Chapter 11
A
long silence followed that one. I was too astonished to reply, and I guess my mom had said all she wanted to say.
I finally spoke, but I didn’t say anything original. “Bill Dykstra
asked
you to leave Warner Pier?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But he didn’t tell you why?”
“That’s what I said, Lee!”
“I heard it, I simply can’t absorb it.” I thought again before I came up with a question. “Did he tell you he was going to commit suicide?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. We went out after the rehearsal dinner, and we were—planning to go out for a while afterward. But Bill suddenly switched directions, brought me home and told me to get my suitcase. Then he took me down to South Haven.” Mom took a deep breath that almost sounded like a sob. “He gave me money—I guess all the money he had, money he’d put together for our honeymoon. He dumped me at an all-night gas station.”
“Not the bus station?”
“The bus station wasn’t open. I had to wait until six a.m., then take a cab there. The bus station was at a downtown bookstore in those days.”
My mom had been barely eighteen years old. Her fiancé had insisted on driving her to a strange town, dumped her out on the highway at an all-night gas station, and told her to go to one of the largest cities in the United States. Alone. I thought about it before I spoke again.
“You must have been terrified,” I said.
A gulp came from the other end of the line. Now I was sure Mom was crying.
“It was awful,” she said. “It’s a miracle I wasn’t picked up by white slavers or something else terrible. Bill kept telling me I must do
exactly
what he said.’It’s for your safety,’ he said. ’You’ll be in danger.”’
“In danger of what?”
“He wouldn’t tell me! I’ve never known.”
“Did he say he’d get in touch with you?”
“I was supposed to go to the hotel where we’d stayed on our senior trip. He said he’d call the next night. But he didn’t!”
The last sentence was almost a wail. Then I heard a soft click. Mom had hung up.
I broke the connection, then punched the redial button. I got the answering machine again and yelled. “It’s me, Mom. Talk to me!” But this time she didn’t pick up.
I hung up and sat there staring out the window, looking at the snowy Michigan landscape. Then I punched redial again.
“Mom,” I told the answering machine. “I’m coming to Dallas. I’ll call as soon as I get a flight.”
“No!” I realized my mom had picked up the phone. “No! Don’t come.”
“But we need to talk this out face to face.”
“Yes, you’re right. But I’ve got some free miles. I’ll clear my calendar and fly to Grand Rapids. We can talk.” She gave an unconvincing laugh. “Maybe we can talk about something more pleasant than my past. I need a few days off. Maybe we can even have some fun. I can have a little input on your wedding, whether you want it or not. I’ll call you as soon as I have an arrival time.”
I drove to work with my head in a spin. My mother was coming to Warner Pier—and not just for a funeral, wedding, or other ceremony. She was actually coming to see me.
Weird.
Aunt Nettie was as astonished by the news as I was, but she was as practical as ever. “I hope she doesn’t come today,” she said. “We’ll have to clear out the guest room tonight.”
Like most guest rooms, Aunt Nettie’s collected things that were tidied away out of other rooms in the house. Right at the moment the bed was piled with wedding notebooks, magazines, and lists, and the closet was full of summer clothes.
“I’ll straighten the room tonight,” I said. “I don’t see how Mom can get here before tomorrow or Saturday.”
“What will we feed her?” The menu is always a major concern for Aunt Nettie, since she’s a real foodie.
“I’ll think about it and shop this afternoon,” I said. “This ought to be a slow day retailwise.”
Ha. That was the day the entire population of Warner Pier lined up and marched to our front door. People who had never been near the place before picked that day to become customers.
A lot of them were like my pal Lindy. She came in because she’d read the paper and wanted to know how Joe and I happened to stumble over the body of former sheriff Carl Van Hoosier. I didn’t mind talking to Lindy, of course, but I dodged everyone else’s questions. Politely, or so I hoped. Most of them felt obligated to buy a few chocolates. I sold chocolate to Thomas Hilton, who owned the Garden Shop; to Barbara, the bank manager; to Diane Denham, who runs a B and B. Of course, Diane was an established customer, though she did more business with us in the summer, when her B and B was usually full of guests. It seemed as if a dozen others came in as well, and the phone rang and rang.
