The Chocolate Cat Caper (23 page)

“What about them?”

“I think Alex wants to ask you about the gloves in the pocket.”

“Gloves? What gloves?”

VanDam cleared his throat and reassumed direction of his investigation.

“The food-service’ gloves,” he said. “The lab people were still in town, so they took a preliminary look at them. The gloves may have traces of cyanide on them.”

“S
inus?” I said. Or later I realized that was what I said. After I’d calmed down a little.

But at the moment all I realized was that VanDam was scowling harder than ever. “Cyanide,” he said again. “We need to know what you handled with those gloves.”

“Food-handler’s gloves?”

“Yes. The gloves in the pocket of those slacks.”

“I didn’t know there were any gloves in the pocket of those slacks. I wouldn’t normally put anything in that pocket. Those pants are too tight to begin with. If I put anything in the pocket, it looks like I’ve got a big lump on my dairy—on my behind.”

“Then you’re saying someone else put the gloves in your pocket?”

“Not while I had those pants on. Believe me, I’d have noticed that. But I never use food-service gloves. I don’t understand where they could have come from.”

“You don’t use them at the shop?”

“I don’t help make the chocolates at all. If it’s real busy I may work in the front, putting chocolates in boxes for customers. And up there we use little tongs.”

“The tongs keep the heat of your hands from melting the chocolate,” Aunt Nettie said. “But I did give you a couple of pairs of gloves, Lee. You took them out to the Ripley house with you.”

“I remember now. In case the trays full of chocolates shifted and had to be rearranged.” I turned to VanDam. “They were in a cardboard suspender—I mean dispenser. I gave them to the security guard when he unloaded the chocolates. But there were bunches of food-service gloves out there. Herrera Catering uses them.”

VanDam gave a deep sigh. “I think we’ve established there were plenty of those plastic gloves available at the Ripley house the night of the murder. What we need to know is how this particular pair wound up in your pocket.”

“Let me think.” I sat down on the edge of Uncle Phil’s old recliner. “When I got out there, Mike Herrera told me to help set up the bar. Then Marion came by looking for the cat. I kept working behind the bar. Anyway, the cat jumped onto Jason, then onto the bar and tried to eat the olives, so I grabbed him and took him back to the office. Oh!”

“You remembered something?”

“When I got to the office, Marion was in there. The cat scratched Marion. Then he ran under the desk and turned the wastebasket over. He knocked trash all around the floor. That’s when Marion stepped on something that crunched. Something plastic.”

VanDam and Underwood looked at each other. “Maybe the syringe,” Underwood said.

“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, I bustled around picking up trash, and then Marion told me rather pointedly that I should go back to my regular duties, and she asked me to take some glasses back to the kitchen as I left. But as I was picking up the glasses, I saw this wad of plastic in one of the chairs. It was a pair of food-service gloves.”

“You recognized this wad of plastic as a pair of food-service gloves?”

“Sure did. I guess a couple of the fingers were sticking out or something. I thought one of the Herrera employees had left them there. I grabbed them and stuck them in my pocket so I’d have my hands free to carry the glasses.”

This story sent all three detectives into a significant silence. Meaningful looks were shooting around the room and ricocheting off the walls.

“So I guess that’s how they got in my pocket,” I said. “I meant to take them out and throw them away when I got back to the bar. But when I walked into the main room—well, Clementine Ripley fell off that balcony, and I never gave the gloves another thought.”

More meaningful glances bounced, and VanDam finally spoke. “It keeps coming back to Marion McCoy, no matter how you look at it. She must have realized that Ms. McKinney walked off with the gloves.”

“So what?” I said. “Like you said, there were bunches of gloves out there. Why not just let me take them?”

“Because Marion McCoy was the personal assistant to a defense attorney,” Chief Jones said. “She’d know about scientific evidence.”

“You mean the traces of cyanide on the gloves?”

“Yes. Plus, if she used the gloves to handle the cyanide, her fingerprints might be inside. That might have made her desperate enough to break into your house trying to get them back.”

“The lab just started working on the gloves,” VanDam said. “I might have some more questions for Ms. McKinney in the morning.” He got up and led Sergeant Underwood toward the door.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did Joe tell you about the black nightgown?”

