The Chocolate Book Bandit (8 page)

I wa
s so surprised that I nearly collapsed in the sand. Actually, I did collapse as far as dropping my fanny onto the tree trunk. I perched on the opposite end from where Butch was sitting, and I stared at him.

Finally I spoke. “You took it! Why?”

Butch gave me an annoyed look.

“Oh! Right,” I said. “You didn’t want the cops to look at it.”

And the reason he didn’t want the cops to see it was obviously none of my business.

“There’s nothing in it that’s incriminating,” Butch said. “I haven’t murdered anybody—not Abigail Montgomery or anybody else. I haven’t blackmailed, stolen, perjured, defrauded, or done anything else illegal. I just didn’t want them to see that letter.”

“So you took it.”

“Yes, and now I see that taking it was incredibly stupid. I took it because I knew it had nothing to do with Mrs. Montgomery’s death, and I thought it might mislead the detectives. Now I see that by making it disappear, I gave it an artificial importance.”

“The effect turned out to be the opposite of what you wanted.”

“Exactly. And I inadvertently involved you. But don’t worry. I’ll go back and tell Chief Jones what I did. At least that will get you off the hook.”

I stared at the lake. Butch had acted stupidly, but who among us hasn’t? I’ve certainly done things impulsively, then regretted them.

Butch spoke again. “I’m really sorry, because I think the letter will focus attention on something extraneous, a situation that can’t possibly have any relation to the death of Abigail Montgomery.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“As sure as I can be. The letter was on my desk. I don’t know how it got to the basement.”

“You didn’t have it in your pocket when we went downstairs?”

“No. And even if it had been there, I did not touch Mrs. Montgomery’s body except to feel her neck for a pulse. I don’t see how the letter could have simply fallen where the police found it. Someone had to bring it downstairs.”

“Mrs. Montgomery?”

“Either her or her attacker. One of them must have been holding it when she was attacked. If she was attacked. But however it got there, I need to return it to the investigators.”

An idea was beginning to glimmer on the periphery of my brain. I stared over the water and mulled like mad.

Butch sighed deeply and stood up. “I guess I’d better just go face the music.”

“Wait a minute! Let me think.”

“I’ve got to return it. That’s the only answer.”

“Maybe not. Have you opened the evidence envelope?”

“No.”

“Then give it to me, and I’ll return it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell ’em I found it in my purse.”

“What!”

“And I’ll say I have no idea how it got there.”

“But it’s not fair for you to get involved.”

“It won’t involve me. It will simply be some accident that happened when we were all looking for the keys. I can say I have no recollection of picking it up. But there it was, way in the bottom of my purse.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“Do you have a different plan? One that won’t mislead Hogan and the state detectives?”

“I’ll feel guilty if you get in trouble.”

“Don’t be silly! I’m the one person in all this that is, well, above suspicion. They’ll just think I’m my usual flaky self. I have no motive for either killing Abigail Montgomery or for hiding whoever did kill her.”

Butch and I looked at each other. And darn it! I did have a motive. I hadn’t been so attracted to a man in . . . well, maybe never. I wanted to grab him and throw him down on the sand. And, by golly, the look he was giving me told me he felt the same way.

We sat there for a long minute, gazing into each other’s eyes.

I blinked first. “Now,” I said, “how do I get hold of the letter?”

“It happens that I have it on me.” Butch reached under his sweatshirt and pulled out the plastic container that held the envelope. “I was afraid to leave it lying around.”

“Wipe it off,” I said. “Here. I’ll use my scarf. Then on the remote chance that they find fibers on the envelope, they’ll be from something that could have been in my purse.”

I spread the scarf on the sand, then laid the plastic on it and rubbed both sides with the other end of the scarf. I picked up the envelope.

“Now it’ll have your fingerprints on it!”

“That’s okay. I had to take it out of my purse, right? It would logically have my fingerprints on it. Of course, it should have several cops’ prints on it, too. We’ll have to trust to luck on that.”

I stood up. “I hope you realize this puts you completely in my power. You’ll have to trust me not to betray you.”

“I’m already completely in your power.” Butch gave me a look that made me hold my breath. What did he mean by that?

Then he grinned. “Board members rule!” he said.

I breathed again. “I’m not a board member yet.”

I stuck the plastic envelope and its contents under my own sweatshirt and tucked it into my jeans. It seemed to burn a patch on my stomach. Butch and I gave each other a casual wave and walked away in opposite directions.

I went straight back to the van, got into it, and drove directly to the Warner Pier Police Department. I did this because I had decided to tell one of my favorite people a lie, and I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I thought about it too long.

I guess I was lucky. Hogan wasn’t there. So I wrote a note—“I found this in my purse. I have no idea how it got there.”—and left the letter, still in its plastic sleeve, with the receptionist.

Then I went home. My conscience was bothering me because I was lying, but I decided it would be bothering me even more if I hadn’t connived with Butch to return the letter. My feelings for Butch already had my conscience riled up, but I had no intention of acting on them. Or so I told myself.

I decided I needed to occupy my mind. I didn’t want to think about that letter in its plastic sleeve. If I got busy, it would help me forget it. I decided I’d actually cook a decent dinner for Joe.

No, this had nothing to do with his meeting with Meg. I wasn’t going to do the happy-homemaker act, trying to convince Joe that domesticity was more attractive than the titillation of illicit meetings with former girlfriends. I’d tried the domestic act with a different husband, and I wasn’t any good at it. I’m an accountant, not a domestic goddess.

The dinner plan really had very little to do with Joe. On that particular day I was the one who wanted the illusion of a happy home. And to me that meant chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Luckily, I had all the ingredients on hand, including minute steaks, cooking oil, and a bit of bacon fat for flavor, plus my Michigan grandmother’s big iron skillet. I floured and fried the steak, measured the flour and milk for the cream gravy, simmered the green beans, and peeled the potatoes.

