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Authors: JoAnna Carl
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the shop and greeted Aunt Nettie, commiserating with her over the break-in. Aunt Nettie kept pouring melted dark chocolate into a mold about the size of an ice-cube tray—an ice-cube tray with forty little compartments.
“I just wondered if anybody suspicious came in yesterday,” Mike said.
Aunt Nettie had apparently filed Jeff in a nonsuspicious category. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said. “The antique molds were the only thing valuable in the shop.” She turned her filled mold upside down over her work pan, and went tappity tappity tap on its edge with the flat side of her spatula while the excess chocolate drained out. She scraped the top of the mold, wielding her spatula like a conductor wields his baton. Then she flipped the mold over and slammed it onto the sheet of parchment paper that covered the worktable. Wham!
Mike jumped about a foot. Apparently he hadn’t realized that making bonbons is that noisy. The bakje molds are polycarbonate, a tough resin, and they’re hard. Whacking them onto a stainless-steel table makes a sharp crack.
“Who knew that the molds were here?” Mike said.
“Everybody who works here knew.” Aunt Nettie flipped the mold upright again, then placed it behind her, on the conveyor belt that led to the cooling tunnel. “All the Hart and VanHorn family knew. How about the retail customers, Lee?”
“We had only a few retail customers yesterday afternoon,” I said, “and none of them acted very interested in the molds. Except Timothy Hart.”
Aunt Nettie had filled another mold with more dark chocolate. She flipped it and began the same routine.
“Maybe it was just a coincidence,” Mike said. “Maybe the burglar was looking for money. Not for the molds.”
Aunt Nettie frowned, sliding her spatula over the top of the mold. Then she flipped it, and before Mike could get set, she whammed it onto the table.
Mike jumped again. “Why are you doing that, Nettie?” He’s a foodie, after all. Curious about cooking.
“I’m sorry to be so noisy, Mike, but whacking it that way keeps the bonbon shell thin and gives it an even edge. Plus, it gets rid of air bubbles.” She moved the mold over to the cooling tunnel. A dozen other bakje molds were already making their five-minute trip through the tunnel’s sixty-five-degree air.
Aunt Nettie took several bakje molds from the opposite end of the cooling tunnel. She moved to a second table, flipped the molds over and popped the little square chocolate shells out onto more parchment paper. She was already refilling one of those molds with dark chocolate, and while she worked—tappity tappity tap; swish-swish with spatula; flip mold—she talked. “You know, Mike, I don’t care what the burglar was after, but I want those molds out of here. Lee is going to call Gail and ask her to come and get them. And I’m not going to ask Olivia VanHorn’s permission to take them down.”
Wham! She whacked the bakje mold onto the table, as if emphasizing her determination.
That time Mike didn’t jump. “Mrs. VanHorn is just another Warner Pier absentee property owner. I don’t care what she thinks. But you’re still going to take part in the Teddy Bear Getaway, aren’t you?” Mike Herrera is not only Warner Pier’s political chief, he’s our biggest tourism promoter. He’d pushed hard to make sure all the merchants took part in the special winter tourism campaign.
Aunt Nettie’s magic hands kept working. “My ladies have made and hand-decorated hundreds of teddy bears. We certainly hope to sell them.” She whacked another tray onto the parchment paper.
“They’ll have to do double duty as decorations in the shop,” I said.
I guess I sounded impatient, because Mike spoke soothingly. “Oh, chocolate teddy bears will be fine decorations! I’m sorry if I sound worried, but I am. It’s just so odd—why break in here? If there’s any place in town that’s not likely to leave cash in the register, it’s y’all.”
“I just wondered if anybody suspicious came in yesterday,” Mike said.
Aunt Nettie had apparently filed Jeff in a nonsuspicious category. “I can’t think of anybody,” she said. “The antique molds were the only thing valuable in the shop.” She turned her filled mold upside down over her work pan, and went tappity tappity tap on its edge with the flat side of her spatula while the excess chocolate drained out. She scraped the top of the mold, wielding her spatula like a conductor wields his baton. Then she flipped the mold over and slammed it onto the sheet of parchment paper that covered the worktable. Wham!
Mike jumped about a foot. Apparently he hadn’t realized that making bonbons is that noisy. The bakje molds are polycarbonate, a tough resin, and they’re hard. Whacking them onto a stainless-steel table makes a sharp crack.
“Who knew that the molds were here?” Mike said.
“Everybody who works here knew.” Aunt Nettie flipped the mold upright again, then placed it behind her, on the conveyor belt that led to the cooling tunnel. “All the Hart and VanHorn family knew. How about the retail customers, Lee?”
“We had only a few retail customers yesterday afternoon,” I said, “and none of them acted very interested in the molds. Except Timothy Hart.”
Aunt Nettie had filled another mold with more dark chocolate. She flipped it and began the same routine.
“Maybe it was just a coincidence,” Mike said. “Maybe the burglar was looking for money. Not for the molds.”
Aunt Nettie frowned, sliding her spatula over the top of the mold. Then she flipped it, and before Mike could get set, she whammed it onto the table.
Mike jumped again. “Why are you doing that, Nettie?” He’s a foodie, after all. Curious about cooking.
“I’m sorry to be so noisy, Mike, but whacking it that way keeps the bonbon shell thin and gives it an even edge. Plus, it gets rid of air bubbles.” She moved the mold over to the cooling tunnel. A dozen other bakje molds were already making their five-minute trip through the tunnel’s sixty-five-degree air.
Aunt Nettie took several bakje molds from the opposite end of the cooling tunnel. She moved to a second table, flipped the molds over and popped the little square chocolate shells out onto more parchment paper. She was already refilling one of those molds with dark chocolate, and while she worked—tappity tappity tap; swish-swish with spatula; flip mold—she talked. “You know, Mike, I don’t care what the burglar was after, but I want those molds out of here. Lee is going to call Gail and ask her to come and get them. And I’m not going to ask Olivia VanHorn’s permission to take them down.”
Wham! She whacked the bakje mold onto the table, as if emphasizing her determination.
That time Mike didn’t jump. “Mrs. VanHorn is just another Warner Pier absentee property owner. I don’t care what she thinks. But you’re still going to take part in the Teddy Bear Getaway, aren’t you?” Mike Herrera is not only Warner Pier’s political chief, he’s our biggest tourism promoter. He’d pushed hard to make sure all the merchants took part in the special winter tourism campaign.
Aunt Nettie’s magic hands kept working. “My ladies have made and hand-decorated hundreds of teddy bears. We certainly hope to sell them.” She whacked another tray onto the parchment paper.
“They’ll have to do double duty as decorations in the shop,” I said.
I guess I sounded impatient, because Mike spoke soothingly. “Oh, chocolate teddy bears will be fine decorations! I’m sorry if I sound worried, but I am. It’s just so odd—why break in here? If there’s any place in town that’s not likely to leave cash in the register, it’s y’all.”
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