The Chocolate Frog Frame-Up (6 page)

The chief sighed. “We found a life jacket. It was floating farther down the bank. A hundred yards upstream from Green Marine.”

Trey spoke then. “Hershel never wore his life jacket.”

“Right,” Chief Jones said. “The river patrolman had spoken to him about it, but it didn’t do any good.”

“We need to keep looking for Hershel,” Trey said.

“Oh, we’ll keep at it,” the chief said. “And we’re calling in the state crime lab to look at his canoe.”

The whole bunch of us swung to look at the
Toadfrog
.

“It does appear as if a much bigger boat hit it,” Joe said.

“That’s one question for the crime lab,” the chief said. “This is the other one.”

He pointed toward the canoe.

At the spot where the canoe was smashed in most severely, traces of red were visible.

Behind me, Meg gasped. “Blood?” she said.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “If the canoe was in the water any length of time, blood would have washed off. That red has to be paint.”

Like a chorus line, we all swung the other direction. And there, suspended in the boat lift beside Joe’s dock, was the Chris-Craft Runabout, the boat Joe had been running up and down the river the day before, the boat he had been trying to sell, the one he had taken up the lake to Saugatuck to meet a potential buyer. It hung there, beside the dock, a foot out of the water. We could all see it clearly.

The deck and upper part of the hull were burnished mahogany. But below the waterline the boat had been painted a bright red.

We all stared at the boat for a long moment. Then I spoke angrily.

“I suggest you take a paint sample from the Runabout. That should settle the mattress.”

That
got everybody’s attention. The chief, Meg, Trey, Jerry Cherry, even Joe—all of them quit staring at the boat and turned their attention to me. Every jaw dropped.

“Matter!” I said. “That should settle the matter.”

Chief Jones chuckled, and Meg smirked, but Joe was the only one who laughed out loud. Which was unusual. He ordinarily ignores my verbal tumbles.

He put his hand on my shoulder. “I need to take care of something in the shop,” he said. “Lee, come and help me. And, Chief, if you want a sample of the paint on the Runabout—help yourself. Try not to chip it too badly.”

With what dignity I could recover, I followed Joe into the shop, picking my way among the overturned hulls, the wooden hoist that can lift a boat half the size of a yacht, and assorted tools, ladders, saws, cans of paint, and brooms. “What do you need me to do?” I asked.

“Stand guard.”

“Stand guard? Why? What are you going to do?”

“Make a phone call. One I want to be sure isn’t overheard.”

Joe went into his office and picked up the phone. He put it to his ear and clicked a few buttons, then glared at the instrument.

“The darn thing isn’t working,” he said. “No wonder I didn’t get any calls all day today.”

“Patsy Waterloo said she called you several times and didn’t get an answer, but I figured you’d been out. Can you use your cell phone?”

“Sure. Just stand by the door and warn me if anybody comes.”

I stood in the office door, staring toward the other end of the shop. The door we’d come in was open, and I could glimpse the action outside. I could hear Joe as he made his call.

“Mike,” he said. “You know that agenda item you had in mind for the breakfast meeting tomorrow? We’d better forget it for now.”

Mike? Was Joe talking to Mike Herrera, the mayor of Warner Pier? Mike, who dated Joe’s mom?

I continued to wonder while Joe sketched the situation at the shop, describing where Hershel’s canoe had been found and telling about the damage to it.

“No, there’s no sign of Hershel,” Joe said. “But you can understand the situation out here. I’m suspect number one. We’d better put that possibility on hold for a few days.”

He listened again. “Sure, Mike, you’re right. Hershel could still turn up. But looking at that boat—well, I’ll be surprised if he turns up in one piece. Anyway, the canoe was found near my dock. So if you could hold off until they figure out what happened . . .”

His voice trailed off. He listened again, then laughed harshly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll be in touch.”

He pushed the OFF button on his phone.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Oh, a little discussion item Mike had for the city council workshop,” Joe said. “Where’s the directory? I need to call the phone company.”

“First you’d better make sure it’s not your own telephone that’s sick.”

“I guess you’re right. I’ll borrow a phone from Mom and check it.”

“But what’s this deal with Mike?”

