The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery (17 page)

Will was never going to be a handsome guy, but even at nineteen
he had a rugged look that was attractive to girls. At the moment he was reading a book and sweating.

I pulled into the drive, stopping beside the wooden A-frame sign that said, LOT FULL in two-foot-high letters.

“Sorry, we’re full up,” Will hollered first; then he looked up, saw who it was, and came over to my window. “Hi, Lee. What are you up to?”

“I wanted to challenge your observation skills,
Will. I’ll move on around if somebody needs to come in or go out.”

“It’s too early for anybody to leave. What did you want me to observe?”

“A white van, commercial type, with an orange sign painted on the door.”

“That’s an odd combination, but I think there’s one here at the moment.”

My yell almost deafened Will. “Where?”

“On the back row. It came in this morning. Why did you want to know?”

I didn’t answer. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

“It’s a public lot.” Will came around the van and got in on the passenger side. “I’ll soak up a little AC, as long as you’re here. Drive around to the right. Why are you interested in this van?”

“I assume Brenda told you Joe’s aunt was staying with us?” Will nodded, and I quickly sketched Gina’s unexpected and reclusive stay, then sudden departure.
I left out the part about the running footprints. But I told him she’d called to say she was all right.

“Anyway,” I said, “we can’t figure out where she went, and one of the neighbors said he saw a woman with dyed-black hair getting into a big white van with an orange sign on the door.”

Will frowned, and I went on. “Now, I know you don’t take license numbers or anything. . . .”

“And a lot of
tourists don’t park in this lot.”

“Right. But you still see more cars than nearly anybody else does. So I thought I’d ask. Do you remember who drove this van in?”

Will shook his head. “Sorry. I wasn’t on duty. But I doubt anybody remembers who brought it in. The tourists’ faces all become a blur.”

By then I had reached the back row, and I stopped in front of a blocky white vehicle.

“Did your
neighbor say whether it had windows in the back or was enclosed?” Will said.

“No, and I didn’t want to ask. What does the sign on the door say?”

We had to get out and walk up next to the van to find out. It was a GMC van, a big one, with windows all around. The sign proved to be a block of orange with white lettering. Frankly, its brightness made it almost impossible to make out.

“‘Orangeman’s
Electric Service,’” Will read. “‘Residential and Commercial. South Bend.‘”

“That’s a really odd business name,” I said. “At least, if it’s located in South Bend, Indiana.”

“Why?”

“Because South Bend is the location of Notre Dame University, Will. The Fighting Irish. Anything orange is anathema to them.”

Will looked blank. “They don’t like orange?”

“Orange is the color of Protestant Ireland.
Notre Dame is associated with Catholic Ireland, and its team color is green.”

We thoroughly looked the white van over. I noted a couple of scratches, then wrote down the license number. It had an Indiana license plate. When I peeked through the windows, I saw nothing of interest. No papers, no empty cans that had once held exotic brands of beer, no photographs. There wasn’t even a beach towel.
Not very typical of a vacationer’s vehicle.

“I’ll be on duty here until eight,” Will said. “I’ll check on whoever picks it up.”

“No!” The memory of the dead man flashed into my mind. “I’ll call the state police. They’ll know whether or not they need to investigate this vehicle. The owner may be someone completely unconnected with the van our neighbor saw.”

He frowned, and I tapped him on the
arm. “I’m serious, Will. The people with the van may be dangerous. Or they may be mere tourists. If it’s the first, you could endanger yourself if you show too much interest. If it’s the second, you could endanger your job for rudeness to visitors!”

Will grinned. “I don’t want that to happen,” he said. “But if I see any more white vans with orange signs, I’ll write their license numbers down.”

“Surreptitiously,” I said in a stern voice.

“Right. Surreptitiously. Can you lend me a piece of paper?”

On the way home I called Joe and told him about the van. Then I called Underwood. This time the dispatcher tracked the detective down, and in a few minutes he called me back.

I told Underwood what Harold Glick had said and about finding the big white GMC van in the Warner Pier High School
parking lot. Underwood didn’t act too excited, but he said he’d look into who owned the van in the parking lot.

His reaction was so offhand that I was tempted to do what Will had threatened to do—try to find out who picked up the white van. However, common sense won out, and I started chopping onions for meat loaf.

I did call the shop. Tracy answered the phone, lowered her voice, and told me
Dolly was still trying hard to keep chocolate from melting.

“It’s not too hot up front in the shop,” Tracy said. “I wish we could push some of the cool air back to the workroom—use a fan or something. But Dolly says no.”

“I think she’s right, Tracy. The chocolate on the shelves in the shop is ready for sale. You can’t risk letting it get warm.”

I also wanted to know if the girls were coming
home to eat. They were. So even with Gina gone, I was still planning on six for dinner, supposing Pete was going to show up.

The answer to that one came at five thirty p.m., when Pete pulled into the drive at almost the same moment Joe and Darrell came in from the boat shop, both completely sweat-soaked. Pete tactfully had brought beer, and the three guys sat on the porch with the box fan blowing
on them and drank it. As soon as Brenda and Tracy showed up, I tossed the salad together and told everyone dinner was on the table.

The evening went along routinely, but I was on pins and needles. I wanted to know about that white van in the Warner Pier High School parking lot. I could hardly wait for Will to call.

I’d done the dishes—Joe dried—and Darrell and Pete had announced they were going
to go over to the boat shop for showers. That was a smart move.

I was sitting in the living room, with a fan blowing directly on me, when the phone finally rang. I ran for the kitchen and snatched it up.

“Hi, Lee. It’s Will.”

“Hi. What happened with the van?”

