The Chocolate Cupid Killings (6 page)

Joe's smile looked welcoming. I was the only person who might have guessed that it was not his best, tiptop, A1, glad-to-see-you smile.

“Lee, this is Marty Ludlum,” he said. “He was a member of Clementine's firm when I was working there.”

“Hello, Marty.”

Marty grinned an impish grin, a grin a jury might find entrancing. “Sorry to drop by so late,” he said, “but when I saw you two pulling into the drive, I couldn't resist.”

Joe took his coat. I mouthed the word “Coffee?” behind the visitor's back, and Joe picked up the cue. “You still a major coffee drinker, Marty?”

“Oh, I don't want to put you out.”

We went through the usual routine. “It's not late. Do you drink decaf?” “Anything.” “We have both.” “Regular, please.” Then Joe motioned the man toward the living room, and I reached for the coffeepot.

Joe's invitation intrigued me. He obviously wanted to be friendly to Marty Ludlum, but he didn't seem entirely wholehearted about it. Joe didn't have many good things to say about his time at “Clementine's firm.” What was his relationship with this guy? Plus, it was nearly ten o'clock, a little late for a coffee klatch. If a former professional associate showed up in the driveway at that time of night, Joe could have arranged to meet him for lunch the next day. Why had Joe asked him in? The whole episode was mysterious.

“Clementine” was Joe's first wife, Clementine Ripley, who had been one of the most prominent defense attorneys in the United States. When Joe had met her, he was a young lawyer working for a nonprofit legal assistance agency in Detroit. He approached her for advice about a client he was convinced was innocent, and she agreed to take the case pro bono. The cynical side of me believes she was more attracted by the handsome young lawyer who revered her legal skills than she was by the innocent client. At any rate, before the case came to trial she and Joe had eloped to Las Vegas.

Being fifteen years younger than Clementine meant he had walked into a situation that drew more jokes than good wishes from friends, business associates, and gossipmongers. In addition to the age difference, Clementine was famous, and Joe wasn't. Their unlikely romance became fodder for the nation's tabloids.

I think Joe and Clementine did try to make their unconventional marriage work. Joe quit his Detroit job and moved to Chicago, Clementine's center of operations. He took a job as a public defender there. That caused them problems. So he became an attorney in Clementine's firm. That caused them a different set of problems. More and more frequently Joe discovered that he disagreed with Clementine's ideas on legal ethics. He isn't the type of man who hides his opinions. The marriage turned from joke to disaster.

After five years Joe gave up—not only on his marriage to Clementine, but also on the practice of law. He moved back home to Warner Pier, bought a boat restoration business, and filed for divorce. It was four years before he put a finger back in the legal pie and took a part-time job as city attorney for his hometown, the job he was now planning to resign.

Joe came out of the experience with a very cynical view of big defense lawyers, and Marty Ludlum was apparently a partner in such a firm. So I was back to my first question. Why had Joe invited him in for a cup of coffee?

I could hear Joe and Marty's conversation in the living room, and it all seemed to be along the line of “whatever happened to old so-and-so?” Then I heard Joe say, “I'll see if Lee needs any help.” As he came into the kitchen, I was about to take down the carafe we used for coffee on weekends, when we had a little more leisurely breakfast.

“Need any help?” he said loudly; then he whispered, “Don't leave me alone with Marty.”

“Reach down the carriage,” I said loudly. “I mean, the carafe! The stainless-steel one.” Then I whispered, “Why not?”

Joe clanked the stainless-steel carafe as he pulled it off the top shelf—a shelf I can reach perfectly well. “I'll tell you later.” He was still whispering.

“You can take the coffee mugs out to the living room,” I said aloud. I whispered, “Don't mention that Aunt Nettie and I found a body. I don't want to talk about it.”

Joe nodded.

“And tell Marty we don't stock cream,” I said in a normal voice. “Just two percent.”

“Sure,” Joe said; then he whispered, “And for God's sake don't ask Marty why he came!” He scooped up the three coffee mugs and three napkins I'd already put out on the counter and went back to the living room.