“Nothing much. What I’m wondering is, did someone call the Waterloos?” Joe walked around me, then out into the shop and toward the door that led to the dock and the search for Hershel. Leaving me with my mouth open and no words coming out.

“Did someone call the Waterloos?” he’d said. I thought we could trust Chief Jones to take care of that. In any case, the Waterloos had nothing to do with why Joe had been talking to the mayor of Warner Pier.

Joe had flatly dodged my question about why he had called Mike Herrera.

I could have popped him. I was so curious that I almost ran after him and demanded to know more. Then I decided against it. After all, Joe and I still had secrets from each other. I told myself that I had no right to demand that he tell me all his business. But I sure wanted to know.

I bit my tongue and went back outdoors, where I found Joe repeating his question about the Waterloos to Chief Jones.

“I got hold of Frank, and he was going to find Patsy and bring her over,” the chief said.

The Waterloos showed up five minutes later in a beat-up and rusty old Dodge sedan. Frank was at the wheel, and he skidded to a stop in Joe’s gravel parking lot. Patsy—still in her flowing draperies—jumped out and ran toward Chief Jones, tripping over the gravel in her sandals.

“Oh, Hogan! Have you found him?”

“Not yet, Patsy. We’ll keep looking until it gets dark.”

Patsy hugged herself and shivered all over. “I just can’t believe Hershel actually capsized. I worried and worried about him and that canoe. But somehow he always seemed to get home safely. Even when we found out he hadn’t come home last night . . . I still felt he’d turn up all right.”

Frank had joined her. “Is there any way to expand the search, Hogan? Hire divers? Charter more boats?”

“I don’t think there’s anything else to do, Frank,” Chief Jones said. “It’s going to be getting too dark to continue the search pretty soon. But the water patrol volunteers are on top of things.”

“You know that Hershel had—has—plenty of money, and this would be a legitimate expense for the trust,” Frank said.

“I think this is one problem that can’t be helped by throwing money at it,” Chief Jones said. He patted Patsy on the shoulder. “Do you have a jacket? It’s getting cool.”

“I’m not cold,” Patsy said. “I just keep shaking.”

“It’s a nervous reaction,” Chief Jones said. He looked around, and he seemed to remember that I was there. “Lee, maybe you could take Patsy inside.”

“No! No!” Patsy said. “I want to watch.”

“We could sit in your car,” I said. I hoped my unwillingness to talk to Patsy didn’t show in my voice. “You could watch from there.”

Patsy agreed to this, and the two of us went over to the rusty old vehicle. As I climbed into the driver’s side I cursed the male belief that women are better than men at dealing with emotional crises. Not that it isn’t true. But I hardly knew Patsy Waterloo. I didn’t think she’d want to cry on my shoulder.

I did feel sorry for Patsy. That afternoon she’d referred to Hershel as her “baby brother.” Her concern had seemed completely sincere. Hershel would have been a terribly annoying relative, but Patsy had made me feel that she loved him despite his problems.

She was still shivering. I looked in the back seat and saw a sweatshirt. With my long arms I was able to reach back and pull it into the front. It was a large, hooded garment with a zipper. I handed it to Patsy. “Here,” I said. “Why don’t you wrap this around you like a shawl?”

“I’m not really cold.”

“Maybe not, but your teeth are rattling. Wrap it around you. It’ll make me feel warmer.”

Patsy smiled. “I suppose these cool summer evenings seem odd to someone from Texas.”

“Oh, Texas has cool evenings. It’s just that they come in March, April, October, and November, not June, July, and August.”

Her smile faded. “How many boats are involved in the search?”

“At least half a dozen.”

“Is Joe helping?”

I didn’t know how to answer that one. I didn’t want to tell her Joe was suspected of causing the boating mishap that very likely had drowned her brother. “He’s helping the chief,” I said finally.

“I thought maybe he found the canoe.”

“No. Trey Corbett found it.”

“Oh? I thought—Hogan told Frank it was near Joe’s dock . . .”

“I guess it drifted there. Joe left before five o’clock, and he says he’s sure the canoe wasn’t there at that time.”

“But that would mean Hershel was upstream when the accident happened.”

“I guess so.”

“But how did he get there?”

