The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery (12 page)

T
hat got my attention. Harold had heard someone running? Joe and I had been sure the burglars had taken off by boat.

“Running?” Joe said. “Where was this running?”

“On Lake Shore Drive. Coming from the stairs.”

“The stairs down to Beech Tree Public Access Area?”

Harold nodded, and Joe went on. “Did you tell the police about this?”

“Sure. I told them last night. They had cops going up and down the beach and the road first thing this morning. I guess they figured like I did—the people who held you guys up ran along the beach and got away up the stairs.”

“That’s possible.”

“But if the cops found anything,
they didn’t let on.”

“I doubt they did find anything,” Joe said. “It was too dry to leave tracks in the sand—tracks that could be identified, I mean. And I doubt any crook who ever watched television would be dumb enough to drop a button or a cigarette butt. The beach would be a pretty good escape route.”

I thought about that while Joe and Harold talked a few minutes longer. Harold was right
about the beach being a good escape route. If the guys who had held us at gunpoint had run along the shore, they could have been at the public access area in about two minutes. Then they could have crossed to the stairs that swimmers took down to the beach, gone up to the small parking area, gotten into a car left there or in a nearby driveway, and driven off for points unknown. And they could have
easily done it before the cops arrived.

Harold lingered until Joe’s replies to him reached the monosyllable stage. It was Alice who finally showed signs of leaving. I could hear her snuffling around in the flower bed. Then she stood up on her hind feet and looked in the dining room window at me.

“Quit dancing around, Alice,” Harold said.

Dancing.
The word made me jump.

Dancing? Dancing?
I
felt the word was significant, but I didn’t know why.

Another cup of coffee might help. I poured some caffeine from the thermal carafe into my mug, and sipped it. The dining room is tiled and the floor felt cold to my feet.
Lordy,
I thought,
no wonder my brain won’t work. I don’t even have my shoes on.

Shoes.
That did it. My blood got out of bed. My heart began to pound, and my brain began to
race. When Joe came into the dining room, he faced a lively wife.

“Joe! I just realized something about that third burglar!”

“The guy who had been upstairs?”

“Right! He was wearing dance shoes!”

“Dance shoes? Ballet slippers?”

“No! I think they’re called jazz shoes. They look like oxfords.”

“When were you around men’s dance shoes?”

“They’re worn by women as well as men. Sometimes. Dancing
lessons were part of my mom’s attempt to turn me into a silk purse when she was grooming me for the pageant circuit.”

“I knew you had dance lessons, but I pictured you as a little girl in a tutu.”

“I started too late for ballet. I just had some simple movement classes. My mom thought it would miraculously make me graceful.”

He grinned. “I guess it worked. You waft over the ground like a gazelle.”

“More like a cow pony running through a rough pasture. But the lessons were helpful when I was doing all those pageants. Part of every competition is a big musical number to open the show, and all the contestants have to participate. The number had to be simple, of course, because some of us couldn’t dance. And the others usually couldn’t sing.”

“And you wore men’s dance shoes?”

“I wish! Usually
we had to wear high heels, and they were picked for color, not comfort. But lots of the choreographers were men. And they had to teach this ungainly group to move around the stage with a reasonable amount of rhythm and grace, so they definitely did not plan a ballet number. No point work, no lifts, no high kicks. And no tap dancing, either. Therefore, the guys teaching us would wear jazz shoes.”

Joe still looked puzzled, so I went on. “If you’ve seen male dancers perform, you’ve seen jazz shoes. And as I said, women dancers wear them for some numbers. The shoes look like oxfords, and they tie like oxfords. But they’re more flexible than oxfords. They’re soft.”

“Ideal for burglars.”

“Yes! They would be ideal. Remember how quietly that guy ran down the stairs and across the bare floor
of the living room?” I rapped the table for emphasis. “Besides, I could see that bunion on his right foot, and a stiff oxford or even a pair of black leather tennis shoes probably would have hidden it. So I’m sure I’m right. He was wearing a pair of black jazz shoes!”

