The Chocolate Falcon Fraud (11 page)

“This is a wonderful occasion,” he said. “A tribute to a great American motion picture and a great—perhaps the greatest—American novel.”

There was a retired English professor in the room, and I saw him raise his eyebrows.
The Maltese Falcon
is certainly highly regarded, but calling it “the greatest American novel” might be going overboard. I didn't leap to my feet to argue.

Grossman continued. “And I admit,” he said, “I freely admit that I am one of that small group of people who believe that Hammett's masterpiece had its own mysteries.

“Its own mysteries,” he repeated in a dramatic manner, “as yet unsolved.”

Mary Kay rolled her eyes like a teenager.

And Grossman spoke again. “Because of my belief, I am willing to sponsor a competition. I will offer a prize to the person who offers me a clue to the whereabouts of another statue of the Maltese Falcon. A prize of one hundred thousand dollars.”

At which point Mary Kay did more than roll her eyes. She stood up and stalked to the aft railing. She looked so angry I almost thought she was going to jump over it and swim ashore.

We left shortly after the big announcement, sharing the small boat with Mary Kay. Her eyes were still rolling in disbelief, and her voice showed her annoyance.

“I just can't believe Grossman has taken over our festival that way,” she said. “It's a good thing he didn't get too near the rail. I might have shoved him over.”

She turned to Joe. “What is the definition of a ‘mountebank,' anyway?”

“A fake? A show-off? Mary Kay, I'm no expert on vocabulary, but Lee's got a dictionary over in her office.”

“I can look it up on my smartphone,” I said. “Why are you so upset, Mary Kay?”

“This festival is about film noir as an art form. It's not a
Maltese Falcon
convention
.
I don't want people going off on a treasure hunt for some nonexistent falcon.”

Joe's voice grew thoughtful. “One hundred thousand dollars is big money.”

“The whole thing is ridiculous! You notice he didn't say he'd buy such a statue.”

“How much would it be worth?” Joe said.

Mary Kay shrugged, and I answered, “I believe one of the two known to be in existence sold several years ago for something over four million dollars.”

Joe looked astonished. “You're kidding! A movie prop?”

“Right,” I said. “It's just made of plaster or something. No jewels, no famous artist. If you found it in your attic, you might toss it out. But because it's associated with a famous film, it's worth millions.”

At the dock Tony and Joe helped me out of the boat, and we said good-bye to Mary Kay. Her back looked stiff and huffy as she walked away.

“Poor Mary Kay,” I said. “Grossman completely stole the limelight.”

Joe laughed. “Are you going to see Jeff?”

It was just six o'clock, and Warner Pier restaurants didn't fill up until seven, at least in June. We decided to grab a quick sandwich at the Sidewalk Café, one of the restaurants Joe's stepfather owned, then drive on to the hospital to see Jeff.

Over dinner I told Joe about the explorations Aunt Nettie and I had made that afternoon, including the Valk-Falcone connection.

“Hogan may be able to figure out how it fits together,” Joe said. “He knows the right people to talk to. But between the names and the nearness to the site of Jeff's accident, the Valk people are definitely due some questions.”

“I hope Jeff has remembered everything and can give us some explanation of why the heck he climbed into our attic,” I said. “That's the most peculiar part to me.”

When we got to the hospital we found Jeff's room completely
quiet. Jeff was sleeping, or at least dozing, and Tess was reading a paperback book she had bought in the hospital gift shop. The scene was almost domestic.

When we opened the door, she put a finger to her lips, then went outside with us.

“The doctor is saying Jeff still needs to be very quiet,” she said. “He wants to keep him here for another day or two.”

“Has Jeff remembered anything?” I asked.

“Not really. He says he has a vague recollection of branches flying around—I guess that was the wreck. And he remembers being frightened. He keeps saying ‘I was scared' and ‘There was some crazy guy.' But how this fits in with climbing into your attic . . .” She shrugged. “I don't understand it.”

“Jeff must have been hiding from someone,” Joe said. “Or at least he thought he was hiding from someone. That's the only explanation I can think of. We can only hope he remembers who it was, but we have to accept the fact that he may not.”

We sat in Jeff's room for a while, murmuring at one another in voices we hoped wouldn't wake him. I let Tess examine the falcon Grossman had given me; then I slipped it back on. I was glad to see a burly guy in the waiting area across the hall—another off-duty cop. He looked in several times to give us a thumbs-up sign.

After about an hour Tess agreed to come home with us, and we got up to leave. As I leaned over Jeff to say good night in a motherly way, the dangling black plastic falcon bumped into his cheek.

To my surprise, he opened his eyes. But he didn't look at me. He looked at the falcon.

“I thought Tess would like it,” he said.

Then he closed his eyes and apparently went to sleep again.