“Paddled, I guess.”

“But that can’t be!”

“Why not?”

“It takes a strong canoeist to paddle upstream when there’s this much water in the river.” Patsy gave a short laugh. “Hershel is not a strong canoeist. It’s a couple of miles from our dock to here. I’m not sure he could have made it this far, much less even farther upstream.”

I didn’t have an answer to that. We both sat silently, and it gradually occurred to me that Patsy might know why Hershel had attacked Joe—first verbally, then physically—in the post office. Had that happened only a day earlier?

I gulped, thought a few moments, and phrased my question carefully.

“Joe says he had never had any cross words with Hershel before yesterday. Do you know why Hershel was angular?”

Patsy turned to me, looking blank.

“Angry!” I said. “Do you know why Hershel was angry with Joe? Yesterday. In the post office.”

“Frank didn’t tell me any details, and I tried to keep Hershel from talking about it. Just what did Hershel say?”

“He yelled a bunch of stuff about the old Root Beer Barrel. I never could understand what he was mad about.”

“Oh.” Patsy sounded as if I’d clarified the whole argument for her. She looked out into the river, watching the boats and divers. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Probably not. But did Hershel say anything to you? Did he make any complaint about Joe?”

“Nothing I believed.”

“Then there was . . . ?”

Before I could finish my question, Patsy gave a squeal. She yanked at the door handle. “Look! They’ve found something!”

We both jumped out of the car and went down to the dock. Chief Jones, Jerry Cherry, Frank Waterloo, and Joe were standing there, all looking into the sunset. Out in the river I could see the boats forming a tight circle. The
Nutmeg,
with Trey and Meg Corbett aboard again, was part of the circle.

“What is it?” Patsy said. “Oh, Frank, have they found him?”

Frank put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I hope not, Patsy. I hope not.”

We all watched intently as a diver rolled overboard backward, as lines were tossed into the water, and as boats jockeyed around bumping into each other.

“Can you see it?” Chief Jones said.

I looked at him and realized he had an earphone plugged into his ear and was talking into a small gadget. He was in radio contact with the city boat, maybe with some of the other boats as well.

“Nuts!” he said. “False alarm.”

The divers pulled something up. Even from the dock I could tell it was a log. They let it drop back into the water. Patsy Waterloo whirled around and dropped her head into her hands.

Chief Jones went over and patted her back clumsily. “I guess we’d better call it off for tonight, Patsy,” he said. “It’s getting too dark for the boats to accomplish anything. Maybe we’ll have more luck tomorrow.”

Patsy looked up, her face all screwed up. “You think he’ll be floating by tomorrow!” She made the words an accusation.

The chief didn’t answer; he simply walked a few feet down the dock and began to talk into his radio again. The rest of us stood silently as the patrol boat began to haul the divers aboard. Trey and Meg brought their boat over to Joe’s dock.

Joe spoke. “Mrs. Waterloo . . . Patsy, I honestly did not see Hershel’s canoe in the river when I left. I can’t believe it was there.”

Patsy wiped her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Joe. Hershel was—well, not crazy, but—I could never figure out where he got his ideas. I mean, why would you deliberately knock down the Root Beer Barrel, anyway?”

I
heard Meg Corbett gasp, but I think I simply stared at Patsy for a full minute. I couldn’t believe what she’d said. Joe had knocked the Root Beer Barrel down on purpose?

Joe’s reaction was much like mine, I guess. He didn’t change his expression until Meg gasped, and then he blinked twice. He lowered his head and looked closely into Patsy’s face. “Hershel thought I knocked down the Root Beer Barrel?”

“I didn’t believe it, Joe!”

“Where did Hershel get that idea?”

Before Patsy could answer, Trey Corbett somehow leaped onto the dock and started talking. “Hershel had a terrific imagination,” he said. “I was often amazed at what he’d come up with.”

The comment didn’t seem extreme to me, but its effect on Patsy Waterloo was—well, inflammatory. She flared up as if Trey had tossed kerosene on her and added a match. She almost shouted a reply. “Yes, Hershel had a wonderful imagination! When he was a little boy—and later on. If it had been encouraged. But it wasn’t. He was just criticized and made the butt of the whole town.”