At least Rollie Taylor had no questions. He showed up around ten a.m. and said he needed to buy a pound of chocolates as a gift for the city clerk. As I said, some of the new customers had really dumb excuses, and I considered this one of them. The relationship between the city clerk and the city councilmen ought to be purely business. I didn’t think it should include chocolates.
I also didn’t think tightwad Rollie would have any idea how much a pound of TenHuis chocolates costs. When I mentioned the cost, he looked a little pale. A half pound would do, he said.
“Have you been causing Pat extra work?” I said. “I wouldn’t think she would expect gifts from the councilmen.”
“Pat looked some things up for me,” Rollie said. “And, of course, I wanted to come in and check on you. How are you doing? Right after you and Joe found Van Hoosier yesterday, you seemed to be pretty shaken.”
“Since it wasn’t the body of anyone I knew, it wasn’t too bad a shirt. I mean, shock! How do you want these chocolates? Assorted flavors? Part solid chocolate?”
Rollie blinked. “Not too many hard centers,” he said.
I realized that Rollie didn’t even know what kind of chocolate we made. “I’ll make up a variety box,” I said.
“That sounds fine. And, Lee, did you know that if Bo Derek married Don Ho, she’d be Bo Ho?”
I groaned and reached for an empty box. “I’m happy to say I didn’t, Rollie. I also didn’t know you did that much volunteer work at the Pleasant Creek Center. I guess that former sheriff wasn’t a stranger to you.”
Rollie spoke sharply. “What do you mean by that?”
I stared at him. In spite of the brusque tone to his question, he was smiling his usual smile. Had my question upset him? “You said he was one of your bingo regulars.”
“Oh! That!” There was no mistaking the relief in Rollie’s voice. “I can’t say I knew Van Hoosier any better than the other bingo players. I just call the numbers and hand out the prizes.” Then he leaned on the counter, very casually. “But if you didn’t know the old guy, why did you and Joe go over to see him?”
Rollie had talked to Joe a few minutes after we found Van Hoosier dead. But I didn’t know what Joe had told him. So I waffled.
“I thought you asked Joe about that.”
“I did, and he told me about finding him. But he didn’t explain why the two of you had gone there in the first place.”
So it was up to me. I’d already made up an answer to that question that wasn’t exactly a lie, so I trotted it out with all the aplomb I could muster. “Like I said at the council meeting, I’ve been doing a little historical rescue. I mean, research! I had a couple of questions to ask him.”
“Historical research? What for?”
“It’s going to be a surprise. I’d appreciate your not mentioning it.” I held the box out. “Do you think Pat would like some Jamaican rum truffles? They’re dark outside over a dark interior.”
“Who could resist?” Rollie’s grin looked more real at the thought. “Has your mom decided when she’s coming up for the wedding?”
“Not exactly, Rollie. Hey! I haven’t offered you a sample. Pick something.”
It’s easy to distract people when you have a whole counter full of chocolate to use for that purpose. Rollie selected a double-fudge bonbon (“layers of milk and dark chocolate fudge with a dark chocolate coating”), and I was able to collect the cash for Pat’s chocolates, then ease him out the door without telling him my mother was due in Warner Pier anytime now.
I didn’t have the same luck a little later. The shop was empty for the first time in an hour when the phone rang a few minutes before twelve. I took the call in my office.
“Lee, it’s Mom. I got a flight to Grand Rapids on Saturday.”
“Let me find a pencil.” I scrabbled through the piles on my desk and found pencil and paper, then took down the information. “Three thirty Saturday. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, no. I’ll rent a car.”
“Mom, there’s no point in your spending money on a rental car.”
“I don’t want you to have to haul me around.”
“But we’ve got loads of cars here. Aunt Nettie doesn’t put five thousand miles a year on her Buick. I have my van. There’s Joe’s truck. You can use either the Buick or the van anytime.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I got a really good deal on a car.”
