The Chocolate Castle Clue (13 page)

“Apparently not. That's what I followed him to ask about. He said he had it until he talked to Nettie. Then, when she denied she'd written it, he was disgusted and threw it away.”

“Then there's probably no way to prove Mrs. Rice wrote to him?”

“I'm afraid not. Of course, she may not have written him. The letter may have come from a completely different person.”

“Why would anybody write him? I mean, Shep seems like a nice enough guy, but why trick him into coming to a reunion?”

“That might turn out to be a very important question. I sure don't know the answer.”

“What did you find out this morning? Cough up.”

“I don't really know a lot more. For some reason Mrs. Rice wanted to talk to me. She started out for our house in her big red Buick, but she ran into a tree on the way. She got knocked in the head and died.”

“Got knocked in the head? Or was knocked in the head? Apparently Jackson thinks somebody did it.”

“I don't know exactly what the medical examiner found, of course. Last night it looked to me as if she'd been hit in the back of the head, when I would have expected the injury to be in the front. I suppose there could be some logical explanation. But since Jackson is taking statements, he must think someone hit her. He's not acting as if it was a traffic death.”

I leaned closer to Joe. “Why did Mrs. Rice want to talk to you last night? And why did she want to talk to you immediately ?”

“That's a real mystery, since she said she had new evidence, but she wouldn't tell me what it was. I've been trying to figure it out. Now, what were you going to tell me about Aunt Nettie?”

I outlined her request that I try to find out about where each of the Pier-O-Ettes had been during the football game.

Joe looked as amazed as I had felt when I got the original request. Then he laughed. “Why does she care where they were?”

“She claims that if Jackson discovers any of them were lying, he'll suspect them.”

Joe laughed. “Nobody could possibly suspect any of those nice ladies of killing anybody.”

“Ha-ha! You are so naive, Joe. I assure you that little old ladies can be just as nasty as anybody else.”

“True. Think of Mrs. Rice.”

“Aunt Nettie and her cohorts aren't
that
nasty. But a defense attorney I live with told me once that anybody can kill if they're pushed hard enough.”

“Did I say that?”

“You sure did.”

“Well, it's almost true. Anybody but Aunt Nettie could kill.”

“Aunt Nettie would kill to protect me. And I'd kill to protect her. Or you.”

Joe frowned as he took my hand. “I guess you're right. Because I'd kill anybody who tried to hurt you. Though I'd try to come up with an alternate plan first.”

“But I agree that it's hard to picture any of the Pier-O-Ettes luring Mrs. Rice to a spot near our house to kill her.”

“She may not have been lured there for that reason. She may have been lured for a different reason and the lurer then decided she needed killing.”

“Such as, she tells someone, ‘I've told that handsome, athletic lawyer Joe Woodyard I'm on my way to his house, and I'm going to Tell All.' ”

“Right. And that someone replies, ‘I'll meet you at the big oak tree and explain things.' ”

“Did Jackson find anything that could have been used to hit her?”

“If something was used to hit her, Lee, it was the proverbial blunt instrument. It's hard to identify which blunt instrument in an area that contains lots of logs and rocks and tire irons and . . .” He broke off and shrugged.

“How did the killer lure Mrs. Rice out there? Mechanically, I mean. Did he phone? Wire? Send smoke signals?”

“Probably a phone call. But Jackson doesn't have her phone records yet either. He should have them this afternoon.”

“That may make the whole thing plain as day.”

“True. In case the killer—if there was a killer—used his or her own phone. But most people are smart enough not to do that these days.”

I sighed. “Guess I'd better stop this speculation and go ask Maggie if she saw any of the Pier-O-Ettes leaving the football stadium last night.”

Joe laughed. “I think that's a waste of time.”

“If Aunt Nettie wants my time wasted, who am I to complain ?”

I started with Aunt Nettie's suggestion and called Maggie McNutt. Luckily, I found her home. “I'm cleaning house,” she said. “I'd love an excuse to stop. Come on over.”

