The Chocolate Cupid Killings (29 page)

Naturally Warner Pier had gotten on board for the fad. Our chamber of commerce had picked “Warner Pier: A Lake Michigan Treasure” as the slogan for the summer and had selected a logo featuring a buccaneer waving a cutlass and hoisting a treasure chest to his shoulder. Teenagers costumed as pirates roamed our picturesque downtown, handing out golden coins and treasure maps to tourists. A weekly treasure hunt sale offered special bargains for shoppers. The climactic production of our summer repertory theater was to be
Pirates of Penzance.

Even my aunt, Nettie TenHuis Jones, president and chief chocolatier of TenHuis Chocolade, was involved. Our featured items for the summer were pirate treasure chests—four-inch, six-inch, and eight-inch—filled with chocolate coins and jewels covered with shiny gold or silver foil. A giant pirate ship made of chocolate was featured in our show window. The Jolly Roger that flew from its mast was made of dark chocolate, with the skull and crossbones painted on the banner with white chocolate. The sails were white chocolate, and the decks milk chocolate. It was a work of art. But just for looking, not eating. Aunt Nettie would kill anybody who took a bite.

We all four thought our solstice adventure had been an amusing experience, and we told everybody about the pirates.

Joe passed the story along to a group he meets for coffee most mornings at the Shell station out on the highway. Ken told the story to the faculty at the math and computer camp where he was teaching that summer. I told everybody at the chocolate shop, and Maggie spread the word around the theater. So by noon news of our experience was all over town, and I got a call from Chuck O'Riley, editor of our local weekly newspaper, the
Warner Pier Gazette
.

I assured Chuck that we hadn't been injured or even inconvenienced, just amused.

“We all assumed it was some sort of promotional stunt,” I said. “But the pirates didn't give us any information.”

“Maybe it's
The Pirates of Penzance
,” Chuck said.

“Could be.”

By the next weekend the excitement had died down. I yawned and concentrated on running a chocolate company.

Then the next Monday, the pirates struck again.

Once more they appeared just at sunset, climbing aboard a small yacht that was taking a group on an evening cruise. Again they gave an exciting demonstration of acrobatics, and the piper did a few sleight-of-hand tricks.

Again the people on the boat applauded and cheered as the three dived into the water and swam underwater a long way, then climbed into their inflatable dinghy and roared away, leaving the boaters with a darn good story.

Eight times they struck in July. Always early in the week and occasionally on Sunday evening. Warner Pier's boaters began to brag about being hit by the pirates. It became a point of pride. People gave “pirate parties” and were disappointed if they weren't boarded. I lost all curiosity about the pireates early. Running a chocolate business and trying to find some time to spend with Joe took all my energy. I had no interest in fake pirates who could walk on their hands. The evening we were boarded faded into memory. The
Gazette
still ran stories, but Chuck O'Riley had moved them to an inside page.

I was glad to see interest in the pirates wane, but I wasn't ready for a new kind of excitement.

That began on the last Wednesday in July.

My office is a glass-walled cubical at one side of the TenHuis Chocolade retail store. There was only one customer in the store, and I was working quietly in my office when the street door flew open with such violence that I expected the window in it to shatter.

Two of our counter girls ran in—my stepsister, Brenda, and her best pal, Tracy Roderick. They were traveling at hurricane speed and shrieking like hurricane winds.

I jumped up. “What's wrong? Why all the yelling?”

“Marco's coming! Marco's coming!”

“What?”

“Marco Spear is coming to Warner Pier!”

This behavior was most unlike Tracy and Brenda. Both were ready for their second year of college. Being cool was a full-time job for them, and movie star crushes were not their idea of cool.

But Tracy's next squeal showed me I was wrong. “It's so great! To think we might get to see him!”

They jumped up and down and squealed some more. The two girls already at work behind the counter came out and joined in the squealing and jumping.

I tried to sound stern. “You two don't usually go nuts over movie stars.”

“But Marco Spear is coming to Warner Pier!”

“Where did you hear this?”

“We stopped by the Superette, and Mr. Gossip—I mean, Mr. Glossop—told us that fancy new yacht Oxford Boats is building is for Marco Spear! And Marco's coming to Warner Pier—himself—in person—to pick it up!”

They barely restrained themselves from another squealing session.

“Tracy,” I said, “how reliable do you find information provided by Greg Glossop?” Greg Glossop, who runs the pharmacy at our local supermarket, is well-known as the worst gossip in Warner Pier.

My question brought giggles from Brenda, and Tracy smiled sheepishly. “Oh, I know—he leaps to conclusions.”

“He vaults to conclusions the way Marco Spear jumps up and down the masts of pirate ships.”

“But there really is a gorgeous yacht out there—in the big building at Oxford Boats. Brenda and I saw it when we went out on the river last week.”

Whatever I thought, the rumor that he was coming spread through town. Marco! Marco! Marco!

The news was whispered down the aisles at the Superette and spoken out loud at Warner Pier Beach. Everybody was sure he was coming, although there was no official confirmation.

Warner Pier is the home of Oxford Boats, one of the last companies that build luxury yachts. Their products were not the boats you might see at a boat show or use for a fishing trip. Each yacht produced by Oxford Boats was individually designed by the nation's top maritime architect. The yachts took a year or more to build. Most of them carried from six to a dozen crew members when they left port. Their sleek hulls and luxurious cabins inspired as much drooling as TenHuis chocolates.

Every teenager who had access to a sailboat, motorboat, or dinghy was out on the water, peering into the big boat shed at Oxford Boats, trying to get a look at the yacht under construction.

Marco! Marco! Marco! He must be coming soon.

Well, I wasn't worried about movie stars. I had plenty to think about in my own life.

Joe and I live in a semirural neighborhood on the inland side of Lake Shore Drive, and about eight o'clock in the morning, I put on a pair of denim shorts, a sweatshirt and some sandals and walked down to the road to get the
Grand Rapids Press
out of our delivery box. It was a bright, crisp morning. The sunlight was filtering through the trees, and the birds were singing like mad. I scared a flock of eight wild turkeys—two hens and six half-grown poults—out of our side yard as I left the house. It was my day off. I didn't have to rush down to the shop. All was serene.

I had barely reached the newspaper delivery box when the screaming started.

“Help! Help!”

I nearly dropped my newspaper as I whirled toward the sound. A girl wearing a neon-striped bikini came running up Lake Shore Drive toward me.

“Help! He didn't come up!”

As soon as she was within clutching distance, she grabbed my arm. Her fingers felt like so many vises. I could see that tears were running down her face.

“He never came up! He just disappeared! I think he drowned!”

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ALSO BY JOANNA CARL