The Chocolate Mouse Trap (4 page)

In Holland, we almost got lost finding Margaret’s house—an old two-story frame that looked as if it would be extremely drafty. Margaret opened the door and waved when we pulled into the drive. A moment later she climbed awkwardly into the backseat of the car. She had pulled a red stocking cap over her mousy brown hair, and she wore a bright red ski jacket that wasn’t quite the same color as the hat. Her long corduroy skirt was purple, the worst possible color to wear with the red jacket. Obviously the red jacket was her only winter coat.

Suddenly I felt overdressed in my good leather boots and the belted camel hair coat Aunt Nettie had given me for Christmas. Lindy, in a long navy blue flannel coat, looked neat and professional. Margaret looked like a hard-up mother of six small children. Then Margaret smiled her wonderful smile, and I thought how lucky those six kids were to have her home with them.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Margaret said. “Jim really needed the van today.”

“Who’s keeping the kids?”

“My mother-in-law. She’s really good about helping me out. She’s highly upset over this murder. She acts like it’s unpatriotic or something.”

I didn’t understand. “Unpatriotic?”

“Because it happened in good old reliable Holland. We never have murders here, according to her. She still thinks this is a Dutch farming community.”

“Times do change,” Lindy said. “And Holland has certainly changed since my grandparents lived here.”

“Sure it has. But Gramma still thinks it’s strange to see an aisle of Hispanic food in Meijer’s. She’s buying the rumor that some dark, swarthy guy was seen walking down the alley behind Julie’s apartment.”

Lindy’s laugh didn’t sound amused. “Well, Tony Herrera was home all night,” she said.

The chill in her voice made me turn the heater up another notch and try to change the subject. “I know how to get to Grand Rapids, but do either of you know how to get to the Schrader house once we’re there?”

“I printed out the directions Jason sent,” Margaret said. “I never heard of having a funeral in a home before.”

“I expect the Schrader house has plenty of room for a private funeral,” Lindy said. “Jason says he tended bar at some benefit in that house once. He says there’s a reception room the size of a ballroom.”

The Schrader house also had a porte cochere, we learned when we pulled into the drive. The house was a classic Prairie style, and I wondered if it was an early Frank Lloyd Wright. Valet parking had been arranged, and inside the entrance hall uniformed maids were taking coats.

Lindy muttered in my ear as our coats disappeared, “If they hire this much help for a small private funeral, I want to cater somebody’s birthday party.”

We waited in the hall until Jason, Ronnie and Diane Denham, and Carolyn Rose appeared. Then we were escorted through a pair of double doors and into the big reception room Jason had described. It was nearly time for the service to start, and we were seated near the back, on folding chairs draped with white slipcovers.

The room was a good place for a small funeral service. No standard funeral sprays or wreaths were visible. The small platform that could have held musicians on another occasion was packed with greenery, and enormous baskets of white roses stood on either side of it. About seventy-five people were present. A musician at a grand piano in one corner played unobtrusively, and the minister sitting in a thronelike chair on the platform was tall and handsome enough to complete the picture. We already knew that Julie was to be cremated; we were to be spared the ghastly march past the coffin.

Everything was in perfect taste. I couldn’t help thinking that Julie couldn’t have planned it better herself. Julie might have been young, but she had been a traditionalist. She expected hostesses to get out the good silver and candles.

I’d seen no sign of the Schrader family’s entrance, so I was surprised when the minister rose and called on us to pray. Where were they? There was no alcove that could have hidden them. I wondered if they were sitting at the back. Irreligiously, I sneaked a peek over my shoulder, and I found myself looking directly into a remarkable face.

It was the face of an old woman, and it looked as if that woman had suffered. She had beautiful white hair, and her face was heavily lined. She looked like the personification of grief. But Julie’s snapping black eyes looked out from under her brows and met mine.

I should have looked away, but I was mesmerized.
That’s what Julie would have looked like in fifty years,
I thought.

It was obviously Julie’s grandmother.

I forced my head to twist around and face the right direction—I have a few manners—but I don’t remember another thing about that service, except that it was brief. Twenty minutes was all it took to say good-bye to Julie Singletree.

