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I pictured Jeff injured, unconscious, bleeding. I stopped before I got to an even more frightening possibility.
    I didn’t say anything, but I realized Tess had come out of the house and was standing behind me. Her eyes were wide and frightened. I realized that she had caught the implications of Joe’s rapid exit after he checked the tracking device.
    When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Where is Joe going?”
    I tried to make myself sound brisk and unafraid. “He’s going to ask our pal Hogan—you know, the police chief married to my aunt—if that bug-finder app is working,” I said. “You know how guys are about gadgets. They want to play with it. You’ll be lucky to get either it or your cell phone back.”
    Tess declined dessert, even a hazelnut truffle that had somehow been misdecorated to look like a lemon chiffon goodie. TenHuis employees were allowed to bring the mistakes home free, and I frequently took advantage of that rule.
    She cleared the table while I loaded the dishwasher. Then we turned on the television and stared blindly at the screen. I thought about calling Alicia, but I simply couldn’t face it.
    When the phone rang an hour later, we both leaped to our feet.
    As I’d hoped, it was Joe.
    â€œAsk Tess what kind of car Jeff was driving,” he said.
    It was a new-model Lexus, which didn’t surprise me; that was the type of car Jeff’s dad would think suitable for his son.
    â€œWhite,” I said to Joe. “She says it’s white.”
    A beat went by.
    â€œJoe!” My yell might have burst his eardrum. “Did you find Jeff’s car?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œIs Jeff okay?”
    â€œThe car is empty, Lee. Jeff’s not in it.”

Chocolate Chat
    In the first Chocoholic mystery,
The Chocolate Cat Caper
, Lee and Aunt Nettie hold a press conference, where Aunt Nettie begins her statement to the reporters by saying, “We don’t make fudge.”
    That gets a laugh from the assembled members of the press. People who have been to Michigan’s resorts will understand why. Fudge is everywhere.
    Of course, the fudge-making center—of Michigan and maybe of the world—is Mackinac Island, in northern Michigan. This island, not quite four square miles, is in Lake Huron at the eastern end of the Straits of Mackinac, and it’s drawn tourists since the late 1800s. And one of the reasons they come is fudge.
    On this small island, some fifteen shops make fudge. For more than a hundred years visitors have watched as creamy chocolate is mixed, tossed, and kneaded back and forth on big marble slabs as part of informal shows. Who can resist eating some? And how can the fudge shops resist expanding into branches all across Michigan and even as far away as New England?
    Fudge is great stuff, but as Aunt Nettie says, it’s not her business. TenHuis Chocolade offers “luxury chocolates in the Dutch tradition.” Both are yummy. But they are very different styles of chocolate.

Chapter 5

    â€œHogan has called for help searching the area,” Joe said. “But there’s no sign of Jeff so far.”
    â€œWe’ll come and join the search.”
    Joe sighed. “I don’t think that would help, Lee. The sheriff has sent deputies, and they’re bringing dogs. It’s pitch-black out here. We might lose you, too.”
    â€œI guess I’d better call Alicia.”
    â€œLet us look a while longer before you do that.”
    Aunt Nettie arrived soon after Joe’s call, and she, Tess, and I worried and wept for several hours. Maybe I’ve had a worse time in my life, but I don’t remember one. This made my divorce—and even my parents’ divorce—seem like a picnic.
    Not that we gave up hope. It was, of course, a good-news, bad-news situation. If Jeff wasn’t in his wrecked car, then he might be okay. But the smashed-up car was—well, it was