The Chocolate Pirate Plot (9 page)

“Oh, I met her yesterday. She checked us out early. Offered me one fifty for everything on sale before we opened. I probably would have been smart to accept.”

“She drives a hard bargain.” I held out a child-sized shirt. It ought to fit some kid I knew. “I'll take this. And I'll introduce myself. I'm Lee Woodyard, and I'm here representing the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce.”

The man looked me up and down, deadpan. He seemed to be considering just how to react to me. Finally he smiled. “Didn't you call earlier?”

“I think our manager did. That's Zelda Gruppen. Zelda is a staff member. I'm on the board.” I stuck out my hand in shaking position.

The man touched my hand with his fingers in one of those obnoxious, halfhearted gestures that mimic shaking hands. “I'm Jack McGrath. I'm the manager of Camp Sail-Along.”

“Zelda said you called this a ‘restructuring' year, Jack.”

“We're not going to offer any camp sessions this year.” His mustache took on a rakish tilt as he smiled, and he wiggled his eyebrows. He looked as if he were doing a Groucho Marx impression. “I can't even offer you a boat ride. But I could show you around.”

“I'd love a tour, but I don't want to take you away from your sale.”

Jack McGrath shrugged. “I don't expect much more business.”

At first look, Camp Sail-Along appeared deserted and neglected. Dead leaves had blown into piles on the porches. The windows of the small cabins—the bunkhouses—still wore their winter shutters, and their doors were padlocked. The shutters from the main building had been taken off, but they hadn't been stored. They leaned against the side of the building in drunken heaps.

All the buildings needed paint, and the grass hadn't been mowed, but there were lovely trees, and I could see a long dock extending out into the lake. Camp Sail-Along had the potential to be a very nice spot.

“There's a lot of potential here,” I said. “You have a lovely view. And the cabins look as if they'd be comfortable.”

“They could be.”

“What activities do you plan to offer?”

“We're not quite sure yet. And I'm afraid we're not ready to join the local chamber.”

“We'll be here when you are ready. Let me give you one of our brochures.”

I gave him a brochure and a membership application, talking all the time about the wonderfulness of Warner Pier and the chamber of commerce. I really am on the board, so that was easy.

Jack McGrath took the brochure and continued to look at me with an expression that was becoming a leer. When he offered to continue our tour, I accepted with pleasure, since I wanted a chance to ask him about Jeremy Mattox, but his insinuating smile was making me feel as if I should take my tire iron with me in case I needed to discourage him emphatically.

McGrath kept smiling excessively as he showed me around. The central building, as I'd guessed, had a kitchen designed to serve up sloppy joes and hot dogs. It was shabby and out of date. TenHuis Chocolade has to deal with the health department, so I'm familiar with their requirements, and I spotted four things they wouldn't approve. The dining room was filled with ramshackle chairs and tables. The building had been swept—sometime that summer—but it wasn't clean.

Only one room, one that might have been designed as an office, was in use. McGrath opened the door and leered at me. “My humble abode,” he said.

I could see a couple of cots inside, both with sleeping bags on them. One bag was neatly rolled; the other was scrambled as if Jack McGrath had just gotten out of it. The only storage was two footlockers. One was closed, and the other was open, with its contents spewing out.

I didn't go inside the room. “If you're having trouble finding contractors, Mr. McGrath, the chamber of commerce might be able to help you.”

“Oh?” His answer was noncommittal.

“We have a list of members with an explanation of the services they offer.”

Still no response. I headed for the porch, and McGrath followed me outside. He pointed out the badminton court—no net—and the swimming beach—no nothing. The big storage building, he said, held a dozen small boats.

“What kind of boats do you have?”

McGrath gave an expansive wave, taking in all of Lake o' the Winds. “For the advanced sailors, we have access to the Warner River,” he said. “And, of course, that leads to the big lake.”

He hadn't answered my question about the small boats. Hmm.

McGrath unlocked the padlock on one of the small cabins and showed me the inside. It was a shambles of rusty springs and mouse-nibbled bedding. The only light came from the door he had opened. If the cabins had electricity, it wasn't turned on. The sides were screened, so the cabins could be opened to the outside air when they were in use, but at that moment shutters completely covered the screens. The cabin was dark and musty. I looked in the door and backed away.

McGrath offered to continue the tour, but I declined. I certainly didn't want to see eight more dirty, ramshackle cabins, and I even passed up a peek at the shower house. There was only one. Apparently the camp had been planned for single-sex sessions.

So as McGrath relocked the cabin's padlock, I turned and strolled toward the van. “I certainly appreciate your taking the time to show me around.”

“It's been a pleasure, Lee.” He twisted his lip once more, making his mustache wriggle.

It was time for the question I'd come to ask. I tried to sound innocent. “Was this the camp where Jeremy Mattox worked?”

McGrath frowned. “Jeremy who?”

“Mattox.”

He paused for at least thirty seconds before he went on. “I don't know. I haven't had any other employees this summer, and I wasn't here last year.”

McGrath folded his arms and leaned against the van. His shoulders drooped. He was the picture of discouragement.

“In fact, as you may have guessed, this whole project has turned into a flop.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Jack.”

“I'm sorry to say it. Actually, my uncle is a retired coach, and he bought the place, then hired me to run it. But he's undercapitalized.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, yeah. I'm a coach myself. I thought this would be a great summer job—maybe turn into a full-time deal. But the place is far too run-down to open without a major renovation, and my uncle just doesn't have the money to update. And he can't get a loan, on top of the mortgage on the property.”

