The Chocolate Pirate Plot (13 page)

I was still analyzing Max's comment when Joe spoke. “Just why do you think loan sharks might be involved, Max?”

“Because of this strange guy who showed up at the theater last night. He was looking for Jeremy.”

“Tell me about him,” Joe said.

“He looked and acted like a tough guy. Hair slicked back. Deep widow's peak. Lips as thin as razor blades. Sneering mouth. Hard eyes. He was wearing a suit!” Max shook his head. “Talk about looking out of place in Warner Pier.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No. The guy just walked up to the box office last night. I was at the window, and I remember selling him a ticket, but I didn't pay much attention to him until after the play was over. He stayed in his seat until about half the crowd had cleared. Then he tried to come backstage.”

“Backstage?”

“Luckily I was able to head him off, so he didn't get a chance to bother any of the cast or crew.”

“You're sure he was looking for Jeremy?”

“Yeah. I told him nobody was allowed backstage, and he told me he had business with Jeremy.”

“Did he give you his name?”

Max shook his head.

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

“I told him Jeremy wasn't there. He said Jeremy's name was in the program. I told him about Jeremy's accident, his disappearance. That's when he gave a big sneer.”

“That was an odd reaction.”

“I know. But that's what he did. Sneered. Then he growled in this raspy voice.” Max dropped his own voice to imitate the man. “‘Very likely.' That's all he said. But he said it as if he didn't believe me.

“I guess I got mad then. I told him the rescue team had looked for Jeremy all day, and that there were witnesses to his disappearance. Then he started quizzing me about who the witnesses were.”

“I hope you referred him to Hogan,” Joe said.

“I certainly didn't give him any names, and I told him where the police station is. But he said there was no need for the law to get mixed up in it. Then the guy said Jeremy owed him money. So I told him we were trying to locate Jeremy's next of kin, and it would be up to them to settle his debts.”

“He said, ‘They'd better.' God, Joe! His voice cut through me like a saw. A big, fat buzz saw. Like
Perils of Pauline.
”

That comment mystified me; I couldn't keep from asking what he meant. “
Perils of Pauline
? What is that, Max?”

Max answered without looking at me. “It was a silent movie serial, nearly a hundred years ago. They used to tie the heroine to a log and threaten her with a buzz saw. The hero always arrived just in time.”

Joe had been frowning. “The guy sounds like bad news, Max. Did you call the cops?”

“I threatened to do that. And he said, ‘No need to get excited, pal.' Then he left. And I stood there and watched until I was sure he had driven away.”

“What was he driving?”

Max shrugged. “Dark sedan of some kind. Big. I didn't get a good look. I was mainly concerned because I didn't want him bothering my cast and crew.”

Our food arrived then, and I tried to settle down to a mushroom, cheese, and ham omelet while I listened to Joe and Max discuss the threatening stranger. I guess I succeeded at concentrating on their conversation; the next time I noticed what I was doing I'd cleaned my plate and downed a second mimosa.

Joe urged Max to call Hogan and tell him the whole story, even offering to go with him. Max said he would go alone. He promised to contact Hogan as soon as we finished eating.

It was after eleven when Joe and I said our thank-yous and got into my van. I was driving. Parking is always tight in downtown Warner Pier during the summer, even on Sunday mornings, so we had dropped Joe's truck at the boat shop.

After we'd gone a couple of blocks, Joe spoke. “What did you make of Max's description of the Chicago loan shark?”

“To be honest, Joe, he seemed to be describing a generic old-fashioned gangster. Thin lips, oily hair, spiffy suit.”

Joe nodded. “I agree. Max's ‘loan shark' may not have mentioned his name, but his appearance would be so unusual that I'd bet the Chicago antigang force could put a name to a guy who dressed like that.”

“He would be distinctive today. Frankly, he sounded like the character George Raft played in the movie last night.”

“Yeah. Except he didn't keep tossing a quarter.”

“Neither did George Raft. That was a different character in the movie, a younger guy.”

As I spoke I turned onto the short drive leading to Joe's shop. It was a typical sandy Michigan lane. A few loads of gravel had been spread on it once upon a time, but the gravel had been pounded down into the underlying sand, and snowplows had built low mounds of gravel and dirt on either side of the road, so the ruts were a rough combination of sand and gravel.

It wasn't a good road for a bicycle, but when I turned I saw one ahead of us.

It was ridden by a man wearing khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and a black bike helmet.

I wasn't traveling very fast, but at the sight of the bicycle I slowed even more. The man moved over to his right. He hit the mound of gravel that edged the road. The bike's handlebars seemed to go crazy, wobbling and shaking frantically.

Joe leaned forward. “Watch out!”

I brought the van to a dead stop.

The man looked over his shoulder, apparently checking on us, and his front wheel ran into a small branch lying on the edge of the drive. That wheel seemed to come to a complete halt, but the back wheel kept moving. The bike flew into the air, did a forward somersault, fell over sideways, and landed in the weeds beside the drive.

So did the rider.

It was like watching a stunt on television. The rider lifted off the seat and seemed to curl into a knot. He hit the ground in a fully tucked position, and he rolled along like a beach ball. His momentum whirled him over and over. It was quite gracefully done, but I expected the guy to be skinned from one end to the other.

Finally he stopped rolling and flopped onto his right side. That's when I saw blood on his knee.

Joe and I both jumped out of the van, calling out in unison, “Are you hurt?” Which was stupid, since we could see the blood running down his leg.