I heard a mew. That was the only word for it. It sounded like a cat in distress, and it was coming from the living room.

Before
I could take the sound in, Gina came into the dining room. She was smiling oddly.

I stared at her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What was that funny noise?”

“It may have been me. I turned my ankle, but it’s nothing serious. Did I hear you talking about Capezios?”

“I mentioned jazz shoes. I suppose they could be Capezios. I don’t know much about the brands. Why?”

“Oh. No reason.” Gina walked on through the kitchen, apparently bound for the bathroom.

I turned to Joe. “Should I call the detectives and add that bit of observation to the statement I made last night?”

“Sure. You never know. Jazz shoes might fit the MO of some known burglar. And I’ve got to leave.”

“I thought you and Darrell were going to work on the bathroom today.”

“We were. But we’ve both
gotten roped into the search for the home invaders.”

“
The Search for the Home Invaders.
It sounds like a bad movie.”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be that entertaining. The state police want the shore searched for several miles north and south of Double Diamond. I’m going to get out the boat, and Darrell and I will follow the shore from the river south to Double Diamond’s beach, looking for
anything interesting on the way. They’ve got other people asking around the docks, looking for boaters who were out last night.”

“Then I guess they’re not sold on the thieves escaping by running up the beach, the way Harold thinks they got away.”

“No, they’re checking out the boat angle, too. But our part of the search is a complete waste of time. Just routine.”

“At least you won’t be working
in the bathroom, so I won’t be in your way if I take another shower.”

“Shower away. I hope Darrell and I can get back to the construction business this afternoon.”

I got some bottled water out of the refrigerator for Joe and Darrell. I reminded Joe that this was my day off. Joe assured me that he had his cell phone and would call to tell me when they’d get home.

By the time I’d eaten a piece
of toast, Gina had gone back upstairs. Before I cleared the table, I picked up the phone to call the Warner Pier PD and ask them who—if anybody—needed to know about the dance shoes. For a moment the phone didn’t seem to be working right. Then I heard a click. I hung up and lifted the receiver again, and this time things seemed normal, so I punched in the right numbers.

However, my call to the
Warner Pier PD wasn’t very productive. The only person not out detecting like mad, apparently, was the dispatcher. She told me she’d pass the word along to someone.

Anyway, I’d done my duty, so I rinsed and stacked the breakfast dishes and put the toaster away. Then I called up to Gina, telling her I was getting into the shower. Not that I thought she’d answer the phone or wash the dishes while
I was occupied.

Twenty minutes later I turned off the shower, then decided that—with only Gina and me in the house—I’d dry my hair and put on makeup in the bathroom. Because of the crowd of people using the partially disabled bathroom, I’d been doing my hair and makeup in the bedroom most of the time. But this time I thought—just as a special treat—I’d do that chore in the bathroom.

So, leaving
the bathroom’s exhaust fan on to clear the mirror, I wrapped my body in a big towel and my hair in a smaller one, and then went into the bedroom. I’d just picked up the dryer when I heard Gina’s voice above my head.

“Thank you very much,” she said briskly.

I stopped in midreach, my curiosity bug on alert. After two weeks of seclusion, Gina was talking to someone. Who? Was there someone upstairs?

I rejected that idea. Gina must be on the phone. That meant she was in the bedroom now occupied by Brenda and Tracy. It had been my room when I was living with Aunt Nettie, so the upstairs extension was there. In fact, she must have been on the phone when I picked it up earlier. That would explain the odd click and delayed dial tone.

Brenda and Tracy were out, and there was certainly no reason
that Gina couldn’t use the phone in their room if she wanted to, though I’d have expected her to come down and use the kitchen phone. But whom was she calling?

I was dying to know.

I didn’t have to tap the phone line to find out. I just kept standing in the middle of my bedroom, with one ear cocked toward the ceiling. I hadn’t turned on the fan in our bedroom, so if Gina said anything more,
I’d be able to hear it.

