The Chocolate Mouse Trap (2 page)

“Since I own my own business, I guess I’m one of the downtrodders, not the downtrodden.”

“Exactly!” I spoke before I thought, but luckily my reaction amused Aunt Nettie. We both laughed. Then I began to backpedal. “You’re a dream to work for, Aunt Nettie. You’re definitely not a downtrodder. And you’re not downtrodden, because you enjoy your job. But Julie can’t seem to make up her mind. If she isn’t sending stuff claiming today’s women are put-upon because we have to work, she’s sending stuff saying we don’t get a chance at the good jobs. I can understand both views, but she wraps them up in enough syrup to make a hundred maple cream truffles.”

“You’ll have to assert yourself, Lee. Tell her you don’t like her e-mails.”

I sighed. “About the time I tell her that, she’ll actually land a big wedding, and the bride will want enough bonbons and truffles for four hundred people, and we’ll lose out on a couple of thousand dollars in business. Or Schrader Laboratories will plan another banquet and want an additional three hundred souvenir boxes of mice.”

I gestured toward the decorated gift box on the corner of my desk. Aunt Nettie had shipped off the order two weeks before, but I’d saved one as a sample. The box contained a dozen one-inch chocolate mice—six replicas of laboratory mice in white chocolate and six tiny versions of a computer mouse, half in milk chocolate and half in dark.

Schrader Laboratories is a Grand Rapids firm that does product testing—sometimes using laboratory mice and sometimes computers. A special item like the souvenir made for their annual dinner means risk-free profit for TenHuis Chocolade; we know they’re sold before we order the boxes they’ll be packed in.

“That was a nice bit of business Julie threw our way, even if she did get the order from a relative,” I said. “I can put up with a certain amount of gooey sentiment for that amount of money.”

“It might be cheaper to give it up than to hire a psychiatrist. You’ve got plenty to do. Tell Julie your mean old boss has cracked down on nonbusiness e-mail.”

Aunt Nettie smiled her usual sweet smile. “And I really am going to add to your chores. We need Amaretto.”

“I’ll get some on my way home.”

Amaretto is used to flavor a truffle that is extremely popular with TenHuis Chocolade customers. Our product list describes it as “Milk chocolate interior flavored with almond liqueur and coated in white chocolate.” The truffle is decorated with three milk chocolate stripes, but its mainly white color makes it an ideal accent for boxes of Valentine candy and at that moment we were just four weeks away from Valentine’s Day. I knew Aunt Nettie and the twenty-five ladies who actually make TenHuis chocolates had been using a lot of Amaretto as they got ready for the major chocolate holiday. But liqueurs go a long way when used only for flavoring; one bottle would probably see us through the rush.

I handed Aunt Nettie the printout of Julie’s dumb e-mail—all ten pages of it. Julie never cleans the previous messages off the bottom of e-mails she forwards or replies to. Then Aunt Nettie went back to her antiseptically clean workroom.

I wrote “Amaretto” on a Post-it and stuck the note to the side of my handbag before I turned back to my computer. I manipulated my mouse until the arrow was on REPLY ALL and clicked it. Then I stared at the screen, trying to figure out how to be tactful and still stop Julie’s daily drivel.

“Dear Seventh Major Food Group,” I typed. Maybe Julie wouldn’t feel that I’d singled her out. “This is one of the busiest seasons for the chocolate business, and my aunt and I have decided we simply have to crack down on nonbusiness e-mail. At least half our orders come in by e-mail, so I spend a lot of time clearing it. As great as the jokes and inspirational material that we exchange on this list can be,” I lied, “I just can’t justify the time I spend reading them. So please drop me from the joke/inspiration list. But please continue to include me in the business tips!”

I sent the message to the whole list, feeling smug. I was genuinely hopeful that I’d managed to drop the cornball philosophy without dropping some valuable business associates along with it.

I wasn’t prepared the next day when I got a call from Lindy Herrera, my best friend and a manager for Herrera Catering.

“Lee!” Lindy sounded frantic. “Have you had the television on?”

“No. Why?”

“I was watching the news on the Grand Rapids station. Oh, Lee, it’s awful!”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Julie Singletree! She’s been murdered!”

