The Chocolate Cupid Killings (7 page)

I stood in the kitchen and seethed.

Joe and I didn't usually have secrets from each other. And now—twice in the same evening—he had refused to tell me what was going on. First he wouldn't tell me about the big guys who had been in Hogan's office. And now he wouldn't explain what was going on with Marty Ludlum.

I could handle it two ways, I decided. I could scream and yell and demand that he tell me. Or I could respect his reticence.

After all, I wasn't entirely innocent when it came to keeping secrets. Aunt Nettie and I were keeping mum about Pamela, about her being in the shop when the dead detective, Derrick Valentine, came looking for her. True, Aunt Nettie had promised to tell Hogan tomorrow, but so far she and I were keeping it a secret.

But our secret was for a good reason, I told myself self-righteously. We had a good reason. We were trying to protect Pamela.

Maybe Joe had a good reason, too.

I decided that respecting Joe's reticence might be the best way to handle the situation. I wouldn't ask, or even hint that I wanted to know. I wouldn't sulk or beg.

Then maybe he'd tell me anyway.

As I heard Joe go into the bathroom, I felt smug. I had my self-righteousness back.

I was hugging it to myself and loading coffee mugs into the dishwasher when someone rapped softly at the back door.

After my heart started beating again, I heard Aunt Nettie's voice. “Lee! Lee, let us in!”

At least it sounded like Aunt Nettie. But how could Aunt Nettie be here? If she was coming over—at eleven thirty at night—surely she would call first.

I guess no one could blame me for being a little cautious. The logical part of my brain told me to fling the back door open for Aunt Nettie. But all I could think of was Derrick Valentine lying dead behind the Dumpster.

There was a chain on that back door, and I left it hooked when I turned the handle.

Aunt Nettie stood on the porch. Her blond-white hair was covered with a funny knit cap she wears when it's really cold; only a few curls were sticking out. Her face was worried.

“Lee, please let us in.”

I unhooked the chain and opened the door. “Come in! But who is ‘us'?”

Aunt Nettie slipped into the kitchen, then turned and looked behind her. “Come on,” she said. “Come on in. This is the safest place I can think of.”

The light from the kitchen threw of patch of glitter on the snow. All was quiet outside. Then I saw movement. Slowly Pamela walked into the light and up the steps onto the back porch.

Pamela looked so sheepish I expected her to bleat. So it was startling when she started her first sentence with “baa.”

“Baaad penny,” she said. “I keep turning up. You'll never get rid of me.”

“I wouldn't want to get rid of you, except that we want you to be safe.” They came inside, and I closed the door behind the two of them. “What's happened?”

Aunt Nettie dropped the duffel bag she was carrying and pulled her funny cap off. “Where's Joe?”

“In the shower.”

“Good!” She turned to Pamela. “The shower in this house hides all other sounds. We can get you upstairs and Joe won't know you're here.”

“Aunt Nettie! We can't do that!”

Aunt Nettie gave me a questioning look. “No?”

“No! For one thing, this is Joe's home. I'm not going to have things going on here that he doesn't know about.”

Aunt Nettie grimaced. “I guess it would be pretty sneaky.”

“It certainly would be. Besides, it's not practical.” Now I turned to Pamela. “We can't keep the shower going twenty-four hours a day. And this house is like an amplifier. Drop a pin in the kitchen, and people in the bedroom hear it land. If we tried to hide you upstairs—well, we could wrap you up like a mummy, and Joe would still hear the floor creak.”

“I told Nettie that I've caused you both enough trouble,” Pamela said. “I feel simply terrible about this. Isn't there some way I can simply get a cab and head out of town?”

“No!” Aunt Nettie was aghast. “I told you, Pamela! There are no cabs in Warner Pier. Not in winter anyway.”

“I'm all confused,” I said. “Why does Pamela need to leave Sarajane's?”

Aunt Nettie and Pamela exchanged looks. Pamela spoke. “I got a threatening phone call.”

“Oh,” I said. A threatening phone call to Sarajane's B&B meant that someone had traced Pamela there. And, yes, that meant she had to find a new hiding place.

“When Sarajane got home from my house,” Aunt Nettie said, “she found Pamela trying to call a cab. Of course, this time of year we'd have to get one from Holland. So Sarajane called me. We arranged to meet at that Gulf station out on the highway. It stays open all night. I got Pamela away out the back door.”