Maggie is one of my best friends. She and her husband both teach at Warner Pier High School. Ken teaches math, and Maggie heads the speech and drama department—a department that in a school as small as WPHS consists of herself and one other teacher. Maggie is one of the most popular teachers at WPHS, and it's easy to understand why. She's intelligent, talented, and cute—petite, with dark curly hair. And, or so her students whisper, Mrs. McNutt actually worked in Hollywood. This has a magic ring to her drama students, but Maggie doesn't say much about it. In fact, she's in therapy over some of the things that happened to her in Hollywood. I don't ask questions.

Ken and Maggie live in an older home in one of Warner Pier's Victorian neighborhoods. They've modernized inside but have kept the wooden porch with its gingerbread trim. As I pulled into the drive, Ken waved at me from the garage. He's a Volkswagen hobbyist, and he seemed to have a motor torn apart. I went to the front door and was greeted by Maggie with iced tea.

I took the glass and gulped a mouthful. “Ah! You're one of the few people here up north who can make real iced tea.”

“You taught me how, Lee. Thanks for coming by. I was ready for a break. Now, what are you up to?”

We sat down, and I produced my file folder full of pictures, then explained why I was there.

“So Aunt Nettie wants me to find out if any of her friends left the stadium during the second half,” I said.

“Gosh, Lee! We were clearing up by then, so we were kind of busy. Nettie's correct when she says we were right there by the entrance, but I certainly wasn't noticing who came and went.”

“Take a look at the pictures and see if anybody looks familiar, okay?”

Maggie obediently opened the file folder. Aunt Nettie's picture was on top. “I do remember when Aunt Nettie and her group came in,” she said. “The ticket office was already closed, and several of the ladies twittered around by the gate. Apparently they felt guilty about coming in without paying. But Nettie assured them it was all right.”

I nodded encouragingly.

Maggie flipped to the next picture. She tapped it with her forefinger. “Yes, Ruby Westfield was in the group. I know her because she helped us with the costumes for
Cinderella
. I remember calling out to her. She waved at me. Then the whole group walked on by and went down the corridor that leads to the field.”

She frowned. “I remember that tallish woman who used to work at your shop. I don't know her name.”

“Hazel TerHoot.”

Maggie shrugged. “I didn't know any of the others.”

“Look at their pictures. Maybe you'll remember.”

Maggie obediently shuffled through the photos I'd prepared.

“Now this one”—it was Julie—“I think she came back and bought popcorn. I remember telling her it wasn't too fresh, since we'd made it sometime during the first half. She said she didn't mind.”

“How about these two?” I held the pictures of Margo and Kathy Street side by side. “They're sisters, and they look a lot alike.”

“These pictures don't look alike.”

“They're the same type—blond and unusually small. Not just short, but small-boned and delicate-looking. Though their hairdos and styles of dress are completely different.”

Maggie stared at the pictures. “I have a vague memory of them being part of the group.” Then she laughed. “We need Tracy!”

I laughed, too. Tracy Roderick had worked for TenHuis Chocolade from the time she turned sixteen until she left for college, then again the past summer. She'd also been active in the drama club Maggie sponsored. Tracy was a good enough employee, but she had one not-so-good quality. She gossiped. Maggie and I, as her supervisors at work and at school, had continually nagged her about what we considered a bad habit.

But like all good gossips, Tracy was an enthusiastic people watcher. If Tracy had been working at the concessions stand the night before, she would have been able to name every person who bought a candy bar and every person who went through the entrance gate the whole evening. But Tracy was away at college. She was no help to us.

“Yes,” I said, “we could use Tracy. She's the second most gossipy person in Warner Pier. Right after Greg Glossop.”

“Oh my gosh!” Maggie said. “Greg Glossop was at the football game.”

“Ye gods!” I said. “He'll have a minute-by-minute list of who came and went.”

