The Chocolate Snowman Murders (29 page)

“George was picking up the lady who's now staying with Sarajane, and Sarajane was sending a previous ‘guest' on her way. The woman currently staying with Sarajane is named Sharon. She needs to earn some money.”

I sighed. “I can put her on the books as contract labor and hope she doesn't earn enough to get us in trouble.”

“She'll be here only briefly, Lee. No more than a month.”

“It seems to me that law enforcement isn't too supportive of this system of sanctuary. What does Hogan think?”

“He and I are careful not to discuss it.” Aunt Nettie smiled her sunny smile. She came around the desk and gave me a hug.

“Thank you, Lee. And happy holidays.”

“Happy holidays to you, Aunt Nettie.”

One other effect of the whole case, according to the Warner Pier grapevine, was that Reverend Chuck Pinkney preached a heck of a Christmas sermon. It wasn't his usual “believe and all will be forgiven” theology. God's people might be forgiven, he told his congregation, but that didn't give them license to continue sinning. It meant they had to try to reach a higher standard. And while God could produce good out of evil, that was no excuse for doing the evil. And anybody, he said, who thought particular beliefs or virtues or good works were going to produce worldly rewards had better think again.

I didn't hear the sermon, but I did give some serious thought to my own failings and sins. I told Joe as much on Christmas Eve.

“I'm thoroughly ashamed of the way I judged Mozelle,” I said.

“Oh, I don't know that you were too harsh on her. She is a genuine, unmitigated pain in the neck.”

“Yes, but now that I understand why, I'll try to be more patient.”

“So you think her early experience with Mendenhall warped her personality?”

“Her experience with Mendenhall and her mother's reaction. When Mozelle kicked over the traces at nineteen, two disasters followed. Her mother declared her ruined for life because she had defied society. Then Mendenhall didn't even value the sacrifice she had made for him. He just threw her aside.”

“That would mark anybody's personality.”

“Mozelle must have lived her entire adult life too frightened to be anything but conventional ever again. She could never relax and just do what she wanted. She had to be publicly virtuous.” I raised my hand to swearing position. “I hereby resolve to try to be nicer to her.”

“You'll get to test your resolve tomorrow, since I understand she accepted Aunt Nettie's invitation to Christmas dinner.”

“Yep. It will be a grand multifamily occasion.” Aunt Nettie had invited Joe's mom; her boyfriend, Mayor Mike Herrera; my friend Lindy, with her husband and three kids; Joe and me; and now Mozelle. Plus Aunt Nettie and Hogan.

“It's going to be a big day,” I said. “So we'd better get on with our private celebration tonight.”

“Do you need me to help bring in that giant item you tried to hide under a tarp on the screened-in porch?”

“You saw it!”

“It's hard to miss something that big, even in the dark.”

“Well, I've been careful not to ask about that huge thing in the basement.”

“Let's start with the porch item. I'm curiouser than you are.”

The porch item was an easy chair and ottoman in a fabric and style that blended with the new couch that was our official gift to each other.

Joe immediately tried it out. “It's great,” he said, “as long as I still get to sit on the couch with you now and then.”

“You'd better! And the chair didn't come out of the family budget. I bought it with the money Jason paid me to set up his bookkeeping system on his new computer—and to teach him how to use it. Now, you bring that big thing up from the basement.”

The basement item wasn't very thick, but it was more than two feet from top to bottom and more than three feet from side to side. I could feel a raised edge through the wrapping paper.

“It must be a great big tea tray,” I said.

“Just open it.”

Inside was a framed print of Bob VanWinkle-Snow's spectacular view of a storm over Lake Michigan.

Tears came to my eyes. “Joe! I love it! It's fabulous.”

I resolved not to say a word about how much it must have cost. Bob's work was way out of our budget.

Joe put his arm around me. “And now I can pay off the Visa bill.”

“Huh?”

“Bob and Ramona needed some shelving and storage cabinets in their darkroom. I bought the materials—the stuff you found on my Visa—and they paid me back yesterday. I got the photograph in exchange for building the cupboards and shelves.”

“Oh, Joe! I'm thrilled!”

“It's part of a limited edition of prints. The best-ofshow photograph was number one. This is number nine.”

We hung it over the mantelpiece, replacing a sentimental print of flowers that my grandmother had hung there forty years earlier. It looks beautiful.

Everybody brought something to the multifamily Christmas dinner. My contribution was turkey and Texas-style corn bread dressing. I love Michigan food, but dressing has got to be made with corn bread.

Aunt Nettie baked a ham, and Mike Herrera did a pork loin. The two of them are already arguing over who gets to play host for next year's Christmas dinner.

