The Chocolate Falcon Fraud (8 page)

An hour later Aunt Nettie and I were sitting in my van at the end of Big Pine Road.

The road was lined with thick bushes and behind the bushes were trees galore. It was the sort of terrain that gives me the willies, but I was trying not to let it make me nervous.

There are two ways to look at trees—either as something to hide you from enemies, or as something that can hide enemies from you. I'm of the second opinion. I'm very suspicious of what might be behind trees. I'm more comfortable if I can see the horizon in all directions.

Aunt Nettie and I had dropped Tess off at my house to get her car so she could go back to the hospital and stay with Jeff through the evening. Then we had driven the same route Joe and I had taken the evening before, when Tess called us to say she had been following the directions of her GPS and was completely lost. Now Aunt Nettie and I were parked at the end of the road.

Aunt Nettie was looking all around. She was a lifelong resident of Warner County, but she acted as if she'd never seen this spot before.

I gestured to my left. “You see where Jeff's car went off the road, don't you?”

Aunt Nettie nodded. “It's easy in this light, though I'm sure it was hard to see at dusk. But how could anyone drive off the road by accident in that direction? I mean, Jeff would have had to turn sideways.”

“That might be logical, in a way. If Jeff came here to the end and needed to turn around—well, he might have shot off into the bushes.”

“But he would be more likely to back off the road. And he would only have gone into the ditch. Not so far into the undergrowth that his car couldn't be seen.”

“It
would
be a pretty freaky thing to happen.”

“Someone put the car there on purpose.” Aunt Nettie sounded definite.

“Have you ever been out here before?” I asked. “Seems as if Warner Pier teenagers would have staked out a spot this lonely.”

“I think it's a little too far from Warner Pier to be a lovers' lane. It does seem as if I've been out this way, but I don't remember exactly when. Why does this road end here?”

“Joe said the land beyond the fence is state land.”

“Yes, but state land is usually open to the public.”

“True, it often is. But look—the road doesn't end here. There's a gate.”

“A gate? Where?”

“Right in front of us. A sturdy gate with a lock.”

“I see it now. Also the sign that says ‘no access.' And it does seem sort of familiar. Not the gate, but this area.”

Neither of us wanted to get out and examine the site where Jeff's car had landed—Hogan and the sheriff had guys trained
to do that—so I turned around, backing very carefully, and we drove back toward Warner Pier.

“Drive slowly,” Aunt Nettie said. “I'm trying to remember why on earth I would ever have come out here. If I ever did.”

“It's near the dump.”

“It's at least five miles past the dump, and I rarely have any reason to go there.” She chuckled. “You know your uncle Phil would never throw anything away, and Hogan got rid of his extra belongings before he and I were married.”

I drove along at about thirty for a few minutes, and she suddenly gave a chirp. “Stop!”

I hit the brakes. “What do you see? It all looks the same to me.”

“There's a road turning off.”

“I see the place you mean, but it's hard to call that a road. Only a little gravel.”

“And a gate.”

“Where?”

She pointed. “The gate is just barbed wire. Look at that fence post. You can see the loop that holds the wire gate closed.”

“You're right.” The gate was a type I'd seen in Texas—way back in some remote pasture. It simply consisted of four strands of barbed wire—pronounced “bob war” in my home country. Heavy-duty staples attached the wire to a regular wooden fence post on the right-hand side of the opening. Strands of wire about eight feet long stretched out to the left, then were stapled to a flimsy, lightweight wooden post, one that could easily be moved. That post in turn was linked to the left side of the opening by a wire loop.

“In the past, I think, Texas ranchers used this sort of makeshift gate a lot,” I said. “But now they usually build stronger ones. And most farmers and ranchers use metal posts.”

“A cow could knock that down in a minute,” Aunt Nettie said.

“I know, but they rarely do. I guess the barbs keep them away. But I don't know what a gate like this would be used for in Michigan orchard country. And I certainly don't know what it's doing out in the woods.”

We studied the gate for perhaps a minute; then I pointed to faint tracks and a gap in the trees. “There was a real road there at some point,” I said.

“Actually,” Aunt Nettie said, “there still is some kind of driveway. It just doesn't get much use.”

We both looked the situation over for another minute, and then we spoke in unison. “I wonder what's there.”

“We could go see,” Aunt Nettie said.

I chuckled. “Not until I make sure we have cell phone coverage. Monsters might be behind all those trees.”

My cell phone indicated that we had service. Aunt Nettie got out of the car and lifted the wire loop to open the gate, then held the barbed wire aside while I drove the van through. We were proper country girls and knew rural etiquette, so she closed the gate behind us, even though the possibility of livestock being loose in those woods was remote.

When Aunt Nettie got back into the van, she looked excited. “Lee! I just remembered where we are! This used to be the wooden furniture place.”

“The wooden furniture place?”

“That's why this area is familiar. Your uncle Phil and I came out here once when we were looking for lawn furniture.” She pointed ahead. “There's the sign!”

I didn't see a sign, but following her gesture, I did see a board
nailed to a tree. It might once have been a sign, true, but now it was just a board, maybe two feet long, with a bit of black paint here and there.

“They made wooden furniture here?”

“Of a sort. They made extremely rustic tables and chairs. Even some bird feeders. I don't remember ever seeing one at anybody's house.”

“Location, location, location. Why on earth would anybody try to sell furniture out in the woods? I mean, this gets no traffic at all.”

“I have no idea. Maybe the owners built furniture for other merchants.”

“Who owned the place?”

Aunt Nettie laughed. “The next-to-the-last hippie.”

