The Chocolate Pirate Plot (12 page)

I knew Maggie had many regrets about whatever had happened to her in California twelve or fifteen years earlier, but she had never confided the whole story to me. I also knew her real dread was that her husband, Ken, would find out all the details. If she had a good cry in my office—in full view of Fifth Street—the word was sure to get back to Ken, and he'd ask her about it.

Warner Pier is a small town.

So I shoved a box of Kleenex closer to her, and I tried to sound sympathetic. But I didn't give her a big hug.

“Maggie, you know you need to talk to some sort of counselor about this issue.”

She nodded, but she didn't speak.

“I'll be happy to listen, just as a friend, any old time. But you need to put all that behind you, and I don't know how to help you do that.”

She nodded again and blew her nose. “I'm sorry, Lee. Most of the time I handle it. But when I see somebody else headed over the same cliff I fell down, I tend to lose it.”

“I hate to trot out the platitudes, but we all have to make our own mistakes.”

“I sure made mine. But Jill is the same kind of girl I was at nineteen or twenty. She's ambitious. And she wants success now. Now! She's not willing to wait.”

“And you think she'd be tempted to take a shortcut?”

“I'm afraid so. Especially since she's also absolutely fearless.”

“Are you saying Jill might take a shortcut—seduce the director or something—if she had the chance? Or do you think specific shortcuts are being offered to her?”

“I don't know. Maybe I'm imagining things.”

I sighed. “It's like we tell children: If you feel as if something's wrong, something probably is. You must have some evidence. What is it?”

“Oh, crazy phone calls. Stuff like that.”

“Is Max involved? He's the director-producer. Do you think he might be in on some sleazy deal?”

“He hasn't shown any sign of it to me. Max doesn't seem to be the problem—he keeps his distance from the cast and crew. Spends most of his off time out in the community. I simply have an uneasy feeling about the situation at the Showboat. And I can't quite put my finger on why.” Maggie leaned forward. “Anyway, no matter what's going on, I can't quit and leave'em to it.”

“Contract?”

“Right. I have to work through August thirtieth. So I just try not to notice the clique.”

“Clique? As in small group of people who hang together?”

“That's right.”

“So you think there's a small group of—is ‘troublemakers' the right word?”

“‘Conspirators' might be a better one. But I don't know what they're conspiring about.”

“Maggie, anytime you have more than a half dozen people working together or studying together or whatever they're doing together—well, don't cliques of some sort develop?”

“Sure. But this is different. It's the stop-talking-when-a-nonmember-comes-in type of clique, not the let's-all-go-for-a-beer-and-not-invite-Maggie clique.” She laughed. “I told you—it's probably my imagination. It's just a group of people you wouldn't think had anything in common, and they don't seem to socialize, but they all seem to have some secret link.”

“Who's in this group?”

“Jill, Jeremy, and Mikki, mainly.”

“But not Max Morgan?”

“No, he stays aloof from all of us. If that group is particularly close to him, I haven't noticed it. In fact, now and then he gives the cast and crew a little lecture on being one big happy family. I suspect he noticed the same thing I do and is trying to discourage it.”

Maggie stuffed the final treasure chest into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “And now that I've gorged myself on TenHuis Chocolade, I'll repeat—probably I'm imagining the whole thing. And I'll get out of your office. And your hair. And if you mention one word of all this . . .”

I crossed my heart. “Hope to die,” I said. “I will not break your confidence. Not even to Joe.”

“Oh, Joe can be closemouthed,” Maggie said. “I don't know if I should ride it out or try to find out what's going on. Maybe I should talk to Max.”

She left my office, waved at Aunt Nettie, and went out the front door, leaving me confused about just what to do next. Only one thing was certain: I wasn't giving up on trying to figure out why Jill had come running up Lake Shore Drive that morning, passing five other houses to reach Joe and me.

Then I looked at my watch. Five thirty. Yikes! My day off was nearly over, and I hadn't been to the grocery store yet.

Lots of couples splurge by going out on Saturday night. Joe and I were so busy all week that we splurged by staying home. It was the one night each week I made sure I produced an actual home-cooked meal. I jumped to my feet and headed for my van, trying frantically to think of something tasty but quick to cook.

Sounded like steaks. Maybe Joe would fire up the charcoal grill.

Two hours later we sat down to rib eyes, baked potatoes, and salad. Not too imaginative, but a treat. As we ate I told Joe about my visit to Camp Sail-Along and why I felt sorry for the camp manager, Jack McGrath, especially since he apparently knew nothing about sailboats. I left out the part about telling Jack that I might join him for a nap. Or a nip.

“You've had a busy afternoon, Lee.”

“I'm determined to find out why Jill was so set on reporting Jeremy's so-called drowning to us. Which leads me to another question. Why did this Hal Weldon try to reach you?”

“Word of my superior legal skills had reached him, and he wanted to make a will.”

“People rarely want to make a will so urgently that they call a lawyer on Saturday.”

“My clients do. Poverty law, remember. The working poor usually can't afford to take off work during the week.”

“Had you ever heard of Hal Weldon?”

“Not until the office paged me and said it was an emergency.”

“So you don't really think it was a will or something else routine?”

“No, Lee. I think Hal Weldon is in some kind of trouble and needs a lawyer immediately.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“Not in this county, as far as I've been able to find out.”

“So you've been checking!”