I put the potatoes on to boil when I saw Joe pull into the drive. He came in the back door, pulling off his lawyer tie. “Hi,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit guilty.”

I felt a bit relieved. Ha, I thought. He’s going to tell me about seeing Meg and reassure me that it meant nothing. But I played innocent. “What do you feel guilty about?”

“You called me a couple of times, and I never got a chance to call back.”

Oh. He wasn’t talking about Meg.

Joe spoke again. “I hope you didn’t need anything important.”

“I’d have kept calling if I had. I called because I had to make an unexpected trip to Holland late in the morning, so I wondered if you were available for lunch.” I stared at the potatoes.

“Oh. Sorry I missed the calls. But I was stuck with a client anyway.”

A client? Meg was to be an anonymous client?

Joe went on. “It sure smells good in here. Have I got time to change clothes before dinner?”

I assured Joe the dinner would be another half hour, and he wandered on into the bedroom. I knew he’d come out shortly in jeans and an old M-Go-Blue sweatshirt.

Once I had the potatoes on and Joe had changed clothes and pulled a beer from the refrigerator, we sat on the screened porch. Evenings would soon be too cool for relaxing outside.

The conversation started routinely. Joe asked if I’d had a rough day.

“I got distracted by the investigation into Abigail Montgomery’s death,” I said, “and I wound up coming home early. How was your day?”

“Nothing too crazy.”

“How was Meg?”

The question slipped right out without my being aware that it was going to. But as soon as I heard it I realized that I had planned to say something about her all the time. I just had to. I’m not sneaky by nature, and I certainly am not going to start being sneaky with Joe. If we can’t be honest—all the time—the jig is already up on our marriage.

Joe’s face got really blank. I guess lawyers have to take Deadpan 1001 in their final year in law school. He is able to completely lose all expression. He can also hide behind a smile or a frown, but he does that more rarely.

He didn’t answer my question about Meg right away, but I didn’t repeat it. He put on a grin, sort of like slipping into a jacket, before he finally replied. “I guess you came by the office and saw her.”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you stop and join us?”

“I thought about it, but it looked as if the two of you were headed for lunch, and I guess lunch with Meg didn’t appeal to me. So? How is she?”

“She’s broke, and she’s finally getting a divorce.”

I nodded. “I figured. Did she make money when she sold the house down here?”

“Nope. It had a big mortgage, so it didn’t bring in much, and she let that go to Trey for his legal fees.”

“I’m surprised.”

“I was surprised, too. She does have a job—hostess at a nice restaurant—but her income definitely qualifies her for our client list.”

“That must be a blow to Meg.”

“Yep. I think she’s looking for a better job.” Joe took a drink of his beer. “When she came to the agency, she requested that I work with her.”

Joe didn’t appear to see that his two sentences might be connected. I decided not to comment on them. “Do you think that’s wise? After all, her ex tried to kill you.”

“I still don’t think Meg knew about that.”

I had my doubts about that, and Joe was aware of them. I decided no comment was needed.

“We’ll see how it works,” Joe said. “Frankly, you don’t seem very pleased.”

I pondered my answer, and my hesitation probably confirmed my displeasure at Joe’s contact with Meg. As I said, I didn’t want to be sneaky. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to be completely honest. No, I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I’m jealous of Meg. I don’t want her in your life, even professionally, because I’m afraid you are still attracted to her. I wish she was in Timbuktu.”

So I measured my words carefully and finally spoke. “Joe, I’ve never made any pretense of liking Meg. Naturally, I wish she hadn’t turned up again. But I don’t wish her ill. If you can help her get her life back on track, I guess you need to do it.”

“I just hope my mom can maintain that calm an attitude if she finds out.”

“You have to handle your mom,” I said. “I’m not tangling with her.”

“I just can’t understand why good women want to keep a person like Meg down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about Mom, I guess. She always disliked Meg, always tried to warn me against her. She said it was because Meg didn’t have any family background. As if my mom came from some elite family. My grandfather had a boat shop, and my mom never went to college! Mom judged Meg strictly by her mother. And I admit Meg’s mother was a mess.”

“You’re talking about when you and Meg were in high school.”

“Right!”

“Joe, if you had a smart and handsome teenaged son, and you saw him falling for a girl who was born out of wedlock, whose mother seems to have been on welfare, whose family—”

“See? Everybody judges Meg by her family!”

I opened my mouth, ready to reply. There was certainly a lot more to be said on this topic. But would that be smart?

I snapped my jaw shut. “I’ll check on the potatoes,” I said. “They might be ready to mash.”

Manufacturers come up with the darnedest things, and apparently they think consumers will go for anything if they add chocolate to it.

Chocolate mixed with cream cheese is now on the market. In Europe this product is sold as a breakfast item; in America, it’s marketed as a snack, to be used with pretzels or fruit.

Or how about chocolate pasta? One chef added cocoa powder to pasta and found he had a hit. It’s not sweet. The cocoa powder reportedly gives the noodles or macaroni a slightly bitter flavor. It can be ordered online.

Then there are fake chocolate items. For example, mirrors, cell phone cases, or cosmetics cases made to look like chocolate bars. Evening bags have been made in the shape of candy boxes and may have photos of truffles and bonbons printed on the outside. My favorite: a calculator with keys that look like bits of chocolate. Yes, the “chocolate” keys have numbers and other symbols printed on them. Perfect for counting calories, right?

There are also objects to add to home décor. Coasters shaped like squares of chocolate, throw rugs that look like candy bars, and, yes, bonbon wallpaper.