“Jeff!” After giving that yelp, I resisted the temptation to shake him. I might break his brain loose or something. But Joe, Tess, and I stood out in the hall and buzzed about his words.

Jeff had obviously recognized the falcon. Did this link him to Grossman? We all walked out of the hospital shaking our heads.

We stopped at a Holland restaurant and fed Tess. Then we all headed back to Warner Pier, with Joe and me in the truck, and Tess following us. By then it was getting dark, and it was one of those cool nights west Michigan can have in June. As a Texan, I loved 'em. Texas has cool nights, too, of course. But they come in March and April.

When I looked back to make sure Tess' headlights were behind us, I saw a plastic bag in the truck's backseat.

“Oh, rats!” I said. “Jeff's dirty clothes are still here. Don't let me forget to take them into the house.”

Tess' little red Ford was still following us when we drove down the sandy lane that served as our driveway. We all went to the back door.

Joe paused as he put his key in the lock. “Did you bring Jeff's clothes?”

I held up the hospital bag. “I'll get on it tonight.”

True to my intention, as soon as I got inside I took the plastic bag to the laundry area located in our back hall. I opened the washing machine and began to put things in it. I tossed Jeff's underwear and socks in the machine and laid the boat shoes aside. Then I looked the polo shirt over. It was, naturally, the one Jeff had been wearing when he came by my office and when
he was in the wreck. It was rather stained. I wondered idly if Hogan would want the lab guys to look it over before I washed it. I decided I'd better ask him, so I laid the shirt aside as well. Which meant the khaki pants might also need a check. I started to put them aside, but first I decided to look in the pockets.

I pulled out a handkerchief. Jeff actually had a handkerchief? He really had grown up. A key. The one to our house. Thank goodness. Plus, now we could feel sure of how Jeff got in. I found a handful of change and some mints.

The final item in the final pocket was a small paper sack. It held something lumpy.

Tess had come into the room behind me. “What's that?” she asked.

I peeked inside the sack. “All I see is tissue paper,” I said.

I pulled the paper out. It was, of course, wrapped around the lumpy item. I unwrapped it, turning it over and over until I got to the core.

It was a small black object. It had a metal loop on the top and a black satin ribbon had been strung through that loop.

I held it up by the ribbon, and Tess gave a little gasp.

“Well, Tess,” I said, “Jeff said he thought you'd like a falcon. I guess he got you one.”

The falcon, just an inch high, appeared to be identical to the one Grossman had given me, except for its eyes. My falcon had tiny rhinestone eyes, imitating white diamonds, but the ones in this inch-high bird were green and glittered like emeralds.

Tess frowned. “You said that Mr. Grossman told you the falcon he gave you was the first he'd given anybody.”

I nodded. “Maybe he was just trying to make me feel special.”

“But if he was telling the truth, Lee, then how did Jeff get hold of this little guy?”

Joe joined us, and we speculated. There were, of course, a thousand possible answers.

Grossman might not have been the only person to have the idea of making a miniature version of the iconic bird. The mold company might have made a different set of bird pendants for a different customer. Or a different company or craftsman might have made one. The two birds were quite similar, but it would take an expert to say they were made from the same mold.

Finally Joe shrugged. “We'll just have to hope that Jeff remembers,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound firm. “Sorry, Tess, but I'm afraid you shouldn't wear this yet. We'll put this in a safe place, in case it's evidence.”

“You're right,” she said. “This whole thing is crazy. I guess we shouldn't even handle it, in case there's a fingerprint.”

Joe launched into a spiel he gave now and then. As a defense attorney, he knew how rarely fingerprints are actually valid evidence, and he lectured Tess on this. I'd already heard the talk, so I spent my time wrapping the little bird in its original tissue paper. I then put it back in its sack and stashed it on the mantelpiece.

“I'll call Hogan about the second bird first thing in the morning,” I said. “I don't think he'd get too excited about it tonight.”

“Right,” Joe said. “And by morning maybe Jeff will remember where the heck he got the darn thing.”

“And I'm going to bed,” Tess said. “I don't know why sitting
in hospitals is so tiring, but I can remember my mom saying that was true when my grandmother died. I'm exhausted.”

“It'll be a good night for sleeping,” I said. “I love it when we have one of these cool nights in June. I think there's an extra blanket in one of the dresser drawers in your room, Tess.”

“I know it's only ten o'clock,” Joe said, “but I'm hitting the sack, too. Things have been too crazy for sleep lately.”

Tess headed toward the stairs, and I continued toward the downstairs bedroom. This put me close to the front door.

So when someone knocked on it, I jumped sky-high.

“Yikes!” I managed not to wet my pants.