“I asked Hogan, and I called the sheriff's office. Neither of them had ever heard of him. In fact, neither of them had arrested anybody today—Warner County not being a high crime area. I didn't try other counties.”

“I wonder why he wanted you.”

“I might have represented him in a previous life. Either his or mine.”

“But you don't remember him?”

“Nope. I represented a lot of people in Detroit and more later in Chicago. I don't remember them all.”

“Do you have a list of those old cases?”

“With names of clients? I'm afraid not. Since they were agency clients, I left their records behind.”

“Besides,” I said, “Weldon might be using a different name.”

“Why do you say that?”

I told Joe about Maggie's idea that Jeremy might be working under a fake name to avoid union rules. “Since Hal Weldon was supposedly also a stagehand, I guess it's possible he would be using an alias, too.”

Joe frowned. “Maybe Hogan could contact the stagehands union, find out something. The problem would be giving him an excuse to do that. As far as we can tell, no crime has been committed. Accidental drowning is of interest to law enforcement, true, but it's not illegal.”

We finished eating in silence, and I got up and went to the kitchen for the ice cream I'd planned for dessert. But when I brought it back to the dining table, Joe was in the corner of the living room, looking at the computer screen.

I was surprised. “You don't want ice cream?”

“I'll be right there.” But he didn't come. He kept sitting there, giving an occasional command to the computer.

“What are you looking for?” I said.

“I thought I'd find out if Hal Weldon has a criminal record.”

“You can do that?”

“Within limits. Prison records are public. And they're online.”

Before Joe's ice cream could melt, he'd discovered that Hal Weldon had never been in prison in Michigan or in Illinois.

Before he could hit the CLOSE button, I interrupted. “As long as you're looking, Google him. Maybe we'll find out something.”

Joe shrugged, went to the Google site, and typed in “Harold Weldon.”

“I'll put in Illinois, too,” he said, “just so we don't get every Weldon in the United States.” A moment later we both laughed. He'd pulled up fifteen hundred references.

“Better bring the ice cream in here,” he said. “I'll try Hal Weldon. That might narrow it down.”

It did. There were only fifty-some-odd references to Hal Weldon that contained the word “Illinois” as well as his name. We learned that there are Hal Weldons who are doctors, Hal Weldons who appear in genealogical records, and one Hal Weldon who's a prominent steel guitar player.

And way at the bottom of the list, we found one that made me gasp, and Joe yell, “Bingo!”

“That's gotta be him,” I said.

A Hal Weldon had been on the gymnastics team at South Chicago University three years earlier.

Joe and I both felt sure that we'd found the Hal Weldon who did “tricks” out behind the cottages at the Showboat dorm. But we hadn't found a picture of him. All we had was a listing of entries for intercollegiate gymnastics meets.

It was another lead. Joe cleared the table, and I loaded the dishwasher. Then we dug out our set of DVDs of classic comedies, watched one of our favorites—
Some Like It Hot—
and went to bed.

It had been a long day, and it was followed by an early morning. The phone rang at seven a.m.

The darn thing is on my side of the bed, so I picked it up. My hello was barely civil.

“Lee?” A deep basso resonated out of the receiver. “Max Morgan here. Sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before breakfast.”

“You did that.” I groaned. Then I sat up. “Has Jeremy been found?”

“Not yet. But I want to talk to you.”

“I go to work at noon. Come by the shop.”

“I was going to invite you and Joe to go to brunch with me.”

“Brunch?”

“At Herrera's. They open at ten. I need to talk to you both.”

“What about?”

“I'll tell you there. Can you make it?”

I turned over and poked Joe. He opened an eye, and I repeated Max's invitation. He nodded. Or I think he did. I was awake by then, and I was getting curious about what Max Morgan had to say.

“We'll be there,” I said.

“Good. I added up a few things about Jeremy, and I need your advice.”

That got my attention. I climbed out of bed, made a pot of coffee, and headed for the shower.

Joe and I were looking spiffy when we walked into Herrera's at five after ten.

Herrera's is one of Warner Pier's more upscale restaurants. It features white tablecloths and a quiet atmosphere. I don't understand why most restaurants are designed to be noisy.

Herrera's overlooks the river, and it was another beautiful day. The French doors to the deck were open so that patrons could eat their omelets or eggs Benedict outdoors. Max, however, had a table in a corner inside.

We were greeted by Joe's stepfather, Mike Herrera. He hugged me and patted Joe on the back, then led us to Max's table.

“I'll send a round of mimosas over,” he said to Max, “just because you're entertaining my kids.”

Max, Joe, and I all agreed that we never turned down mimosas, but Max looked worried, and the offer didn't make him look any happier.

“Let's order,” he said. “Then I'll tell you what I found out. And you can advise me.”

Talk about suspense. It was hard to make small talk until the waiter took our order and the mimosas came. Then we all leaned toward the center of the table.

“What have you discovered?” Joe said.

Max's frown grew deeper. “I think Jeremy may have rigged his own disappearance,” he said. “Loan sharks seem to be after him.”

L
oan sharks? I'd never heard of loan sharks in Warner Pier. We don't even have a payday loan office. That seemed like a strange idea.

Then I realized that Jeremy was in Warner Pier only for the summer. He lived most of the year in Chicago. And in Chicago, loan sharks could well be a major threat. Easy to get mixed up with, and hard to get unmixed from.