“Mom! I’ll meet you!” This was a bone my mom and I had chewed over hundreds of times. She was always broke, with credit card debt out the kazoo, because of these “good deals” she simply couldn’t turn down. “You don’t need to spend money on a rental car!”
“Lee, don’t lecture me about how I spend my money.”
I ground my teeth and resisted the temptation to tell her I wouldn’t be counting on an inheritance from her; she’d be lucky to leave enough to pay off her MasterCard. I merely repeated her arrival information back, ending up with, “And we’ll watch for a rental car to pull into the drive a little after five.”
Mom and I exchanged good-byes, and I hung up.
Then a voice sounded, practically beside me. It had a gloating sound.
“Ha! So your mom is coming up to help with the wedding plans. Won’t her Warner Pier friends be pleased?”
Greg Glossop was standing in the door to my office.
My heart plummeted to my knees. Greg Glossop—known to Warner Pier locals as Greg Gossip—had the biggest mouth on the east shore of Lake Michigan. And as the druggist at the pharmacy in the town’s only supermarket, he was in a position to get the scoop on everything that went on in Warner Pier. I wouldn’t go so far as accusing Greg of blabbing about his customer’s private prescriptions, but he sat up in an elevated area and watched everybody who came and went at the Superette. He had also been known to climb down from his aerie and ask nosy questions. He knew who came in with whom and how long they would be in Warner Pier; who bought extra steaks and whom they had invited over for dinner; and who lingered in the baby food aisle and which of their kids was coming home for the weekend and bringing grandchildren.
I tried to stay on friendly terms with Greg. For one thing, I’m nearly as nosy as he is. Sometimes I want information about people, and it’s easy to pump Greg for it. And for a second thing, I didn’t want to be the victim of his tongue; I want to be on his good side.
So I resisted the temptation to kick Greg in the kneecap. “Yes, Mom’s got a few days off,” I said. “But we wanted to have a quiet visit, Greg. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell all her old friends that she’ll be around. She won’t have time to see too many people.”
Greg smiled all over his round face. That face, plus his thin hair, make him look as if he has more skin than normal. He rubbed his plump hands together and bounced on his toes, an action that made his belly resemble a basketball.
“Oh, I won’t say a word, Lee.”
Like I believed that.
But Greg was still talking. “I really came in to say I’m so sorry you and Joe had that terrible experience yesterday.”
He dithered on for five or ten minutes, first hinting and then almost demanding that I tell him all the gory details about finding Van Hoosier. I gave him a raspberry cream bonbon (“red raspberry puree in white chocolate interior, encased in a dark chocolate”), but no more information than he would have read in the
Grand Rapids Press
. And the darn guy didn’t even buy anything.
But Greg didn’t leave either. So I fell back on a technique I’d used on Greg Glossop in the past. I began to ask
him
questions.
“I guess you knew Sheriff Van Hoosier,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“You know pretty much everybody in Warner County, Greg. He seems to have been a controversial character. What did you think of him?”
The effect of this question was amazing. Greg Glossop began to stutter and stammer and edge toward the door.
“Oh, I didn’t know him. He was, he was . . . he didn’t get over on this side of the county very much.”
“But, Greg, he apparently left office under quite a cloud. Do you know what all that was about?”
“I was just a kid, Lee. I was working as a sacker at the Superette the year he resigned.” Greg was still edging toward the door.
“But people were mad at him. Surely you heard something.”
“All I heard was from Dick—Dick Van Heisel. He owned the Superette in those days. He called Van Hoosier because some guy was doing drug deals in the Superette parking lot.”
That made sense. The newspapers for that summer had had a lot of letters to the editor about drug activity. I nodded encouragingly.
“Well, Dick was sure that Van Hoosier had covered up something about drug activities in the county.”
“What?”
“How would I know?” Greg Glossop looked horrified. “I have no idea. I was just a kid!”
Now he didn’t edge toward the door. He threw it open and plunged out. And he plunged right into Jason Foster, who’d been in the process of opening the door to the shop.
It took Jason and Greg a minute to get untangled, apologize, and say hello and good-bye to each other. So I had a minute to absorb Greg’s words and the way he’d said them.