And she did speak. “Hello,” she said. “Do you have a Mr. Atkins registered?”

Registered,
she’d said. Gina had called a hotel or motel.

I stood silently for thirty seconds or so. Then Gina spoke again. “No? How about an Andy Woodyard?”

Andy Woodyard! That was when I nearly dropped the hair dryer.

What the heck was going on? Andy Woodyard was Joe’s dad’s name. First
a strange man came to the door claiming to be Joe’s dad. Then Joe assured me there was no question that his father had actually been drowned thirty years earlier. And now Gina was calling motels trying to find her dead brother.

And Gina’s ex—or soon-to-be ex—was named Atkins. He had the other name she’d asked for.

But I had thought she was hiding out at our house because she didn’t want her
husband to find her. So why was she calling motels trying to track him down?

I decided to storm up the stairs and demand an explanation.

Then I hesitated. The Andy Woodyard question had more to do with Joe than with me. Should I talk to Gina without talking to Joe first? Yes, I decided.

I almost headed straight for the stairs. Then I realized that I was wearing nothing but two towels, and the
big one was slipping off my body, and the small one was falling off my head. If I went to confront Gina, it might be better not to do it naked and with wet hair stringing down my back.

I went back into the bathroom, dried myself off, and put on my clean underwear and my terry-cloth robe. Then I ran a comb through my wet hair and dried it enough to keep it from dripping. I took a deep breath
and looked in the mirror, checking to be sure there was a resolute set to my jaw.

I was going to ask Gina what was going on. She might not answer me, true, but what was the worst that could happen? She might get mad and leave. I could always hope.

I jammed my feet into slippers and stalked toward the stairs, keeping up my resolution by reminding myself that this was my house—my honeymoon cottage—and
too many things were happening in it that I didn’t understand.

For example, Pete. Who was he? Knowing he was a former client of Joe’s did nothing to recommend him.

And Darrell. Where did he fit in?

Why did Joe and Pete stop talking whenever I came into a room? Why had they been holed up in Darrell’s camper for at least an hour Monday night, just talking?

I might not be able to answer any of
those questions, but at least I could ask Gina why she’d been calling motels looking for her dead brother and her ex-husband. And maybe finding out the answer to that would lead to answers to a few other questions, starting with what the heck she was doing in my house, anyway.

“Gina!” I called out as I went up the stairs, and I was surprised when she didn’t answer.

“Gina!” I called again at
the top of the stairs. Still no answer.

I went on down the hall. Gina’s door was closed, and when I reached it, I stopped. Did I really want to risk an argument with Joe’s aunt?

I reminded myself that Gina was acting very oddly, that this was my house, and I had a right to know what she was up to. More than a right—a responsibility.

I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked on
the door. “Gina?”

Still no answer.

I pushed the door open and looked into the room.

There were the old maple bed and dresser that had belonged to my great-grandparents. The casement windows were open, and the red-and-blue-plaid curtains were pushed back. The bed was neatly made, its navy blue spread unwrinkled. The romance novels I’d checked out from the Warner Pier Library were stacked on
the bedside table.

The only thing missing was Gina.

Maybe she was in the girls’ room, still beside the phone.

I turned to that room, which was across the hall from Gina’s, and looked in the open door. The room wasn’t as messy as I’d feared, since eighteen-year-olds have much more important things to worry about than neatness. The bed was made, or at least the spread had been pulled up. There
were clothes on the chairs and on the foot of the bed, true, but none on the floor. Belts, bras, and necklaces dangled from the handle of the closet door. The telephone sat on the bedside table.

There was no sign of Gina here either.

I couldn’t believe it. I looked in the closet, feeling silly, then went back to Gina’s room and looked in that closet. I considered getting down on my knees and
looking under the beds in both rooms.

I was standing in the hall, feeling stupid, when I had another idea.

“She must be downstairs,” I told myself. “She probably went down while I had the hair dryer on.”