The Chocolate Cupid Killings (2 page)

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 onto 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 mediumlength bob, parted on the side. Her eyes were dark and expertly made up, but her stare was blank. Her face was heart-shaped, 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.

Was he watching TenHuis Chocolade? I tried not to stare at him. I didn't know whether or not he could see me through our big front window.

Aunt Nettie slid into my office, looking nervous. “Who was that man?”

“He's a private eye. He was looking for a Christina Meachum.”

She relaxed visibly and adjusted the white net over her blond-white hair. “That's okay, then.”

“No, it's not okay. Christina Meachum was the name, but the photo he showed me was a ‘before' picture of Pamela.”

We looked at each other seriously. Neither of us knew just what to do.

Pamela was a special employee.

Only a couple of months earlier had I been allowed to learn something that Aunt Nettie had known for much longer. One of her closest friends, Sarajane Harding, was involved in that mysterious underground railway system that helps abused women permanently escape from their abusers by furnishing them with new identities and finding them new homes.

Sarajane, Aunt Nettie told me, had herself formerly been an abused wife. Because she ran one of Warner Pier's best bed-and-breakfast inns, she could provide temporary lodging without causing comment about strange people coming and going, and she was often called on to house these unfortunate women briefly.

This “underground railway” system is not like the shelters for abused women found in most cities. It is not used for women who simply need to escape a violent husband or lover until things cool down or until they can take legal action. Sarajane was involved in much more serious cases, cases in which the railway “conductors” believed the women were in danger of death, in which the only option seen for them was a new identity, a new life in a new place. If strange men came looking for them, there was a strong possibility that those men were dangerous.

Normally Aunt Nettie would not take part in this activity. For one thing, its legality may be questioned, since it won't work without creating fake IDs, and Aunt Nettie is married to Warner Pier's chief of police. Hogan Jones, her husband of less than a year, might close his eyes to the situation briefly—he despises abusive husbands—but he couldn't ignore it permanently. So Aunt Nettie and Sarajane were careful not to let him know what was going on.

I'd also been careful not to mention Pamela and her problems to my husband, Joe Woodyard. After all, he is Warner Pier's city attorney, on the days when he's not restoring antique powerboats. I didn't want to put him in a bad position either. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Pamela was the second of Sarajane's passengers who had needed a job from TenHuis Chocolade. I'm sure Sarajane had employed some women at the B&B, but she had never asked us to hire one until right before Christmas, and that woman worked only a week. Since the women had to be paid off the books, the accountant in me didn't like it, but it's hard to turn your back on people in this much trouble.

Sarajane hadn't told me Pamela's story, but she had made it clear that her danger was real. That was why Aunt Nettie and I had come up with the “sugar order” alert. If I called out to Aunt Nettie that I needed to talk to her about the “sugar order,” Pamela was immediately to hide in the back room or the storage closet.

“At least our system worked,” Aunt Nettie said. “Pamela's still in the back. Should I call her out?”

“No! That private eye is standing across the street.”

Aunt Nettie didn't turn to look at him. “Do you think he's watching the shop?”

“I don't know. He may have only stopped for a smoke. But we'd better take precautions.”

“I'll call Sarajane to come and get Pamela.”

“That might not be a good idea. After all, Sarajane's car says PEACH STREET BED-AND-BREAKFAST on the side. Besides, I wouldn't want this guy to get a look at Pamela's face as she left. She doesn't look much like her original picture anymore, but I wouldn't want him to see what she does look like.”

“Then I can take Pamela out to the B&B. I'm parked in the alley.”

“Maybe we should check and make sure there's no one watching the alley.”

Aunt Nettie looked dismayed. “I just wanted to help Pamela out with a job for a little while. I didn't mean to get mixed up in some cloak-and-dagger project.”

“I'm probably being overly cautious, but let's keep Pamela out of sight for an hour or so. Don't let her come back into the workroom.”

“I can have her tie bows.”