We ran toward him. By the time we got there, he had stretched his leg out, and he was pulling his bike helmet off. He looked familiar.

“I don't think it's serious,” he said.

“Can you bend the knee?” Joe knelt to look at the damage.

The young man flexed the joint, then nodded. “Yes, it moves easily. I think I can stand up.”

And he did that. I was surprised at how easily he seemed to manage getting to his feet. A similar roll in the gravel would have put me in the hospital.

When he was on his feet, I saw who he was, and I yelped at him. “You're the guy who saved the pirate ship!”

It was the nerdy-looking customer who had been in TenHuis Chocolade the afternoon Tracy nearly banged into the elaborate pirate ship displayed in our window. He was such an ordinary-looking person that I'd hardly remembered what he looked like. He was of average height. He had hair of an average brown, and shoulders of an average width. The only things striking about him were his buckteeth and his glasses. The glasses had a fashionable shape, but they held very thick lenses. Luckily, his dramatic roll hadn't broken them.

Joe led in questioning him. “Can you walk?” “Are you injured anyplace but the knee?” And finally, “Do you need an ambulance or a trip to the ER?”

“Oh, no!” The guy had an engaging grin, oversized teeth and all. “If I could borrow a chair so I could sit down and dig the gravel out of my knee . . .”

“Sure. We'll take you on to the shop in the van.”

“Isn't that the shop?” We could see the building at the end of the drive, and he pointed at it. “I can walk that far. It'll loosen up my knee.”

Joe walked to the shop with the bike rider, carrying the bike because one of its wheels didn't want to roll, and I moved the van down to the parking lot. I unlocked the door to the shop, went to the back room where Joe once had a tiny apartment, and dug out the first-aid supplies. I set out chairs in that back room—now it's basically a break room for Joe's boat business—and I let Joe take care of the injured knee. After all, in his days as a lifeguard Joe passed the first-aid course that particular job requires.

Luckily, Joe had a supply of peroxide, Neosporin, and Band-Aids. Within fifteen minutes our unexpected patient was bandaged up, and I was handing him an ice pack I'd created out of ice cubes that I'd retrieved from the miniature refrigerator and wrapped in a plastic sack and two clean shop rags.

“This is really nice of you,” the young man said. “You shouldn't take so much trouble.”

“If we hadn't startled you, you probably wouldn't have fallen,” Joe said.

“If I wasn't riding a bike for the first time in seven or eight years, I wouldn't have lost control. It wasn't your fault at all. I'd better introduce myself. I'm Byron Wimp.”

At least that's what I thought he said, and Joe apparently thought the same thing. We probably thought that because this guy looked like such a milquetoast that “wimp” was a word that described him. He was ordinary in size, shape, and appearance. If you added the thick glasses, the buckteeth, and the clumsy fall off his bike—well, he did seem like a wimp. But it was hard to believe that anybody was named “Wimp.”

So Joe and I both repeated what we thought we'd heard. “Wimp?”

“Wendt. W-e-n-d-t. Byron Wendt.”

Joe hid a grin. “Were you just out for a ride?”

“Yes, but it was a ride here. I heard that you have some great antique boats.”

If Byron was interested in boats, I knew the conversation was going to get nautical. It was time for me to leave.

“I've got to get to work,” I said. “Joe, can you take Byron wherever he needs to go?”

“Sure.” Joe turned to Byron. “Do you want to look at the boats? Or go home and put your leg up?”

“I'd appreciate seeing the boats. And you don't need to take me back. I can call and ask my boss to come pick me up.”

“Where are you working?” Joe said.

“Oxford Boats.”

I had moved toward the doorway, but at that I swung around. “Oxford Boats? That means I have to ask you some questions.”

Byron grinned. “You want to buy a yacht?”

“No. I'll stick with Joe's antique speedboats. But I work with two shifts of teenage girls, and if they find out I met someone who works at Oxford Boats and didn't ask about the Marco Spear rumor, they'll go on strike.”

Byron frowned. “That's what the girls in the shop were talking about when the pirate ship nearly sank. Is the rumor still around?”

“Oh, yes. Is it true that he's buying a yacht from Oxford? And that he's coming to Warner Pier to pick it up?”

That got a toothy grin. “I haven't heard a thing about that. I'm a peon out there. All I do is clean toilets—I mean heads—and sweep upholstery. The boss wouldn't tell me about his celebrity clients.”

“There aren't any rumors going around the yard?”

“I've been there just a few weeks, so I might not have heard them. But I have noticed that the owners kowtow to their clients.” His voice was slightly derisive. “The customer is definitely always right at Oxford Boats. So if Marco Spear is coming to pick up a yacht—and they've got a honey waiting for somebody—they won't let the word get out to the riffraff who work in the yard.”

Joe and I smiled at his comment. I told the two of them good-bye and turned toward the door again. I was still within listening distance when Byron Wendt spoke to Joe.

“I guess we have a common acquaintance. You must have known Jeremy Mattox, the guy who drowned yesterday.”

I couldn't resist stopping to hear what came next. Why on earth would Byron Wendt think we knew Jeremy? Did we have some connection with Jeremy—something neither of us knew about? I had to know.

All Joe said was, “Why do you think Lee and I knew Jeremy Mattox?”

Byron Wendt's eyes blinked rapidly.

“He specifically mentioned you in the message he sent me through my mother—I thought you must know him.”

S
ilence followed that announcement. I'm sure Joe was as astonished by it as I was, but I was the first to speak.

“I'm calling the shop to tell them I'll be late. I'm not leaving until I understand all this.”