The Chocolate Castle Clue (6 page)

I watched Mrs. Rice go out the door. So did everyone else in the restaurant. She was definitely the most unusual person who had been in all night.

The Dock Street's owner, H. G. Brown—universally known as “Brownie”—came out of the kitchen and walked toward us. Brownie is bald and has the kind of paunch an expert pizza maker should have. He gestured toward the door, now closed behind Mrs. Rice. “Sorry, folks. Every town has a nutcase or two. I'm sorry I didn't get out in time to head her off.”

Joe was sliding back into the booth. “No problem, Brownie. Mrs. Rice lived around the corner when I was a kid. I used to mow her lawn. I've known her my whole life.”

“I haven't!” I said. “Who is she? And why does she have it in for Aunt Nettie?”

Brownie and Joe both ignored my question. “I try to keep her out,” Brownie said, “but she comes around. For the obvious reason.”

Joe nodded, but I was completely mystified. “What obvious reason?” I said. “I've never seen her in the Dock Street before.”

Brownie spoke again, still aiming his remarks at Joe. “I've had to tell her not to come here. But sometimes she wanders in anyway.” He went back to the kitchen.

“Who was that woman?” I said.

Joe took a drink of his beer before he spoke. “Lee, you've lived in Warner Pier what—four years? I figured you would have run into all the local characters by now.”

“I've seen her in the library, but I don't know who she is. Mrs. Rice? Was that her name?”

“Verna Rice. Does that ring a bell?”

“No.” I spoke firmly, but then a bell did seem to give a tiny ting, way in the back of my mind. “Wait. Did Aunt Nettie refer to the owner of the Castle Ballroom as a ‘Mr. Rice'?”

“You got it. Dan Rice was the owner of the Castle Ballroom. He was found shot to death in his office more than forty years ago. Mrs. Rice is his widow. She never got over the tragedy.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sorry for her, Joe, but she can't simply badmouth people the way she did Aunt Nettie. What does she have against the Pier-O-Ettes?”

“I have no answer for that question.” Joe grinned. “Mrs. Rice has made public scenes so often that her relatives tried to commit her for treatment, but the psychiatrists say she's just cranky, not crazy. So, unlike most of us Warner Pier–ites, she's been certified as sane.”

That made me smile, and I began to feel less annoyed. “I've been told that Warner Pier is too small to have a village idiot, so we all have to take turns. Nice to know I'm not competing with Mrs. Rice for the honor.”

Our salads came then, and for the next ten minutes we concentrated on salad greens, tomatoes, purple onions, and Italian dressing. The pizza was on the table before I brought up Mrs. Rice again, and then the reference was indirect. “Joe, ever since I came to Warner Pier as a sixteen-year-old kid, I've heard of the Castle Ballroom. But I've never really known much about it.”

“It was demolished ten or fifteen years before I was born, but I've heard about it all my life, too,” Joe said. “It must have been really something. It was built in the early twentieth century, and in those days it was one of the few stone buildings in Warner Pier.”

“I guess that was the big lumbering era.”

“It was the tail end of it. Anyway, excursion boats from Chicago used to bring people over to go to the Castle, just the way people came over to visit the Pavilion, up at Saugatuck. Later—in the thirties and forties—the big bands played there.”

“Benny Goodman?”

“Yes, and Glenn Miller. My grandparents went to hear him at the Castle before they were married. My grandmother never forgot it.”

“I never knew it was that . . . well . . . special.”

“It was. You'll have to go over to the library and look at the pictures. The Castle was enormous—a block long and a block wide. It had a stone tower at each corner, and a deck along the river. Electric lights were strung along the roof and along the deck and outlined the towers.”

“It must have looked beautiful reflected in the water.”

“The summer people used to come in their boats and tie up for the evening. And an evening at the Castle was elegant.”

“What did they have for attractions after the big-band era ended?”

“That's when the story gets a little vague. Mom tells me the sixties weren't kind to Warner Pier in general. Apparently a druggie crowd moved in.”

