The Chocolate Moose Motive: A Chocoholic Mystery (8 page)

“I guess the moose head inspired my craft,” Wildflower said.

“Oh?”

“When I moved out here nearly fifty years ago with a group of friends, we thought the moose was amusing. One of the girls painted the Moose Lodge sign, and the guys hung the head
over the fireplace. After a few years, the thing began to need demothing. I visited a taxidermist to find out how to fix it up myself. I wound up doing a sort of apprenticeship with him. And here I am. The five-thousand-year-old taxidermist.” She waved at a couch. “Have a seat.”

Wildflower had kept moving as she talked, walking back into the kitchen. Now she was pouring coffee from an electric pot. “Do you take cream?”

I declined and sat down on a long couch at right angles to the fireplace. It was covered with what a decorator would call “throws” and what Aunt Nettie referred to as “afghans.” There were three or four of the knitted blankets in wild colors and crazy patterns. They looked perfect in the rustic setting.

All the room’s furniture matched the décor of the house. The legs of the end tables were made of branches. A buffalo-skin rug was stretched in front of the fireplace.

“What a comfortable room,” I said.

“We like it.” Wildflower sat down in a rocking chair that looked as if it had been made from sticks someone found in the woods. She leaned back and sipped her coffee. Then she spoke.

“Well. Do you think you can figure out who killed Buzz?”

Chapter 7

I’m surprised I didn’t slop coffee all over the afghans.

Instead, I simply stared at her. But she must have known I was startled when I replied to her question.

“I don’t intend to fry,” I said. “I mean, try! I couldn’t figure out who killed anybody. That’s a job for the authorities.”

“I don’t trust the authorities.” Wildflower shrugged. “I guess I never have trusted authorities of any sort. And that sheriff thinks Sissy killed Buzz.”

“Hogan Jones doesn’t think that.” I knew Wildflower would know that my aunt was married to the police chief; she didn’t live in Warner Pier, but she got her mail there.

Wildflower didn’t reply right away. She let the silence grow before she spoke.

“This is the room where Buzz was found,” she said. “He was lying in front of the fireplace.”

“It must have been awful.”

Wildflower shrugged. “I put down a different rug. The
authorities
kept the old one. But Sissy and I decided we’d better keep using the room. We thought that would recapture the atmosphere it always had.”

“I’m sure that was wise. And the room has a comfortable, homey atmosphere.”

She smiled, and I sipped my coffee, formulating another comment on the room. But before I could speak, Wildflower burst out again.

“Sissy has an alibi for that morning, but it’s only me. I’m the only one who can back up what she says. A grandma’s testimony won’t cut much ice with the cops.”

I started to tell Wildflower that Sissy’s alibi checked out with people who had seen her in Holland the morning Buzz died. Then I decided I’d better not blab what Hogan had told me. But I remembered that Sissy had consulted Joe’s poverty law agency about legal help with her custody case.

“If Sissy needs help,” I said, “Joe’s agency can link her up with a defense attorney.”

Wildflower’s face grew contemptuous. “An attorney?” She sounded as if I had suggested she consult an ax murderer. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Before I could reply, she went on. “Sissy shouldn’t have gone to your husband’s agency. But that doesn’t matter. The reason I’m asking if you’re interested in the case is that you—well, you have a reputation for figuring things out.”

“I’ve stumbled over things. But I’m not as knowledgeable as a professional investigator. I might do more harm than good. If you want an independent investigation of Buzz’s death, you need to hire a special investigator.”

Wildflower sipped her coffee again. When she spoke, she went to a different topic.

“How’d you meet that lawyer you married?” She was still managing to give the word “lawyer” an extra layer of meaning, and it wasn’t a complimentary definition.

I ignored her tone and explained that Joe had been a lifeguard
at Warner Pier Beach when I was a teenaged employee at TenHuis Chocolade, so I had known who he was from the time I was sixteen. But we didn’t get acquainted until we were thirtyish. I left out the part about the stupid first marriages each of us had made in the meantime. Then I asked Wildflower where she was from originally. Her answer was Detroit. Neither of us referred to Buzz’s death again. The conversation continued along conventional lines, though her comments weren’t always conventional. I saw where Sissy got her habit of making blunt remarks.

By the time I left, I had attained my goal, and I thought Wildflower had, too. We each got a look at someone who was part of Sissy’s life. Despite any talk around Warner Pier, Wildflower didn’t seem too odd to me—just blunt. I hoped I didn’t seem too odd to her. I probably just seemed ditsy, thanks to my typical slip of the tongue.

I didn’t stay long. After all, Wildflower had a bird to skin, and I had a client coming. As I drove back to Warner Pier, my mind ranged back to her original question. “Do you think you can figure out who killed Buzz?”

I had immediately denied any intention of even trying to do that. Had I been honest? I long ago admitted I was the nosiest person around. Had I gotten interested in Sissy because of the mystery in her life?

No, I told myself firmly.

Buzz had probably been killed by some ordinary intruder, by a burglar who broke into Wildflower’s house, thinking it was empty. I had no reason to get involved in a case like that. That required the expertise of professional detectives.

I wasn’t interested in Buzz’s death, I told myself smugly. Instead, I made myself wonder why Wildflower distrusted lawyers. She hadn’t wanted Sissy to consult one even when her
father-in-law tried to gain custody of her son. Buzz’s death was a tragedy to Sissy and Wildflower, and for little Johnny. But it was none of my business.

Until ten o’clock that night I was convinced I had no interest in Sissy except as an employee. That was when Joe and I heard the chug-chug of a Volkswagen as it drove down our lane.

We looked at each other. That lane didn’t serve any house but ours.

“Kind of late for a caller,” Joe said.

