The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“Do not read
The Chocolate Bear Burglary
on an empty stomach because the luscious . . . descriptions of exotic chocolate will have you running out to buy gourmet sweets . . . a delectable treat.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“[Carl] teases with descriptions of mouthwatering bonbons and truffles while she drops clues.... [Lee is] vulnerable and real, endearingly defective.... Fast-paced and sprinkled with humor. Strongly recommended.”

—I Love a Mystery

 

“Kept me entertained to the very last word! . . . A great new sleuth . . . interesting facts about chocolate . . . a delicious new series.”

—
Romantic Times

 

 

“A mouthwatering debut and a delicious new series! Feisty young heroine Lee McKinney is a delight in this chocolate treat. A real page-turner, and I got chocolate on every one! I can’t wait for the next.”

—Tamar Myers

 

“As delectable as a rich chocolate truffle, and the mystery filling satisfies to the last prized morsel. Lee McKinney sells chocolates and solves crimes with panache and good humor. More, please. And I’ll take one of those dark chocolate oval bonbons. . . .”

—Carolyn Hart

 

“One will gain weight just from reading [this] . . . delicious.... The beginning of what looks like a terrific new cozy series.”

—
Midwest Book Review

 

“Enjoyable . . . entertaining . . . a fast-paced whodunit with lots of suspects and plenty of surprises . . . satisfies a passion for anything chocolate. In the fine tradition of Diane Mott Davidson.”

—
The Commercial Record

Also by JoAnna Carl

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Published by New American Library, a division of

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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, December

Copyright © Eve K. Sandstrom, 2003

ISBN : 978-1-101-56378-6

All rights reserved

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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As usual, I borrowed expertise from many of my friends to write this book. Of particular help were the experts at Morgen Chocolate, Dallas, including Betsy Peters, Rex Morgan, and Andrea Pedraza; Tom Bolhuis, expert on wooden boat restoration; Dick Trull and Judy and Phil Hallisy, experienced sailors; Anne and Chuck Wingard and their 1928 Chris-Craft Cadet; lawman Jim Avance; and great friends and neighbors Doyle Bell, Susan McDermott, and Tracy Paquin. Information on historic preservation and related legal issues came from Janet Schmidt, chair of the Historic District Commission of Saugatuck, Michigan; Ellen Clark, Saugatuck City Clerk; and from
Building the New and Rehabilitating the Old: A Builder’s and Owner’s Guide,
published by the Saugatuck-Douglas Historical Society. Historical information on chocolate was cribbed from
The True History of Chocolate
by Sophie D. Coe and Michael D. Coe.

I
f you’re going to have a fistfight in a small town—and avoid a lot of talk about it—the post office is not a good place for the battle.

And shortly before five o’clock in the afternoon—when it seems every merchant in town is dropping off the mail and lots of the tourists are buying stamps—is not a good time for it.

The fight between Joe Woodyard and Hershel Perkins erupted in the Warner Pier Post Office at 4:32 on a Monday afternoon in late June. Later I decided that it had been planned that way. And I didn’t think Joe was in on the plan.

I was one of the local merchants who witnessed the fight, since I walked into the post office with a handful of outgoing statements for TenHuis Chocolade just in time to hear Joe speak.

He sounded calm. “What are you talking about, Hershel?”

Hershel Perkins did not sound calm. He was almost shouting. “It’s about the old Root Beer Barrel. Don’t try to act innocent!”

“The old drive-in? I’m trying to sell it.”

“Yes, you money-grubbing piece of . . .”

Those were fighting words to Joe, I knew, because Joe—who happens to be my boyfriend—was in a financial hole right at the moment. It’s a long story, but he needed money, even if he had to grub for it, and the sale of the dilapidated and abandoned drive-in restaurant might be the raft that kept his business afloat.

Joe raised his voice just a little when he answered. “What is your interest in this, Hershel?”

“I hear you might tear it down!”

“Tear it down? It’s already fallen down.”

“It’s a piece of history!”

“History?” Joe sounded puzzled, as well as annoyed. “It’s a bunch of boards lying in a parking lot. It’s junk.”

I was all the way inside the post office now, and I could see Hershel. He seemed to be puffing himself up. Not that Hershel was all that small. He was at least five nine, just a few inches shorter than I am. He was around forty, with a broad face and a wide, narrow-lipped mouth that made him look like a frog. It was a resemblance he seemed to relish—he combed his thin hair flat and always wore green shirts, flannel in winter and cotton in summer. Even his voice was a froglike croak, and he went places in a green canoe named the
Toadfrog
.

He gave an angry grunt. “Junk! You call it junk? It’s vernacular architecture!”

Joe laughed.

Hershel went nuts. He rasped out incoherent phrases. Words like “typical commercial,” “innovation,” “rehabilitation,” “social geography,” and “culturally significant.” None of it made sense to me—and I was willing to bet it didn’t make sense to Hershel, either. Hershel is not one of the brightest bulbs shining on Warner Pier, Michigan.

Joe tried to talk over the ranting, which meant he had to raise his voice. “Hershel, I already talked to the Planning Department. The Historic District Commission has no interest in that property since the building was destroyed by an act of God.”

Hershel kept up the angry bullfrog act, although hollering out “architectural ethnicity!” is not an effective way to argue.

Finally Joe did absolutely the worst thing he could have done—even worse than laughing. He turned his back on Hershel and reached for his post office box.

Hershel gave a loud roar and began to pummel Joe’s shoulders with both fists.

Joe whirled around, throwing up his elbows to protect his face. Then he caught hold of Hershel’s arms—first the left and then the right—and he whirled again. He pinned Hershel against the wall of post office boxes, almost the way he had pinned his opponents to the mat in the days when he was a high school wrestling champ.

Hershel finally shut up.

“Hershel,” Joe said very quietly, “you can’t go around hitting people. Get in your canoe and paddle home.”