“That must have been a shock. So many of the cottages around here are owned by families who've been coming to Warner Pier for generations—some of them for a hundred years.”

“Exactly. Warner Pier has always been a family resort. Even now there's hardly any nightlife.”

“True. The wildest entertainment is the piano bar at the yacht club or the deejay on weekends at the Dockster.”

“Yeah, and as the former city attorney, I can testify that the city fathers like it that way.”

“Today they do.”

“They did back then, too. I've read the files. You can't believe the city ordinances they tried to pass in those days—all aimed at keeping the ‘hippie element' out. Or at least the Supreme Court wouldn't have believed the ordinances they tried to pass. Freedom of speech wasn't a major concern for the city council back then.”

“How did this affect the Castle?”

“The unconstitutional city ordinances probably didn't bother it, but the era itself nearly killed it. Rice tried to keep the Castle respectable. But it was a losing battle. Big ballrooms just weren't popular, and the place had closed up by the time the disco era arrived. I think the talent show that the Pier-O-Ettes were involved in was a last-ditch effort to attract so-called family entertainment. Then Rice was found shot to death.”

“Was it suicide?”

“Nobody knows. Rice was shot in the heart at short range. The wound could have been self-inflicted. Or he could have been shot by some attacker. Or a stretch of the imagination would allow for an accident.”

“What was the law enforcement ruling?”

“They didn't really know. The insurance company claimed it was suicide, but that was to their advantage.”

“Rice must have had a newish policy.”

“Right. He was way under the two-year limit. If it was suicide, the insurance didn't have to pay off. Of course, Mrs. Rice tried to prove it was an accident.”

“Double indemnity?”

“Right again. If it was an accident, she got a double benefit.”

“So nobody wanted it to be murder?”

Joe laughed. “Nope. That didn't benefit anybody financially. Plus, Mrs. Rice swore her husband was such a wonderful man that no one could possibly want to shoot him.” Joe raised his eyebrows quizzically. “But Mrs. Rice is still today trying to prove it was an accident.”

“After forty-five years! I guess you have to admire her tenacity.”

“I don't know. There comes a time to let go of the past. Mrs. Rice inherited the place, but she didn't try to keep it open. Finally the banks foreclosed, the property was sold at auction, and the building was demolished. If she proved her case today, the whole thing would go to legal fees.

“Today Mrs. Rice is almost a recluse. Now and then she emerges, just to put on some sort of scene.”

“Why does she haunt the Dock Street, Joe? Why did Brownie say Mrs. Rice came in ‘for the obvious reason'?”

“The Dock Street Pizza Place sits on the site of the Castle.”

“Ye gods!”

Joe called Brownie back, and the two of them explained where the Castle had stood. Actually, Brownie said, the building's site occupied an area that today is on both sides of the street, plus the street itself.

“The street went around it then. Or rather it ended on one end and took up again on the other,” Brownie said. “I've seen maps. Anyway, once the Castle was gone, the city nabbed a right-of-way through the property and extended Dock Street—the way it should have been in the first place.”

“Brownie,” Joe said, “you have to remember that when the Castle was built—when? 1900?—this was the edge of town. Dock Street dead-ended into the Castle.”

“I'd forgotten that.” Brownie scratched his paunch. “Today's layout is much better. The city took the land for the park along the river and ran the street itself through the area in a logical pattern. Then Mrs. Rice sold the lots on this side of Dock Street.”

“The bank sold them,” Joe said. “She refused. The bank had to foreclose. At least I heard that someplace.”

“I guess she fought everything all the way,” Brownie said.

Joe nodded. “As far as Mrs. Rice is concerned, Dan was a victim of a tragic accident. She still wants to prove that.”

I shook my head. “She's sad.”

“Sure.” Brownie nodded. “It's a sad case. But she's not coming in here and making scenes with my customers.”

He nodded firmly as he went back to his kitchen.

Joe and I finished our dinner. We'd just put the leftover pizza into a to-go box when my cell phone rang.

I looked at it. I didn't recognize the number, and I almost didn't answer. Finally I punched the proper button and gave an unenthusiastic hello.