Tess looked as startled as I felt. Her eyes got as wide as china plates. Even Joe stopped in his tracks and inhaled deeply. The three of us were completely immobilized, at least for a second or two.

Then we all laughed nervously. I turned toward the front door, since I was closest, but I didn't touch the handle. I clenched my fists instead.

Joe spoke. “Okay, ladies. You two hide under the beds, and I'll see who's at the door.”

Tess and I each gave another nervous laugh. “No,” I said. “I'll be brave and open it.”

I hit the switch next to the front door, turning on the outside light. Then I unlocked the dead bolt and boldly threw the door open.

I was standing close enough to see that a tall man was standing on the porch. The harsh shadow thrown by the overhead light hid his face, but I could see he was holding a bundle about a foot long. He lifted his arms, shoving the bundle toward the screen door.

Then, as I watched, the man slowly tipped over backward and fell to the floor of our porch.

Joe yelled something—“Hey!” maybe—and threw the screen door open. As he rushed out he yelled over his shoulder, “Stay inside!”

I obeyed, though I moved close to the screen door. Tess closed in beside me, probably peering out under my arm.

“What's wrong with him?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Joe said, “but you'd better call nine-one-one.”

I hobbled into the kitchen to reach the nearest phone. With the call made, I rushed back to the door, still holding the phone, as the operator instructed.

This time I eased past Tess and went outside. I stood over Joe and repeated my question. “What's wrong with him?” Then I saw a puddle of dark liquid oozing out from beneath the man. “Oh! That's blood! I'll get some towels.”

“There's no point,” Joe said. “I think he's stopped bleeding. I'm pretty sure he's dead.”

All available city, county, and state cops, plus the ambulance crew, arrived at top speed. Once again our neighbors gathered, and the phone rang like mad as people tried to figure out what the excitement was at the Woodyards' house. We were getting to be the talk of the town.

For a short while Joe was detailed to keep people from driving up our lane and ruining any tracks—not that sand makes finding helpful tracks very likely. A path was worn through the front yard as law enforcement came to the porch the long way round.

Tess and I were told to go into the living room and keep out of the way. We were joined by Joe after someone official arrived to relieve him from parking duty. A state cop stayed with us. She was sympathetic but didn't question or explain.

Then we sat. And we sat. And we sat.

I was shocked by the whole thing, but I also began to resent the man who'd died on my front porch. Why there? Why my house? Why couldn't he have gone quietly across the road and died without disturbing us? We already had too much going on
in our lives. We didn't need a stranger dropping dead on the porch.

I didn't feel grief, because I didn't even know who the man was. I was horrified, but he was a stranger. Although I'd had a good look at his body, I couldn't remember ever seeing him before.

So as we sat and sat and sat, all I could do was wonder who the heck the man was, and why he had picked our front porch for his demise.

The blood seemed to prove he'd died violently. But I had heard no shots. I hadn't even heard a car. I had seen no one running away brandishing a bloody knife or a club. Apparently the man had walked onto our front porch, knocked on the door, and dropped dead. I didn't know anything about who or why.

Even after Joe came in and sat with us, I didn't learn anything. He was quiet, apparently much more affected by the death of the stranger than I would have expected. I sat beside him and held his hand while he held mine, but neither of us talked much.

It was at least an hour and a half before Hogan came in and began to ask questions. Those questions were of the “What happened?” variety. We gave information, but we didn't get any.

At least our stories matched. I had discovered the falcon necklace in Jeff's pocket. Joe, Tess, and I had examined it and had stuck it on the mantelpiece, planning to tell Hogan about it the next morning. We had then headed for bed, even though it wasn't terribly late—between ten and eleven. There had been a knock at the front door. I had answered it. The man had fallen over backward on the porch. Kerthump. Dead.

But when Hogan's questions paused, I seized the chance to ask one of my own. “Have you found out who he was?”

Hogan and Joe both stared at me. Hogan echoed my question. “Who he was?”

“Yes. A complete stranger came up on our porch and fell over dead. Who was he? Why did he come here?”

Joe gave a little cough of amazement. “Oh. You didn't meet him, did you?”

“No! Should I have? Did you know him?”

Joe leaned forward. “I'm sorry, Lee. I thought I introduced you to him.”

“Joe! Who was he?”

Hogan answered, “Jake Jacobs. He was the captain of
La Paloma
.”

It took me some time to take that in, and I spent that time staring at Joe and Hogan incredulously.

It was Tess who spoke the words I was thinking. “Oh no!” she said. “That's too squirrelly! Just like the book!”

Then it was time for Hogan and Joe to look amazed, since neither of them had read “the book.”

Tess and I explained. In one dramatic scene of
The Maltese Falcon
, the detective, Sam Spade, hears a knock at the door of his office. When he opens the door, a dead man falls in. And the man turns out to be the captain of the fictional ship
La Paloma
.