I
hadn’t known Julie well.

Lindy and I had met her two months earlier at the West Michigan Bridal Fair, a big-time event held in Grand Rapids. I’d gone to the fair for both professional and personal reasons.

On the professional side, as business manager of TenHuis Chocolade, located in the Lake Michigan resort town of Warner Pier, I’m responsible for marketing. I also keep the books, write the salary checks, send out the statements, and pay the taxes. As one part of its business, TenHuis Chocolade provides arrays of truffles, bonbons, and molded chocolates for special occasions—occasions which have been known to include wedding receptions. We also make specialty items—tiny chocolate champagne bottles, chocolate roses, molded chocolate gift boxes with names on top, and dozens of other chocolate objects—which would be suitable for weddings. Visiting a bridal fair would be a good way to make some contacts that could possibly lead to sales.

On the personal side, I was planning my own wedding, and it wasn’t proving to be an easy job.

For nearly two years I’d been dating Joe Woodyard, a Warner Pier native who earns his living by an unlikely combination of careers. He’s an expert in restoring antique wooden boats and is also city attorney for the town of Warner Pier, Michigan (pop. 2,503). We’d both had unhappy first marriages, so it had taken us—or at least me—quite a while to decide to head for the altar a second time.

This time, we both vowed, we were going to do it “right.” As if there’s a foolproof way to get married. The problem was that Joe’s version of “right” didn’t mesh with mine.

Early on Joe and I had discovered that we’d both flown to Las Vegas to get married the first time around. That more or less ruled out a romantic elopement. Been there, done that.

So Joe asked if I wanted to go back to my Texas hometown for the ceremony.

I laughed harshly. “Then I’d have to invite my parents.”

“You don’t want to invite your parents?”

“Not both of them. But it’s fine if your mom wants to be there.”

“Now wait a moment, Lee. You don’t want either of your parents to come to our wedding?”

“My dad would be okay. He’s helped me out a lot. But he’d have to bring my stepmother. And if she’s there, my mom would go bananas. So it’s just better not to get into it. Can’t we just have Aunt Nettie? And Lindy and Tony and your mom—and Mike, if you want to. And maybe Hogan Jones.”

Mike Herrera is my friend Lindy’s father-in-law and boss—and he dates Joe’s mother. And Hogan Jones is Warner Pier police chief, and he’s been taking my Aunt Nettie out. Small towns are like that: interconnected.

Joe was frowning. “Don’t you think your mom will be upset if you don’t ask her to the wedding and do ask your aunt?”

I thought about it a moment. “Frankly, Joe, I don’t care if my mother is upset, as long as she’s upset in Dallas, not in Warner Pier. She hasn’t exactly been supportive of me and my needs and desires. If she had her way, I’d still be married to Rich. I’m sorry, but I’m not on good terms with my mother or my stepmother. It would really complicate matters if I tried to have them at the wedding.”

Joe’s frown deepened. “Then the wedding will have to be really small.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I admit I’d put the money from selling the Chris-Craft Utility aside to pay for a big blowout. I thought you might want to get married in Texas, then have a reception up here.”

That pretty much stopped the discussion. Obviously Joe did want to have a biggish wedding. I didn’t. Right at the moment I didn’t see any chance of compromise. A big wedding would involve my parents, and no miracle was likely to make me friends with both of them at this late date.

But when I went up to DeVos Place, the Grand Rapids convention center, for the West Michigan Bridal Fair, maybe I was looking for some solution to our problem, some way to have a big wedding for Joe and a little one for me. Some way to involve my parents in the whole event and not cause an open split.

The convention center was a madhouse, of course. The brides and the bridegrooms looked either frantic or confused, and the mothers were terrifying. And that was just the parking lot. I paid my admission, but I was almost afraid to go in the door. The inside was likely to be even worse.

And it was. It was a hubbub of music, talking, arguing. (“I’m
not
wearing Aunt Emma’s stupid mantilla, Mother! It makes me look like a Spanish tart.”) Lace, satin, sequins, embossed napkins, multitiered cakes, crystal punch bowls, silver candelabra, wrought-iron arches, exotic flowers—for a moment I was definitely sorry I’d come. But I took a deep breath, shouldered my tote bag and started working the crowd. Up one aisle and down the next, picking out the caterers and wedding planners, asking to speak to the person in charge of the booth, giving a brief pitch on chocolate, and thrusting a brochure at them. In there somewhere I usually managed to mention my own wedding; that got their attention faster than the TenHuis brochure.