Hmmm. The situation was more mysterious than I'd realized. And the conversation might get stilted, since I didn't want to talk about finding Valentine's body and Joe didn't want to know why this man had turned up in Michigan's leading summer resort in the wintertime. Heaven knows what Marty Ludlum didn't want to talk about. We might have to fall back on politics and religion—the topics usually forbidden in polite society.

I loaded a tray with the rest of the coffee paraphernalia. By the time I'd put a few chocolates on a plate, the coffee was made. I poured it into the carafe and added that to the grouping.

Marty Ludlum beamed when I put the tray down on the coffee table. “Chocolate! My weakness.” He turned to Joe. “I remember now. Somebody told me your wife is in the chocolate business.”

“The bonbons have Baileys Irish Cream filling,” I said. “I confess they came home free because they were accidentally decorated to look as if they had crème de menthe filling. And the dark chocolate cupids didn't come out of the mold right. The design on top is messy. So you're getting TenHuis Chocolade seconds, but they ought to taste okay.”

“They look good to me!” Marty Ludlum enthusiastically bit a bonbon. “Great! Worth a trip to rural Michigan in the dead of winter.”

“Are you a summer person?”

He blinked. “I don't like really hot weather,” he said.

I realized how dumb my question had sounded, and I made the mistake of trying to explain it. “ ‘Summer people' is the term we Warner Pier locals use for people who own cottages or who lease places here every summer. I guess I was asking if this is your first trip to Warner Pier.”

“It isn't my first trip, but I'm not a regular visitor.”

“Then I'm surprised you found us. This part of Warner Pier is rather obscure.”

Marty Ludlum's eyes focused on his coffee cup. “I used to stay with someone who rented a cottage on Lake Shore Drive.”

Joe smiled. “Lee knows that Clementine used to lease a cottage about a quarter of a mile from here, Marty.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Before she built Warner Point she stayed in the Lally house. Joe told me she used to hold conferences on her cases there.”

Ludlum relaxed a bit. I made hostess noises, being careful not to ask why he had come to Warner Pier, as Joe had requested. And I didn't leave Joe alone with him.

The conversation went back to whatever-happenedto questions. I was surprised that Joe was able to ask about so many people. In fact, every time Marty tried to change the direction of the conversation, Joe seemed to think of another person he wanted to know about. That was interesting.

We drank our coffee. I stayed planted at the end of the couch, listening and asking the occasional question. When Joe ran out of people to ask about, I quizzed Marty about his family. He was divorced, he said. No kids. He had an apartment in Chicago, right off the Loop.

In exchange Marty asked me about TenHuis Chocolade. I explained that I did everything there except make chocolate. “I keep the books, order supplies, pay the taxes, process the orders—even make deliveries if there's nobody else around to do it.”

After thirty minutes I guess it became obvious to Marty that I wasn't going to leave so that he and Joe could have a private chitchat. He leaned back in his chair and turned to Joe. “Maybe you've picked the best life, Joe. Nice wife, quiet town, comfortable house, no pressure to snag the big cases.” Was I imagining condescension in his voice?

Joe shrugged. “I'm Warner Pier city attorney, you know. They only pay me for one day a week, but I assure you small towns are not without their own kind of pressure. When everybody knows everybody else, feelings can run pretty high. Plus, the boat shop is my major occupation, and boat owners can be pushy, too.”

“Do you ever miss the firm?”

“Do I miss the high-pressure life? I never really knew it, Marty. I was always an outsider. I just watched Clementine take tranquilizers; I never took any myself.” He took a drink of coffee. “I've had some offers from Michigan firms. But I've never been tempted to accept one of them.”

“Never?”

Joe grinned. “If the offers begin to sound good, I go varnish a hull and realize how much better off I am.”

Marty looked at me. “This guy! One of the best crossexaminers I ever watched work. How about you, Lee? Wouldn't you like a husband who was tops in his profession?”