The chugging stopped, and running footsteps pounded across the porch. Someone banged on the door. There was yelling. “Lee! Joe!”

I jumped up. “It’s Sissy!”

Joe and I both rushed to the door. He threw it open, and Sissy almost fell in.

“Oh Lordy, Joe! I need a lawyer bad!”

“What’s happened?”

“Helen Ferguson is dead, and that idiot sheriff is sure to think I killed her!”

That certainly got me out of the mood for going to bed. What had happened?

It took a few minutes to get Sissy coherent enough to tell us what was going on.

Ace Smith’s housekeeper, the tarted-up, middle-aged blonde who had come into the shop the day before, was lying dead at Beech Tree Beach, just a short way from our house. Sissy had stumbled over her body at the bottom of the steps that led down to the beach. No, Sissy hadn’t yet called the authorities.

“My phone won’t work out on the lakeshore,” she said. “This was the closest place I could think of to come.”

“Lee, you call 9-1-1.” Joe headed for the kitchen drawer where we keep the flashlights. “Get the cops and an ambulance. I’ll go down there and see if she’s really dead.”

“Oh, she’s dead,” Sissy said. “Her head! No live woman ever held her head at that angle.”

I argued vaguely with Joe. I hated for him to go down to that beach—which had no lighting—if a killer might be lurking around. He ignored me.

But before he went out the door, he turned to Sissy. “Were there any cars around at the beach?” he asked.

“Just Helen’s.”

“Did you see anybody else there?”

Sissy shook her head. “I—I don’t think so.”

“Why did you go there, anyway?”

“Helen said she had something to tell me. She sent me a text message.”

“Call 9-1-1,” Joe told me firmly. “Then call Hogan. And you and Sissy stay here.”

I obeyed, mainly because I didn’t have a better idea. I couldn’t leave Sissy alone, and it would have taken a forklift to get her back to that beach.

Within five minutes of my 9-1-1 call I heard the first siren. It sounded beautiful.

Sissy was so upset that I didn’t ask her any questions, and she didn’t volunteer any more of her story.

But I had a bunch of questions waiting, such as why on earth she had gone to Beech Tree Beach in the dark, even if Helen asked her to come. Why would she agree to meet someone when they’d publicly exchanged harsh words the day before?

After about half an hour, a state cop, a woman, came to the door. She’d been sent to stay with us, she said. She didn’t explain just why, but Sissy looked crushed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

Sissy had, of course, called Wildflower to tell her she wouldn’t be home right away. Her son was sleeping peacefully, she reported.

Soon after the state cop came, Joe returned. “I was just in the way down there,” he said.

Sissy clasped her hands imploringly, or maybe she was wringing them. “Helen really is dead?”

Joe nodded.

“I was sure she was,” Sissy said dully.

“At least we’re inside the city limits,” Joe said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the sheriff won’t be involved.”

“Oh.” That didn’t seem to comfort Sissy. She sank into a seat at the end of the couch. “This is such a nightmare.”

Joe sat down on the coffee table, facing her. “Sissy, do you want me to call someone to represent you?”

“Represent me?”

“A lawyer, Sissy.”

“I didn’t kill her, Joe.”

“I understand. But you still might need a lawyer.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“That can be worked out.”

Sissy rested her head on her hand. “Don’t call anybody yet.”

“Sissy, you need to get hold of yourself,” Joe said. “It’s too soon to panic.”

“Why? When Buzz died, everybody thought I did it. And I loved Buzz. I didn’t even like Helen.”

Joe stopped her with a gesture. “Buzz was shot. Helen Ferguson wasn’t. She may have fallen down those stairs. Don’t panic until there’s an official cause of death. It could have been an accident.”

Joe’s words seemed to get through to Sissy. She sat up and gulped. “I guess finding her like that just brought back the whole nightmare with Buzz. I’ll try to act braver.”

I went to the kitchen to make a large pot of coffee. In a few minutes Joe joined me. We muttered together over the sink.

“Do you really think there’s a possibility Helen Ferguson was killed in an accident?” I said.

“I don’t like coincidences. But maybe I’m being cynical. I’m not a medical examiner.”

“Coincidences? What’s coincidental about Helen’s death?”

“Sissy’s a murder suspect to the Warner Pier community. She has a fight with Helen. Helen texts Sissy—
texts
, Lee. It’s not a form of communication that requires direct communication. She asks Sissy to meet her. She’s dead when Sissy gets there. It’s too squirrelly for me.”

I just nodded. “I wish you weren’t right, but I’m afraid you are.”

More headlights flashed on the trees in our yard. “More cops,” I said. “I’m beginning to regard the
authorities
the way Wildflower does.”

This car also parked out on the lane, where quite a traffic jam must have been developing. Joe and I went back into the living room. But when Joe opened the door, the voice I heard didn’t sound authoritative. It sounded almost timid.

“Hi. I’m Chip Smith. I’m a cousin of Sissy’s. Sort of. By marriage. One of the cops said she was over here. Can I see her?”

Joe stepped back, and Chip came in, all six-feet-plus of handsomeness and personality. I could feel the drool forming under my tongue. He sure was a fine physical specimen.

Sissy jumped to her feet. “Chip!”

Chip grinned his crooked grin. “Hi, Sissy. I wanted to see if you needed any help.”

He walked toward her and opened his arms wide, offering her a big hug.

Sissy raised both hands, holding them with the palms toward him.

“You jerk! Will you leave me alone? The last thing I need at this particular moment is you.”

Chip did not get the hug he’d aimed for. Instead, Sissy shoved him away. She didn’t seem to push him very hard, but he stumbled backward. He fell against the mantel. The fireplace screen went over, and all the tools clattered onto the brick hearth.

Chapter 8