By the end of the second aisle I was glad I’d had the sense to wear flat heels. That’s when I heard someone call my name. “Lee! Lee McKinney! Over here!”

I turned around and saw a booth with an arch that read, HERRERA CATERING—THE COMPLETE PARTY PROVIDER. And under the arch was a friendly face. “Lindy!”

Lindy and I have been friends since we worked at TenHuis Chocolade together the year we were both sixteen. She still has the same dimpled smile that made her the prettiest girl on Warner Pier Beach. She’s a little plumper now, after having three kids, and she’s recently had her brown hair cut into a sophisticated bob.

“Come over here and sit down,” Lindy said. “You look as confused as the rest of these brides.”

“I guess TenHuis should have taken a booth. But that’s expensive.”

“It would be a waste of money, since weddings aren’t your main business. I can hand out some of your brochures.”

“Thanks. Are you going to be able to get away for lunch?”

“Sure. I brought Delia—Mike’s secretary. She’s at lunch now. I never come to these without a partner to act as backup for when I need to hit the ladies room.”

“Smart idea.”

“I told Jason Foster we’d go to lunch with him. Do you remember Jason? He was a bartender for Mike for five years.”

Mike, Lindy’s father-in-law, is officially Miguel Herrera. He owns three restaurants in Warner Pier, plus the catering service. He employs a lot of people, both full and part-time, but Jason stood out.

“I’ll never forget Jason,” I said. “He and I were tending bar the night . . .” My voice failed me, but Lindy nodded. She had also been working the big party when Clementine Ripley bit into an Amaretto truffle and dropped dead. A lot of people remembered that night.

“Does Jason still wear his hair in a queue like George Washington?” I asked.

“Yep. And his forehead is higher than ever, so it still looks as if all his hair slid backward. And you know what Jason is up to now.”

I grinned. “Well, I did hear that he had the contract to operate the new restaurant at Warner Point.”

“Right. Mike was dying to take it on, but, of course he can’t do that and be mayor, too. Just a little conflict of interest. I guess Joe told you all about it.”

“All Joe told me is that he was signing the property over and leaving its operation up to the city.”

Warner Point is a Warner Pier landmark, of sorts. The property formerly belonged to Joe’s first—and ex—wife, Clementine Ripley. Ms. Ripley, who had a national reputation as a defense attorney, had died there two years earlier, leaving her legal affairs in a mess after eating the previously mentioned Amaretto truffle. Not only was the property heavily mortgaged, but she had also failed to make a new will after she and Joe were divorced. Under the old one, he inherited. This had been a personal problem for me, because the guy I was falling in love with had had to spend more than a year concentrating on the business affairs of his ex-wife. Neither of us found this romantic.

To add to the confusion, Joe had been determined not to benefit financially from the situation, beyond being reimbursed for his personal expenses. It had taken him a long time, but he had recently managed to turn the property—including its showpiece mansion—over to the City of Warner Pier. Mike Herrera and the city council wanted to develop it as a conference center, and Jason Foster had signed a contract to operate the restaurant and catering facility.

Lindy nodded. “Jason’s trying to drum up some wedding receptions for the new restaurant.”

“A competitor for Herrera Catering?”

“Not really. We cooperate, share employees and equipment. He’s going to introduce me to a wedding planner at lunch. I thought you might like to meet her, too.”

So that’s how I met Julie Singletree. Jason, Lindy, and I walked over to the luxury hotel adjoining the Convention Center and went into the restaurant that overlooks the river. Julie impressed me immediately. Not only had she snagged a large table with a prize view; she was the cutest little thing in the place.

Julie’s short black hair was perfect, her black eyes snapped, and her black suit fit like a million dollars, which was probably what she paid for it. She was the very picture of an up-and-coming professional woman. A miniature professional woman. That suit couldn’t have been any bigger than size 3, and even in three-inch heels, Julie barely reached my shoulder.