the chamber’s board were coming in, too. I knew Chief Jones had been invited, but Aunt Nettie had told me he was at a meeting in Lansing. She had declined an invitation to come with Joe and me, saying she wouldn’t mind an early night.

The only person whose presence surprised me was Martin Schrader. He came in with Barry Eagleton. Which was interesting. Neither of them seemed to be talking business that night.