The words “black nightgown” definitely got their attention. I told the story of how I, or rather Champion Yonkers, found the gown in the wrong closet and what Joe and I had deduced from its size and style.

“So you think it belonged to Marion McCoy,” VanDam said.

“It wouldn’t have been shaped anything like Ms. Ripley,” I said, “but it would have fit me. And since Marion and I were much the same height and both on the skinny side . . .”

“So you think this proves she had a boyfriend.”

“That, taken with the boob job and the new clothes she got in Dallas—well, it means she either had a boyfriend or was after one,” I said. “Or that’s the way I’d interpret it.”

VanDam glared. “But why would she hide the gown in Ms. Ripley’s closet?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I don’t understand why Marion did a lot of things. Blaming Marion gets Aunt Nettie and me off the hook. I guess we should count ourselves lucky and shut up. But I think there are still a lot of unanswered questions here. Everyone agrees she was so devoted to Clementine Ripley that it wasn’t healthy. So why did she steal from her? Why would she kill her?”

“She stole because she wanted money. She killed to avoid being sent to prison.”

“Over the credit card use? I’ll bet Clementine Ripley wouldn’t have prosecuted.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would have made her look stupid. A person like that would lose tens of thousands of dollars rather than look stupid.”

VanDam stood up. “Well, that’s your opinion.”

“Oh, dear,” Aunt Nettie said. “It’s your opinion, too, isn’t it?”

VanDam dropped his eyes. “We won’t drop the investigation until we’ve exhausted all avenues of inquiry,” he said. His voice was flat, and his expression sardonic.

Then he did go to the door, followed by Underwood and the chief. I sat on the edge of the recliner and thought. Did VanDam really think there was a chance Marion hadn’t killed Clementine Ripley? But if she hadn’t, who had? It fit so nicely.

Almost as if it had been designed that way.

Drat! Now I really did doubt it. I got up in disgust and followed Aunt Nettie as she saw the detectives out to the back porch. It had gotten chilly, and I still felt stupid about getting caught in those flannel pants and stupid about feeling stupid.

I arrived just in time to see VanDam’s unmarked car pull out of the drive, followed by the one marked WARNER PIER POLICE CHIEF.

“Now, Lee,” Aunt Nettie said, “you get in the house. Standing out here in your pajamas, with wet hair—you’re going to catch your death.”

“It is a bit chilly,” I said. “But I mainly feel real unattractive. I guess it’s all that talk about the black lace nightgown when I rely on flannel for Michigan summers. I don’t know why Marion even brought that nightgown to Warner Pier,” I said. “She didn’t bring any of these other fancy new clothes she had bought.”

“I guess she planned to wear it,” Aunt Nettie said.

I stared at her. “Of course!” I said. “Marion brought the gown because she planned to wear it. Because she was going to see the man who gave it to her. Marion’s boyfriend was someone she saw in Warner Pier.”

The two of us sat down and speculated about that for a while. Who could Marion’s boyfriend have been? Who did she know in Warner Pier?”

“How about Mike Herrera?” Aunt Nettie said. “He and Marion had to work together a lot, because of all the entertaining Ms. Ripley did.”

“Oh! Lindy said . . .” I stopped, then went on. “Don’t repeat this. But Lindy said she and Tony thought he was dating someone. Tony thought she might be an Anglo.”

“I guess Mike is fairly attractive,” Aunt Nettie said. “Marion could have been drawn to him. Of course, the only really attractive man in Warner Pier—older man, I mean—is Hogan Jones.”

“The police chief?” I was scandalized. “You think he’s good-looking?”

“Not good-looking, Lee. Attractive. Good company, friendly, and masculine, without . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You mean he’s masculine without hitting you over the head with a bag of testosterone,” I said.

Aunt Nettie laughed. “That sums it up. And this boyfriend has to be someone who was out at the house Friday afternoon.”

“Well, I think we can eliminate Greg Glossop.” Aunt Nettie and I chuckled. “Hugh was there—the security guard. So was Duncan Ainsley. And he swears he didn’t even like Marion much. Besides, he shows up in
People
magazine with starlets.”

“Yes,” Aunt Nettie said, “I think he’d go for a more glamorous type than Marion.”