Greg Gossip—I mean, Glossop—runs the pharmacy at Warner Pier's only supermarket. He really is the biggest gossip in the town, and the physical layout of his shop gives him a big advantage in collecting information. His pharmacy sits up high, so he can see the whole store. He knows who comes in and which aisles they go down. I will admit that I'd never known Greg to gossip about anyone's prescriptions, but he knows whose kids are coming to visit, who is hitting the liquor department three times a week, and who blew off her diet. You can tell a lot about people by noticing their grocery purchases, and Greg Glossop notices almost everything. And he asks nosy questions about the rest.

But I was astonished to hear that Greg had been at the football game. While Greg Glossop is definitely part of the Warner Pier scene, he doesn't usually turn up at community events. He is not usually seen at concerts, plays, recitals, or other events.

“What was Greg doing at the football game?” I said. “I don't picture him as the fond father of a football player.”

Maggie frowned. “He may have been wearing his EMT jacket.”

“Of course.” Yes, the one community activity that drew Greg Glossop was the volunteer ambulance service. It operates pretty much like a volunteer fire department. If a Warner Pier resident or visitor breaks a leg or suffers a heart attack, Greg is likely to show up to provide first aid and get the victim to the hospital in Holland. And the EMTs always had a crew, complete with ambulance, at the football game, just in case a player got hit too hard or a spectator fainted. Besides, by performing that service, the crew got into the game free.

I finished my tea and left Maggie to her housecleaning. I headed for the Superette, hoping I could catch Greg Glossop.

As I'd hoped, Greg was in his high-up shop at the store. I spoke to him over the counter. “Hi, Greg. When you have a moment, I need to pick your brain.”

“I'm pretty much caught up.” He went to the end of the counter and opened the door for me. I climbed the three steps that raised his pharmacy above the rest of the store and went in.

I will say that Greg doesn't hold grudges. Aunt Nettie and I trade at the town's other pharmacy, Peach Street Drugstore, but he never seems to hold it against us. He nodded enthusiastically as I explained I was trying to trace the activities of a group of Aunt Nettie's friends at the football game. He didn't even ask the question I had no answer for: Why the heck was I interested?

No, as a person who's always curious about everybody else's business, Greg Glossop seemed to accept my curiosity as perfectly normal. He studied my sheaf of pictures as seriously as if I'd been an FBI agent trying to uncover an international spy ring.

“The Pier-O-Ettes,” he said, proving that he knew what was going on around Warner Pier. “I saw the group as they came in. The EMT crew was sitting on the forty-five-yard line. So the ladies were behind us and to the left.”

“Oh. If you were on the sidelines, I guess you didn't see if any of them left the stadium.”

“I wasn't on the sidelines all the time. I went back out to the concessions stand.” He smiled. “They always give the EMTs a free soft drink. I got a Pepsi; then I stood around out there and drank it.”

I offered the pictures again. “I'm sure you knew all the locals in Aunt Nettie's group.”

“Oh, sure. Ruby Westfield has traded with me forever. And Hazel TerHoot—I see her in the Superette all the time.”

“Did you see any of them leave the game?”

“Hazel went over to the restroom. Ruby stood around and talked to several people.”

“Did any of them leave the stadium while you were standing there?”

Greg spread the three remaining pictures out on the counter. He leaned over them, frowning.

“This one”—he tapped Julie Hensley's photo—“did. She walked out into the parking lot.”

“Did she drive off?”

Greg shrugged. “I don't know, Lee. I wouldn't recognize her car.”

“It was a limo. She owns a limo service, and she was driving a big white limousine.”

Greg gave a whistle. “I didn't see a limo. They must have driven off while we were packing up the ambulance.”

He turned back to the two remaining pictures—the Street twins, Margo and Kathy. “Now, these two—I didn't see them leave. But they did go over to the gate, and one of them made a telephone call.”

He smiled. “It was a pretty interesting call.”