 

T
he name on the stranger's ID card may have read Valentine, but he was no cupid.

Cupid is little, round, and cute, and this guy was tall, skinny, and ugly. He definitely didn't look as if he could flit around on a tiny pair of wings; he clunked into TenHuis Chocolade in heavy snow boots that seemed to be bigger than they needed to be. And he wasn't wearing Cupid's airy draperies. His scrawny neck stuck out of a parka shaped like a turtle's shell covered with cheap nylon and trimmed with fur from some polyester beast.

I had Valentines, cupids, hearts, and arrows on the brain because it was the first week in February, and our retail shop was decked with items celebrating Valentine's Day. Our workshop, of course, was way out ahead of that season. The highly skilled people back there—the ones I call the “hairnet ladies”—were producing Easter bunnies and eggs, tiny chocolate chicks, and Mother's Day roses.

We don't have much walk-in business in the winter; summer is the busy season for Lake Michigan beach resorts like Warner Pier. As business manager, I was handling the counter myself, so I left my office to wait on the customer. He didn't look like the romantic type, but if he had a sweetheart I was willing to sell him a pound of our handmade European-style bonbons and truffles.

Before I could offer to help him, he flipped that identification card out on the counter. “Derrick Valentine,” he said. His voice croaked, and he smelled like cigarettes. When he opened his mouth, I expected smoke to pour out. “I'm with PDQ Investigations. Do you have a Christina Meachum working here?”

His hand hovered over the ID card, partly hiding it, but I picked it up and read it carefully. The only additional information I learned was that PDQ Investigations had an Atlanta address. The card didn't seem to be issued by any official agency.

“As I'm sure you're aware,” I said, “we're limited in what information we can hand out about our employees. But that's no problem this time, because there is no Christina Meachum listed on our payola. I mean, payroll!”

Rats! I'd twisted my tongue. At least Derrick Valentine didn't know me. He wouldn't realize I usually did that when I was nervous.

“Maybe you've seen her.” Valentine dropped a photograph on the counter.

The picture was of terrible quality. It had been blown up from a driver's license or some other ID card. It showed a woman with dark hair worn in a medium-length bob, parted on the side. Her eyes were dark and expertly made up, but her stare was blank. Her face was heartshaped, her mouth small and pouting. Only her eyes were noticeable, and that was because of the makeup.

I frowned at the picture. “I'm sorry,” I said. “She's a common type, of course, but I can't help you. Why are you looking for her?”

“It's a legal matter.”

“She's wanted by the police?”

“Civil case.” Valentine reached inside his cheap parka. “I'll leave a business card. I'd appreciate a call if she shows up.”

“Why do you think she might be here? Is she a big fan of expensive chocolate?”

“She has experience in food service. And we have information that she's been in this area of Michigan.” Valentine gestured at our decorated counters. “While I'm here, maybe I ought to get some candy for my wife.”

I didn't correct his terminology—we make “chocolate” not “candy.” I just handed him a list of our flavors with the price per pound marked prominently at the top. Our chocolates are expensive; I never want to fill a box without making sure the customer knows ahead of time just how much it's going to cost.

“While you're looking this over, I need to give the workroom a message,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

I went to the door to the workshop and called out. “Aunt Nettie!”

My aunt, who owns TenHuis Chocolade and who is in charge of making our luscious chocolates, turned. “Yes, Lee.”

“There's a problem with the sugar organ. I mean, order! We need to talk about the sugar order as soon as you're free.”

“I'll be there in a minute.” Aunt Nettie—a chunky descendant of west Michigan's Dutch pioneers—turned to one of her crew, Pamela Thompson. “Please go to the back storeroom and get a tray of eight-ounce bunnies. The ones carrying baskets.”

Pamela was one of our newer employees. Her blond hair was covered with a heavy white food service hairnet, and she wore a white smock like all the other women who make our fabulous bonbons and truffles. She stopped wrapping Easter eggs in cellophane and obeyed Aunt Nettie without a word.

I went back to the counter, and at Derrick Valentine's instruction filled a half-pound box with Italian Cherry bonbons (“Amareena cherries in white chocolate cream filling encased in a dark chocolate heart”) and Amaretto truffles (“A milk chocolate interior flavored with almond liqueur and coated with white chocolate”). I tied the box with red ribbon, then embellished it with a dangling cupid—plastic covered with gold paint. The private eye paid his bill and left, and I went back into my office, which has glass walls so that I can see what's going on in the workroom and in the shop.

I could also see parts of the quaint shopping district outside our big front window. I watched as Derrick Valentine of PDQ Investigations crossed the street, walked to the corner, leaned against the show window of Peach Street Antiques, and lit a cigarette.