“I have one,” I said. “The boats Joe restores are works of art.”

Marty smiled. “Yes, but—”

I cut him off. “And if you're talking about the financial rewards—well, I do Joe's taxes, and he's doing okay money-wise.” We're doing okay as long as we follow our budget; I didn't say that part out loud. “We're making it fine.”

“Fine? Joe should be financially amazing!”

“Once I had a husband who was financially amazing. Once was enough.”

Marty looked surprised, and Joe laughed. “Give it up, Marty. Lee and I have both tried the high life. We're happy in our rut. We like Warner Pier.”

“Okay! I give up. You're not coming back to the old firm.” Marty sipped his coffee, put down his cup, and leaned toward Joe. “So, how about a little consulting work?”

Joe didn't hesitate before he spoke.

“No,” he said.

“Not even providing a little local knowledge?”

“Nope.”

Marty chuckled and got to his feet. He held out his large hand to me again. “Lee, you make great coffee, and your company makes great chocolates. Thanks for both. And, Joe, it's been super seeing you.”

After he had put on his coat, Marty gave Joe a handshake and one of those combined stomach bumps and back pats that men substitute for a kiss on the cheek. I decided I didn't have to follow the two of them out to Marty's car. Surely Joe's instruction not to leave them alone didn't mean I had to tramp outside in the snow. I did stand on the back porch and watch until Marty drove off. He didn't dawdle. If he told Joe any unwitnessed secrets, he did it fast.

Joe waved at the retreating car, then came back up the walk. As soon as he was inside the kitchen, I turned out the porch light and locked the door.

“And now,” I said, “what the heck was that all about?”

“Just a friendly call from an old business associate.”

“Oh, sure. An old friend you've never mentioned before. A friendly visit I was instructed not to ask questions about.”

Joe was looking slightly amused. “You're pretty good at deductions, Lee. What have you figured out?”

“First, you knew why he was here, and you didn't want to talk about it.”

“Got it.”

“And he wanted to influence you about whatever it was. So he offered you a little consulting work.”

Joe reacted by going into the living room and beginning to load mugs onto the tray. I followed him and picked up the carafe.

“So it's something that affects the Village of Warner Pier.”

Joe didn't respond.

I went on. “But I don't see how it can be, unless the council is planning to sue somebody.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I'm assuming Marty Ludlum is a defense attorney. A high-priced defense attorney. I can't even think of anybody who would be in Warner Pier in the wintertime who could afford him.”

Then I gasped.

Joe looked at me sharply. “What?”

“Is he representing Marson Endicott?”

Joe lost his poker face. His eyes widened. Then he rolled them. He laughed, but the laughter had a hollow sound.

“How'd you come up with Marson Endicott?” he said.

“Lindy mentioned him when she called earlier. I guess the Dome Home has been opened—right in the middle of winter. She seemed to think that was more interesting than Aunt Nettie finding a body in our alley.”

Joe picked up the tray. He'd regained control of his face and was once more Mr. Deadpan. “I guess Marson Endicott could afford a legal team that would include Marty Ludlum,” he said.

Then he walked to the kitchen, with me trailing along carrying the carafe. “If I were Marty Ludlum I'd want my money up front,” I said. “Judging by what I read in
Time
magazine.”

“I assure you Marty knows how to get his fees paid.”

“But why would you care?”

“When I was doing my miserable time at Clementine's firm, Marty was one of the few people who were nice to me. I wouldn't like to see him lose a legitimate fee.”

“I mean why would you care about the Endicott case? Whatever happens to Endicott—or to Marty Ludlum—would it be any skin off your nose?”

“Nope.” Joe put the tray down on the kitchen counter. “We've missed the eleven o'clock news. I think I'll get ready for bed.”

“Joe!”

“What?”

“You haven't told me why you didn't want to be alone with Marty Ludlum.”

“No, I haven't, have I? So if anybody asks, you don't know a thing.”

He kissed my cheek. Then he went into the bedroom.