Mrs. Schrader and the other family members must have slipped out during the final prayer, because the back row was empty when the minister dismissed us and I was able to look around again. As we left the room, a handsome and distinguished man I thought must be the funeral director greeted the mourners. He invited us across the hall, into a dining room where coffee, cookies, and finger sandwiches were offered. No elaborate wake was planned, I gathered.

The Food Group didn’t know any of the other guests, of course, so we stood around talking to each other in subdued voices. In a few minutes we were approached by a young guy—he had dark hair and eyes like Julie’s, but he was of normal height, not tiny as she had been. He wasn’t bad looking, but his dark suit looked as if he’d slept in it, and he had a hangdog expression.

“We’re glad you came,” he said. His voice was high and almost squeaked. “I’m Julie’s cousin, Brad Schrader.”

Jason, who seemed to be taking leadership for the occasion, introduced each of us. “We were in an informal networking group with Julie,” he said. “All of us are in the food and party business.”

Brad Schrader nodded. “Seventh Major Food Group? Julie told me about you guys.”

“None of us knew her too well,” Jason said.

“Julie and I were the only two kids in our generation, the last of the Schrader clan,” Brad said. “We tried to keep in touch. But Julie was closer to your group than she was to me. She enjoyed your e-mails.”

“Julie was the one who kept the group alive,” Jason said. He didn’t explain that Julie had more time to fool with e-mail than the rest of us did. Her business was just getting started; the rest of us were busy.

“Julie loved Warner Pier,” Brad said. “Just the way I do. We both spent summers at Grandma’s place down there when we were growing up. It’s our real hometown.”

“You grew up in Holland, too?” Carolyn Rose asked the question.

“Not me. Can’t you tell by my accent? My dad was the Schrader kid who didn’t go into the family firm. He moved to New York and worked in publishing, which made us the poor relations. I grew up in the Bronx. Julie’s dad commuted to Grand Rapids and worked at Schrader Labs’ main installation.” He turned to me abruptly. “Miss McKinney? You’re with TenHuis Chocolade?”

“Yes.” I was surprised at being singled out.

“My grandmother wanted to meet you.”

Brad Schrader made an awkward motion, pointing me toward the door into the next room, without so much as an “excuse me.” He had apparently made his token gesture of hospitality to the group. He certainly lacked Julie’s social skills. I felt rather sorry for him.

Brad pushed me through the next room—a living room where about thirty mourners were standing around—then into a smaller sitting room. And all the way across the living room and into the smaller room I wondered why on earth Mrs. Schrader had singled me out. Was she a chocoholic hoping I had a few truffles in my pocket? Had she noticed me because I towered over all the other mourners? Was I going to be scolded for turning around during the opening prayer?

The small room was decorated in classic Craftsman style. Mrs. Schrader sat in a wheelchair beside a fire, which burned in a fireplace embellished with beautiful ceramic tiles I was willing to bet were original to the house. She gave me her hand graciously and signaled that I was to sit in a small chair pulled up beside her. Brad faded into the crowd.

When she spoke, her remark surprised me. “Are you Henry TenHuis’s granddaughter?”

“Yes, I am.” The light dawned. Mrs. Schrader owned property at Warner Pier, where my grandfather had operated a gas station. She must have been a customer. “He had the Lakeshore Service Station and Garage for thirty years.”

“Yes, and I bought a lot of gasoline from him. But I knew him before that. We went to high school together.”

“Oh! Yes, he did go to high school in Grand Rapids.”

“He was two years ahead of me. I’ll never forget how handsome he was in his Marine uniform. That would have been about 1944.”

“I knew he served in the Pacific.”

“I’m glad you know about him. He died young. Before you were born, I’m sure. But you have a certain look that reminds me of him.”

I touched my hair. “I guess he passed on the blond gene. In all his pictures he looks very fair. I’m sorry I never knew him.”

Just then the distinguished-looking man from the hall, the one I’d mentally pigeonholed as the funeral director, loomed over her. “Mother, the Johnsons are waiting to talk to you.”

I managed not to gasp. This was no funeral director. He must be Martin Schrader, the uncle who discovered Julie’s body.

“Mr. Johnson can’t stay,” he said. “You know his health . . .”

