Read Online The Chocolate Moose Motive: A Chocoholic Mystery by JoAnna Carl - Free Book Online
Authors: JoAnna Carl
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hadn’t heard that one!”
“People always come up with creative stories about anybodywho doesn’t fit the mold. And I broke the mold a lot of years ago. Do you still have time for coffee?”
“Sure.”
She led the way to the larger of the two rustic houses, the one with the ell. We entered through a large mudroom that any rural Michigan homeowner would have loved to have. It had a sink for washing dirty hands and muddy boots, a big rubber tray for draining boots, and hooks along the wall for coats. A door led into the kitchen. Beyond that, the living room was visible through a large pass-through.
And way at the end of the living room, hanging on a giant stone fireplace and chimney, was the head of an enormous moose.
I followed Wildflower through the kitchen and realized the living room must be in the ell extension to the house. It was a room about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide.
The stone fireplace and chimney were beautiful. They were made of light-colored stone, hewn into blocks and laid in an intricate pattern. But the moose head was so gigantic, it dominated the room.
“I thought you didn’t do large animals,” I said.
“The moose is not my handiwork. It was here when I moved in. A previous owner shot it in Canada. It was pioneer days the last time anybody shot a moose in Michigan.”
I knew that Michigan has moose on the Upper Peninsula, but they are protected from hunting.
“I guess the moose head inspired my craft,” Wildflower said.
“Oh?”
“When I moved out here nearly fifty years ago with a group of friends, we thought the moose was amusing. One of the girls painted the Moose Lodge sign, and the guys hung the headover the fireplace. After a few years, the thing began to need demothing. I visited a taxidermist to find out how to fix it up myself. I wound up doing a sort of apprenticeship with him. And here I am. The five-thousand-year-old taxidermist.” She waved at a couch. “Have a seat.”
Wildflower had kept moving as she talked, walking back into the kitchen. Now she was pouring coffee from an electric pot. “Do you take cream?”
I declined and sat down on a long couch at right angles to the fireplace. It was covered with what a decorator would call “throws” and what Aunt Nettie referred to as “afghans.” There were three or four of the knitted blankets in wild colors and crazy patterns. They looked perfect in the rustic setting.
All the room’s furniture matched the décor of the house. The legs of the end tables were made of branches. A buffalo-skin rug was stretched in front of the fireplace.
“What a comfortable room,” I said.
“We like it.” Wildflower sat down in a rocking chair that looked as if it had been made from sticks someone found in the woods. She leaned back and sipped her coffee. Then she spoke.
“Well. Do you think you can figure out who killed Buzz?”
Chapter 7
I’m surprised I didn’t slop coffee all over the afghans.
Instead, I simply stared at her. But she must have known I was startled when I replied to her question.
“I don’t intend to fry,” I said. “I mean, try! I couldn’t figure out who killed anybody. That’s a job for the authorities.”
“I don’t trust the authorities.” Wildflower shrugged. “I guess I never have trusted authorities of any sort. And that sheriff thinks Sissy killed Buzz.”
“Hogan Jones doesn’t think that.” I knew Wildflower would know that my aunt was married to the police chief; she didn’t live in Warner Pier, but she got her mail there.
Wildflower didn’t reply right away. She let the silence grow before she spoke.
“This is the room where Buzz was found,” she said. “He was lying in front of the fireplace.”
“It must have been awful.”
Wildflower shrugged. “I put down a different rug. The authorities kept the old one. But Sissy and I decided we’d better keep using the room. We thought that would recapture the atmosphere it always had.”
“I’m sure
“People always come up with creative stories about anybodywho doesn’t fit the mold. And I broke the mold a lot of years ago. Do you still have time for coffee?”
“Sure.”
She led the way to the larger of the two rustic houses, the one with the ell. We entered through a large mudroom that any rural Michigan homeowner would have loved to have. It had a sink for washing dirty hands and muddy boots, a big rubber tray for draining boots, and hooks along the wall for coats. A door led into the kitchen. Beyond that, the living room was visible through a large pass-through.
And way at the end of the living room, hanging on a giant stone fireplace and chimney, was the head of an enormous moose.
I followed Wildflower through the kitchen and realized the living room must be in the ell extension to the house. It was a room about thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide.
The stone fireplace and chimney were beautiful. They were made of light-colored stone, hewn into blocks and laid in an intricate pattern. But the moose head was so gigantic, it dominated the room.
“I thought you didn’t do large animals,” I said.
“The moose is not my handiwork. It was here when I moved in. A previous owner shot it in Canada. It was pioneer days the last time anybody shot a moose in Michigan.”
I knew that Michigan has moose on the Upper Peninsula, but they are protected from hunting.
“I guess the moose head inspired my craft,” Wildflower said.
“Oh?”
“When I moved out here nearly fifty years ago with a group of friends, we thought the moose was amusing. One of the girls painted the Moose Lodge sign, and the guys hung the headover the fireplace. After a few years, the thing began to need demothing. I visited a taxidermist to find out how to fix it up myself. I wound up doing a sort of apprenticeship with him. And here I am. The five-thousand-year-old taxidermist.” She waved at a couch. “Have a seat.”
Wildflower had kept moving as she talked, walking back into the kitchen. Now she was pouring coffee from an electric pot. “Do you take cream?”
I declined and sat down on a long couch at right angles to the fireplace. It was covered with what a decorator would call “throws” and what Aunt Nettie referred to as “afghans.” There were three or four of the knitted blankets in wild colors and crazy patterns. They looked perfect in the rustic setting.
All the room’s furniture matched the décor of the house. The legs of the end tables were made of branches. A buffalo-skin rug was stretched in front of the fireplace.
“What a comfortable room,” I said.
“We like it.” Wildflower sat down in a rocking chair that looked as if it had been made from sticks someone found in the woods. She leaned back and sipped her coffee. Then she spoke.
“Well. Do you think you can figure out who killed Buzz?”
Chapter 7
I’m surprised I didn’t slop coffee all over the afghans.
Instead, I simply stared at her. But she must have known I was startled when I replied to her question.
“I don’t intend to fry,” I said. “I mean, try! I couldn’t figure out who killed anybody. That’s a job for the authorities.”
“I don’t trust the authorities.” Wildflower shrugged. “I guess I never have trusted authorities of any sort. And that sheriff thinks Sissy killed Buzz.”
“Hogan Jones doesn’t think that.” I knew Wildflower would know that my aunt was married to the police chief; she didn’t live in Warner Pier, but she got her mail there.
Wildflower didn’t reply right away. She let the silence grow before she spoke.
“This is the room where Buzz was found,” she said. “He was lying in front of the fireplace.”
“It must have been awful.”
Wildflower shrugged. “I put down a different rug. The authorities kept the old one. But Sissy and I decided we’d better keep using the room. We thought that would recapture the atmosphere it always had.”
“I’m sure
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