She took a deep breath. “I thought you might be able to hide her overnight. Where else can I take her?”

I made a snap decision. “This is as good as anyplace. Come on.” I picked up Pamela's duffel bag and headed for the stairs.

“But it's dangerous to have me around!” Pamela sounded plaintive. “If Harold finds me, he may—blow the house up or something. I don't want to put anyone else in danger. If I cause you or Nettie or Sarajane to get hurt—I'd never forgive myself.”

“We won't let anyone in.”

“If I only had a car . . . I'd drive off and never stop.” Pamela looked furious.

“I understand how you feel, but I think our house had better be your stopping place for tonight.”

“But what about Joe?”

“I'll tell him the truth. And that truth is that one of the women who works at the shop is having family problems and needs a place to stay for a couple of days.”

Pamela gave a derisive snort. “I guess that's not lying.”

“It's quibbling. But we can't help that.” I led the way up the stairs. “Luckily, Joe put in a bathroom up here last summer, and all the beds are made.”

Aunt Nettie and I deposited Pamela in the east bedroom, on the side of the house away from the road. At least the neighbors could drive down Lake Shore Drive—which was on the west side of our property—without seeing a light up there and calling to ask if we had company. Besides, the room had light-blocking shades, put up to keep out the morning sun in the summertime, so I hoped that the bedside lamp wouldn't be visible from outside at all.

“Actually, Joe doesn't know your name, so I suppose it won't matter if he does see you,” I said.

“No!” Pamela's answer was sharp. Then she shook her head. “I mean, the fewer people I have contact with, the better.”

“Then I'm afraid you'd better wait until Joe leaves for work before you come down for breakfast,” I said. “I'll try to bring some coffee up earlier, if you like.”

“That sounds wonderful. You're a perfect hostess.”

Pamela sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her ever-present M&M Minis out of her jacket pocket. Then she dropped her face to her hands. She looked as if she was hanging on by one torn fingernail. I felt terribly sorry for her.

“I just can't believe the way this day has gone,” she said. “It's like a door slammer.”

“Buck up. We're going to make it yet.” That was what I said. What I thought is a different matter. Pamela's situation looked pretty bleak.

I checked the towel and soap situation in the bathroom, then followed Aunt Nettie down the narrow stairs. At the bottom she took my arm and whispered, “What did she mean by ‘a door slammer'?”

“It's a theater term. Or at least I've heard it used to refer to a type of play. The sort where people are running in and out of doors, slamming them, and winding up in the wrong bedrooms. A farce.”

“I'd call today more of a tragedy.” Aunt Nettie pulled on her woolly hat, and I watched from the door to make sure she got into her car safely.

I agreed with Aunt Nettie, I decided. We'd had a lot of excitement that day. And, yes, it had involved running from one place to another, disguises, ducking out doors, and hiding in strange places. The excitement had even continued after I got home, with the unexpected appearance of Joe's former business associate. But I wouldn't call the day a farce. Anything with a dead man wouldn't qualify as a farce.

I spoke aloud. “I'd call it a complete mess.”

“What is?”

I jumped. Then I realized that Joe was out of the shower. He'd walked into the kitchen wearing his flannel pajamas, his hair still wet. “What's a mess?” he said.

“We've got an unexpected visitor, and her life's a mess.” I gave him an expurgated version of Pamela's arrival.

Joe frowned. “Shouldn't she go to the women's shelter in Holland?”

“Probably. But Aunt Nettie thought we could take her in here tonight. She's sure her husband won't find her here.”

“I'll be careful to lock up.” Joe and I looked at each other wordlessly. Our hundred-year-old house simply wasn't all that secure. If somebody wanted in badly enough, they could get in.

“I'm going to bed,” I said.

“It's been a long day,” Joe said. “And you and Nettie are going to have to make statements tomorrow.”

Only one thing was certain, I told myself as I brushed my teeth. Pamela was leaving the next day. Leaving our house, leaving Warner Pier. As far as I was concerned, she was leaving my life forever.

And if Aunt Nettie was tempted to help Sarajane with her underground railroad again—well, I'd remind her about this “door slammer.”