I nodded. Pamela was one of twenty-five women working at TenHuis Chocolade. None of the others knew who she was or why she had suddenly joined the staff, and we couldn't let them find out. Twenty-five people cannot keep a secret. So that afternoon Pamela had to have a job that kept her out of sight of the street and of our retail shop, but kept her busy doing something that wouldn't make the other employees wonder what was up. Tying bows was a sufficiently dull job that no one would think Pamela was getting special treatment.

I sighed. “Okay. Pamela ties bows. You watch the front, and I'll run to the Superette for Amaretto.”

“How did you know we need Amaretto?”

“I didn't. I just suggested it because it's something we buy locally.”

“I tried to make a new batch of Amaretto truffles this morning, and there wasn't enough in the bottle to do it.”

“Good. I'll go get some, and as I go I can scout the downtown to make sure nobody's watching the alley. Then you can call Sarajane and ask her to get Pamela out of here. She'll probably want to move her along someplace else.”

I cast a longing glance at my computer—I didn't really have time to leave my regular work for a scouting trip—put on my ski jacket and left by the front door. In the winter there's plenty of parking on Warner Pier streets, and I hadn't bothered to drive around to the alley where Aunt Nettie and I have reserved spaces. At the corner I turned onto Peach Street, paying no attention to Derrick Valentine. I drove along slowly, looking around as I passed the entrance to our alley. I didn't see anybody suspicious. At first. I was halfway down the block before I saw the man in the plain vanilla sedan.

The sedan was parked across from the end of the alley. The man was sitting there, talking on a cell phone. He had what looked like a map spread out on his steering wheel. He would have a clear view down our alley in his rearview mirror. Was he some innocent salesman, talking to his boss about calling on a Warner Pier business? Or was he tag-teaming Derrick Valentine, making sure no one who looked like Pamela came out our back door?

One thing about a town of twenty-five hundred: a stranger stands out. In the summer, you could hide a battalion of private eyes in the crowds of tourists who throng the quaint streets of Warner Pier. But in wintertime we locals know everyone we see. And I'd never seen this guy around. Plus, his car had a Georgia license plate. As in Atlanta, headquarters of PDQ Investigations.

Aha!

When I returned from the Superette, I parked in front of TenHuis Chocolade once more, got out clutching my bottle of Amaretto and walked though the shop and the workroom and into the back room. I tried to look as un-secretive as I could.

Aunt Nettie has made the break room as pleasant as possible for our employees. It looks like a dining room in a home. The tables and chairs might be from a secondhand store, but they were good-quality traditional pieces to begin with. The chairs have upholstered seats, and prints or paintings by local artists are hung here and there. The kitchen nook has more than a microwave and a refrigerator; a real range with oven and burners is available. There is—oh, glory!—a dishwasher. And that dishwasher isn't for chocolate-making equipment. Those utensils are cleaned in a separate area in the workshop itself.

Pamela was sitting at the largest table. She was surrounded by rolls of ribbon in Easter pastels and a bowl of the little gold bunnies. A can of Pepsi stood off to one side, safe from expansive gestures. Beside it was a small tube of M&M Minis. I bit my tongue at the sight. Pamela consistently refused to eat TenHuis chocolates—some of the best truffles and bonbons in the world—but seemed to be addicted to those M&M Minis, massmarket candies available at every drugstore, supermarket, and convenience store. She always had one or two tubes in her purse or pocket. I knew I was being petty, but it irked me.

Pamela seemed to be irked at me in turn. “I hope this hasn't been a false alarm,” she said. “I hate making bows.”

I mentally compared Pamela to the picture Derrick Valentine had identified as “Christina Meachum.” In the photo, Christina had looked younger. She had been plain, true, but she'd looked normal. Her face was symmetrical.

Pamela's face had a different look, not abnormal exactly, but not like the photo. Her face was skewed, crooked. She talked out of one side of her mouth, and one of her eyebrows was higher than the other.