Read The Chocolate Cupid Killings Online
Authors: JoAnna Carl
The Chocolate Cupid Killings (18 page)
“There's a lot I don't understand about all this,” I said, “but one thing is sure. Pamela had no contact with Derrick Valentine. Sarajane, Aunt Nettie, and I all worked hard to make sure she didn't. So I do not see how she could be concerned in his death.”
“Neither do I,” Underwood said. He thanked us politely for our information and told us not to leave town. Then he sat back quietly, leaving it to Hogan to scold us. Which Hogan did.
“You've impeded an important investigation by at least twenty-four hours,” he said. “Three normally law-abiding women. I'm ashamed of you.”
We all acted properly contrite.
When he was through, I spoke. “The main thing I'm worried about is Myrl Sawyer and Pamela.” I turned to Sarajane. “Have they checked in again with Myrl's supervisorâif she has one?”
“No.” Sarajane looked miserable. “I'm terribly worried about them.”
“We'll get the full license plate number for Myrl's car,” Underwood said. “We'll have people looking for them within half an hour.”
“But they could be anywhere!” Sarajane said. “They've been gone more than twenty-four hours. They could be clear across the country.”
Underwood didn't have anything comforting to say to that.
I was relieved when he and Hogan stood up. I was ready for this uncomfortable interview to be over.
But Sarajane raised her hand like a timid third grader. “Just one more thing.”
“What's that?” Hogan's voice was brusque.
“Hogan, do you remember that I came by the station and picked up the papers so I could get a license to carry a firearm?”
“Yes, I remember. You took the class up at Holland, didn't you?”
“Yes. And I practice regularlyâevery week at the Warner County Gun Association firing range.”
“All perfectly legal, Sarajane. What's the problem?”
She pleated her paper napkin, making it into a little fan. “Well . . .”
“Well, what?”
“Ever since yesterday morning I've been looking for that pistol.”
Hogan didn't say anything, and Sarajane looked up with anguished eyes.
“Hogan, my pistol is not where it's supposed to be. I can't find it anywhere in the house!”
Chocolate Chat Parts of the Cacao Bean
“Nibs” is the name given to the cacao seeds, or beans. The nibs must go through four basic steps before they become chocolate liquor, the term used for pure chocolate.
“Fermentation” is a process that removes the pulp that surrounds the nibs when they are removed from the pod. During fermentation the seeds germinate, then are killed by high temperatures.
“Drying” follows, with the beans losing as much as half their weight as moisture is removed.
“Roasting” comes next. This takes more than an hour at temperatures of 94 to 104 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Winnowing” removes a thin, useless shell.
Now the beans are ready to be ground into that precious “cacao liquor.”
From here on the product is chocolate.
Chapter 13
Hogan's voice was calm. “Do you think this Pamela took the pistol?”
“I don't know what to think,” Sarajane said. “I only know that it's not in either of the two places where I keep it. Or anywhere else. I've torn the house apart.”
“You're not a forgetful person, Sarajane. So that sounds as if it's gone. Pamela could have taken it.”
“But why? Why would Pamela take my pistol?”
I made an impatient noise. “If I'd been in her position, I might have taken it. She was already fleeing for her life. Then a private detective showed up at her place of employment, looking for her. Next someone called the house where she was staying, again looking for her. I would have taken a cannon if one had been available.”
“Why didn't she tell me she was taking it?” Sarajane said.
Hogan answered. “Because she thought you'd say no. But let's not get excited. We can understand Pamela wanting to have a pistol for protection. She's not likely to start holding up banks or gunning people down in the street.”
Hogan zipped up his jacket, and I asked one final question before he could leave. “What do I do if Belcher shows up at the shop again?”
“He won't.” Underwood answered, and he made his reply sound final. “We found out where he's staying. We'll talk to him.”
“But you can't arrest him?”
“Not as things stand at the present. But we can make him aware that we know he's here, and we're keeping an eye on him. At any rate, no matter who tries to talk to you about Pamela or Christina or whoever she is, don't say a word.”
I had to be satisfied with that. Aunt Nettie told Hogan he could go on, and she joined me in the van as I left for the shop.
I buckled up securely. “Whew!” I said. “I'm glad that's over.”
Aunt Nettie laughed. “I agree. I feel a whole lot better since I've been honest with Hogan.”
“There's nothing like a clear conscience to give you a good day. And I particularly liked the reassurance that they're dealing with Harold Belcher.”
We drove down Peach Street, leaving Sarajane's B&B behind us at the edge of town, passing through a neighborhood of lovely old Victorian houses, and arriving in Warner Pier's quaint redbrick business district. I turned onto Fifth Street and pulled into a parking place in front of the shop.