“Nothing! I’m bummed about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I watched it all afternoon. The state cops watched it. But nothing ever happened.”

“Nothing?”

“No! The darn thing’s still there. Whoever parked it never came back for it. It’s a dead end.”

I
didn’t laugh.

“Will,” I said, “what’s your major?”

“Electrical engineering. Why?”

“Just wondered.” I didn’t tell Will it was a good thing he wasn’t majoring in law enforcement. He’d never make a detective.
“What are the state police doing?”

“They told me to go home.”

“Probably a good idea. Unless you and Brenda are going out.”

“Maybe down to the Dockster for a while. We won’t be late!”

I assured Will I was merely Brenda’s landlady, not her chaperone, and I called her to the phone. Then I did laugh. Will, bless his heart, hadn’t seen how suspicious the abandonment of the van was. But I thought
Underwood had caught on.

I took a cool shower and got ready for bed. Joe came in about ten thirty, but it was too darn hot for either of us to be more than mildly affectionate. I was also aware that I had the noon-to-nine p.m. shift the next day. And if the air-conditioning people hadn’t performed miracles during the morning, I’d have to spend an important part of my time hassling them. Hassling
them sweetly. I didn’t dare make them mad.

I still had the white GMC van—and the air-conditioning—on my mind when I got up at seven thirty the next morning. Pete was already gone, but he had made coffee and left a cereal bowl in the sink. The girls were still asleep, Joe was beginning to move around, and Darrell hadn’t come in. My brain was barely percolating.

Then Underwood’s unmarked car parked
in the drive.

I called out the dining room window, “Hi! I hear the white van was never claimed last night.”

Underwood nodded.

“Did anybody pick it up after the lot closed?”

He shook his head.

“Come on in. The coffee’s made.”

Underwood shook his head again. Odd that he wasn’t saying anything. And he wasn’t coming to the house either. He had another detective with him, and they were walking
toward Darrell’s camper.

I watched as they stood on either side of the door; then the second detective rapped sharply on the aluminum. “Open up! Police!”

I ran for the bedroom. “Joe! Underwood’s arresting Darrell!”

“Huh?” Joe’s voice came from the bathroom behind me. He opened the door, holding his toothbrush and with foam on his lips.

“Hurry! Underwood and another detective are banging on
Darrell’s door. I think they’re arresting him!”

“Surely not.” Joe sounded calm.

I ran through the kitchen, then out onto the back porch. Darrell was standing in the door of his camper, wearing boxers and looking bleary-eyed. “Sure,” he said. “I don’t mind talking to you. Mind if I get some clothes on?”

Before Darrell came out again, Joe was going toward the back door. I was still feeling panicky,
but he patted my hand. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “It looks like it’s just routine. They must have found out that Darrell was once charged with home invasion.”

“But he was exonerated!”

“No, Lee. He was exonerated on a murder charge. He never denied he and a buddy had entered a drug dealer’s home at gunpoint. We were able to prove—finally—that the drug dealer was still alive when they left.
Darrell was never prosecuted for the home invasion, but he was charged.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry yet. I still think it’s probably routine.”

So I stood on the porch like the little woman while Joe walked out—barefoot—and talked to Underwood in a low voice for a few minutes. Then he gestured toward the house and spoke a little more loudly. “Do you want to come in?”

Underwood grinned.
“Darrell would probably like the PD better. It’s air conditioned. I see you’ve got all your windows open.” Joe and both detectives laughed, not very humorously.

But they did come in the house. Darrell, Joe, and the two detectives sat around the dining table. Joe turned on the fan, and everyone accepted a cup of coffee. Which cleaned out the pot, so I started a new one, then went into the bedroom
to get dressed. When I came back into the kitchen—Joe obviously didn’t want me to join the group, but I could eavesdrop from the next room—things were still sounding friendly.

“So you were here all evening,” Underwood was saying. “Joe and Lee were at the Garretts’ house, of course. Can anyone else substantiate your actions?”

“Sure,” Darrell said. “Pete was here. And Ms. Woodyard—Joe’s aunt.”

“She’s missing.”

“Yeah, but when she turns up, she’ll tell you. I was here all evening.”

Joe spoke. “What about Brenda and Tracy?”

“They went out for a while,” Darrell said. “Those two guys they date came for them. I didn’t pay any attention to where they said they were going.”

“Probably cruising up and down Peach Street,” Joe said.

Underwood went on. “But Pete Falconer can back your story
up?”

“Well, for most of the evening he can. We watched the baseball game. But he went out for a while. He said he was going to get some beer.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Half an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. I didn’t check.”

“Was Gina Woodyard watching the game with you?”

“No. She went upstairs. Said she was going to read a book.”

“So there were forty-five minutes when you were alone?”

“Alone in the living room. But Ms. Woodyard was upstairs. She would have heard me if I’d gone anyplace.”

Underwood turned to Joe. “Did she have a fan upstairs? A fan’s pretty noisy.”

“The one she has is fairly quiet. And Gina doesn’t miss much.”

“When we find her,” Underwood said, “we’ll ask if she heard anybody leave. Anybody but Falconer.”

When Underwood went on, his voice was almost too
casual. “Darrell, do you mind if we take a look inside the camper?”

I was pleased to hear Darrell answer without hesitation. “Be my guest. It’s full of dirty clothes.”

“We can stand it.”

The two detectives went out to the camper. I brought the cereal and milk into the dining room. Joe, Darrell, and I might as well go through the motions of having breakfast.

“Thank goodness the girls are sleeping
through all this,” I said. “Tracy would have a routine episode made into a novel by lunchtime.”