The Chocolate Jewel Case: A Chocoholic Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

I went out the front door and down the sandy drive to the mailbox. I gathered up a handful of junk mail and was looking it over as I came back. When I reached the front walk, I realized that Pete was in the screened-in section of the porch, the section where his sleeping bag and his canvas carryall were stowed, kneeling beside his belongings.
    I stepped onto the porch, still looking atthe mail in my hand. The Democratic National Committee? How did I get on that mailing list? I studied the envelope. Then I looked up.
    I found myself staring into the screened-in porch, my eyes focused on whatever Pete was doing with his carryall.
    It took me a second to realize he was tucking a pistol inside.

Chapter 4

    A t that moment I was so astonished that I could easily have gasped and fallen into a swoon with the back of my hand to my head, like the heroine of one of Gina’s romantic novels. But apparently I didn’t. I think Iquickly dropped my eyes back to my mail and pretended I hadn’t noticed the pistol. I almost acted as if I’d accidentally caught Pete with his pants down and was trying not to embarrass either of us.
    I went on into the house, put the mail on the mantelpiece where Joe would see it, took the stack of books from Gina, thanked Brenda and Tracy for cleaning up, and went back out the front door. Joeand I had borrowed extra parking space from the Baileys—they were visiting a new grandchild in California—so my van was in their carport, and I had to walk down a little sandy road that led through a patch of woods to get to my transportation.
    Pete was standing on the screened-in porch, holding his binoculars. He looked at me challengingly as I went past. I had decided that I didn’t expect Peteto shoot the place up, and I didn’t feel that I could question Joe’s friend. So I went by him with nothing more to say than, “See you later.”
    I might not want to talk to Pete, but I sure was piling up things to talk to Joe about—if I ever found him.
    As I came out at the Baileys’ house, I heard the yip of a dog. Our newish neighbor, Harold Glick, and Alice, his blond mutt, were walking towardme along the Baileys’ drive. Harold was leasing Inez Deacon’s house, about a quarter of a mile south on Lake Shore Drive. Inez, an old friend of Aunt Nettie’s and of mine, was now living in a retirement center, but she wasn’t quite ready to sell her house, so her daughter had found her a renter. Harold had moved there in February.
    Harold seemed to be a pleasant enough guy. He wasn’t old enoughfor retiree activities, though he didn’t work, and he didn’t have enough friends and family to keep him occupied. He seemed lonesome, and I tried to be neighborly to him, but he was the most boring man I’d ever met. I guessed his age at around fifty. He was a short scrawny guy with thin gray hair.
    He spent a lot of time with Alice. When I got a minute to walk on the beach, it was likely thatI’d meet the two of them there, but this was the first time I’d seen him on our road. His presence raised my eyebrows. Our road isn’t really public.
    The Baileys’ drive exits onto Eighty-eighth Street, a side road that turns east off of Lake Shore Drive. The lane we share with the Baileys—as I say, we’re in a semirural part of Warner Pier—is actually our drive plus the Baileys’ drive linked byan extra bit of sandy roadway Uncle Phil and Charlie Bailey put in. It sometimes makes a convenient way to come and go, in case a truck is blocking one of the driveways, for example. But it’s private property, not a Warner Pier street.
    Alice barked again, and Harold shushed her. Then he spoke. “Hi, Lee. Is it hot enough for you?”
    “Much too hot for me, Harold.”
    “But you’re a Texan. I guessyou’re used to heat.”
    “Texas is air-conditioned! We don’t put up with this kind of heat without a fight. And we certainly don’t try to live with this kind of humidity without doing something about it.”
    Before I