detectives.
I was nervous about the interview, of course. I reminded myself to stand quietly and pretend to be poised—a lesson I was taught during my semisuccessful career on the beauty pageant circuit. Don’t twitch your hands, I’d been told. Don’t fool with your hair or jewelry. Don’t bounce your foot or pick at your nails.
Don’t twist your tongue—that wasn’t on the list, but it was the one I had the most trouble with. As I loaded boxes with chocolates and made change I tried to prepare answers for every question the detectives might ask, all the time knowing that was probably the worst thing I could do. But I was willing to look dumb—I had to be ready to fight for Aunt Nettie, even with my malapropish tongue.
I stayed in the shop, but I saw Aunt Nettie lead the detectives out of the break room. She showed them the workroom and the storage area, where racks on wheels held stacks of twenty-five trays of chocolates at a time. No doubt she described the routine of the middle-aged ladies who made the candy, the ones who had gone home at four p.m. She wheeled out a rack that held storage trays, then pulled out the tray on which the Amaretto truffles were stored. She pointed out the white chocolate that covered them and the accent stripes of milk chocolate that identified the Amaretto truffles. Then she took an Amaretto truffle from the tray, gave the detectives a rather defiant look, and ate it in two bites.
Of course, I was way ahead of the detectives in one way. They were still checking how the chocolate had been handled here at TenHuis Chocolade. I was sure those truffles had been pure, unadulterated yummy when Aunt Nettie gave them to me. If one of them had been used to poison Clementine Ripley, it had been given the cyanide treatment after I left it at the big, cold house on the point.
When my turn came, I went over the same material. I described how I had watched Aunt Nettie arrange the chocolates and dipped fruits on the silver trays that Clementine Ripley had sent us and how I had tasted an Amaretto truffle. How they’d gone into the van. How I’d left the van locked while I walked around to the house to pick up a check. How Clementine Ripley had taken a chocolate cat, gulped it down in two bites, then instructed Marion McCoy to take the box up to her room.
I was careful to include the exchange we’d overheard between Joe Woodyard and his ex—“I want my money.” Frankly, VanDam and Underwood didn’t seem too interested. I guess they’d already heard about that, maybe from Joe.
Then I explained why I happened to go back that night as a waitress.
“You can ask Lindy Herrera,” I said. “She suggested it.”
“We’ll talk to her,” VanDam said. “Did you see the little box of chocolates after you went back?”
“No.”
“And you stayed in the kitchen, the dining room, and the reception room?”
“Except when I went down to the office.”
“You went down to the office? That room back by the garage?”
“I didn’t see a garage, but there was a utility room across the hall. It’s at the east end of the house.”
“And why did you go back there?”
“The cat, Junker. I mean, Yonkers! Champion Yonkers. Ms. McCoy was trying to find him. She said they planned to lock him in the office. After she’d gone, he showed up out in the main party room—jumped onto the bartender from the balcony, then tried to eat a bowl of olives. I grabbed him and took him back to the office.”
“How did you know where it was?”
“I figured it was the same one she’d taken me to that afternoon, so I kept going east until I found a familiar landlord. I mean, landmark! When I saw the utility room, I turned left.”
“You didn’t see the chocolates in the office?”
“Not then. They should have been upstairs with Clementine Ripley by then.”
He didn’t ask me what I did see in the office, and I wasn’t about to volunteer any information. We went over the rest of the events—my walk
I was nervous about the interview, of course. I reminded myself to stand quietly and pretend to be poised—a lesson I was taught during my semisuccessful career on the beauty pageant circuit. Don’t twitch your hands, I’d been told. Don’t fool with your hair or jewelry. Don’t bounce your foot or pick at your nails.
Don’t twist your tongue—that wasn’t on the list, but it was the one I had the most trouble with. As I loaded boxes with chocolates and made change I tried to prepare answers for every question the detectives might ask, all the time knowing that was probably the worst thing I could do. But I was willing to look dumb—I had to be ready to fight for Aunt Nettie, even with my malapropish tongue.
I stayed in the shop, but I saw Aunt Nettie lead the detectives out of the break room. She showed them the workroom and the storage area, where racks on wheels held stacks of twenty-five trays of chocolates at a time. No doubt she described the routine of the middle-aged ladies who made the candy, the ones who had gone home at four p.m. She wheeled out a rack that held storage trays, then pulled out the tray on which the Amaretto truffles were stored. She pointed out the white chocolate that covered them and the accent stripes of milk chocolate that identified the Amaretto truffles. Then she took an Amaretto truffle from the tray, gave the detectives a rather defiant look, and ate it in two bites.
Of course, I was way ahead of the detectives in one way. They were still checking how the chocolate had been handled here at TenHuis Chocolade. I was sure those truffles had been pure, unadulterated yummy when Aunt Nettie gave them to me. If one of them had been used to poison Clementine Ripley, it had been given the cyanide treatment after I left it at the big, cold house on the point.
When my turn came, I went over the same material. I described how I had watched Aunt Nettie arrange the chocolates and dipped fruits on the silver trays that Clementine Ripley had sent us and how I had tasted an Amaretto truffle. How they’d gone into the van. How I’d left the van locked while I walked around to the house to pick up a check. How Clementine Ripley had taken a chocolate cat, gulped it down in two bites, then instructed Marion McCoy to take the box up to her room.
I was careful to include the exchange we’d overheard between Joe Woodyard and his ex—“I want my money.” Frankly, VanDam and Underwood didn’t seem too interested. I guess they’d already heard about that, maybe from Joe.
Then I explained why I happened to go back that night as a waitress.
“You can ask Lindy Herrera,” I said. “She suggested it.”
“We’ll talk to her,” VanDam said. “Did you see the little box of chocolates after you went back?”
“No.”
“And you stayed in the kitchen, the dining room, and the reception room?”
“Except when I went down to the office.”
“You went down to the office? That room back by the garage?”
“I didn’t see a garage, but there was a utility room across the hall. It’s at the east end of the house.”
“And why did you go back there?”
“The cat, Junker. I mean, Yonkers! Champion Yonkers. Ms. McCoy was trying to find him. She said they planned to lock him in the office. After she’d gone, he showed up out in the main party room—jumped onto the bartender from the balcony, then tried to eat a bowl of olives. I grabbed him and took him back to the office.”
“How did you know where it was?”
“I figured it was the same one she’d taken me to that afternoon, so I kept going east until I found a familiar landlord. I mean, landmark! When I saw the utility room, I turned left.”
“You didn’t see the chocolates in the office?”
“Not then. They should have been upstairs with Clementine Ripley by then.”
He didn’t ask me what I did see in the office, and I wasn’t about to volunteer any information. We went over the rest of the events—my walk
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