“I know.” Mrs. Schrader sounded angry. “All my old friends are either dead or dying. Martin, this is Miss McKinney. You should remember her grandfather, Henry TenHuis.”

Martin blinked. He was obviously trying to think who the hell Henry TenHuis was, and his mother was letting him squirm.

I took pity on him. “My grandfather had a garage and service station in Warner Pier back when gasoline cost considerably less than it does now. And I just learned that he went to high school with Mrs. Schrader.”

Martin Schrader made a quick recovery. “Of course! I used to fill my bicycle tires at his station. Do you live in Warner Pier?”

His mother didn’t give me time to answer the question. “I’ve been in the TenHuis Chocolade shop many times,” she said. “Back before arthritis and heart trouble took all the pleasure out of my life. Philip TenHuis must be your uncle.”

“Yes. But Uncle Phil is gone now, too. My aunt runs the shop.”

Mrs. Schrader threw her head back defiantly. “And you have enough family feeling to go into the business. I suppose you are your aunt’s heir.”

I couldn’t believe she’d asked such a rude question. I’m sure there was a long silence while I decided how to answer it. “The question doesn’t arise,” I said. “Aunt Nettie is the corpse—I mean, the core! She’s the core of the business! Without her skill as a chocolatier we have no product to sell.”

I stood up. “It was extremely kind of you to talk with me, Mrs. Schrader. Julie loved and admired you greatly.”

Her face crumpled. She took my hand, but this time it wasn’t a gracious handclasp. It was a clutch. She grabbed the hand as if it were a lifeline. She tugged at it, and I found myself kneeling beside her chair while she whispered in my ear.

“I loved Julie,” she said. “I loved her! She was darling! Why? Why? Why can’t we keep the ones we love? Who can have wanted to take Julie away from me?”

I didn’t have any answers, of course. All I could do was hold her hand in both of mine. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t understand how this can have happened. We’re all going to miss Julie terribly. I’m so sorry.”

She nodded and turned away, producing a handkerchief from somewhere. I was dismissed. I rose as gracefully as I could, trying to remember how to get up from the Texas curtsy I had learned for beauty pageant competition. I moved away and an elderly couple took my place.

I started back into the big reception room, but someone touched my arm. It was Martin Schrader. I took a good look at him. He had a very high forehead, but once his hair began it was thick and silvery gray. He was—well, a handsome man. And he looked reliable. He’d be a perfect mouthpiece for a major company like Schrader Laboratories.

He spoke gravely. “Ms. TenHuis, I’d like to ask a favor. If I came down to Warner Pier, could we have dinner or lunch?”

I must have looked startled, because he went on hastily. “I need to talk to some of Julie’s friends. Someone her own age.”

“Actually, Mr. Schrader, I only met Julie a few times. Our friendship was mainly by e-mail.”

“That’s what I’m interested in.” He leaned close. “The police think someone broke in to rob Julie. But I don’t understand why the main thing he took was her computer.”

I
guess I stared at him a minute. A computer didn’t seem to me to be that odd a thing to steal, but this wasn’t the place to discuss it. I moved back to his original question.

“I’ll be happy to talk to you about Julie anytime, Mr. Schrader. It isn’t necessary to take me out to lunch.”

“Oh, but I’d like to.” Was his smile wolfish? I decided it wasn’t; it looked pleasant, just slightly harassed.

I smiled back insincerely. “I promised my finesse—I mean, my fiancé! I promised my fiancé that I’d cook dinner for him tonight. But any other time would be fine. Let me give you a card.”

The mention of a fiancé didn’t seem to disturb Martin Schrader. I gave him a TenHuis Chocolade card. By then some other guest was hovering, wanting his attention. I turned away and rejoined the Food Group. They all looked curious, so I explained that Mrs. Schrader had known my grandfather.

I didn’t mention her son’s invitation. In fact, as I thought his remarks over, I became determined to make sure any meeting with Martin Schrader occurred in my office. Not that he had indicated any interest in a social relationship. He’d given the impression of an uncle who was worried about his niece’s death. But why had he singled me out to talk to? I didn’t know Julie any better than any of the other members of the Food Group did. In fact, I thought Margaret had known her better than the rest of us. They had lived in the same town, and Julie had apparently dropped in on her often.