“I guess so. Plus, he bad-mouthed Marion. Called her ‘Ms. McPicky.’ Even if they were trying to hide their relationship, I can’t see him actually insulting her behind her back.

“In fact, I wouldn’t want to be cross-examined about the boyfriend’s existence. A sexy black nightgown isn’t really firm evidence. Maybe the police can trace where it was bought and who bought it. If it was a gift, we’ll find out then.”

Aunt Nettie said she was going to take a shower. We said good night, and I checked the doors and windows, then went upstairs. It had been a long and eventful day.

As I climbed into bed and pulled my blanket up to my chin, I allowed myself to hope that things were going to calm down.

“Poor Marion,” I murmured. “I don’t want to wish you ill, but I hope you actually were guilty. So the rest of us can get on with life.”

Poor Clementine, too. She and Marion had had a strange relationship. Yet they’d both seemed to be intelligent women. How did their lives, and apparently their deaths, become so intermeshed? Some weird emotional quirk in Marion had complemented an equally weird emotional quirk in Clementine.

Which sounded like a description of my marriage.

I rolled over and thumped my pillow. I did have one thing to feel satisfied about. If I’d done anything right that day, it was telling Rich where to get off. I reached for my bedtime book. The next thing I knew it was an hour later. I’d been sleeping with the light on. My book had fallen off my chest and hit the floor. Or I guess that was what woke me up.

The house was quiet. I turned off the light. The next thing I knew it was morning, and Aunt Nettie was calling up the stairs. “Lee! Lee! If Joe’s bringing that cat at seven-thirty, you might want to get up!”

I poked my nose out from under the covers. “I’ll be right down!”

I went downstairs and brushed my teeth, combed my hair into a ponytail and climbed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I didn’t bother with makeup. I was not trying to impress Joe Woodyard, I told myself. Then I put on a little mascara. Maybe I did want to impress him a little. I tossed my flannel pants and T-shirt onto the stairs, to remind me to take them up sometime, and poured a cup of coffee. By then Aunt Nettie was going out the back door.

“If you get cold at night, there are some blankets in the closet of the other bedroom up there.”

“I know. But I’ve had plenty of covers. Why?”

“Oh, I wondered about the afghan,” she said.

“The afghan?” She kept one in the living room, draped over the back of the couch, but I hadn’t used it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aunt Nettie said. Then she went out the door. “Don’t worry about being to the shop on time. Take care of the cat; we’ll handle things until you get there.”

“Taking on this cat doesn’t seem like a good idea this morning,” I said. “I’m bleary-eyed, and that cat’s likely to be wide awake.”

Aunt Nettie left. I barely had time to drink the coffee and eat a piece of toast before Joe and Champ showed up. I walked out to meet them, and Joe rolled down his window and leaned out.

“I feel like a jerk over this,” he said.

“Over what?”

“Asking you to cat-sit. Taking advantage of our brief acquaintanceship.”

“I’m a big girl. I could say no.”

I walked around the truck and opened the passenger door. Yonkers’s carrying case was in the seat next to Joe, and the cat was lashing his tail like a tiger.

“I really do appreciate your taking care of him,” Joe said. “You can leave him in the cage if you want to.”

“Until eleven o’clock? He’d be mad as hops, and I wouldn’t blame him. Does he have a leash, some way I can let him outside? I wouldn’t want him to disappear into the woods and run off with the deer.”

“I brought his litter box,” Joe said. “I think he’ll be all right if you let him out inside. But I warn you, he loves to explore.”

“I already know he can open doors.”

“He hasn’t learned to turn door handles. Yet.”

Joe carried Champ, cage and all, into the kitchen and told me the name of the breeder and that she would be at TenHuis Chocolade at eleven o’clock.

Joe knelt and opened the door to Champ’s cage. The cat walked out and looked around the kitchen regally. He gave a disdainful meow.

“Welcome,” I said. “Where’s your water dish, Champ?”

Joe took the dish from a sack I’d carried in, and I filled it and put it on the floor near the basement door.

“If you need to chase Yonkers down, there’s a can of cat treats in the sack. He’ll usually come if you rattle the can.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better hit the road. I’ve got to stop and see if the ATM is still speaking to me before I head out.”