“Oh, gee! Jack, I sympathize completely. When I came to Warner Pier four years ago to work for my aunt at TenHuis Chocolade, I faced the same situation, in a way.”

He grinned. “You look prosperous now.”

“We're doing better. But for the first two years I lived with my aunt, taking room and board as part of my pay—”

“Same deal with me.”

“And my aunt and I both took big salary cuts. Luckily, her plant didn't need an upgrade, but she'd let her deliveries get unreliable, so her business was going downhill fast. It took a lot of work to get the business back on track.”

I smiled. “And now I'll make another pitch for the chamber of commerce. We can refer you or your uncle to people who can help. No, we can't give you a loan, but we can put you in touch with groups who help with operations, or with accounting practices. This could make a difference.”

Jack nodded glumly. “I'm afraid it's too late for that. I think my uncle is just going to put the property on the market.”

“Everything on the water is valuable around here.”

“Probably not valuable enough to pay off his mortgage.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Thanks for showing me around. I appreciate your sharing your time.”

“Time's all I've got.” McGrath yawned. “I think the sale's over. I may take a nap. Bed sounds good.”

“Yes, it does. It's such a lazy afternoon, I could join you.”

It wasn't until McGrath's eyes widened that I realized what I had said.

“I mean . . . a nip sounds good. I mean a nap! I mean, it's a lazy afternoon but I'd better go back to work.”

I yanked the van's door open and leaped inside.

McGrath was right beside the van's window, grinning. “All I can offer you is a beer,” he said. “But it's cold.”

“No, I've got to get out of here. I mean, I need to get home.”

McGrath extended his hand in a way that made it hard to refuse. I shook it. He didn't let go. None of that namby-pamby touch of the fingers he'd offered the first time we shook hands. This time I got the full-fledged, strong-guy, macho handshake.

It was almost painful. His palm had rough calluses, for one thing. I pulled my hand away, but it wasn't easy.

“My husband repairs and restores wooden boats,” I said. “He'll be interested if you decide to sell your equipment.”

“Your husband? I was hoping you were single.”

“No. I'm married.”

I was still getting the eye contact and the frisky mustache. I kept smiling as I started the motor and backed up. Jack McGrath stepped out of the way so I wouldn't run over his foot. We gave each other friendly waves as I drove off.

I'm used to saying the wrong thing, but I'd really done it that time. I could only hope that I never saw Jack McGrath again as long as I lived.

“Stupid,” I said aloud. How could I have made one mistake after another?

All I'd done that afternoon was embarrass myself. I had learned nothing about Jeremy Mattox. He remained a mystery man, and not just because he failed to come up from a surface dive. I still wanted to know whether Jill had deliberately sought Joe and me out when Jeremy disappeared.

But Jill had made it clear she didn't want to talk to me.

Maybe Maggie could help me quiz her. Or maybe Maggie knew some other friends of Jeremy's. I needed to find out.

I
tried Maggie's cell phone, but it was turned off. So I headed for her house, all excited about a new line of questioning. It was something of a letdown when I found out she wasn't home.

Ken was, however. He told me Maggie had taken Jill to her dorm and had told him she planned to stay until the young woman seemed to be okay.

“Max Morgan told me Jill lives at the theater dorm,” I said. “But where is that?”

Ken chuckled. “It used to be known as the Riverside Motel.”

“Oh, gee! What a lucky bunch of actors!”

“They need to suffer for their art,” Ken said. We both laughed.

I drove on to the Riverside, now the Showboat dorm. It's a Warner Pier landmark. Sort of.

Warner Pier may be the quaintest resort on the east shore of Lake Michigan, but our pretty little village still has a few spots that are less than picturesque. The Riverside Motel might head the list.

The Riverside was probably the first motel constructed in west Michigan, I'd guess in the early 1930s. In those days motels were usually a collection of tiny buildings, sometimes styled to imitate English cottages or log cabins or—in the Southwest—adobe houses. I found this out from a series of articles on vernacular architecture run in the local weekly. Warner Pier is nuts on architecture of all types.

The Riverside had begun life as a dozen or so faux boathouses. This effect had been attained by putting a little porch on the front of each cabin and using heavy timber piers, like those used for docks, to delineate the porch corners. I've seen a picture from the 1930s showing the motel porches draped with fishing nets.

So each unit of the Riverside is a little house. The roofs still have the original wide eaves. Parking spaces are between the units. Of course, those parking spaces were designed to hold Model Ts, so they are not big enough for today's full-sized cars, though subcompacts or motorcycles fit nicely.

The itty-bitty boathouses are arranged in a semicircle, and in that early-day picture I saw they were centered around a pond about thirty feet across. At some time the pond had been replaced with a swimming pool.

About 1933 the site may have had a certain charm, but neglect and time had de-charmed it. The little boathouses needed paint, the fishing nets and other cutesy props were long gone, and the imitation pier posts had rotted. The swimming pool was cracked, empty of water, filled with trash, and surrounded by a chain-link fence. I didn't want to imagine what the rooms were like. I could almost guarantee that the décor included sagging mattresses, leaking showers, and stained walls. If the Showboat cast and crew members were smart, they brought their own linens. I wouldn't want to touch a sheet or towel provided by the management.