An excited voice answered me. “Lee? This is Aunt Nettie!” I instantly knew something bad had happened. It wasn't ESP. It was my familiarity with Aunt Nettie's voice. She sounded upset.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“We've had a wreck!”

“Who?”

“All of us. Julie took us for a ride in her beautiful limo and—”

“Is anybody hurt?”

“No! No, we're all fine. Just shaken up. Is Joe with you?”

“Sure.” I spoke to Joe. “The Pier-O-Ettes have had a wreck.” Then I punched the button that put the cell phone on speaker. “Now Joe can hear.”

Joe leaned close. “Nettie, where are you?”

“We're at Fifth and Peach, just down from the shop.”

“We'll be right there.”

“No!” She sounded panicky. “I mean, that's not why I called you.”

“Then, why?”

“I want you to ask the patrolman not to tell Hogan about this! I don't want his workshop to be interrupted.”

Joe shook his head. “I'll be right there,” he said. “Then we'll see.” The two of us ran for the door.

Joe spent more than a year as Warner Pier's city attorney. It's only a part-time job, since the city doesn't have that many legal affairs. But Warner Pier's city hall houses the police station as well as other city offices, so just by proximity Joe got acquainted with the entire Warner Pier Police Department—the chief, the secretary, and all three patrolmen. Of course, he also got acquainted with Chief Hogan Jones by marrying his wife's niece—me. Joe has a new job now, but he still knows all the guys on the force and is an in-law to the chief. So he was a good person for Aunt Nettie to ask to intercede with the investigating officer.

As we got into Joe's truck, he spoke. “Nettie's going to have to understand that Hogan's patrolmen have to tell their boss his wife was in a car wreck. It would be a firing offense not to.”

“Surely she'll see that,” I said.

We drove the three blocks to TenHuis Chocolade and parked in front of the building. I could see the big white limo sitting catty-corner in the intersection. But it was the only car there.

“Did they just run into a streetlamp or something?” I said. “It doesn't look as if another car was involved. It's hard to believe a professional driver like Julie Hensley would do that.”

“Maybe they'd had a few glasses of Michigan wine,” Joe said. “Though that's hard to believe, too, if they had dinner at Nettie's house. She doesn't usually serve drinks before and wine with.”

We walked up to the corner. The Pier-O-Ettes were standing in a clump. Aunt Nettie, looking anxious, was near Julie. Julie held a handful of papers. She apparently knew what the investigating officer would ask to see and was ready for him. Ruby Westfield was chattering away, speaking to Hazel, who was clutching her jacket around her, looking annoyed and ignoring Ruby. Kathy Street, naturally, was crying—softly, this time—and Margo Street had her arm around her sister.

Joe and I went straight to Aunt Nettie, and she greeted us effusively. She and Julie Hensley listened as Joe quietly explained that the patrolman who investigated the accident would be forced to tell Hogan about it.

“If you don't want Hogan to come home,” he said, “your best bet is to call him yourself, explain just what happened, and assure him you have the situation under control.”

“I'll do that, of course,” Aunt Nettie said. “He's presenting the opening session of the workshop tomorrow, and he's involved all week. He's worked hard on it, and I don't want him to drop it.”

“If no one's hurt, I don't think he'll feel that he has to,” Joe said. “You've already called the cops?”

Julie Hensley nodded. “We called. The dispatcher said there was only one patrol car on duty, and he was tied up for fifteen or twenty minutes. So we're waiting.”

Joe grinned. “Welcome to small-town America.”

Mrs. Hensley gave a derisive snort. “Small-town America indeed! I can't believe this happened in my old hometown. It was a hit-and-run!”

“Hit-and-run?” Joe sounded incredulous.

“Yes! We were driving slowly past Nettie's shop—all taking a good look at it—and this car came up behind us. I'll swear it deliberately rammed us! It wasn't going too fast, or someone would have had whiplash. Then the car backed up, swung out to the left, and passed us. After it got around us, it speeded up, turned left at the corner, and disappeared.”