The Chocolate Mouse Trap (15 page)

“Oh, it’s all right. All our friends know. She caused Ross some problems.”

Ross. Jason’s partner. “Oh,” I said. “I’ve never met Ross.”

“He’s a good guy. We’ve been together for five years, you know, but Ross was married for fifteen. He has grown kids. Ross’s dad is an old military type, a retired sergeant. He’s in a nursing home in Holland, barely creeps around with a walker. He’s never confronted Ross’s lifestyle—and there’s no reason he has to. When Ross and I moved in together, Ross’s dad just acted as if we were saving money. Oh, I’m sure he realized the situation wasn’t just platonic, but nothing has ever been said.

“Then Julie showed up, one day when we were out at the nursing home. She needed to give me something, and it was a handy place to meet. She was damn sweet and gracious to Ross’s dad. I was appreciating her nice attitude, when she makes some remark about her ambition to plan ‘a lovely wedding for Ross and Jason.’ ”

“Oh, no!”

“Ross’s dad—the poor old guy got tears in his eyes. He and Ross have had their problems over the years, but things are at least on an even keel between them now, and we don’t want to have any kind of confrontation—with the sergeant’s health being so bad. When I objected, she lectured me about confronting my problems, about being honest.”

“That was rude!”

Jason took a deep breath. “I know this isn’t a smart thing to say, considering recent events, but right at that moment I could have killed Julie. But I got over it.”

Jason and I said a few more words, and I hung up. That Julie. Thoughtless. Yes, Jason had used the right word for her. And I thought I was nosy; I wasn’t in the running compared to her. I went back to Joe and Aunt Nettie shaking my head.

I wondered what Martin Schrader would have to say about Julie when I met him for lunch the next day.

J
oe and I made our official statements on Carolyn’s death the next morning. I think Hogan had been meeting with the Holland detectives until late the previous night. I know law enforcement had been busy.

Other than that, the morning was routine—or as routine as a chocolate business can be three weeks before Valentine’s Day. I had nothing more to cope with than a dozen last-minute orders for multiple fancy holiday pieces—delivery ASAP—and walk-in customers. Dolly Jolly took care of a lot of the counter business for me. I could hear her voice boom. “A quarter-pound box of raspberry cream bonbons! And a half-pound of assorted truffles and bonbons! One minute!”

Only one e-mail showed up that was unrelated to the holiday, but that one seemed significant. The Seventh Major Food Group was revived.

A message came from Jason. “I had a call from Vince Veldkamp,” Jason wrote. “He’s run Veldkamp Used Food Equipment and Supply forever, but now he says he’s selling out and retiring. All his inventory is going on the block. If anybody’s interested, he says we can have a sneak preview Friday night at the Holland store. Lee, he says he’s got a cooling tunnel and some other stuff left over from the closeout of Vanderkool’s Chocolate. And Lindy, is Mike still looking for a freezer for Herrera’s? Vince has one that sounds good.”

I checked with Aunt Nettie and e-mailed back that we would definitely be interested in the cooling tunnel if the price was right. Aunt Nettie would also be interested in work tables and storage racks.

I found Jason’s message comforting. It seemed to be a symbol that—someday—life would return to normal. The Seventh Food Group would go back to discussing professional concerns, instead of worrying about all of us getting killed. It made Dolly’s calls to customers seem comforting as well. I reminded myself that TenHuis Chocolade was having a good Valentine season. Aunt Nettie and I had worked hard to get the business back on a firm financial footing, and it was comforting to know we’d made it, at least for the moment.

I needed that comfort when I thought about my planned lunch with Martin Schrader. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I hadn’t dressed in my black pants suit with the severe silk shirt and the heavy boots—I’d settled for brown flannel slacks and a sage green turtleneck—but I’d felt like wearing an intimidating outfit. Big business types like Uncle Martin can overawe me, and I didn’t want to be trampled underfoot. I didn’t understand why Martin wanted to talk to me; I only knew it was likely to be touchy, since it would concern his murdered niece.

The day was crisp and sunny, so at one o’clock the half-block walk down to the Sidewalk Café gave me a nice breath of fresh air. The Sidewalk Café’s decor is a pun. Although it does have an outdoor dining area—closed in January, of course—that’s not the reason for the restaurant’s name. The café is designed to look like a sidewalk. Sidewalk toys—roller skates, tricycles, jump ropes, scooters—are hung on the walls. The floor is cement and is painted with designs that copy childish graffiti and hopscotch layouts. The restaurant is lighthearted, and the sandwiches, soups, and salads on the lunch menu are good.

When I came in, Mike Herrera greeted me. In his combined roles as my best friend’s father-in-law, my boyfriend’s mother’s boyfriend, my boyfriend’s boss, and the mayor of the town I live in, Mike has plenty of personal impact on my life. He’s also the only other native of Texas I’ve identified as living in Warner Pier. He grew up in Denton, just north of Dallas.

Mike made himself a successful businessman the old-fashioned way; he worked day and night for years, and he’s still not too good to bus tables or fry bacon if that’s what needs doing in one of his three restaurants. He’s an attractive man—a sort of heavyset Latin lover.

“Hi, Lee,” Mike said. “You getting a sandwich to go or can I entice you into a real lunch?”

“I’m meeting Martin Schrader for lunch, Mike. Has he come in yet?”

Mike waggled an eyebrow to show he was about to make a joke. “Does Joe know about this?”

“Joe was invited along, but declined. Martin wants to talk to me about his niece.”

“I’ll give you the quiet corner.” Mike grabbed a couple of menus and led me toward the back of the restaurant. “I want to talk to Martin Schrader myself, but maybe this isn’t a good time.”

“What do you want to talk to him about?”