“Do you mean some friend of Wildflower Hill's?” Ms. Hill lived on the site of a former commune. Aunt Nettie and I had become acquainted with her when her granddaughter briefly worked for TenHuis Chocolade.

“Originally the furniture maker may have been part of that group. I never knew the man's name. But he somehow acquired a piece of property out here, bought a chain saw, and set up business. I'm sure he's been dead for years.”

We'd been inching along at five miles an hour, trying to keep out of the bushes that lined the narrow road, and now I saw a straight line ahead, about twenty feet in the air and perpendicular to the road. A roof.

“There's a building up ahead,” I said.

In a moment the trees and bushes thinned out a bit, and we saw a metal barn. Beside it was a tiny log cabin. Not the designer kind of log cabin, the ones you see in magazines. No, this was
a real, true log cabin. Dan'l Boone would have felt right at home in it, except his cabin might have been nicer.

“There's no sign identifying it as a business,” I said. “Dare we go to the door?”

“I don't see why not,” Aunt Nettie said. “We can tell them we're trying to trace a misplaced relative.”

The road had simply petered out, and there was no car or truck in sight, so I parked in front of the cabin.

“Look on the porch,” Aunt Nettie said.

And sure enough, two rustic wooden chairs sat there. They were similar to Adirondack chairs in shape, but they were made of wood with the bark still on. They looked uncomfortable, though they did have ragged pads in the seats.

As I said, I know rural etiquette. I tapped the horn. Aunt Nettie got out of the van and I followed her, limping toward the door of the cabin.

“May I help you?”

The voice came from behind us, and if it startled Aunt Nettie the way it startled me, she might have had a heart attack. I turned so abruptly that I stumbled over my crutch.

The person who had spoken was a young woman. She didn't look welcoming.

Her most eye-catching quality was her hair—long black ringlets all over her head. Her eyes, big, expressive, and of a brilliant sapphire blue, were almost as striking. She was slender and of medium height.

She wore the kind of jeans advertised as “skinny,” and on her they deserved the name. Her black T-shirt showed a strip of midriff, and it could have been borrowed from a twelve-year-old.

Aunt Nettie regained her composure quickly. “We hope you
can help us,” she said. “We're trying to follow the track of a wandering relative.”

“There's nobody here but me.” The girl suddenly seemed embarrassed by her skimpy T-shirt. She abruptly folded her arms, up high, so that they covered her breasts.

Aunt Nettie kept trying. “He would have been in this neighborhood the day before yesterday.”

“Nobody was by then.”

“A young man, sandy hair. Driving a white car.”

“Nope. This is a lonely spot.”

“I can tell it is,” Aunt Nettie said. “Is the furniture shop gone?”

“Mr. Davies died five years ago. My boyfriend owns the shop now.”

“And he doesn't make furniture?”

“No. We have an online business.”

“Oh! Then you don't have to worry about the lack of foot traffic.”

The girl laughed sarcastically. “No. We're retail, but it's all done by computer.”

“What do you handle?” It was the first time I had spoken, and my question seemed to surprise the girl. “I'm sorry if I sound nosy,” I said, “but I'm active in the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce, so I'm always looking out for a possible member.”

“We're in the Blackburn area, closer to Dorinda than to Warner Pier.”

“Okay. I'll let you off the hook. The Dorinda chamber can look after its own membership. But what sort of items do you handle?”

“Souvenirs. Souvenirs of all kinds. I'd show you our warehouse, but there's not much to see. It's just a bunch of boxes.”

“How do you ship? I'm being nosy again, but my aunt and I operate TenHuis Chocolade. We're remodeling, and that will include a new shipping room. But we haven't even introduced ourselves.”

I quickly said our names, and this forced the girl to reply with hers. She identified herself as Oshawna Bridges.

“Oshawna?” I couldn't help commenting on the unusual name. “Very pretty, and unusual.”

“My parents made it up.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I didn't see anybody the day before yesterday. And I was here all day.”

I could feel my brow furrow. “It was my stepson. We're trying to find him.”

Oshawna folded her arms again. “Sorry.” She didn't offer to show us her shipping area, despite our broad hint that we'd like to see it.

But we kept trying. Aunt Nettie put on her sweetest smile. “Do you have a catalogue?”

“No. Not a hard-copy one. Everything is on our Web site.”

“Do you carry Michigan items?”

“No, we don't.”

“Great Lakes souvenirs?”

“No. It's mostly collectibles.”

Collectibles? That was no answer at all. But she wasn't going to tell us anything—except that Jeff hadn't been there—so we had to give up. But as I opened the door of the van, I had one more question.

“I didn't even ask the name of your business,” I said.

Oshawna remained stoic, but she replied, “Valk Souvenirs.”

“Do you have a card?”

“No. Like I said, it's all online.”

As the van moved away, Aunt Nettie spoke suddenly. “Stop, Lee! Right there, by the girl.”

As I obeyed, she lowered her window and leaned out to speak to the dark-haired girl.

“Would you like a ride somewhere?” she asked.

“A ride?” The girl's voice was incredulous.

“Yes. We could take you someplace, any place you'd like to go. To a safe place.”

I gasped. Aunt Nettie must have felt that this girl was in danger, maybe threatened by domestic abuse.

“Safe?” We heard the incredulous voice again, and the girl smiled. “Oh, I'm safe enough here.”

“That's fine, then. But if you're ever stranded out here or should need help . . .” Aunt Nettie produced a business card from her purse and held it out the window. “We're at TenHuis Chocolade. Call on us anytime you need anything. We could come and get you. We know of places you could stay.”