“Maybe Belcher the Butcher will go back to Detroit,” I said.
“The headline will be: âBig-city gangster vanquished by small-town cop,' ” Aunt Nettie said.
We were both laughing as we went into the shop. And there, standing by the cash register, was a big, ugly, bald guy I had seen before.
My insides whirled around, but I guess all I did was stare. I was trying to convince myself this big, ugly guy was the chief financial officer of the Prodigal Corporation, Elliot J. Smith.
But he wasn't. This one had a fringe of hair over his ears. He was Haroldâthe ButcherâBelcher.
Belcher's gray jacket with the yellow stripes was draped over the back of one of the two chairs we keep in the retail area. He had apparently been watching for us through the show window and had stood up as we approached.
He wasn't brandishing a blackjack, aiming a gat, or doing anything else threatening. He wasn't biting his nails, tapping his foot, or doing anything that indicated he was nervous. He was simply there, looking like an ordinary customer.
He addressed Aunt Nettie. “Mrs. Jones, I need some help.”
Aunt Nettie could never resist an appeal like that one. She smiled. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
I realized that Aunt Nettie didn't recognize Belcher. She thought he was an ordinary customer. I had never shown her the pictures I'd taken from the Internet.
What had happened to Hogan and Lieutenant Underwood's plan to keep Belcher away from us? And what should I do about it? Scream? Fall in a faint? Call the cops? Run out the door and down the street?
Before I could decide, Belcher was speaking again.
“I'm Harold Belcher,” he said. “I'm looking for my wife, Christina. I thought you might know where she is.”
Aunt Nettie blinked twice and gave a little gasp, but she didn't lose her aplomb. “Oh, my,” she said. “I can't help you.”
I decided I had to match Aunt Nettie's matter-of-fact attitude. “We've been instructed by the police not to discuss this matter,” I said.
“What matter?”
“The death of Derrick Valentine.”
“What does . . . ?” Belcher stopped. He took a deep breath before he went on. “I heard on the TV that someone was killed here. But what does that have to do with Christina?”
“I don't know,” Aunt Nettie said gently. “But the investigators have told us not to talk about anything at all. Why don't you ask them if there's a connection?”
Belcher gave a bland, smooth smile. “I'm afraid they're not likely to tell me anything. But I think you misunderstand the situation, Mrs. Jones. Everybody thinks I'm out to hurt Christina. But that's not true. I just need to talk to her about a legal matter. She's left me in difficulties with this disappearing act.”
I was surprised by Belcher's language and behavior. He looked like a thug, true, but he didn't act like one.
“I'm sorry,” Aunt Nettie said. She sounded sorry, and I'm sure she was. “But I don't know anything about where your ex-wife is, and if I did, the investigating officers have told me not to discuss anything with anybody. So I can't help. Please approach the authorities. I'm sure they could assist you.”
Belcher smiled again. I was becoming fascinated with his reactions. No matter what Aunt Nettie said, he smiled. He was giving the impression of a genuinely friendly concern for the ex-wife who had sent him to prison.
In other words, his behavior was strange.
Now he spoke coaxingly. “I'm sure you could help me find Christina, Mrs. Jones.”
“I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Belcher.”
“Can't? Or won't?” His smile was still friendly.
“Talk to the authorities.” Aunt Nettie's voice was sweet, but it was firm.
Belcher kept smiling, but something changed. His smile seemed to harden, to set. Maybe like a cement overcoat. Now it didn't look friendly. It looked threatening.
“It's vital that I find Christina,” he said. “Vital. A lot depends on it.”
Aunt Nettie was still calm. “Please talk to the law enforcement authorities.”
The situation wasn't getting anywhere. I'd gotten over my first fright at realizing we were confronting the infamous Belcher the Butcher. But he kept asking the same question, and Aunt Nettie kept giving him the same answer.
I guess I became impatient with the quiet back-andforth he and Aunt Nettie were trading. Anyway, I jumped into the conversation. “We're not getting anywhere, Mr. Belcher. I suggest that you leave.”
Belcher's face flared red, and for a moment I thought he was going to lose his quiet demeanor. He took two steps toward Aunt Nettie and me, stopping just an arm's length away from us.
“I guess you're this Mrs. Woodyard I heard about,” he said. “You could answer my question.”
I don't know if I was frightened or angry, but I'd had enough. “No. You answer mine, Mr. Belcher. Why are you here?”
“I'm looking for my wife.”
“Your ex-wife, right? But what in blazes makes you think that either my aunt or I has any idea on God's green earth where she is?”
He laughed.
“We don't,” I said firmly. “And if we did, we've been instructed by the police not to tell anybody anything. So please leave.”
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