“His mother’s property. It’s so close to Warner Pier that the city planning commission has begun to wonder what’s going to happen to it after Mrs. Schrader passes on.”

“You’re on your own with that topic, Mike. I couldn’t possibly bring it up.”

“I can do my own political dirty work. How about a drink? Mimosa?”

“Have you got any real Texas iced tea?”

“I’ll make you some.”

There are wonderful cooks and restaurants in Michigan, but rarely do they understand iced tea. For one thing, they think it’s only a hot weather drink. We Texans see it as standard fare year-round.

There are other differences. Iced tea cannot be made from mix as it almost always is in Michigan restaurants; it must be brewed from real tea. And it can’t be served over a couple of anemic ice cubes. It has to be poured over a whole glass of ice cubes or cracked ice. The sugar and lemon are optional—at least in my part of Texas. This differs from the deep South. There, I understand, people want “sweet tea,” which requires that the hot tea be poured over sugar, so that it dissolves thoroughly. Sweet tea is a fine drink, but I’m satisfied with the unsweetened version. If there is a lemon, however, it should be cut into a wedge, not a disk.

There are a lot of nuances to iced tea. Sometimes I think Mike and I are the only two people in Warner Pier who understand the drink.

Mike had just served me a tall, refreshing glass when I looked through the big front window of the Sidewalk Café and saw Martin Schrader get out of a large dark sedan. He stood bent over, looking back into the car for a few seconds, obviously saying good-bye. Then he slammed the door, and I caught a glimpse of a logo—black and white with a red wingshaped thing sticking up—but I couldn’t read the writing underneath. Martin swung around and came into the restaurant, unzipping his down jacket. He paused near the door, obviously trying to adjust his eyes to the change in light level, and Mike appeared from the kitchen and led him back to the corner table.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Martin said. “My meeting ran a little longer than I expected.”

“That’s quite all right. It gave Mike time to make me some Texas tea.”

Martin looked puzzled. “I thought Texas tea was slang for oil.”

“It may be. But to Texans like Mike and me, it merely means well-brewed, properly iced tea.”

Martin promptly proved himself a real Michiganian. He shivered. “Too cold for iced tea,” he said. “Though I could use a Bloody Mary.”

I refrained from remarking that a Bloody Mary was just as cold as a glass of iced tea. Martin ordered one; then he and I chitchatted idly while we selected and ordered our lunches. I went with the vegetable soup and cheese biscuits special, and Martin ordered a bleu cheese burger with a side of fries.

Then silence fell, and so did my stomach. We’d put off talking about Julie as long as possible.

We both spoke at once.

“About Julie—” I said.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me—” Martin said.

Then, of course, we had to stop and do the politeness thing—“You first.” “No, you first.”—before I prompted Martin. “You said you want to talk about Julie. Unfortunately, I don’t really know a lot about her. As I told you, I didn’t even know she’d been married.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Oh, Brad mentioned it.”

Martin’s eyes opened wide. “Brad? At the funeral?”

Whoops. I’d forgotten Brad had asked me not to tell Martin that he’d been by my office. “Oh, I ran into Brad one day in Warner Pier.”

I raced on, trying to change the subject. “Anyway, Brad didn’t say much about Julie’s marriage. But after you gave me his name, I looked Seth Blackman up on the Internet, and it sounds as if he’s a real jerk. I can understand Julie not wanting to talk about him. But she didn’t talk about anything else personal either—at least with the Seventh Major Food Group. Have you tried her other friends?”

Martin sipped his Bloody Mary before he answered. “That’s one of the things that bothered me about Julie. She had practically become a recluse.”

“She seemed to be getting some business.”

“Yes, she made the rounds of restaurants and caterers. But she didn’t get out socially. No dates. No movies with her friends.”

“Did you try Margaret Van Meter? Apparently Julie used to go by and see her.”

Martin pulled out his pocket calendar and wrote Margaret’s name down, then promised to call her.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been any help to you,” I said. “What I know about Julie is not worth lunch.”

“Oh, I haven’t asked you the real question.” He took another gulp of Bloody Mary. He was apparently having trouble asking that “real” question. I tried to put an expectant look on my face, and he finally spoke.

“Did Julie ever indicate that she was afraid of anything? Of anybody?”

I thought about it. Then I shook my head. “No, I don’t recall her saying or doing anything that indicated she was afraid. Does that mean you’re not buying the theory that Julie was killed by a burglar?”

“I’m not saying that idea is wrong. It just seems—well—dumb to assume that that’s the case. I wouldn’t want to see the police consider that as the only possibility.”

“If they had that idea, it seems as if the killing of Carolyn would bring that theory into question.”

Our food came then, and Martin didn’t answer until he’d taken a bite of hamburger. “I talked to the Holland detectives this morning. They’re not sharing their ideas with me. But if I could have something specific to tell them, some incident, some remark Julie had made—well, it might point them in a different direction.”

“Brad and Julie seemed to be in contact fairly often. I assume you’ve asked him.”

Martin’s eyes flickered toward me; then he dropped them and concentrated on his French fries. “Brad didn’t have anything to say about it.”

“We could look Julie’s e-mails over,” I said.

“You still have them?”

“Oh, yes. I’m notorious for not cleaning out my delete file for months at a time. I’m sure everything I’ve ever had from Julie is still in there. You’re welcome to look at it.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

I laughed. “You didn’t need to give me lunch to get a look at my delete file. I assure you there are no secrets in it. Just a bunch of chocolate orders and the occasional note from my mother. A phone call would have done the trick.”

Martin responded gallantly, lifting his Bloody Mary glass. “But this is extremely pleasant. I’m enjoying getting acquainted.”

I smiled. “I do have one nosy question I’d like to ask, however. Did you ever find Julie’s mouse?”

“No! It’s never turned up. How did you know about the mouse?”