“It's freaky!” Tess said. “Someone's trying to copy the events of the book.”

Joe gave a whistle of surprise. Hogan thought things over for a minute or so, as was his habit, and I resisted the impulse to tell him what to do next. Question Grossman, I wanted to say. The dead man worked for him. Grossman was an authority on
The Maltese Falcon.
Finding out what he knew was at the top
of my list of important questions. Of course, I was sure it was already at the top of Hogan's as well.

When he spoke I saw that I had been right. “Alec Van Dam is rousting Grossman out for questioning right now,” he said.

Alec Van Dam was a detective with the Michigan State Police. He and Hogan had worked together on several cases. The state police were charged with helping small jurisdictions—such as Warner Pier—with crime investigations. For example, their mobile crime laboratory was in our drive right at that moment, and their technicians were doing whatever lab work needed to be done.

Hogan stood up. Apparently he was through with us. He said he would leave a patrolman in the drive overnight, and a state cop would probably be there, too.

“We'll leave the outside lights on,” Joe said.

“The sun will be up in an hour or so,” I said. I was exhausted. It was now nearly two a.m. And the sun rises early in Michigan in June.

Tess assured us she was too tired to be nervous about sleeping upstairs with the rest of the household downstairs, and we all went to bed. Once my head was on the pillow, however, I was wide-awake.

Joe still looked upset and concerned. He was holding papers he'd brought home from his office, but he was obviously as wide-awake as I was.

So I began to quiz him. “Did you meet this Captain Jacobs for the first time tonight? At the party on the yacht?”

“Yes. He seemed to be a real expert on Great Lakes yachting, as well as on boats the size of
La Paloma
in general. I enjoyed talking to him. And I wanted to introduce him to you.”

I scooted over in bed, dragging along my sprained ankle in its boot. Joe put his arm around me.

“I'm sorry about what happened to him, Joe. He must have been a nice guy.”

“He was pleasant to meet at least. I only talked to him for ten or fifteen minutes. But I stood around and listened while he answered questions for other people. He was knowledgeable—just the kind of guy I'd want as a captain if I owned a yacht like Grossman's.”

“Do you think he came here to see you?”

Joe used his free hand to rub his forehead. “I hope not, Lee. But I can't imagine any other reason he might have come.”

“Can you think of any reason he would have wanted to see you in particular?”

“No! It's crazy. All he and I talked about was
La Paloma
—you know, her size, her equipment, the course he'd taken to bring her out from Lake Erie. There was nothing that might have brought him out here to be shot.”

“Shot? Is that what happened to him?”

“I was eavesdropping when the ME made a guess at the cause of death. He thought that was it.”

“Then maybe he came for help, Joe. Not to see you.”

“That would be even crazier, Lee. I didn't tell him my address. I can't picture him just wandering around on Lake Shore Drive, just happening to get shot, and just happening to stumble onto the porch of one of the few people he had met since he arrived in town.”

“Yes, that would be hard to believe.”

I gave Joe a snuggle, and he buried his head in my neck. We lay there holding each other. I felt really glad that I was married
to someone who would take it hard because a casual acquaintance was attacked, someone who worried about why things happened.

Our comforting snuggles continued. Then Joe spoke. “You sure know how to get my mind off my worries.”

“You make me feel happier, too.”

More snuggling went on, and Joe spoke again. “Just don't kick me with that boot.”

“You know I can take it off for showers. And other important occasions. As long as I don't put weight on the foot.”

Quite a while went by before we got back to the topic of Captain Jake Jacobs and why on earth he decided to die on our front porch. By then I was back in my boot, and Joe had tossed his papers on the floor.

In fact, our conversation had stopped. I think I was having dozy dreams about
The Maltese Falcon.
At least Humphrey Bogart seemed to be opening the bedroom door and handing in an odd-shaped package covered in brown paper and crisscrossed with string.

That's odd,
my subconscious told my conscious self.
What can be in that package?

My eyes flew open, and I yelped, “Joe!”

Apparently he'd been dozing off, too, because my sudden exclamation made him jump all over.

“What? What!” He sat up, apparently as startled as if he'd seen Bogart as clearly as I had.

“Joe! What was in that package?”

“Package?”

“The one Captain Jacobs was holding when he fell over. You were outside when Hogan got there. I'm sure he looked at that package. What was in it?”

Joe lay down. “I'm never going to get any sleep tonight.”

“Well, thanks a lot.”

“I'm not complaining. You're better than sleep any day. Or night.” He pulled me over and kissed me.

“Okay, okay. But the package . . . I'm not going to get any sleep until I know what was in it.”

“Lee, what package are you talking about? I don't remember seeing a package.”